Jorn Plucieniczak’s Terril opens with the only interior scene of the film. We see the silhouette of a large man in a dark room. He opens the curtain, briefly peeks outside through a slit, letting in a sliver of light. Most of the film takes place outside, but the ominous, menacing vibe of this room sets the tone: the characters carry a feeling of entrapment throughout the film.

A group of friends and family welcome the same man, whose origin is unclear. They eat barbecued chicken, tell each other bold stories, smoke another cigarette, and consider another crate of beer. The setting of this gathering is the old mining region around the city of Genk—an environment familiar to Plucienicza. This is where he was born and shot his previous film +6 Gain, which is also set in these indefinable interstices of the deindustrialised region. 

The group occasionally refers to a shared past: they talk about a bloodstained shirt, another stint in jail, and an unwanted daughter. And yet, it’s the silence that Plucienicza emphasises. The gentle images of Grimm Vandekerckhove show the men, arms crossed, peering into the void. Their toned bodies are tough in demeanour but soft in texture, as if the peach fuzz around their tattoos reveals their vulnerability. 

The filmmaker favours not showing over showing, which is further confirmed by the use of depth of field. The men are isolated from their environment, distinctly sticking out of a hazy background. The blurriness is explained later on when the men swipe through one of them’s Tinder profiles. The phone screen is too blurry to make out the women’s profiles. This confirms the protective, rather than exposing, approach of the filmmaker in regards to the privacy of the men. 

Towards the end of the film, we leave the gathering. Low-hanging trees on the path cover the sky and cast an ominous thrill reminiscent of the opening scene. We arrive at a vast, desolate field. Of all the scenes of the film, this one has the least oppressive framing, as if the walls of the film are crumbling around us. Two men, probably father and son, sit quietly on a bench. The father stares into the distance while the son’s head rests on his lap. Terril might represent the claustrophobic cage of masculinity, and yet, it ends with an opening, a short relief from masculine toughness.