''It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of...
★★★★☆
After several egregious misfires (The Cloverfield Paradox, Game Over, Man! and The Week Of) the streaming giant Netflix has finally returned to the arena of “genuine” movie-making that it established with award-winners such as Mudbound and The Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected).
This time it has done it with an eerie, atmospheric and unexpectedly poignant zombie thriller (available from today) from the debut feature directors Yolanda Ramke and Ben Howling (here adapting their own short film of the same name — it went viral on YouTube in 2013).
Set in the arid Australian outback, and stunningly photographed by the veteran cinematographer Geoffrey Simpson (Shine, Oscar and Lucinda), it’s constructed around an exceptionally empathetic central turn from the Sherlock star Martin Freeman.
He plays Andy, an Englishman abroad, determined yet sensitive, who is attempting an epic trek across hostile landscape with only his beloved baby daughter Rosie (a tiny blond moppet played by two sets of twins) for company. There’s just one snag. The country has been overrun by highly infectious and insatiable zombies, and Andy has recently been bitten by his dead wife, which means that he has less than 48 hours to get his precious Rosie to safety before he too becomes transformed into a hideous, rapacious, puss-spewing cannibal.
It’s beautifully done. Really. Delicate and maudlin at every turn, where another film might have gone for cheap jumps or screen-splashing gore (see the Resident Evil franchise, or Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse). It helps too that Ramke and Howling have wider storytelling ambitions and thus throw Andy, road movie style, in with a series of fellow travellers who represent allegorical aspects of the Australian national psyche.
There’s Vic (Anthony Hayes), the gun-toting bigot (he’s a dead ringer for the serial killer brute in Wolf Creek). There’s the friendly middle-class family trapped, it appears, in a perennial birthday picnic — this dreamlike sequence becomes nightmarish when the father quietly reveals to Andy the loaded handgun in his belt and his plan to kill his brood rather than surrender them to the zombie horde. And finally, crucially, there’s Andy’s eventual sidekick, Thoomi (Simone Landers), an aboriginal girl who’s caring for her zombie-fied father and whose instinctive compassion and understanding of the land suggests the only possible survival route for a troubled nation.
In the end, though, perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s Freeman’s film. By turns fearful, aggressive, broken and acerbic, yet never once overplaying the “big” emotions, this is a powerful study in deadpan resilience and paternal determination. He is too often the comedy sidekick (see Black Panther) or the second banana (Sherlock). Cargo is proof, if it were needed, that Freeman can carry his own movies.