“Every man wears the face of the Green Man, and in his leaves lurks the rage of centuries.”

Alex Garland’s Men (2022) plunges viewers into a suffocating thicket of folk horror, where the idyllic English countryside harbours not pastoral peace but a festering indictment of masculinity. Through one woman’s solitary ordeal, the film dissects trauma, misogyny, and primal rituals with unflinching gaze.

  • Unpacking the folk horror revival through pagan symbols and rural isolation in modern Britain.
  • Dissecting toxic masculinity via Rory Kinnear’s multifaceted performance as every man Harper encounters.
  • Exploring grief, body horror, and cyclical violence as Garland masterfully blends psychological dread with visceral terror.

The Verdant Veil of Folk Horror

The rolling hills and ancient stone walls of the English countryside in Men evoke the classic folk horror triad: isolation, skewed landscapes, and a collision between the modern and the archaic. Harper, portrayed with raw vulnerability by Jessie Buckley, arrives at a sprawling manor house seeking solace after her husband’s suicide. Yet, what unfolds is no mere retreat but a descent into a ritualistic nightmare where the land itself seems complicit in her torment. Garland draws from the genre’s rich vein, pioneered by films like Witchfinder General (1968) and The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971), where rural idyll masks pagan undercurrents. Here, the maypole dance and the Green Man folklore serve not as quaint traditions but as conduits for masculine entitlement run amok.

This revival of folk horror in the 21st century finds fertile ground in Men, responding to contemporary anxieties about Britain’s post-Brexit identity and lingering imperial echoes. The film’s setting in the Cotswolds, with its honeyed stone and verdant woods, initially seduces with beauty, only to curdle into menace. Apples rotting on branches symbolise forbidden knowledge and decay, much like the fruit in Edenic myths repurposed for horror. Garland’s camera lingers on natural textures – bark splitting like flesh, leaves rustling with unspoken threats – building an atmosphere where the environment actively conspires against the protagonist.

Central to this is the folkloric figure of the Green Man, a motif Garland amplifies through hallucinatory imagery. In medieval carvings and pub signs, the Green Man represents rebirth and nature’s cycle, but Men twists him into a symbol of unchecked virility. His foliate head emerges in birthing scenes grotesque and inevitable, underscoring the film’s thesis: masculinity, left untamed, regenerates endlessly, devouring all in its path. Critics have noted parallels to Midsommar (2019), yet Garland’s vision feels distinctly British, steeped in druidic whispers rather than Scandinavian sun cults.

Grief’s Labyrinthine Path

Harper’s journey begins with personal devastation. Her husband’s death, depicted in a harrowing flashback, stems from a heated argument where he jumps from a balcony, leaving her wracked with guilt. Buckley conveys this inner turmoil through subtle physicality – trembling hands, averted eyes – making Harper’s every step through the manor grounds a negotiation with memory. The film refuses easy catharsis; instead, grief morphs into a hallucinatory force, blurring reality and nightmare.

As Harper wanders the village, she encounters a procession of men, each embodying facets of patriarchal aggression. The naked walker who follows her home, the leering vicar, the bullying policeman – all played by Rory Kinnear – form a grotesque chorus. This repetition amplifies the theme of inescapable manhood, where no figure offers refuge. The boy who pelts her with berries mimics adult cruelty in miniature, suggesting toxicity ingrained from cradle to grave. Garland uses these encounters to probe how grief exposes societal fractures, turning Harper’s mourning into a mirror for collective sins.

One pivotal scene unfolds in the church, where the vicar sermonises on original sin through Eve’s apple, inverting blame onto women. His contortions – mouth stretched impossibly wide – herald the body horror to come, linking biblical misogyny to pagan excess. Harper’s retorts, sharp and unyielding, position her as a modern Everywoman challenging archaic doctrines. Yet the film insists on ambiguity: is this supernatural assault or psychological projection? Such questions propel the narrative’s dread, forcing viewers to confront their own interpretations.

Masculinity’s Monstrous Masks

Rory Kinnear’s tour-de-force performance anchors the film’s exploration of masculinity. Playing every male role from landlord Geoffrey to the suicidal husband, Kinnear shapeshifts with uncanny precision. Geoffrey’s bumbling politeness cracks to reveal entitlement; the policeman’s joviality sours into brutality. Each mask peels back layers of male fragility, from the man’s petulant weeping in the tunnel to the pub landlord’s passive aggression. Kinnear’s physical transformations – paunchy gut, adolescent spots, vicar’s sanctimony – render manhood as a spectrum of inadequacies, united in threat.

The film indicts toxic masculinity not through caricature but accumulation. Men weep, rage, and regenerate, their vulnerabilities weaponised against Harper. The husband’s final plea – “You can’t leave me” – echoes in every encounter, revealing a narcissism that views women as extensions of male ego. Garland draws from feminist critiques, echoing ideas from scholars who trace such patterns to cultural myths of male victimhood. In one chilling sequence, the men besiege the manor, their faces merging in a cacophony of cries, symbolising the horde-like nature of patriarchal pressure.

This multiplicity culminates in the film’s climax, a visceral cycle of birth and death. Kinnear’s Green Man form, shedding skin like bark, births smaller versions of itself ad infinitum. The imagery recalls The Thing (1982) but roots it in fertility rites, critiquing how male dominance perpetuates through violence masquerading as creation. Harper emerges bloodied but unbowed, suggesting resilience amid horror’s heart of darkness.

Soundscapes of Dread

Ben Salisbury and Geoff Barrow’s score weaves folk elements – droning strings, percussive breaths – into a tapestry of unease. The sound design elevates ordinary noises: dripping taps mimic bodily fluids, wind through leaves whispers accusations. Harper’s tinnitus-like hum after the husband’s death persists, merging personal trauma with environmental menace. This auditory layering immerses viewers, making silence as oppressive as screams.

