Eight Mountains a Story of Friendship and Fate


By Paulo Cognetti
Atria Books, 272 pages

When I was in Italy a few years ago I visited the mountain village where a friend was born many decades earlier. My wife and I drove higher and higher before reaching our destination. It would be overdramatic to say the village was a place time forgot, though that would be precisely the phrase for abandoned hamlets above and below it.

I mention this because one of the themes of Paulo Cognetti's Eight Mountains is that geologic time moves slowly and mighty mountains couldn't care less about the rhythms of its human inhabitants. The village I sought was in the Apennines and Cognetti's in the Southern Alps, where Italy melds with Switzerland, but it's easy to imagine a similar vibe. Eight Mountains follows a decades-long friendship between two individuals from quite different backgrounds: Milan-raised Pietro Gausti and Bruno Guglielmina, who seldom ventures far from the confines of greater Grana, a gateway village to the high peaks near the Matterhorn. Like some of the places I visited, Grana once held thousands, but now just hundreds.

Pietro and Bruno become soul mates despite their differences. Pietro comes from an educated bourgeois family who summer in the Alps; Bruno is a rough-and-tumble peasant lad whose mother is a near mute and his father a brute. Pietro's parents more politely parallel Bruno's: his mother is content with rustic pleasures and his father driven to traverse the length of mountain trails and glaciers, even if it means pushing Pietro like a driven mule and even though a summit is simply the signal to reverse and go home. For Pietro, though, the mountains, rivers, scree, and forests are Zen-like—places to contemplate, not conquer. This is a source of some amusement to Bruno, who tells him that "nature" is a name those of privilege give to the mountains, whereas people of his ilk label what is useful: wood, water, stone…. This is certainly the point of view of his people; Bruno's father punches Pietro's father when the latter offers to take Bruno back to Milan and pay for his education. Is this an act of tyranny, or a hard kindness?

In practical terms, it means the boys are seasonal friends who mature along different paths: Pietro becomes the educated professional who travels the world whilst Bruno lives out the only role he desired: that of a mountain man. Neither play their roles quite as they would have scripted them, but who comes closer and why is Pietro lured back to Grana whenever he can get there? As Bruno casually observes, "You are the one who comes and goes. I'm the one who stays put." The book's title derives from one of Pietro's visits to Tibet, where he speaks with a monk who draws an eight-spoked wheel and tells him that in Buddhist cosmology the great peak Semeru stands at the physical, spiritual, and metaphysical world, surrounded by eight mountains and eight seas. The monk asks Pietro, "Who has learned the most, the one who has been to all eight mountains, or the one who reaches the summit of Semeru?" Maybe that sounds weird, but think before you judge—it might well be one of most profound questions ever asked. To put it in more Western terms, is it better to be a rock or a rolling stone? To know thyself, or to live with the unknowingness of becoming? 

Eight Mountains is a book about friendship, fate, the things from childhood that can and cannot be overcome, parental secrets, and both ancient wisdom and nonsense masquerading as truth. At core it wrestles with the degree to which we change our basic essence and the limitations of such endeavors. In the end, it's also both an actual and a philosophical mystery. This is Cognetti's debut novel, and it's quite an achievement.

Rob Weir


Not Much Time Left to See O'Keeffe in Salem


Peabody Essex Museum (Salem, MA)
Through April 1

You don't have much time left to catch the Georgia O'Keeffe extravaganza at the Peabody Essex Museum. I'd like to suggest you rearrange your schedule to do so.

O'Keeffe (1887-1986) has been iconic for so long, that many people assume there's not much left to discover. It is well documented that young O'Keeffe dazzled teachers at the University of Chicago and everywhere else she studied. She was in Virginia when pioneering photographer Alfred Stieglitz (1864-1946) organized her first solo show in 1915. Three years later he convinced her to move to New York and the two were married in 1924, though he was twenty-three years her senior. 

We know this, just as we are aware that marrying an older man was just the tip of the iceberg of her unconventional life. She was equal parts artistic genius, bohemian, rebel, and (fiercely) independent. Within her lifetime, she was lionized by feminists for the strong vulvar imagery in her canvases, especially depictions of flowers, but also in the folds of canyon lands in her beloved adopted state of New Mexico. She began spending time in 1929 and moved there full time when Stieglitz died in 1946.

So what's left to tell? Sometimes the least discussed aspects of a famous person's life are things that are hidden in plain view. It seems Ms. O'Keeffe was also a clotheshorse with a fondness for fine threads. That's the "style" part of the Peabody Essex show and when you look at the "image" part of it—the many photos taken by Stieglitz, Tony Vacarro and others, it's so obvious that we wonder why it took so long for anyone to launch a show comparable to this one. Perhaps it's because it doesn't fit as well into the nonconformity narratives we impose, or perhaps it's simpler: her art is so powerful that it simply dominates our minds as well as our eyes.

