D/S: Peter Strickland. P: Andy Starke. Cast: Sidse Babett Knudsen, Chiara D’Anna, Monica Swinn, Eugenia Caruso, Fatma Mohamed, Kata Bartsch, Eszter Tompa, Zita Kraszkó. UK dist (DVD/Blu-ray): Artificial Eye.

Fans of BBC4’s Borgen may be surprised to find the Danish PM (Sidse Babett Knudsen), tightly-trussed inside a corset and stockings, sitting on the face of a pliant young lady friend in Peter Strickland’s latest film The Duke of Burgundy (2014). As with Strickland’s previous drama, Berberian Sound Studio (2012), Burgundy is a left-field homage to European exploitation cinema of the late Sixties/early Seventies – more especially, the lesbian-chic decadence popularised in such diverse fare as Pasquale Festa Campanile’s Scacco alla Regina/The Slave (1969), Radley Metzger’s The Image (1975; technically a US show, but about as Euro as you can get in its sexy sensibilities) and any number of flashy gialli starring Edwige Fenech, Barbara Bouchet or Anita Strindberg.

Though the subject matter (lesbian S&M) may prime viewers to expect a cross between the Marquis de Sade and Blue is the Warmest Colour, the film itself is a very different kettle of fish. It’s a tight-laced, intensely claustrophobic study of a deeply strange relationship between two women, Cynthia (Knudsen) and Evelyn (Chiara D’Anna). An elegant middle-aged entomologist, Cynthia lives with the younger Evelyn in a beautiful villa Somewhere In Europe; together they act out repetitive master-and-servant scenarios, with Cynthia firmly cast in the dominant role (usually a harsh mistress displeased with the way her knickers have been washed).

But the relationship is more complex than it first appears. Far from being the meekly submissive victim of Cynthia’s punishments, Evelyn in fact occupies the driving seat. She supplies Cynthia with precise scripts for each ritual, whose particulars must be observed to the letter. The arcaded villa belongs to her, and she’s clearly wealthy enough to support the pair’s esoteric lifestyle. But Cynthia, we learn, is less than content with the arrangement. She has begun to feel her age: pulled muscles take longer to heal, and those corsets aren’t nearly as comfy as a nice pair of pyjamas. The S&M rituals (so absorbing for Evelyn) leave Cynthia cold, and she finds herself increasingly unable to perform with conviction. (Incapable of urinating on cue, she fluffs the payoff of one scenario; with icy impatience, Evelyn suggests: “Try turning on the tap.”) Evelyn can become childishly petulant when her whims are thwarted, and Cynthia is terrified of losing her. Can Cynthia keep Evelyn happy with her vanilla sexual tastes, and safe from the allure of jackbooted temptresses?

Born, improbably, from an original idea – by Rook Films co-founder Pete Tombs, also co-owner of boutique DVD label Mondo Macabro – to remake Jess Franco’s Lorna the Exorcist (1974), The Duke of Burgundy is miles apart from its nominal inspiration. Strickland brings far too much good taste to the table for any sensible comparison to be made, beyond the superficial sharing of a few aesthetic trappings. (All that remains from the Franco connection is a cameo turn from an unrecognisable Monica Swinn, former bikini-briefed, monocled commandant of Barbed Wire Dolls [1975], as the grumpy old bag next door.) While there are certain clear references to Italian genre cinema, they’re never overly intrusive. Most obvious is the scarlet-tinted title sequence (echoing the film-within-a-film in Berberian Sound Studio), backed by a melodic vocal track supplied by British pop duo Cat’s Eyes (nicely reproducing the romantic-melancholic feel of scores by Piccioni, Nicolai, Cipriani et al). Beyond that, Strickland permits himself only a couple of outright quotes – Evelyn’s nocturnal candelabra-strolls evoke the monochrome Gothics of Barbara Steele, while Cynthia’s wide-brimmed floppy hats have been the fashion choice of many a giallo heroine – and sensibly lets the human drama take centre stage.

