Ken Loach Made Me Cry x8: The Old Oak (2023)
Take tissues, lots of tissues. This film will make you laugh, gasp, frown, really angry at points and cry, repeatedly. It touches the emotions in a non-manipulative way as time and time again it makes us think, and as we go to the point our finger and cancel — points it right back at us. The script directly calls us out at one point! Throughout we are asked: ‘what would you do? Who do you want to me?’ It was surprising to find myself in tears eight times during this film — just as I thought it was all over, I’d start again, and yet it is not a miserable or despairing film. It is hopeful, there is beauty, and faith, it pushes us to be more human — together. A balm for the hostile environment approach.
Because of all of this, I really hope that this isn’t Ken Loach’s last film, that he will make more. I’m not sure who will step in and fill the gap that he does otherwise. However, I’m all aware that he has a history of making anti-Semitic comments and I need to look into this more; all is not perfect. At the same time I have to acknowledge that his movie ‘I, Daniel Blake’ changed me irrevocably. Thankfully there isn’t any anti-Semitism (as far as I could see) in this film — although it does give voice to voices we don’t normally hear on screen and hate and hateful speech is depicted, though never glorified or promoted as a good thing.
In a County Durham former mining village, people are fighting a battle — without consultation they are being used as a safe place for refugees and other ‘un-wanteds’; at this moment, families from Syria. Rather than being welcoming, people are hurt, angry, frustrated, hostile, threatening, resentful, worried about the future, their futures, about yet another change they didn’t ask for. Yet they keep saying that ‘they aren’t racist, but’…In discussions at the pub of the title (the last community resource left standing, middle aged men lament their loss of agency — the way houses are bought up on the cheap by uncaring outsider remote landlords and anyone can be put to live there, people who don’t respect the community, people, themselves, even speak the language. Shutters are up literally and metaphorically, and everyone feels trapped. It’s all too late and lost. What does it mean to be a former miner village in the 21st century when the mine has gone?
One of the new members of this hostile environment is a young woman, gifted at photography, Yara (Ebla Mari). A local man grabs her camera off of her (ironically he’d been complaining about having his image taken as he screeched at the bus and its passengers and now he wants a selfie). In the skuffle to get it back, he breaks it. He will not take responsibility for his actions or the damage — and yet, hinted at in a later conversation, has his own addictive battles going on. Pub owner TJ (Dave Turner) sees this, tries to stop it, but also doesn’t want to get involved and claims not to know who the man is. In a community where everyone knows everyone else and each other’s business (and histories — scabs/strike breakers during the Miner’s Strike and the legacies of TJ’s parents during the same strike) are still causing pain, resentment and grief in the here and now). Partly he also knows he has an audience — his very vocal local clientele.
Having cried at the expressions of racism, I now cried again as a man wept in frustration at the impact of a man with clear mental health and social issues damaging his wife’s health (she is a wheelchair user); and he could do nothing about it. The plummeting house prices cause alarm for everyone, as does their perception that refugees get everything for free, bigger and better. A girl’s joy at receiving a second-hand bike is contrasted with the begrudging local youth who have nothing.
There are also all kinds of hidden poverty — a pub landlord is trapped by his clientele into doing what they want him to do and to listening to their harsh banter; we see empty kitchen cupboards; a girl fainting for lack of food and skipping school because everything feels pointless; the lack of adults around because they’re out trying to provide and survive; the bleakness of isolation; the shame of being seen as not having anything to eat and taking free food. The hopelessness of a community where all the resources which brought people together have been taken away and three people are trying to do everything. All neatly symbolised in the wonky ‘K’ sign which won’t stay up straight and keeps falling down. Mistrust is everything it seems.
Having refused to allow his broken-down back room to be used for a meeting for locals to discuss their racist/not-racist sentiments, pub landlord TJ Ballantyne (Dave Turner) finally grows a spine and does something. Having tried and failed to get the shouty, sweary man with his addictions to pay for her damaged camera, TJ offers to loan Syrian refugee Yara (Ebla Mari) one of his dad’s cameras and then offers to get her own camera fixed for her. An uneasy trust develops; local community worker Laura (Claire Rodgerson) joins forces with TJ and Yara to do some good for a change. TJ gets the sports club going again — people are mixing, as are the languages.
Opening the room, Syrians and Durhamites come together to fix things, but there are cultural, listening and communication issues. It isn’t easy — but food overcomes many things. It’s beautiful. Subtly one lad sneaks in, full of shame rather than being canny, and is enabled to eat out of view in the kitchen. Just looking at his face, we see how hungry he is. Throughout much of the film, we’re offered images and bits of story, and asked to ponder, to contemplate, to reflect — ‘what do you think about that then? and what will you do?’
