Flasz On Film

Adapted by Bea Roberts from her own stage play and directed by Paul Robinson in his feature film debut, And Then Come the Nightjars stars Nigel Hastings and David Fielder in a story about a farmer and a vet who form an unlikely friendship after the tragic foot and mouth outbreak in 2001. And believe it or not, this one sentence synopsis – fifty-two words in total – contains everything you need to form an informed opinion about this movie.  

That is all. Exit through the gift shop.  

In seriousness however, let’s break this down, shall we? Before buying the ticket to see And Then Come the Nightjars it is imperative you remember that what you are about to witness is an adaptation of a stage play. An acclaimed one, but a stage play, nonetheless. Moreover, it is an adaptation of a stage play written by the author of the original material and directed by the play’s original director, a first-time feature filmmaker, which means that the probability of the movie departing from the source material and making good use of the degrees of freedom afforded by the presence of the camera on set are incredibly low.  

In fact, it is safe to say that And Then Come the Nightjars fully embraces the theatre-on-film and only sporadically leaves its conversational parameters to indulge the viewer with something a bit more visual or atmospheric. By and large, it is a concoction of scenes where the camera – usually locked away on a tripod – is only there to capture the performances. What is more, because the adaptation was executed by the original scribe behind the play, I can only imagine the film is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of experience where very few alterations were made to the original narrative. Or at least this is how the movie comes across because the two central characters – nobody else in the screenplay has meaningful speaking roles, by the way – communicate almost exclusively using verbal means of expression. They tell, but do not show.  

Therefore, if you want to set yourself up for success while watching this film, you best believe you should attune yourself to looking at people talk about how they feel and how they treat moments of silence merely as breathing spaces required to avoid passing out from rapid onset hypoxia. This is what you are signing up for: eighty minutes of two men talking about stuff.  

However, this is not to mean that the movie is a write-off. After all, 12 Angry Men was also that – a dozen men talking and gesticulating – and it worked wonders. What I am only drawing attention to is the simple realization that And Then Come the Nightjars is an overall mostly non-cinematic experience, so if you are looking for a spectacle or a piece of filmmaking where the form is paid more than rudimentary attention, I suggest you should look elsewhere. But if you do not mind the format of just looking at what happens when you take a stage play and film it on location, you might as well discover that what these two men talk about is quite poignant, captivating and occasionally profound.  

This is where this movie shines – in what is said, not in how it goes about saying it; and by extension, in what it says about the circumstances these two men must navigate. And what unfolds is a slowly simmering story of friendship, regret and forgiveness slowly metamorphosing into the kind of love two men could experience on the back of decades-worth of companionship. To this end, both Roberts and Robinson (writer and director) place their unwavering trust in how Hastings and Fielder (the two actors carrying the film who, I am told, are the principals in the stage play, too) would internalize their dialogue and how they would utilize their verbal skills to imbue the narrative with something more than what’s found in what is spoken alone. And they both rose to this challenge despite occasionally indulging in their rapport for its own sake.  

Nevertheless, its intrinsic theatricality notwithstanding, And Then Come the Nightjars manages to successfully captivate with its central relationship underpinned by a terrible tragedy. In fact, the fleeting moment when this tragedy occurs – the culling of Michael’s herd – is by far the only time in the entire film where cinema makes an appearance to deliver the character’s mental state using more than just words. We are momentarily transported from imaginary seats in this theatre-on-location straight into Michael’s headspace as his world crumbles around him to the relentless tune of a bolt gun murdering his livestock as he bears witness.  

This powerful moment becomes pivotal both for the two characters and for the story to carry out a conversation with the viewer in between the lines of dialogue. Consequently, the movie gains a dimension as its frontline musing about two men finding each other in the aftermath of something truly frightening altering their life paths becomes infused with a thematic backdrop of how external factors shape their existence and how changing times and the unwavering march of progression pushes their existence to the outskirts of society. In a way, each of the five scenes making up And Then Come the Nightjars becomes a conversation about Britain as much as it is a conversation about friendship, regret, forgiveness and mental health. 

Therefore, while the film has some accessibility issues and occasionally falls in love with the sound of its own voice, And Then Come the Nightjars is a commendable piece that both makes great use of its theatrical manifold and manages to imbue the narrative with something more. It is clear that its creators didn’t quite have the inclination or expertise to utilize the infinite possibilities afforded by the cinematic format, but sometimes the words are enough. And when the words are delivered through assured and well-rounded performances, it is just about possible that a theatre-on-location – such as it is – will add up to a sufficiently fulfilling experience to validate the price of admission.