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BRITISH MOVIE Written and Directed by Claire Oakley Cast Molly Windsor, Joseph Quinn, Stefanie Martini, Lisa Palfrey Ruth ( Molly Windsor) moves to a caravan park in Cornwall to live with her boyfriend Tom ( Joseph Quinn). There she meets Jade ( Stefanie Martini ) and starts to grow closer to her Oakley has devised a ripplingly eerie and sensual psychological drama which unfolds in a remote, rain-lashed caravan park on the Cornish coast, where 19-year-old Ruth finds herself roiled by unfamiliar forces. A shy and retiring Derby native, Ruth has come south to visit Tom her boyfriend of three years, who has taken a residential job at the site during the off-season. On her first night, she is unsettled by the shrieks of mating foxes outside their trailer – a sound her boyfriend confidently and wrongly attributes to cubs pining for their mothers. Meanwhile, a novelty bunny lamp glows on the couple’s bedside table: a fertility totem in moulded PVC. The dunes and pitches here reverberate with certain signs, but they can be all too easily misread. As Tom goes about his work, Ruth’s mind worries away at two discoveries: a long red hair she finds stuck to an item of her boyfriend’s clothing, and on his mirror, the oily shadow of a lipstick print. Tom isn’t exactly an obvious catch: in one of the most brilliantly specific and damning character details I’ve seen in years, we see him eating spaghetti bolognese in a sandwich. Nevertheless, Ruth suspects an affair, and starts sensing the presence of a “scarlet woman” figure in the park, watching her from the unoccupied caravans and disappearing around corners in a flash of red nail varnish, somehow always just out of sight, or maybe reach. As her paranoia builds, Ruth finds a seeming ally in Jade (Stefanie Martini), Tom’s vivacious colleague, who extends an offer of friendship in the form of a manicure and drinks back at her place. “It’s not about what it looks like, it’s how it makes you feel,” Jade reassures her, while gluing elegant acrylic talons to the bitten-down stumps of Ruth’s nails. At first, the feeling of not quite being herself any more grants Ruth a temporary libido boost. But this is followed by a spasm of self-loathing – and the swerve into body-horror as she tries to hack off these adornments with a kitchen knife feels as if it might slash the film itself to ribbons. Ruth is wrestling with something too rarely explored in coming-of-age narratives: she is simultaneously obsessed with and repelled by her own burgeoning desires. In the park’s communal shower block, she spies under the door of a stall at two bodies making love, but the clawing and slapping she witnesses looks like a kind of insanity, if indeed it is even taking place outside of her head. It is an extraordinary sequence – lusciously sexy but also utterly unnerving; a mad tangle of teenage fears and cravings given perfect cinematic expression. As poetically teasing as it is psychologically precise, Make Up signals the arrival of an exciting new talent.