Like a rabid zombie with a wanton desire to gorge mindlessly on its prey, filmmaker Danny Boyle has got a bloody sweet tooth for nostalgia lately. From publicly despoiling a copper-bottomed cult classic for cringey call-back kicks (Trainspotting 2), to appeasing the “gold” radio crowd (Yesterday) and reframing the punk era as a dressing-up box farrago (TV series Pistol), he’s drawn heedlessly to the amber glow of youth and happier, more fruitful times of days yonder.
You might deduce a hint of autobiography, then, in his new film 28 Years Later, which introduces a closed society of Northumbrian island dwellers who have experienced no technological or social evolution since the initial outbreak of the Rage virus that was documented in 2002’s frisky genre hit, 28 Days Later. A benign form of socialism has taken over, and this close-knit group of survivors have been able to subsist and persist via collective endeavour and unselfconscious empathy, sharing food and supplies and embracing a level of full-tilt social equality that would have a Tory grandee scoffing into his kedgeree.
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The British mainland, meanwhile, has been left to fester, now a global no-go territory and under strict quarantine from Europe (sound familiar?). While many of the infected have also succumbed to the ravages of time, some have also evolved into a supercharged breed that, with their non-verbal yowling and distaste for clothing, resemble a new iteration of pre-historic man. And leading the packs are the dangerous new “alpha” variants, immune to the slings and arrows of the islanders and apparently the product of steroids present in the original strain.
Where the original film leached on the bleeding edge aesthetics of the Dogme 95 movement, with its use of consumer grade digital cameras to immerse us in all the blood-vomiting detail of the urban apocalypse, this new one opts for a mix of classical high definition vistas as best to emphasise the bucolic splendor of northern England. Yet there’s still great glee taken in having us monitor the explosive exit wounds caused by arrows hitting their targets directly in the face.
The story follows 12-year-old Spike (Alfie Williams) whose loving, burley pops Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) is making him an extra large fry-up this morning, as he’s heading to the mainland for his first foraging mission. Upstairs, his ailing mum Isla (Jodie Comer) writhes around in bed, suffering from an illness that no-one can diagnose or assist with, as there is no-one with medical training on the island.
Without going into too much detail, the film is as fervent in its love for the NHS and socialised medical provision as was Boyle’s 2012 Olympic opening ceremony, praising the presence of doctors even when they don’t have the tools to help those who are suffering. And it also offers a stinging critique of all those who actively yearn for the halt of progress, and what we see here is the horrible upshot of what a country would look like if indeed the clocks were to grind to a halt.
The first half of the film sees Spike and Jamie tooled up and ready to do battle with the infected, while the second focuses on the son’s attempts to find some relief for his mother. There are a number of references and influences at play, including fantasy franchise building like The Hunger Games movies, and some of the more outré modern folk horror offerings, such as those by Ben Wheatley. Screenwriter Alex Garland is someone who has been vocal in his love and respect for modern video games, and the dynamic here, with the insistently paternal father clashing with the rebellious son, feels like an homage to the 2018 title God of War.
There are little suggestions of allegory and satire in the mix, but Garland has this time managed to find a nice sweet spot where meaning and message don’t choke the story as a whole. Boyle, meanwhile, shows us some of the old magic in the various action set pieces, especially the ones where the alpha and its mighty, swinging member become involved. Tonally, the film is all over the shop, but never to the point where things don’t feel fluid or coherent. Anachronism is used for humour, particularly in a climactic scene which, for this viewer, might be considered one of the most jaw-dropping and bold in recent memory. A mic-drop moment par excellence.
It’s a film which manages to have its daft thrills and convincingly pivot to wistful philosophical introspection, and while there are certainly some rough edges and unexplored plot avenues, it probably counts as one of Boyle’s strongest works this century. This one needs to do numbers to ensure that the entire trilogy comes to fruition (Nia DaCosta’s second instalment is in the can and arriving early 2026), and we can honestly say something now that we haven’t been able to say for a long time: Danny deserves your dosh.
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