O'Keeffe's fashion sense is the first revelation of the show. The second is equally obvious, but makes perfect sense. We know that O'Keeffe's subject matter changed dramatically when she was in the Southwest, but so too did her entire sense of color. Her New York paintings were black and gray with splashes of color used for dramatic, often geometric, effect. In New Mexico, bold color is often dominant. Elsewhere the grays give way to azure blue, golden adobe, bright white, and textured beige. After seeing New Mexico, O'Keeffe's 1949 rendering of the Brooklyn Bridge makes perfect sense.

It's reflected in her clothing as well. When O'Keeffe painted in New York, she dressed the part of an avant-garde cosmopolitan. She especially liked being draped in silk. In New Mexico, her work clothes of choice were denim. She still enjoyed fine couture such as hand-stitched cuffs and fitted dresses, but her wardrobe was brighter.

I'm not sure what O'Keeffe would have thought about a show spotlighting on her closet. I'm pretty sure she's be appalled by one the videos—of a fashion show filmed in the desert of clothing "inspired" her art and fashion sense. It's hard to imagine she'd have anything but scorn for the waif-like vacant-eyed models and she might even tut-tut the idea of being an object of another's gaze—though surely she played that role for Stieglitz, some of whose photos of her focused on her body parts (fingers, breasts, segments of her face) rather than the whole. There is, though, a difference; Stieglitz was unquestionably artistic in her endeavors and both he and O'Keeffe held progressive views that were critical of commercialism.

This, however, is an incidental observation on my part. The Peabody Essex show rightly lists "art" as primary. You will see a few well-known paintings, but other revelations come in the form of less familiar paintings.

As I said, the clock is ticking. Run; don't walk.  Check out also the spectacular T C Cannon show in the same museum—to be reviewed next month.

Rob Weir


The Flight Attendant Soars as a Mystery

By Chris Bohjalian
Doubleday, 368 pages

It makes a difference when authors do their homework. By his own admission, Chris Bohjalian knew next to nothing about the following key elements in his latest novel: the daily grind and road life of flight attendants, the effects of severe alcoholism, weaponizing drones, or the contemporary world of espionage. But before he put fingers to keyboard, he knew a lot and it shows.

The eponymous Flight Attendant is Cassandra Brown and, if you know Greek mythology, you're aware that Cassandra is an unfortunate name with which to saddle someone. The unconventional "Cassie" knew from an early age she needed to get out of her hometown, but perhaps she fled her stifling hometown and dysfunctional family before she was ready for adulthood. The only life she's known since she departed is that of a rolling stone flight attendant with a major air carrier. Bohjalian takes us inside a lifestyle that sounds more glamorous than it is—long journeys with quick turnarounds, surly or sickly passengers, living out of a small suitcase, unpredictable scheduling, and airline-provided sleeping quarters that are more toward the former side of the budget versus luxury hotel spectrum. As for destinations, the best even an experienced attendant like Cassie can hope for is to "bid" a route and take her chances. Even that sometimes requires some bargaining: if you want to go to Rome, volunteer for a place you don't want to go, like Dubai. Women like Cassie are essentially airborne domestics in high heels.

We meet Cassie on the downward slope. She's still attractive, but is realistic enough to see that her job and Father Time have exacted a physical toll. She has a few "bid buddies" she's gotten to know, but even they are more concerned acquaintances than close friends. What they know, however, is that Cassie fills the voids in her life with casual sex and booze. Especially the latter, which is still another obstacle between she and her sister, a responsible mother who makes sure her kids are never alone with Cassie in the rare times she's at home. Cassie's life is thus a volatile mix of loneliness, flirtation, and alcoholic-fueled hook-ups. Her drinking isn't just foreplay—it's the sort that results in blackouts and waking up in the morning naked beside a man and not being sure if you had a good time or not.  

On a flight to Dubai, she chats up 28-year-old Alex, a wealthy hedge fund manager and later that day, he slips her the key for his room in a hotel that's decidedly more posh than her digs. He's younger than Cassie's usual one-night stands, but also kinder and the night begins well. There are just three things that mar Cassie's libidinous evening: a short interruption when a woman calling herself Miranda visits—presumably to brief Alex on his meeting the next day. Things two and three are more problematic: she and Alex have great sex, but Cassie drinks until she blacks out. That's embarrassing, but the fact that she wakes up soaked in Alex's blood is a real problem. Dubai is not a place where you want to be discovered with a dead man in the bed beside you and a broken gin bottle on the floor.