During the sports day, a young girl (earlier seen skipping school) faints. Yara kindly walks her home and looks after her. In trying to find her something to boost her failing energy levels, all Yara finds is empty cupboards. Then Katy’s mum comes home and throws Yara out in an angry rage of shouting. Will anyone understand or listen to anyone here? But Katy’s mum does apologise and gets Yara into the local hair and beauty salon to photograph the stylists at work. It is this which gets them eating together as she listens to stories of how lonely and isolated people are.
Food and sports become a springboard to beauty. There’s a lovely moment as everyone gathers together to enjoy Yara’s photographs as a slide show whilst an Oud is played alongside. Everyone plays their part — it’s great. However, this does not last — a burst pipe leaks, destroys the ceiling and the electrics. The meals end. Everyone lives miserably ever after. Except they don’t — there is hope. Horrifyingly, TJ’s daft little dog Marra (a source of love and community for everyone in the pub) meets two big, out-of-control dogs and TJ hits despair, rock bottom. He can’t, won’t go on.
Tenderly, Yara and her mum go to his door with food, they’re allowed to come in and sit with him. Defiantly, and in great love and kindness, Yara’s mum refuses to leave until she’s seen him eat. In this great act of care we learn about TJ’s life and why his daft small dog meant so much to him, much like the story of Yara’s attachment to her camera earlier on. Laura and others are determined to get things going again — TJ is broken by the loss of his dog, of letting the kids down, of not being enough. And he can’t be enough — even so, hope is on the rise.
Yara’s dad is missing; in taking tea and cake with Yara’s family we learn about him. Through a discussion at the pub and in a sneaky peak into his social media, we see how vulnerable one of her brother’s is and what he’s going through. We know he pushed some girls over at school, but why? The local boys think they know why, but do they? Again we’re invited to reflect, to think about what and who we think we know everything about.
In a visit to Durham Cathedral, Yara is overwhelmed by faith and beauty; expressions of peace and faith, of peaceful practices and cultural stability. A 1000 year old cathedral has lasted, Palmyra is in shattered ruins — what cultural and historic artefacts will last, what will be left to share? What is left for my future children Yara wonders? TJ too is thinking about the legacy local village children are inheriting. In the stunning visual setting of Durham Cathedral we too are asked to pause, think about what we’re making, the legacy we’re creating, what are we passing on?
And it should all end on a dour note. There is a story of loss as TJ is told something in confidence which shakes his world. None the less, hope is on the rise, and with it, love. Yara having discovered that her dad is still alive and all the worry that that brings with it, learns later that he has died (been murdered by the regime) and they grieve.
In a gloriously tender ending, the community (or most of them) grieve with her. The embittered quartet in the pub thought they’d won, that they’d got ‘their pub’ back, that they could say what they wanted, do what they wanted and no-one cared. Yet there is hope and love, barriers have been broken down, new community bonds formed, and people love — only it takes place in homes, and on the street, and in coming together around Miner’s banners and marches in new ways. It can’t be stopped — like beauty. The change is here — what will we do with the opportunity?
And so we are left with beauty instead of ugliness — and what will we do with it? (Ironically I watched this on the day of Suella Braverman’s appalling speech). Having set us up with so much to pass judgement on, Loach and Laverty throw it back at us and get us pondering, connecting, thinking.
Rather than ‘are you not entertained?’ throughout we’re asked (just as in I, Daniel Blake), ‘are you going to care?’ Spitting triumphantly in the metaphorical eye of Suella Braverman’s hateful speeches, the hostile environment, the prison barges, the camps and everything in jolly old Brexit Britain (and before), we’re offered the opportunity for a different future, of people coming together in faith, hope and love.
So much, so much here on themes of loss, grief, the past, language and languages, community and communication, power and powerlessness, as well as faith, love, hope, grass roots empowerment, forgiveness, communality and conviviality. If this is Loach’s last film, then what a legacy. In Paul Laverty’s script and Loach’s naturalistic (though carefully crafted) direction, embattled and battered working class people are allowed to speak. We may not like what they have to say or care to listen, but we should — and we should care. As ever Laverty and Loach teach us to stop, not look away, really listen and have a heart for those who can be easily dismissed as ignorant Brexit voters and racists. The truth is much more layered and complex, but it doesn’t have to be or stay this way. It could be different. It could be better. The Old Oak gives us a vision of what it could be. (And yes, I was crying again)…
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