Hair, it is said in Medusa Deluxe, is the “crown that you never take off”. Yet for one poor hapless hairdresser in this killer-coiffure-comedy, that is precisely his fate: murdered via the gruesome act of scalping, taking the phrase “just a bit off the top” slightly too literally. It’s the catalyst for a surreal, stylish, strange and startlingly unique debut from writer-director Thomas Hardiman; amid the current glut of murder-mysteries on screen, this is a determinedly leftfield entry.
For one thing, it is not quite a whodunnit in the traditional sense: there is no Poirot-type detective on the case, and the question of who, in fact, actually dunnit is not really the motivating factor, the killer’s identity telegraphed fairly on. It even opens in medias res, the murder already in the rear-view mirror. Instead, the film luxuriates in gossip and back-stabbery, the complex character dynamics playing out like a heightened, glamorous, deadly soap opera.
For a low-budget British film, this is an unusually ambitious, ostentatious and visually bold effort, leaning into the ‘deluxe’ of the title: pure genre, no kitchen sinks in sight. Every frame, right from the Fight Club-style opening sequence, is filled with flair and flamboyance. The camerawork, from prolific cinematographer Robbie Ryan (of Andrea Arnold and Ken Loach fame), is boldly staged as one long take, recalling the maze-like single-location claustrophobia of Birdman, finding eerie allure in the most mundane backstage dressing rooms. That ambition matches the vertiginous creations of the film’s hair stylists (impressive work from the film’s actual hair designers, Scarlett O’Connell and Eugene Souleiman), the outlandish and colourful creations — rainbow wigs, Georgian fontanges — only adding to the unreality of it all.
How refreshing to see a British debut take a big genre swing, all while centring primarily on working-class women of colour.
This is a singular affair, and exists purely in its own universe, meaning its defiant reaction against realism can take some adjustment at first. Hardiman’s script is made up of almost Tarantino-esque dialogue, all long monologues, tall tales, and lightly profound gems. It’s consistently funny too, if darkly witty rather than laugh-out-loud, punctuated with stringently British references (the Little Chef off the A206 gets a shout-out) and at least one filthy shampoo-based insult that deserves to enter the pantheon of superlative slurs.
Through it all, we are constantly given the droll reminder that this high-stakes life-or-death contest is, in fact, merely a regional hairdressing competition; even small-fry showdowns can spark ruthless artistic tension. In turn, the film’s own modest resources can sometimes feel stretched — but how refreshing to see a British debut take a big genre swing, all while centring primarily on working-class women of colour. Hair is “dead the minute it leaves the follicle”, notes Clare Perkins’ stylist Cleve, in a lovely gothic observation; Medusa Deluxe, meanwhile, is alive, and glossy, and full of texture.