Lady review – a gloriously unhinged mockumentary

It’s been ten years since Sian Clifford first graced our screens as Claire in Fleabag, and Lady reminds us exactly why we fell for her in the first place. This debut feature from Samuel Abrahams arrives disguised as yet another entry in the crowded ​‘eat the rich’ canon, but quickly reveals itself to be something stranger, sadder and far more interesting. Forget Saltburn, this is Grey Gardens after aheroic dose of psilocybin, as Lady proves to be agloriously deranged mockumentary that turns satire into astudy of the human need to beseen.

Clifford is Lady Isabella, the flamboyant chatelaine of Ravenhyde Hall who proudly brands herself ​“aristocracy’s answer to the Kardashians”. She flirts, preens and prances through her stately home with the manic energy of someone terrified of what might happen the moment she stops performing. Aside from her devoted housekeeper Becky (Juliet Cowan) and araven named Ricky, Isabella is achingly alone. That is until the arrival of Sam (Laurie Kynaston), an ambitious young filmmaker who believes he’s landed aslick commission to document her eccentric lifestyle. Isabella sniffs out Sam with an instinct as predatory as it is hilarious, most memorably when she attempts to seduce him with aglass ofmilk…

Above all, Isabella is determined to compete in her estate’s talent show for local children, Stately Stars. She recruits Sam to document asurreal spectacle of poetry and theatre, so that she might finally unveil her own artistic gifts to the world. At first glance, Isabella appears to be another haughty relic of Britain’s dwindling pool of daffy bluebloods who are ripe for ridicule. But Lady refuses to take the easy shot. While its fly-on-the-wall style allows the camera to relish every awkward silence and lingering glance, Abrahams never allows the joke to sit for long. Gradually, Isabella takes on the faded-star pathos of Sunset Boulevard​’s Norma Desmond, echoing her refusal to accept vanishing relevance and agnawing hunger for the validation of acamera.

Beneath all the absurdity lies awoman grappling with grief, loneliness and the erasure of age, forced to watch both her body and her art slip quietly from view. As Isabella insists to Sam, she is not self-obsessed but self-centred, and the distinction matters tremendously. What may look like narcissism is really an artist’s prerogative to keep exploring aself others refuse to lookat.

Visually, Lady is atreat. Ravenhyde Hall’s sprawling rooms capture both the grandeur and loneliness of Isabella’s gilded cage – an emptiness filled by Jonny Woodley’s haunting choral score. Lady evolves from acomedy about adeluded aristocrat into aportrait of awoman, and an artist, desperate to be truly recognised. It’s abold debut from Abrahams, anchored by amagnificent lead performance from Clifford. Isabella ends up neither victim nor punchline – just wholly herself and impossible toshake.