Every few years, there is an artist that emerges that produces work that is simultaneously terrifying and exciting in equal measure. In terms of cinema, the arrival of any fascinating new voice is going to be notable, even if their work is not designed to be appreciated by that wide of an audience. A few years ago, Mark Jenkin emerged out of obscurity, having only made a handful of short films and a few obscure features – but with most notable film (coming after nearly 20 years of working in the industry without much recognition), the mysterious and complex Bait, he immediately established himself as someone to watch. It took a couple of years for him to follow this film up, with the long-gestating Enys Men being his most recent directorial effort, and a film that follows many of the same trails of ambiguity and artistic ingenuity as his previous work, but presented it in a decidedly different, and perhaps even slightly more daring, manner. Set in an isolated corner of pastoral Cornwall, high above the cliffs that overlook the beautiful waters below, the film follows a few weeks in the life of an unnamed protagonist, a biologist and conversationist of some sort who has been stationed in this remote part of the country, where she examines the flora and fauna that surround her, growing particularly interested by some mysterious flowers growing along the edge of the cliff. However, there is something amiss, and she slowly begins to spiral into a state of complete paranoia, which is only exacerbated by the sense of loneliness she feels, as well as the looming danger of a mysterious standing rock that begins to inch closer to her humble mountain-top shack, almost as if the enchantment of the region has decided to show its darkest recesses to this neurotic individual. A bold film by a filmmaker whose vision is quite simply unmatched, Enys Man (which translates roughly as “Stone Island”, which comes to take on several meanings throughout the film) is one of the most provocative and off-kilter films of recent years, a strange and off-putting psychological horror that makes sure to play on our innermost anxieties and fears, evoking a genuine sense of despair in the unsuspecting viewer, who quite simply can never be prepared for the feeling of dread that follows us throughout this film, and even lingers on long after the film has concluded.

Jenkin has always been a director who has rejected the idea of abiding by conventions and has chosen to pursue specific ideas in a way that some would consider bizarre, considering how this usually involves taking the far more difficult route. Both in terms of the narrative and how it is executed, Enys Men is quite an achievement, and how it bounces between different ideas proves that it is something worth noting. The film is designed to look like a vintage folk horror film – but unlike many attempts to craft authentic pastiches to the art of yesteryear, this doesn’t come across as an exercise in nostalgia, where the retro elements are merely supplementary. Instead, this film feels like something produced in the early 1970s, and which was hidden in some mould-infested cupboard for decades before being discovered. Somehow, the film plays on every one of our senses, but in a way that is both repulsive and enticing, and we find ourselves growing steadily more mesmerized by the nature of the story, and how it captures a very specific tone, one that we could imagine was never viewed as particularly desirable, but here comes to be repurposed as the foundation of a film that focuses on inciting some range of emotions, mostly those that veer towards the negative. The epitome of a director who employs the tenets of being a do-it-yourself filmmaker, insofar as he is actively involved in every element of the film’s production, right down to handling much of the filming and editing himself, Jenkin proves himself to be a true visionary with this film, which is as visually striking as it is narratively bold, which is the exact kind of combination required to convincingly convey the sense of darkness and intrigue that lingers so heavily over the film, and which contributes to the underlying dread that informs much of the tone.

Enys Men is a film that is driven less by a story and more by the atmosphere it evokes. Perhaps the optimal way to view this film is not as a coherent narrative that moves from one point to another, but rather a series of scattered moments that employ repetition and intentional ambiguity to tell a deeply unnerving story. However, there is something deeper simmering beneath the surface, and after the initial confusion and intrigue of the film erodes, we find ourselves plunged deep into the heart of the narrative, which proves to be extremely labyrinthine and impossible to navigate without some guidance. Some critics have suggested that Enys Men should be viewed less like a straightforward narrative. Still, instead as an art installation, a series of moments that don’t make its intentions clear at the start, but through observing the small details that change with every moment of repetition, we begin to understand the underlying message. However, this is where the ingenuity of this film begins to appear: there isn’t any clear or definitive interpretation. The director had his intentions when carving together this story, but it is extremely clear that what drives this film is the fact that every viewer will walk away having developed a radically different perspective of the story, which is kept ambigious right to the very end. It takes genuine gumption for a filmmaker to not only forego traditional structure, but do so in a way that we know that there isn’t going to be a neat resolution or even the slightest clue as to what the entire premise represents, but where we do not only accept this idea but find it to be optimal, since the internal dialogue that emerges when we observe this highly disturbing and very challenging folk horror, which draws on our innermost anxieties, heightening them and creating something perverse but brilliant, a combination that should not work nearly as well as it did in this film.

Once we attempt to peel away the layers that are compounded throughout this film, we discover that Enys Man, at its core, is a film about loneliness and isolation. It wasn’t conceived as having this be a factor in the story. Still, the film was produced right at the peak of the recent pandemic, so while it is certainly not a film that addresses it directly, the feeling of isolation, coupled with the sensation of encroaching dread, makes for a complex depiction of what it feels like to be alone, not knowing what the future holds, or if you will ever be able to escape. The film is a poignant character study, and the central protagonist is a researcher simply trying to observe the world that surrounds her but finds herself being plunged into a state of existential despair, which manifests in peculiar occurrences that blur the line between reality and hallucination, the boundary between the two becoming increasingly more difficult to decode. Mary Woodvine, who has previously collaborated with the director, plays the part. Her performance is spellbinding – her ability to capture every nuance of this character, despite it being a mostly silent role (there are probably around a dozen lines of dialogue scattered throughout the entire film) is incredible. She truly embodies every detail, bringing so much complexity to a relatively straightforward character, but one that contains multitudes and essentially has to represent something much broader than just the specific character she is playing. As a result of this fascinating performance, we find that Enys Men grows to be a lot broader since there are details in what Woodvine does with the prompts that she is given, and she adds layers to a film that didn’t necessarily require them to be successful, but still shade in some of the more ambigious aspects, never quite simplifying them but instead allowing them to flourish into something much more intriguing.

Enys Men is not an easy film, and it demands more of the viewer than many other films, which can make it feel far more daunting than many would tend to appreciate or be willing to acknowledge as being artistically resonant. It is not possible to watch this film as a passive viewer, since we need to be engaged and alert, willing to search for the clues that assist in the fool’s errand of attempting to unearth the mysteries that lie beneath the surface of this film. Yet, it is still such an invigorating, compelling experience – it is beautifully made (the use of 16 mm film contributes to the feeling of not only a time-capsulate preserved from the 1970s, but also the grit and lingering dread that often underpinned this kind of folk horror), and the storyline, while quite vague, is fascinating, particularly in how it steeps itself in the mythology and superstitions of the British Isles. It’s a complex examination of isolation, using the premise of a horror film as a way of exploring these themes, and while it is not always obvious what it intends to say, but is still quite forthright in making it clear that it doesn’t intend to follow conventions, Enys Men is remarkable. It’s not an easy film, but like a lot of art, the challenges that come with watching it end with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and curiosity, since we know we have just witnessed something groundbreaking. Daring and unconventional, and still very complex in its way, Enys Men is a remarkable piece of filmmaking, and one that dares to be different, reaping the rewards in the process and being secure in the knowledge that he achieved something truly and undeniably remarkable.