Sidse Babett Knudsen excels as the troubled Cynthia. The strict and humourless exterior we see at the start is soon revealed as a thin façade, concealing a nest of teeming insecurities. As the same domination scenarios are repeated, reflecting Evelyn’s insatiable appetite for ritual, we see Cynthia visibly deteriorate, until she’s quite incapable of speaking her lines: seeing her beg forgiveness of Evelyn, pleading with her not to be angry, we immediately grasp where the true power lies in this relationship. Chiara D’Anna, as the submissive despot, is not quite so impressive, though hers is the less interesting role; still, she makes a credible monomaniac, whether reprimanding her lover for lack of verisimilitude in her performance, or angrily exhorting her to “improvise!!” during a mutual masturbation session. It’s a credit to both actresses, and to their director, that a ménage which could so easily have seemed silly and contrived is never less than wholly convincing. A story of this sort risks alienating its audience by concentrating too much on the particular, at the expense of the universal, but Strickland is careful to include certain details recognisable to even the straightest of couples. (There’s some lovely deadpan humour involving Cynthia’s snoring, for instance.)

As for sexual content – this is no Eurosleaze quickie, that’s for sure. Anyone hoping for salacious thrills is advised to look elsewhere; there’s no nudity, and while there is some bedroom action it’s all pretty innocuous – well, save the odd golden shower or two (relayed only in audio, and behind a closed door). Quite why the BBFC deemed the film worthy of an “18” rating is beyond me, unless they’re hoping to dissuade impressionable young women from sealing each other inside heavy wooden tea-chests (just one of the bizarre practices the couple enjoys). The film is beautifully shot by Nic Knowland, who creates some lovely in-camera overlay effects with an ingenious system of mirrors, doubling and tripling the images of Evelyn and Cynthia to lend their ritual trysts a feel of heightened sensual abandon.

Echoing Evelyn’s obsessions are the recurrent tracking shots along rows of butterflies, staked out in glass cases: beauty preserved, pinned in place – and quite, quite dead. But very much alive is the butterfly’s ugly cousin: the death’s-head moth that emerges at night to beat against the window, urgently demanding entrance. If (as Carla Lane maintains) love is like a butterfly, desire is something altogether less delicate. The Duke of Burgundy (named for a species of British Lepidoptera) rises to a hallucinatory climax in which a blindfolded Evelyn is consumed by a blizzard of CG moths: a metaphor that surely needs no explanation. (The film’s near-fetishistic attention to entomological detail suggests Argento’s Phenomena (1984) as a key influence, though Strickland’s focus is more enigmatic than mystical. And there are no telepathic bluebottles, thankfully.)

A final word on décor and setting. Where the Sapphists of 70s Eurosleaze inhabited brightly-lit designer pads, kitted out by Eero Aarnio, Olivier Mourgue and Verner Panton (and often observed by a smiling George Hilton), the interior world of Cynthia and Evelyn is dark, rigid and highly claustrophobic. And there isn’t a man in sight. Set in a deliberately artificial, pan-European “interzone”, The Duke of Burgundy unspools in a stylised universe peopled solely by women. Rows of perfectly-coiffured ladies sit listening to lectures by entomologists in shiny (very shiny) leather boots, occasionally raising a hand to ask pertinent questions in delightfully-accented English. It’s a completely preposterous setup, of course, as Strickland is the first to admit. But in playing with notions of artifice and realism, Peter Strickland is hoping to “peel back genre” (as he puts it) and reveal the emotional truth underneath. The end result may be too arch for some viewers’ tastes, but for devotees of deadpan artsploitation it’s a must. It is witty, disturbing and, finally, rather poignant. (And it’s not every film, after all, that carries credits for both a perfumier and a “human toilet consultant”.)

Artificial Eye’s blu-ray presentation is very good, if not flawless; banding is visible here and there, though the image is otherwise sharp and clear. Supplements are extremely generous, including a director interview and commentary, deleted scenes (often quite repetitive, but occasionally amusing), a short film and a trailer. A highly recommended release for an unexpectedly touching film.