A Banquet (review) - a sensory overload of psychological horror

Under a blood moon of little significance, A Banquet struggles to gain purchase. With moments of outstanding acting and deliciously compelling cinematography, the narrative structure is far-fetched while not reaching far enough. Signature Entertainment presents A Banquet in Cinemas and on Digital March 11th.

The self-conscious battle with the body is arguably enough of a horror story in itself. Particularly shaping the teenage years, outward projections of shallow identity remain the focal point that keeps the world turning. Confronting such insecurities head-on, A Banquet is a masterclass in sensory anticipation, yet it too often strays into the realms of horror for horror’s sake.

After a disillusioned appearance at a house party, Betsey (Jessica Alexander) refuses to eat, troubling her widowed mother, Holly (Sienna Guillory). Claiming to be overcome by an unknown supernatural entity, Betsey’s behaviour becomes increasingly erratic, threatening to drive her family apart. As grandmother June (Lindsay Duncan) insinuates that Holly is enabling the chaos, the lines of collective past, present, and future blur into one.

At first glance, there are a huge number of themes at play throughout A Banquet’s narrative—relationships to food, family tensions, supernatural dynamics, grief and outright gore. Yet even with such a variety of content, the film fails to hold onto a driving force. Set in a middle-class background with upper-class decoration, it’s difficult to find a tangible sense of grounding within the family framework. Betsey’s British Euphoria-ism of teenagehood is perfectly executed, drawing us into demonic horrors that even she is yet to fully figure out. An intriguing balance of firm and distant, Sienna Guillory is less convincing as an emotional confidante, with a distinct lack of maternal warmth and believability to the pair’s relationship.

As the nature of Betsey’s possession demands further scrutiny, Lindsay Duncan’s June pulls borderline absurdity back from the brink. Holding the action to account while delivering much-needed context, Duncan’s exemplary hold on her craft speaks for itself. When she isn’t present, action can feel slightly misplaced. While much of A Banquet’s content strays towards eating disorder territory, comments made concerning anorexia sufferers feel (at best) misjudged. The family’s overall skew toward the middle class —a realm wholly unrelatable —disengages the grounded realism needed to explore supernatural horror.

While the demonic plague looming over A Banquet remains vague and largely unexplained, the beauty of its being lies in a sensory experience. Crisp cinematography relays sizzling bacon like a Nigella Lawson special on BBC2, echoing the anchoring importance of family dinners. As Betsey continues to refuse food, the grating sound design perpetuates the unsettling visceral noise that soundtracks subservient action. There’s continued emphasis on invading the body throughout, which works well as both a narrative theme and a point of audience intrigue.

When the guts and gore boil down to A Banquet at its core, the fulfilling substance mainly comes in the form of effects. Despite an arguably unnecessary appearance of classic horror moments (the opening demise of Betsey’s dad bears little relation to anything else), intricately sparse visuals make the convoluted narrative sing. Tropes are sometimes leaned into thematically—such as the traditional horror film house party—mixed with relatively mundane teenage details that hold little in the way of surprise. The parallels of chaos and calm are fleeting, but work extremely well when they hold firm.