Cassie doesn't think she killed Alex, but then she wouldn't be the best judge of that, would she? Fight or flight? Hey—it's called The Flight Attendant! Bohjalian spins a suspenseful thriller told from Cassie's befuddled point of view and Miranda's more clear-headed perspective. This is far more than your average whodunit, one that takes us into some of those other worlds mentioned in opening paragraph. Is Cassie a deadly drunk? Did she just get away with murder? Who was Alex? Miranda? Is anyone, Cassie included, who they seem to be?

Chris Bohjalian is an author I have long admired because, yes, he does do his homework. More than that, though, he knows how to build suspense without going Dan Brown unbelievable on his readers. He is particularly skillful at getting inside the heads of characters. That may sound obvious—he invents them, right? You try thinking like someone who isn't you. Now repeat in a different mindset. And again…. I won't pretend that The Flight Attendant is the new War and Peace, but it's a terrific page-turning mystery. The final pages are a tad contrived, but there's plenty here to keep you glued in your reading chair way past your normal bedtime. The Flight Attendant earns its wings.

Rob Weir   


Sculpture and Quilts at Mount Holyoke College

Mount Holyoke College Art Museum
Through May 27, 2018

Those who read my art reviews know of my fondness for well-done small exhibitions. Mount Holyoke College currently features two shows that illumine without bludgeoning.

A Very Long Engagement: Nineteenth- Century Sculpture and Its Afterlives is small in that the sculptures on display rest easily on slender pedestals and there are just fifteen of them. The sculptors represent a potpourri of American, English, and French artists. What ties them together is that each work references past traditions. Today we might label them ‘meta.’ They are displayed beside photographs of older works of which they are commenting or from which they drew inspiration. A reclining figure from Henry Moore, for example, bears remarkable similarity to a 10th century Toltec figure. Paul Jena Baptiste Gasq’s Diana is his take on Classical Roman depictions of the goddess of the hunt. 

In addition to the above pair—and you seldom see a Henry Moore this small—my favorite works are: Frederic  Leighton’s languid The Sluggard, Auguste Rodin’s Monument of Honore de Balzac, Pierre Auguste Renoir’s Dancer with a Tambourine, and Henry Rox’s whimsical Girl with Flowers, the latter a work from a former Mt. Holyoke art professor. I also greatly admired the mottled texture of Emilie Stamm’s Standing Nude.


What an inspired idea it was to run the sculpture show simultaneously with the quilts of Mary Lee Bendolph. What better way to demonstrate how old barriers between fine art and folk art have crumbled like the Berlin Wall. If Bendolph’s name doesn’t immediately resonate, perhaps you’ve heard about the Gee’s Bend quilts that took New York by storm when they went of display at the Whitney in 2002. (I saw that show. It was both exhilarating and exhausting.) Bendolph is an acknowledged queen bee of that tradition—and it’s an old one. Gee’s Bend refers to an elbow in the Alabama River southwest of Selma and the first quilts and coverlets made there came from slaves on the Pettway plantation. To this day, Gee’s Bend is largely an African American region and many of the quilters are descendents of Pettway slaves.

The end of slavery did not bring a lot of prosperity to the area, which meant that quilts were made for plebeian reasons—not with an eye toward hanging them in a gallery. That is to say, they were everyday items of use. Gee’s Bend was also the kind of country living in which things got repurposed rather than tossed away. Old shirts and feed sacks became part of bedspread, leftover scraps of material got stitched together in a crazy quilt, and it mattered little if a coverlet mixed corduroy, cotton, and linen.

Bendolph’s quilts tend to favor big pieces and bright colors and patterns of straight lines and basic geometric shapes. I love the idea of workaday items standing side by side with the output of academically trained artists. Those who has ever run their hands down the sides of a cabinetmaker’s bookcase, smiled upon seeing an eccentric weathervane, or beheld the simple elegance of a sampler knows that everyday objects often contain a beauty of their own. Also memories. I was deeply moved by one of Bendolph’s “ghost’ quilts. When her husband died, she cut up a pair of his dungarees and used the faded inside of the pockets to anchor her quilt. I defy anyone to tell me this is a less tribute than the Medici tomb.

Rob Weir


Thinking about Civility


Reflections on Civility: Another Birthday

I’ve managed to spin around the planet another whole year, an annual accomplishment that makes me ponder things. In Year Two of the Trump era I have civility on my mind—ways we can be kinder to each other within our communities. Maybe the POTUS has contempt for civil discourse, but that doesn’t mean we have to stoop that low.

Here are ten ways we can follow to Make America Nice Again.

