There isn’t a lot of metaphorical (or literal) light in Wildfire. Cathy Brady’s feature debut flits between powerful kitchen-sink drama and flights of garish surrealism to forge a complex look into the ways the past infects the present and waylays the future. She is aided by two powerhouse performances by the late Nika McGuigan and Nora-Jane Noone as siblings born within a year of each other, two portraits of ladies on fire trying in their own different ways to overcome unspeakable tragedy. It’s perhaps overly ambitious but it’s haunting enough to stay with you longer than more perfect films.
At its heart, Wildfire is a clear-eyed portrait of an intense sisterly bond. Returning to her hometown on the Northern Ireland border after years in the wilderness, a mud-caked, bedraggled Kelly (McGuigan) arrives at the doorstep of her settled sister Lauren (Noone), who lives a quiet life with husband Sean (Martin McCann). The pair’s mother died in mysterious circumstances — which are teased throughout with increasing bluntness — and Kelly’s arrival sparks rumours around town about her psychological stability, while Lauren vigorously defends her sanity — despite Kelly manically digging out a vegetable patch all over her lawn at 5am.
You never once doubt these two are sisters, their chemistry is so tangible.
Kelly’s return raises Lauren out of a stupor and it’s here the film catches fire. Brady etches the extreme dynamic between the two sisters as something unhinged, almost deranged. Wildfire’s best moment sees the pair dance together in an animalistic but synchronous fashion, sweating profusely, never breaking eye contact, and completely unaware of the ageing clientele of the sparsely populated boozer (“Are you twins?” asks a drinker). McGuigan, who sadly died from cancer in 2019, brings to life Kelly’s contradictions, picking fights with locals or playing mind-games with kids swimming in a lake, but perfectly etching her character’s anguish. Noone, on the other hand, initially cuts a subdued, stoic figure but wholeheartedly inhabits Lauren’s rising sense of ferocity, a turmoil invigorated by her sister. You never once doubt these two are sisters, their chemistry is so tangible.
Sometimes it bites off more than it can chew — parallels between the pain in the sisters’ past and the divisions in Ireland feel forced — but Brady gifts the film a heady atmosphere of dread, DP Crystel Fournier’s intoxicating images dovetailing with Gareth Averill and Matthew James Kelly’s low-key, disconcerting electric-guitar score. Still, the thing that stays with you is the complex co-dependent sisterly relationship. Because how many times do movies present that?