Having navigated a mist of near eye-watering hype, Steve McQueen’s long awaited slavery drama finally, emphatically delivers. Based on Solomon Northup’s book of the same name, McQueen's film is about as marvellous, gruelling and brutal an exercise in cinema as you are likely to see.

We follow Northup’s 12 year odyssey from respected musician living with wife and children in Saratoga to his kidnapping in Washington and subsequent decent into slavery. We meet his first master, a somewhat decent man named William Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), and then his second, a cruel maniac called Edward Epps (Michael Fassbender) who harbours a frightening love for a slave called Patsey (Lupita Nyong'O). Northup is advised to keep his head down to survive but the free man locked inside strives to “live” again.

McQueen has assembled a terrific cast for this, his third feature. Chiwetel Ejiofor is finally given a role to chew on and digs in with relish; all downcast and dignified, stretching those rich vocals to grand effect. Opposite him Fassbender is menacing as the scripture quoting Epps. His indifferent bursts of hatred and violence are terrifying but the manner in which Fassbender represses his affections even more so. Patsey, the victim of those affections, is played with delicate finesse by newcomer Lupita Nyong'O. Indeed, all of the supporting players are strong; slimy Paul Dano is reliably slimy; Paul Giamatti shocks as a shrewd and heartless slave dealer and Brad Pitt- who produced the film under his Plan B production company- rather dubiously finds himself in the most sympathetic white role but, sure, we can let him away with that one.

As the news filtered in over the last couple of years it was clear few expected anything less than a masterpiece here, so it seems the only big question which remained was: would McQueen, a stern British video-art director, be marginalised by such sweeping moves on Hollywood? It would seem not. His film is a visceral assault from all angles. Sonically, Hans Zimmer knows when to kick in the string section but the brutish composer is just as deft with the drill and visually, Sean Bobitt’s photography has lost none of its poetic hostility. He shoots a slave cart from above like a tin of sardines; a tuning violin like a torture rack and the paddle wheel of a barge like a malevolent harvester. McQueen wants us to feel the relentless fear and hatred which constituted the majority of these peoples’ lives and in doing so opens that old wound much wider than many Americans (yes, even Tarantino) have been able to muster. In a daring close-up late on Ejiofor breaks the forth wall but he might as well be pointing a finger. It seems that while this young director might have his sights on LA, his eyelashes have yet to flutter.