Degeneracy has never looked as sorrowful as James McAvoy, screaming, crying and berating his way through a comfortably unnerving hour and a half, adapting the words of Irvine Welsh with director Jon S. Baird. Filth is just that. Utter smut. It is vile and depraved in ways only Welsh could conjure. Trainspotting might be a delve into the heroin scene, but it is the acceptance of decadence there that makes it less shocking. When the long arm of the law is dabbling in the crimes that they are meant to crack down on, all under the guise of catchy and obnoxious taglines, the same rules mentality and the care-free attitude of a proud Scotsman hating his fellow man, it becomes a melting point of vagrancy and a sincere turn of how forgiving an audience can be.