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Looking at Villainy

The Cook, the Thief, his Wife & her Lover, Peter Greenaway, 1989

In Peter Greenaway’s The Cook, the Thief, his wife & her Lover, the unbridled husband Albert Spica enact the thief and is undoubtedly a memorable villain in the history of cinema. His wife engages in a secretive relationship with a bookseller in the restaurant her husband owns. The latter is portrayed as a tyrannical and opulent character embodying consumerism pushed to its absolute limits through body horror, graphic and repealing surrealist visuals, using food as a central component of the narrative.

The film is very complete and resembles a theatrical piece. It uses specific colour themes in which characters adapt through stunning costumes whilst navigating through oneiric decors as well as a striking score.

Blue Velvet, David Lynch, 1986

David Lynch’s masterpiece Blue Velvet offers a pretty dark and almost sadomasochist story for his fourth long feature in which we can find a singular and despicable villain. 

After finding an ear, Jeffrey (Kyle MacLachlan) associates with the detective’s wife to break through a mystery that will lead him to unexpected encounters, such as singer Dorothy Vallens and Frank Booth, an abusive and highly psychopath that also kidnaps her son, interpreted by Dennis Hopper that annihilates amyl nitrite. His character creates a clear break with the American dream that is widely sold, and especially with this quiet town of Lumberton in the 60s.

Similar to The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, the overall ambiance is odd, very surrealist, and the score as a leitmotif sets the tone for this major feature-length film.

Ex Machina, 2015

The house in Ex Machina isn’t a home, but rather a thesis on power, taking form in the quietly menacing angles of the set. Designed by production designer Mark Digby, the interiors feel like a billionaire’s monastery carved into the earth. Glass corridors slice through concrete walls, exposing nature while simultaneously trapping it, the framing and balance of void to full space acts as a constant reminder of our lack of freedom.

Every room is immaculate, but the cleanliness has teeth. Polished stone floors reflect sterile light; keycards and sealed doors dictate movement like a laboratory protocol. The house’s geometry is brutally rational; rectangles, grids, and hard planes, yet outside the windows lies wild forest, pressing against the glass like a world that’s been politely excluded. This uncomfortable contrast highlights the unnatural nature of this interior, as much as the unnatural nature of the practices happening inside.

What makes the design so unsettling is its restraint. There are no gothic shadows, no villain’s lair theatrics. Instead, the set whispers control. In a film obsessed with consciousness and manipulation, the architecture itself becomes complicit; an elegant cage built by a man who believes he’s smarter than everyone inside it.