Imogen Poots arranges to meet in a tea shop. The music is gentle and the air smells of pine. The decor sparkles white and the drinks sound like fairytales – Enchanted Forest, Gentle Giant, Russian Caravan. A scene from her new film, Filth, pops into my head. Detective sergeant Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy) is having rough sex with a colleague's wife; she tightens a belt around his neck as he screams at her to "cut off the gas". The cafe feels wrong. It would be tough work talking self-annihilation over a cup of Caramel Sweetheart. So we head to a pub, squish into seats next to the bog and order a real drink.
If you've never heard of Poots, Filth won't help. The film adaptation ofIrvine Welsh's scabrous novel follows McAvoy's grieving policeman as he buries his beak into a cocktail of addictions: booze, drugs and joyless sex. Poots is Amanda Drummond, the lone female officer in a force on the slide. Around her roves a carnival of nice actors doing nasty things: McAvoy snorts and screams; Eddie Marsan dopes up and heads for the disco; Jamie Bell tunnels into a cocaine Mont Blanc. Poots stands in the midst of the madness, watching the boys go wild.
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