Review by Benjamin Poole
Directed by: Grace Glowicki
Starring: Grace Glowicki, Ben Petrie, Leah Doz, Lowen Morrow
Shame that I caught Dead Lover, Grace Glowicki star/director/producer/writer's (along with co-writer and co-star Ben Petrie) vivid indie horror comedy, on a laptop instead of the big screen sensory experience which the prologue promises. Over a time-lapse shot of a rose unfolding in bloom we are instructed as to how to use scratch and sniff "stink-o-vision" cards that cinema patrons will presumably be issued with, a wacky olfactory device which recalls delightful memories of a local Polyester repro screening honouring the original run's "Odorama" gimmick. John Waters is a (inevitable) hero of mine (one of only three times I've been star struck meeting someone, and he did not disappoint) and it seems of Glowicki, too, with Dead Lover sharing the same mercurial energy, bravura indecency yet ultimate sweet nature of the Pope of Trash's oeuvre.
It's also a pity because from that opening moment onwards (the sensual folds of the pink flower slowly displaying...), there is not a second of Dead Lover that doesn't aspire to be visually arresting, and it's often dazzling in its hyperbolic, handcrafted aesthetics suited to the big screen. Dead Lover's artisan look is also fitting to its narrative, which, opening with a quote from Mary Shelley, depicts the farcical attempts of a gravedigger (Glowicki) to resurrect her dead poet lover (Petrie) via a bricolage of sacrifice, black magic and alchemy (you wait for a female focussed auteur take on The Bride of Frankenstein and then two come along at once, etc). Much is made of Gravedigger's repulsive nature: she reeks of the corpses that she administers to the grave, leading to her loveless existence. That is until arch kink lord Poet catches her scent, and it does it for him: he wants to "lick her stink," designs to "feast on her fetid funk." An early reason to cherish Dead Lover is its celebration of transgressive sexuality; after all, a kink or a fetish is always, like this film, a triumphant exercise of the imagination. Mind you, the Poet does then go on to express a desire to "pick up a piece" of the Gravedigger's "poo" and "eat it like a banana"... (see what I'm saying about John Waters?).
A coprophiliac consumption doesn't come to pass though because the Poet sadly dies at sea. All is not lost however, as the Poet's finger is retrieved... the digit becoming the first successful foray into resurrection. Well, I say successful, but it's just a finger. What can you do with a finger? Alright, filth: she does do that but it's not enough, even when Gravedigger elongates the wayward appendage... As fate would have it, the Poet's sister has recently died too, and using the sort of twisted logic which only someone in a sexually active relationship with a finger would engage in, Gravedigger fixes to dig up the body (played soon by a striking Leah Doz, so you can see the Gravedigger's workings...) to affix the finger, which will somehow entail that the freshly animated body re-becomes the Poet. Of course, it all goes south, leading to a ribald comedy of errors. For one thing, a lizard was sacrificed so the new body not only has a massive index finger but the partial DNA of a reptile. For another, the sister's widower - a louche melange of Byron and Keats - is understandably nonplussed with the revivifications afoot...
In a motion presumably developed due to Dead Lover's indie roots but which in congruous with its ramshackle dynamism, the four part cast (rounded out by Lowen Morrow) play multiple parts, often gender switching under varieties of fancy dress. In a film where everyone is either having it off or is trying to put one on somebody else, this not only exemplifies Dead Lover's queer positivity, but it also honours the Romantic texts which it references and gleefully parodies: a canon predicated upon double identities, incest and gender fluidity (High Romantic themes which the illiterate "Wuthering Heights" seemed completely unaware of). In connoisseurs of the transgressive exotic like you and I, Dead Lover will find its impassioned audience but, as unlikely as this may be due to its vital weirdness, I hope it extends further than the niche, as this film really should become an accepted staple of queer horror cinema.
I love the midnight energy of Dead Lover, the cheerful overstuffing. You could take any frame of this film and identify it as the work of cinematographer Rhayne Vermette, such is the film's visual idiosyncrasy; a mosaic of forgotten kids TV, James Whale sets and gothic drag. The Gravedigger herself is instantly iconic, as if the Nun from The Conjuring went to Halloween dressed as Tom Hulce in Amadeus after the Poet rolled her in flour to find the wet spot (a joke uncharacteristic of me, but certainly in keeping with Dead Lover's crude warmth). Glowicki gives her all here with, among the many other insistent showpieces, two extended and sensational masturbation scenes. Despite the self-love, this is no vanity project and is instead an urgent realised gem. I'm at over 800 words, and I've barely scratched the malodorous surface of this film's crepuscular joys. By the end, I was left exhausted, slightly sick, a bit horny and deeply thrilled. Dead Lover - not to be sniffed at.
Dead Lover is in UK/ROI cinemas from March 20th.
