Steve McQueen’s devastating depiction of martyrdom. By BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM.

I REELED when I clambered onto the sunlit Wellington streets after watching Steve McQueen’s version of the Bobby Sands’ hunger strike. It’s rare to see a film so visceral or gruelling, it felt like the film had wrung me dry. Hunger was immersive filmmaking, a piece of formal brilliance: the hypnotic sound design, the sets which veered from staid to horrifying, the camerawork, everything. The astonishing thing was such an assured piece of work was done by a first time director, although McQueen has a Turner Prize and a feted art career already behind him.

Of course, the film’s view of Sands might be quite provocative (given the word the “terrorist” used to be applied to a different ethnicity), but McQueen manages to avoid romanticising Sands’ ordeal. Though those without much knowledge of the Northern Ireland Troubles might want to visit wikipedia first. Indeed, McQueen avoids showing Sands for some time – the elliptical narrative opens by focusing on a prison guard, moving to a new prisoner finding out about the no-wash and blanket protest, to finally settling on Sands half-way through. This approach sets up Sands’ background in the prison quite well, but also allows for Sands’ first main introduction – a washing scene – to be particularly chilling. The camera opens up, characters intersect, and the physicality of the scene was breathtaking.

From then on, the film moves to virtuosity. A horrific beating scene, portrayed in one expertly choreographed shot, was one of more sense-jarring scenes of sadism I’ve ever seen. This is followed up by a twenty minute (again in one shot) discussion between Sands and a priest about Sands’ plan, and is a masterpiece in acting and dialogue. The scene muddies up the morality of the action, and adds considerable complexity to the images shown. Sands eventual decline is captured by a horrifying looking Michael Fassbender, whose performance is intensely compelling. The film is largely dialogue-free (except for the lengthy discussion scene), yet the sound design is so memorable that you barely notice. McQueen picks up some startling imagery too, such as the shit-covered walls, the cleaning of the urine that is spilled out into the main corridor, the thumping of riot gear by the batons. This is a devastating depiction of martyrdom, suffering and death, a religious sufferance tale that is felt, rather than simply watched, by the audience.