Ken Loach
The Old Oak

For the power that "The Old Oak" manages to convey, it reminds me of Saramago's last novel, “Caim,” written at the same venerable age. We'll miss you, Ken*, I say sincerely, because you're a champ and you didn't sell out as you got older. "I, Daniel Blake" and "Sorry We Missed You" are there to prove it.

It's a society in decay that Loach immortalizes in his latest work. Not only that, because it's also resigned and incredibly angry. And so there's genius in the simple initial image of the protagonist, the tired owner of an old dilapidated pub, who tries in vain to straighten the last letter of the crooked sign.

Black-and-white photographs cover the filthy walls at the back of the venue. Clicks that recall the past history, a faraway light-years ago, of a lively country, a strong community closely tied to the mining industry until the economic crisis that slowly and inexorably overwhelmed everything. Smiles have now disappeared, and how does one make daily life acceptable? By clinging to a periodic binge. Now selfishness, distrust, and fear reign. And so the country that has lost almost everything harbors all these rotten, violent, mean, and unworthy feelings that slowly macerate and consume them.

If there is still humanity, then it is found under a thick layer of personal disappointments and failures that have settled over time to form a hard, almost unbreakable rock. There's our anti-hero TJ, the one from the opening scene, ready to take a swing. The first blows are uncertain, but then they become more convinced. He made his mistakes: a life full of regrets and remorse, but he is too good and sincere a figure for this world.

"It's Our Pub, TJ!", "This is Our people!", "This is Us! Our people come first! Let Them go back to Their home".

The courageous Yara and that bus of desperate people is paradoxically a godsend for the town because now, finally, they have a physical target on which to unleash their long-unexpressed frustration. It doesn't matter if they are Syrian refugees escaping from 12 years of war, death, and destruction. The local group strengthens, and the We is what prevails when things aren't going right there, in the right direction. And damn, they haven't gone right since the dawn of time!

It's not Our fault, so it must be Yours, you bastard refugees! You come from nowhere and demand to eat from Our plate. Go back to Your home. To die.

It is easier to close oneself off than to face each other, just as it is easier to tend to one's sad and dilapidated little garden. There is no accusation or moralizing; it's a fact. Loach takes us into generalist, populist, and venomous dialogues. I listen to them and find it impossible not to see myself in my daily life when I bite my tongue until it bleeds and remain silent at work, incapable of responding. Cowardly and silent. Like TJ behind the counter as he pours sad pints at the beginning of the film.

It's a simple work, almost banal, but being able to frame so well the slimy side of the human being is damn difficult. Someone wrote here on Debaser that Loach is one of the few with the intellectual nobility to walk proudly and make these films. Whoever wrote it is right, and his filmography speaks volumes! Sharp dialogues, cadenced and relentless rhythms, sharp changes of frame without nuances, gray colors, intense close-ups, and a minimal camera work for a passionate and rhetoric-free picture.

Disillusioned TJ truly believed that something had finally changed for the better this time, and instead, he is swept away by the betrayal of his closest acquaintances. It seems like the usual K.O. ending, with one of the usual devastating uppercuts to the chin. But Loach changes it up this time and wants to give us a bit of timid and silent hope. And I, no, this time I won't refuse it.

P.S.* Loach said in an interview that for age-related reasons, this will most likely be his last cinematographic work.