Dialogue plays a rhythmic role, with men’s voices overlapping in childish taunts – “naughty girl,” “say sorry” – infantilising Harper while asserting dominance. The husband’s distorted yells from the past bleed into the present, creating a sonic loop that mirrors thematic cycles. Garland’s use of sound anticipates visuals, footsteps crunching leaves presaging the walker’s pursuit, heightening tension through anticipation.

Body Horror and Symbolism Unleashed

Men excels in body horror, transforming flesh into a site of contestation. The Green Man’s emergence – phallic branches, vaginal wounds – literalises gender wars. Skin sloughs off in graphic detail, practical effects by Crash McCreery evoking Cronenbergian excess. Apples split open, revealing seeds like embryos, tie consumption to conception, critiquing reproductive burdens imposed on women.

Harper’s body becomes battleground: scratches multiply, mirroring her husband’s wounds, implying shared culpability in patriarchal violence. Yet her final stand reclaims agency, birthing the horror back upon its creators. This symbolism elevates the film beyond shock, into profound allegory for trauma’s physical toll.

Production Shadows and Cinematic Craft

Shot on location in Gloucestershire, Men faced damp weather challenges that Garland turned to advantage, imbuing scenes with authentic gloom. Cinematographer Danny Richter employs wide lenses for distorted perspectives, trapping Harper in frames dominated by encroaching foliage. Lighting shifts from golden hour serenity to chiaroscuro nights, underscoring moral descent.

The low budget – under $10 million – forced ingenuity, with practical effects prioritised over CGI. Garland’s script, honed from years of writing, balances economy with depth, clocking in at 100 minutes of relentless intensity. Festival premieres at Cannes sparked debate, with walkouts underscoring its provocative edge.

Legacy in the Folk Horror Canon

Men slots into the New Folk Horror wave alongside Apostle (2018) and Starve Acre (2024), revitalising the subgenre for eco-feminist concerns. Its Cannes reception divided critics – praise for boldness, censure for extremity – but box office success affirmed its pull. Influences ripple in discussions of gender in horror, inspiring analyses of male fragility post-#MeToo.

Garland’s oeuvre – from sci-fi to this primal turn – cements his status as a thinker-director, challenging viewers to face uncomfortable truths. Men endures as a mirror to society’s ills, its greenery forever tainted.

Director in the Spotlight

Alex Garland, born in London in 1970, emerged from literary roots to redefine speculative cinema. Son of political cartoonist Nicholas Garland, he studied natural sciences at Manchester University before dropping out to write. His debut novel The Beach (1996) became a bestseller, adapted into a 2000 film starring Leonardo DiCaprio. Garland transitioned to screenwriting, collaborating with Danny Boyle on genre-defining works.

Key screenplays include 28 Days Later (2002), which kickstarted the zombie revival with its rage virus premise; Sunshine (2007), a cerebral space odyssey blending hard sci-fi and horror; and Never Let Me Go (2010), a dystopian meditation on love and mortality from Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel. Dredd (2012), a gritty comic adaptation, showcased his action chops despite modest box office.

Directorial debut Ex Machina (2014) won an Oscar for visual effects, exploring AI seduction with Oscar Isaac, Domhnall Gleeson, and Alicia Vikander. Annihilation (2018), from Jeff VanderMeer’s novel, delved into mutation and self-destruction amid alien biology, starring Natalie Portman and featuring breathtaking practical effects. Devs (2020), his FX miniseries, tackled quantum computing and determinism.

Men (2022) marked a folk horror pivot, followed by the high-octane Civil War (2024), a dystopian road trip through fractured America with Kirsten Dunst. Garland co-founded DNA Films, producing works like 28 Weeks Later (2007) and Ex Machina. Influenced by J.G. Ballard and H.P. Lovecraft, his films probe human limits through philosophy and visceral imagery. Forthcoming projects include a 28 Years Later sequel trilogy.

Actor in the Spotlight

Rory Kinnear, born 1978 in Farnham, Surrey, carries the torch of theatrical dynasty as son of comic actor Roy Kinnear, who died tragically on set in 1984. Educated at Oxford, he trained at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art (LAMDA), debuting on stage with the Royal Shakespeare Company in 2001. Kinnear’s theatre career exploded with Olivier Awards for The Threepenny Opera (2005) and Hamlet (2010), earning raves as a magnetic prince.

Television breakthroughs include the Machiavellian Bill Tanner in the James Bond films Skyfall (2012) and Spectre (2015), voicing M in later entries. Black Mirror‘s “The National Anthem” (2011) showcased his range as a beleaguered PM. Penny Dreadful (2014-2016) as Sir Malcolm Murray blended authority with pathos.

Film roles span Jane Eyre (2011) as Mr. Rochester; The Imitation Game (2014) as Alan Turing’s colleague; and Phoenix (2014), a German post-war drama. In Men (2022), his multi-role mastery stole the show. Recent highlights: Our Flag Means Death (2022-2023) as Captain Nigel Badminton; Gunga Din stage revival; and Henry IV at the National Theatre.

Kinnear’s filmography boasts versatility: Quantum of Solace (2008), Broken (2012), The Imitation Game, Tess of the D’Urbervilles (2008 TV), Man Up (2015), Quill: The Life of a Guide Dog (2008 TV), London Spy (2015), Women in Love (2011 TV), and voice work in Fantastic Beasts films. Awards include Evening Standard Theatre nods; he champions new writing and LGBTQ+ stories. Married to actress Susan Wokoma since 2019, Kinnear remains a stage mainstay while conquering screens.

Craving more chills and insights? Dive deeper into NecroTimes’ horror archives and subscribe for exclusive analyses.

Bibliography