THIS IS NOT A LOVE SONG

The rolling, green countryside of the British Midlands, famed for the “hospitality” of its natives, turns into a landscape of terror and dread in THIS IS NOT A LOVE SONG. Heaton and Spike are two petty hoodlums living moment by moment, yobs whose elusive humanity flows from the sad fact that nobody's looking out for them but themselves. When Spike leaves prison after serving time for a paltry robbery, Heaton is there to collect him in a fancy 4×4, ready to take off for a road trip to put the past behind them. But the vehicle breaks down, and at a farmhouse the impulsive Spike panics and shoots a girl. Vacation's over. Here on the moors the flinty locals have their rough justice, and mete it out ruthlessly and efficiently. While police set up blockades on the highways leading to London, a rural chieftain organizes his own vigilante searching-party, on motorbikes and portable phones, to scour every inch of scrub and hedgerow for the two fugitives. “You've all hunted grouse before. Similar principles,” he instructs the posse. And the pursuit begins. The title refers to the Public Image Limited punk anthem pounding on the radio-cassette deck carried by Spike, who trusts Heaton's military background will somehow see them through the ordeal. Shot on digital-video, this feature's nervous, jittery stylistics and jangled imagery make one wonder how much chilling immediacy Sam Peckinpaugh could have brought to “Straw Dogs” had he wielded the mini-DV camera as a thriller's weapon of choice.