With
a career that spans nearly half a century, Ken Loach could
comfortably be given the title of one the most influential and
important directors in British cinema history. For me, he is perhaps
the greatest director of all time. There is Hitchcock, there is
Powell and Pressburger, and there is Lean, all iconic filmmakers, who
deliver glorious, thrilling, wonderful cinema that we should all be
proud of, but for me, Ken exceeds even their semi-mythical status. No
director can give me that familiar spine-tingling experience that
leaves me almost breathless. When his name comes up in conversation,
the usual response is ‘Oh, is that the guy who did Kes?’
After I’ve suppressed the desire to bang their head against a wall,
I always, always reply with ‘Yes, he also directed
Ladybird, Ladybird.’
The
film tells the story of tragic Maggie Conlon, played by the
remarkable Crissy Rock, who gives one of the most astounding
performances in cinema. Maggie has her children taken into care after
a devastating accident, and cries on the shoulder of mild-mannered
illegal immigrant Jorge (Vladimir Vega). What could be a final happy
ending to a heart-wrenching story descends into what can only be
described as the average person’s idea of pure, unforgiving Hell.
The sad fact of the matter is Maggie, who was let down by social
services as a child, cannot control her all-encompassing rage and
hatred for those who ultimately have control over her relationship
with her children, and her erratic behaviour and poor decisions serve
as the main catalysts to her demise.
It
is tempting, and all too easy, for Loach to be described as an
anti-authoritarian film-maker whose main purpose is to criticise
those in positions of power, and at a glance it is easy to understand
why. In Ladybird, Ladybird, however, the function of Social Services
and Maggie’s relationship with them is played out objectively. What
the viewer does feel, is an acute frustration, and yet a genuine
sympathy, for a woman who is her own worst enemy. We are not watching
a woman who does not love her children (the judges and social workers
admit several times that she clearly loves them), but she is a woman
who can’t identify how her own lack of self-worth damages her
children. In the beginning of the film, she leaves a man (played by a
blood-chilling Ray Winstone) who remorselessly beats her, only to
return to him with no real thought about the negative affect it will
have on her children.
What
sets this film above the rest for me, is the affect it had on me
after watching it. I sat, staring at the screen, barely acknowledging
the credits. I did not feel, at any point, the familiar lump in the
throat that you get from being moved. Instead, I felt what can only
be described as grief. The sickness deep in the pit of your stomach
that you only get when you’ve experienced something real (I didn’t
realise until after that it was in fact based on true events.) Now
I’d agree, it’s not a particularly pleasant experience, but then,
the majority of us, especially cinephiles, watch a film to be
challenged- and that I can watch a story about somebody who I’ve
never met and feel such a genuine feeling, one that does not go away
once I’ve turned off the TV, leaves me in awe. It’s such a dull
cliché, but when you’ve experienced it, it feels anything but.
People often tell me that they think Loach needs to cheer up a bit. I
couldn’t disagree more.
Nia
Childs
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