Director: Will Priddis
Writer: Will Priddis
Cast: James Glyn, Holly Lucas
Running time: 25mins
The longer Indy Film Library runs for, the more of an insight we are given into the catalogues of our return filmmakers. Sometimes, we get to see which themes make them tick, what they might be trying to say, or to become. But sometimes, to quote Paul Weller, the more I see, the more I know, the less I understand.
This is Will Priddis’ fourth film submitted to us, and it only serves to further confound my attempts to categorise his art. After a one-person ghost story; a chastening political documentary; a bitter-sweet comedy on the grieving process; and now a short thriller about living with trauma, I can’t tell you Will Priddis films are driven by the need to say ‘X’, ‘Y’ or ‘Z’… But perhaps that’s his greatest attribute – particularly when shifting into this latest genre – you never know where he is heading next.
In a story which bounces between horror and drama, The Impostor centres on Tamsin (Holly Lucas), as she attempts to rebuild a fraught relationship with Leo (James Glyn). Having relocated across the UK to be with her boyfriend while he studies, Tamsin finds herself cut adrift; removed from her friends and family; kept at arm’s length by her boyfriend; and estranged from with herself. Figuratively, and literally.
Tamsin’s sole external interaction comes at a claustrophobic house party, early on in the film, when another guest coos over the story she spins to explain why she upped sticks to be with Leo. She suggests that he is just such a catch that she couldn’t stand to be in a long-distance relationship with him. But as the pair continue to bristle at each other’s presence when we see them alone, it swiftly becomes clear there is more to it than that.
Something happened – and Priddis’ script does a great job of toying with the audience’s potential biases, on the way to divulging what that ominous something might have been.
Initially, the cold and distant reproaches of Leo make him an instantly dislikeable person. When Tamsin tries to bridge the gap with him, he suggests it is “unhealthy” for her to rely on him for her self-esteem – and he suggests she “didn’t have to move in” with him if she doesn’t like being socially isolated. The audience’s perception of the characters is primed for reversal, though, when he finally snaps later on. While scraping passive-aggressively at a microwave meal, and divulges a reason why he is so reluctant to let Tamsin get closer. Tamsin argues the couple had “got past” the incident in question, to which he responds that some things are not so easily forgotten. OK, you might think, perhaps he has a point. But by the film’s finale, Priddis’ narrative has performed a double-pivot, again suggesting that there is more to Tamsin’s story than Leo is either able or willing to admit. And suddenly, his performance as a victim comes across as a most grotesque and manipulative masquerade.
This arc is a subtle and broadly well-realised one, in which a feeling of dread (or more specifically, of known unknowns that we can tell will be unpleasant, but must be reckoned with, looming over proceedings) steadily permeates the ‘safe’ base-camp of the home space – like much of the best horror does – and delivers a biting analysis of the ways in which couples deal with trauma. Perhaps it doesn’t quite surprise in the way it should, because Glyn is a little too good at playing the heel as Leo, so even when we might be asked to see things from his perspective, he’s just too clammy and spiteful a presence to go along with. But in the end, that’s not something which really counts against the film.
Ultimately, the film is clearly a story about Tamsin’s exploration of herself. The film’s abstract central narrative gimmick is that, as the name might suggest, a person who pretends to be someone else in order to deceive others is going to turn up. And one night, Tamsin stumbles upon her own doppelganger, lying, bruised on the pavement, after dark. Also played by Lucas (who is genuinely good at acting against herself), the strange embodiment of this Other Tamsin is treated as a threat throughout the plot – even though she is in such a helpless and distressed state. This could be symptomatic of Tamsin having imbibed the reactionary ideas of others about herself, which she is now meting out on her Impostor. It could also be because she doesn’t really know herself.
While bridges with Leo remain burned, she gradually finds herself drawn to her apparent clone – and the need to reconcile with the thoughts, feelings and memories her double seems to be embodying. But at the same time, Leo is also looking at ways to connect with the Impostor – leading to a distressing anticipation that Tamsin may end up played off against her twin; that she might ultimately betray herself.
In the end, Priddis manages to deliver a satisfactory conclusion from this bizarre and potentially combustible concept – which deserves a great degree of respect. But not quite everything will pay off for audiences. The work of the editor, for example, is extremely high-risk. In a different context, might have red the fast-paced and occasionally non-sequential cuts as things being thrown together somewhat slapdashedly. The story suggests to me that the montage is deliberately disorientating – and I think that’s entirely appropriate for this story – but the issue with this is that some aspects of the edit still don’t hang together well on a technical basis. That might lead people to believe the whole thing was an accident.
For example, a moment in the sound design sticks out, as we suddenly transition between two scenes – one where the Impostor and Leo are having their first discussion; and the other where Tamsin is sitting alone in another room. The ambience of the first room has a kind of hiss that vanishes the moment the cut happens, in a way that makes us feel perhaps that scene just ran out of steam, and the production team couldn’t be bothered to think up a more polished transition.
Meanwhile, some of the cinematography grows a little stale. Admittedly, the cinematographer had a big job on his hands in that department, because the film is almost exclusively interior shots of the kind of uninspiring, beige accommodation students are relentlessly funnelled into. And for the most part, the cinematographer does find ways of making shots pop – whether it be with the angle or playing with the lighting and contrast of a location. But sometimes, there are just flat, endless shots of the place that feel like they come from a different, student production.
This is not helped by the decision to display the film in a 4:3 aspect ratio. When we cut from place to place so rapidly, we need images that can quickly offer us as much detail as possible to at least try and follow the story – especially if it is non-linear. But by affording us such a minimal view, some scenes have a tendency to blur together – for example, the scene at the party initially comes across as though it is part of the same discussion that opens the film (Leo and Tamsin sitting close together on a sofa, speaking flirty nonsense). In the cinema, not everyone will have the luxury of a rewind function, to help them understand that Leo is actually not at the party at all.
That being said, though, these are relatively minor notes in the grand scheme. What is more important is that Priddis and his team all took risks with this production. They made daring choices to tell a unique story in an inimitable style – and they did it in the service of worthy commentary on trauma and toxic relationships.
After all that, I still don’t know what Will Priddis’ definitive style is. But even while The Abyss, The Itchen Comeback, People Who Pretend to be Crows in Their Spare Time, and The Impostor might seem disparate, viewed alongside each other, they do still seem to point to one single fact. This Changing Man is a filmmaker who can succeed in whatever medium he puts his mind to – and who should be celebrated for his sustained commitment to pushing beyond his comfort zone.