Sun roams through its tapestry of multifaceted themes, which by its riveting conclusion weaves together in the most horrifically confrontational of ways, revealing dark secrets that have been subtly lurking beneath the surface this whole time. During the first two acts, the film toys with where Sunhill's paranoia stems from, but Lahiff refuses to outright expose the terror beneath the surface straight away, alternatively choosing to dangle the revelations bit by bit, in turn building raw and unnerving tension. Sunhill's contention manifests through his insecurity and lack of trust over Ariadne's bountiful socialness, which sees her interacting with fellow artists, including other men, in ways that Sunhill is unable to understand. Her freedom and wanting to expand their circle and experience the world outside of their marriage is something that Sunhill struggles to comprehend, leading to a night of pure horror.
The symbolism throughout is unvarnished and real. They are matters that infest the subject and act like a parasite for years to come, and Lahiff clearly and utterly understands this. When heavy topics are on display, a certain sense of authenticity is deserved, which, as evidenced in Sun, adds to a whole new level of emotional resonance. The cerebral experience that persists within the very veins of Sun is duly matched by the film's sensory-rich cinematic audio and visual elements. Throughout, Lahiff's filmmaking and how he tells the story is equivalent to a walk through an art gallery where bold colours, vibrant and at times violently affective scoring and evocative visual symbols all collide to create a picture that is striking in every sense of the word.
