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** spoiler alert ** This is a review I wrote for the stage version of Filth, starring Tam Dean Burn, at the time he was the only man ever to play the role. It says almost everything I want to say about the book, so I thought it was worth reproducing here. Enjoy:

Imagine the best thing you’ve ever done; imagine the most energy you’ve ever expended; imagine the ultimate expression of your greatest skill: now multiply that by a one hundred and it’s a good bet you still won’t even come close to the level of Tam Dean Burn’s performance in Filth.

His performance is not acting. It is transformation.

From the moment he struts into his onstage office, briefcase and brown paper bag in hand, lays his first fart and offers advice on how to escape the smell, Tam Dean Burn disappears into the skin and loathsome psyche of Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson.

Robertson � the anti-hero of Harry Gibson’s adaptation of Filth, Irvine Welsh’s merciless novel of police corruption � is one of the most vile characters ever to hit the stage. He makes Tartuffe and Richard III look like a couple of petulant schoolboys playing tricks on their neighbours. And, more frightening still, he’s an invisible monster that walks among us.

Over the course of a Christmas season Robertson ruins the life of a colleague, starts shagging his friend’s wife, battles an intestinal parasite, snorts a whole mess of coke, bites out a guy’s tongue, engages in a bloodthirsty act of defenestration, and rapes a girl while his partner busts another for the same crime. And this tally only scratches the surface of the sins, bloodshed and hate that find their expression in Burn’s uncompromising performance.

The degradation of Detective Sergeant Robertson goes well beyond the physical, however. As Tam Dean Burn taps into each of the thirty-two characters that live in Robertson’s world and mind we come to realize that this filthy cop is not just evil � he is certifiably mad. And Burn internalizes this madness with a physical and mental energy that’s humbling to witness, committing himself fully to being Bruce Robertson.

Indeed, once onstage, Burn shows no trace at all of the beneficent actor from Leith who fights for equality and peace. All that’s left is a beast who shifts from perversion to corruption and back again.
Yet, somehow, as with the classic misanthropes that Bruce Robertson eclipses, the audience finds themselves empathizing with the mad Detective Sergeant � and maybe even liking him.

And therein lies the true effectiveness of Tam Dean Burn’s performance.

We witness DS Robertson’s appalling actions, but Burn makes us believe that somewhere inside, beneath all the hate and anger, a good man, a sane man, is struggling for supremacy. Filth takes us right to the precipice, to the edge of lunacy and horror, and Burn pulls us back.
In the hands of a lesser actor Welsh’s story could easily spiral out of control. The mirror balls and talking tapeworms, the masturbation and nudity, the ultra violence and disturbing revelations could overwhelm us with hopelessness. But Tam Dean Burn keeps us with him all the way. He makes us believe in the struggling core of Robertson’s goodness, and he shows us that hope can come from even the most tragic events.

Filth is not an entertaining play. It’s not an easy play to watch. But the questions and ethical dilemmas it raises are relevant to us all. And it contains the finest stage performance this city has seen.
Tam Dean Burn is unparalleled. It’s no wonder Harry Gibson wrote Filth with him in mind.