The Babadook’s Jennifer Kent finally returns to the screen with an indictment, a film of even more despairing rage and stifled compassion. It’s The Nightingale and its a whole different genre exercise, but an exercise it is indeed – of mind, body, and most importantly, soul. This time, Kent’s ghosts carry the burden of brutal history, forcing the audience to face a continent’s past and even more foundational evils of humanity still taking root in modern society. The Nightingale is bleak and uncompromising, an exhaustive polemic of staggering composition, if sometimes porously communicated.
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