Birdeater
Directed by Jack Clark and Jim Weir
Written by Jack Clark and Jim Weir
Starring Mackenzie Fearnley, Shabana Azeez, Ben Hunter, Jack Bannister, Clementine Anderson
Unrated
Runtime: 115 minutes
In Theaters & Digital January 10

by Rachel Shatto, staff writer 

In Birdeater, masculinity is both a weapon and a prison—and potentially a lethal vulnerability. 

The film from Aussie indie filmmaking duo Jack Clark and Jim Weir sees friends going away for a buck’s weekend. There’s the happy couple Irene (Shabana Azeez) and Louie (Mackenzie Fearnley) and their friends: the unpredictable and vaguely sinister Dylan (Ben Hunter), the seemingly pious Charlie (Jack Bannister) and his equally devout fiancé Grace (Clementine Anderson), outsider Murph (Alfie Gledhill), and Irene’s friend Sam (Harley Wilson).

What should be a weekend of fun and games quickly takes a turn for the ominous as tensions within the group dynamic lead to revelations about the toxic history of Irene and Louie’s relationship. It's an outcome that feels inevitable; the filmmakers infuse the telling of their love story with a sense of unease from the moment the two first make meaningful eye contact at a beach party. That meet-cute, like all the beats of the relationship we see play out in a montage of moments that typically would denote a romance blossoming, is instead infused with dread. While the viewer can’t quite put their finger on it, one thing is clear: there’s something rotten at the core of this romance. So it's with a sense of trepidation that we watch them and their friends head to the country for a weekend of partying.  

This is only exacerbated by the arrival of Dylan, whose mixture of machismo and emotionally arrested development make him an emotional powder keg, and Sam, who arrives much to the surprise of Irene and who clearly shares some kind of past with the bride-to-be. While outwardly everyone puts on their best party face, tension, anger, and distrust roil just beneath the surface. Add to that alcohol and drugs and it's only a matter of time before the ugliness between friends and lovers comes to the surface. 

On paper, this film reads more like a psychodrama, but Clark and Weir instead reveal the plot through the lens and visual language of a psychological horror film, ramping up the tension to a nearly unbearable level at points. Eventually, every glance seems menacing and loaded, every plot beat turns with a sense of doom, and every character seems capable of just about anything. Paranoia reigns, and then when the drugs hit, violence feels inevitable. The slow build is deliciously excruciating. 

One major issue with the film is the sound mix. The score is blaring and the dialog is, well, not, which makes subtitles practically a necessity—particularly as the film is dropping breadcrumbs with quick moments of dialog essential to decoding its twisty and frankly shocking resolution. How important is it to catch those nearly whispered clues? Very. Otherwise, the ending reads as utterly inconclusive rather than a shocking and cathartic reversal of fortunes that ultimately recontextualizes every beat of the film. 

It would be a shame to miss it, because what Clark and Weir have to say about masculinity and the toxicity of relationships is much more layered, nuanced, and complex than a surface viewing reveals. It lends a poignant meaning to the film’s title, which takes its name from the predatory spider, one that hunts by lying in wait for its prey. 

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