The King

In James Marsh’s brooding, wicked American gothic, Elvis Sandow (Bernal), discharged from the Navy at 21, sets out to find the father he never knew, only to find that dad (William Hurt), now a respected married pastor and father of two, has no desire to be reminded of his whoring youth. Before you can shout ‘Return of the Repressed!’ at the screen – should you be so minded – Elvis takes refuge in Mallory (James), his sister, embarking on an incestuous relationship with her. The rest of the family understandably grow hostile towards this unwanted, malevolent cuckoo, but by then, tragedy is assured.
Reprising something of his breathtakingly evil turn in The Crimes Of Father Amaro, Bernal’s increasingly monstrous anti-hero never blinks those big doe-eyes. Like Highsmith’s Ripley, he engineers grand Shakespearean killings with impeccably Darwinian logic and a charming smile on his face. Equal parts avenging id and little boy lost, he chillingly commands your support until the final heart-stopping frames.
Belonging to the same strand of unsettling poetic realism as Badlands or Don’t Look Now, The King, like it’s protagonist, lulls you with images of sleepy Americana and minimal, soothing dialogue, then lurches into oedipal meltdown without warning. Eek. A killer film in every sense.