Margaret Brearey

Margaret Brearey really brings something raw to The Moor, a film that doesn’t just flirt with the idea of darkness—it basically invites it in for tea. The story's set in this bleak, windswept spot up north, and you can practically feel the chill biting through your jacket. At its core, you’ve got a murder from way back that never quite left the village alone. People talk, but no one really wants to dig too deep, you know? There’s this sense that the land itself is holding onto secrets, and honestly, it’s creepy as hell. Brearey's character is tangled up in the whole mess—she’s not just some bystander, she’s actually hauling around her own ghosts. The film’s great at making you question what’s real and what’s just in her head. Is she seeing things, or is the moor playing tricks on everybody? The cinematography doesn’t let up either: fog rolling in, shadows that stick around a bit too long, and landscapes that look like they’ve seen every bad thing that’s ever happened there. Dialogue’s sharp—nobody here’s got time for pleasantries. It’s more about what’s left unsaid, the sideways glances, the long silences. There’s a sense of dread that just keeps building, like something’s coming but you’re never sure what. And by the end, you’re left unsettled, wondering if the real horror is what happened, or the way people just keep walking around pretending everything’s normal.