Animol marks the directorial debut of British actor Ashley Walters, known for his role as DI Luke Bascombe on the Netflix series Adolescence (both co-starring Stephen Graham in supporting roles). Written by British screenwriter Nick Love (who has written and directed a slew of films through the 2000s and 2010s), the film clutched the FIPRESCI Prize in the Perspectives section at the 2026 Berlinale, where it premiered. Having revealed little else to the public, the film recently screened in the Horizons section at Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, a strand dedicated to already well-received films of the year.
Beyond being an accomplished debut, the film has gained unexpected notoriety through its so-called queer “twist” (described by some colleagues as “coming out of nowhere”). This character turn is far easier to read from the start once you know about it; regardless, the cues are much more subtle than one might expect from a film with this conceit.
***** This review contains spoilers for Animol *****
Animol is billed as drawing from Walters’ own experience in a young offenders’ institution—read: prison—shown to be nothing less than a miserable place controlled by ad-hoc gains to maintain control and comfort. Tut Nyuot plays Troy, a young Black man sentenced to the facility who, despite his tall stature, is quiet, nervous, and scared shitless, above all. (Nyuot gained notoriety for starring in 2025 Stephen King adaptation The Long Walk, his first feature film role after a batch of television gigs.) It’s never made clear what his role in a crime was, which is told through the film’s opening sound sequence over a black screen. Perhaps this is really what allows us to gain empathy for him; after all, we have nothing to believe but our eyes and his subsequent kindness.
Troy enters the facility on the same day as Krystian (Ukrainian actor Vladyslav Baliuk, who found success in the UK after fleeing Ukraine), a weed-smoking Polish inmate with enough charm for the both of them, as well as the vicious multi-time offender Dion (Sekou Diaby, who achieved pop culture fame starring in Grammy nominee PinkPantheress’ music video for her hit song “Illegal”). From the start, the story oscillates cleanly between friendship film and psychological thriller, setting the tone for the rest of the film in its first true onscreen sequence.
In this moment, and with Krystian watching in horror, Dion—whom Diaby plays with just the right amount of sickly-sweet edge—forces Troy to smuggle a phone into the institute by hiding it “where the sun don’t shine”. Walters thus stimulates this recurring sense of extreme dread in the viewer without ever resorting to anything particularly gruesome onscreen, mimicking Troy’s own sense of panic and helplessness. We see the setup, but rarely the violent or more gruesome execution—after all, we know what happens next. The viewer is thus sucked into this world of street slang and thinly veiled threats, in a space that seems to be bathed all the time in a dark glow, the camera stuck perpetually in this walled chamber. Despite how foreign it might feel, this world is made remarkably accessible by Walters while never compromising on its tragedy and grimness.
Suffering through the first days in prison together allows the friendship between Troy and Krystian to flourish, as both of them are just trying their best to stay above board. Troy must contend with his vicious and violent white roommate Mason (Ryan Dean), all while he is pulled into Dion’s mess, taking Krystian along for the ride. Truly violent situations are only broken up by Claypole, a youth psychologist played by Graham, who pops in as a sort of character-based deus ex machina for tough situations.
When we’re finally made to believe that the film will continue as a conventional prison drama, Krystian moves to kiss Troy while they are hiding in a bathroom stall, in a moment that could also very well be their last before certain bodily harm. Troy is momentarily surprised, but he doesn’t protest. Their bro-y behaviour leading up to this encounter is warm and never toxic. However, no glances or touches between them are highlighted through the directorial style, making it such an out-of-left-field moment for both Troy and the viewer. It’s taken in stride: Krystian later crawls into Troy’s bunk, and the latter again is hesitant, but lets him in. (In the film’s storytelling form, we don’t see what happens afterwards.)
Our moment, and Troy’s moment, of respite pendulums back to real life when Mason reveals he recorded their kiss and threatens to send it to everyone in their block. The boys’ quiet care for each other is their own paradise built in hell, to put it in the words of Rebecca Solnit, which Walters frames as unexpectedly organic but also strikingly true. Troy may adamantly refuse the label of “gay” as put on him by the others, who jeer him to smithereens, but the filmmaker maintains how powerful their connection is. There’s no sequence of disgust and self-hatred, no shift in cinematography that might suggest a personal revelation. He thus suggests a truth about prison facilities, too: perhaps this type of relationship grows out of this environment much more frequently than we expect.
Animol ends on a surprisingly happy note, despite the multiple forms of psychological horror that Troy has endured. In his case, prison does end, and people act differently on the outside. The pseudo-familial construction, with a pack leader and his followers, fades away. In one of the film’s more touching—yet slightly cheesy—moments, Dion acknowledges this, too, by inviting the ostracised Troy to dance. In the end, it doesn’t matter whether Troy is queer or not; their queer encounter may be a survival mechanism, but it doesn’t make it any less authentic. The affection he found from his Polish friend was very real. Feeling desired in that way was only part of it.