1. Stop insisting that your own way of life is “right.”

Every time I hear someone go on an anti- [fill in your least favorite group] rant, what I really hear is, “I’m so insecure in my own identity that I’m going to criticize yours.” It’s this simple: In most cases, no one within any particular group has ever tried to tell me how to live my life, so I’m surely not going to tell them how to live theirs.

2. If it hasn’t happened to you, maybe it's not a problem.

Many things that divide us are just Straw Man debates. Do you worry that immigrants are stealing “American jobs.” Well, has that ever happened to you? Have you ever been fired so the boss could hire an illegal immigrant? Are erstwhile Silicon Valley programmers remaining unemployed because non-documented workers are doing all the coding?

3. Unless you really know, don’t assume you do.

I often overhear disdain for those using food stamps at the grocery store, especially when they walk out with a cart filled with things you’re about to pay the proverbial pretty penny to procure. I've heard people mutter that those using food stamps are unworthy and need to “work for a living.” Do you know anything about those relying on welfare? Let’s start with the fact that more than half of all families getting food stamps contain at least one member who works full time. Follow with most food stamps feed children. If you know nothing of the recipient, don’t invent a narrative; doing so merely makes you a petty gossip-monger.

4. Don’t extrapolate without data.

It’s one of the few things I recall from math classes! I’m sure each of us has seen people game the system. There are, of course, welfare cheats. Also crooked lawyers, money managers, plumbers, mechanics, professional athletes, doctors, ad infinitum. There are Muslim terrorists, but Christians are more likely to commit murderous acts within the United States. The moral is that there’s world of difference between individual cases and patterns. Confusing the two makes you a hater, not a prophet.

5. Be neither a Neanderthal nor a PC Snowflake.

 Has nuance had been abolished? It often appears that we’ve split into two camps: vitriolic misanthropes and oversensitive snowflakes. The first have no heart; the second expend more energy being offended than in making things better. The first is spiteful and mean; the second boorish and sanctimonious. The first is deluded by faith in assumed moral certainty; the second by blind belief in castles in the sky. The first needs to soften, the second to toughen. Both need to embrace the fact that few things in life are either/or.

6. There is a difference between mistakes and intentions.

You are not perfect, so why assume others are? I want to hurl every time I hear terms such as flip-flop, microaggression, extremist, mansplaining, or the suffix –tard on any word. We use insults to pigeonhole rather than hear what the person intended. Social media repeatedly demonstrates that often we express ourselves awkwardly, rashly, or obtusely. Heaven forbid you do so, because the rest of the universe becomes temporarily perfect and rushes to label you. Next time you’re tempted to label another, make damn sure you know that the other person actually intends harm. Don't forget to consider that you might be the jerk in the murk.

7. Ask the question and sit down.

Few things are as irksome as a Q and A after a talk in which someone gives a speech instead of just asking a question. Men often try to spray turf or critique before they cut to the chase; women have a tendency to over-emote by telling us how they feel or were moved. Just ask the question!

8. Stop dropping F-bombs.

There was a time when the word ‘fuck’ shocked us. Not any more. It might be the most over-used term of the 21st century. Very few will think you badass, clever, or hip when you utter it in earshot. They’ll instead think: rude, crude, and unrefined.

9. Don’t wear ignorance like a badge of honor.

Can an ill-educated nation be a great one? Not on this globalized planet. You can deny science—if you don’t care about planetary Armageddon. You can remain undereducated, unskilled, and uniformed—if you’re comfortable being unemployed, unemployable, and clueless. You can blame someone else for your troubles—as long as you know that few will care about your self-inflicted woes. Ignorance is to be combated, not celebrated.

10. You might as well be a mensch.

Thanks to an old buddy for this phrase, which is basically a Yiddish spin on being a good egg—an honorable person in the eyes of others. So much anger, tragedy, selfishness, and division would dissolve if we each understood that in the grand sweep of the Universe, no one of us is all that important. The Universe doesn’t want to hear us brag, overhear our cellphone conversations, or bow before our fame and acclaim. We don’t have the right to cut others off in traffic, or to take their lives. There is no justification for abusing; we do not elevate our esteem by demeaning others. Toys and wealth will not save us from the ultimate fate: we will die. The choice is really whether one checks out loved or unloved. In my own imperfect way, I'm trying to be a mensch. 


Lost in Paris: Goofy to a Fault?

Directed by Dominique Abel and Fiona Gordon
Oscilloscope Laboratories, 83 minutes, NR
(In English and French with subtitles)
★★ 1/2     

Forget the Hollywood rating system. In the age of the Internet, users rate movies as OMG, LOL, or POS. Lost in Paris suggests we ought to add a WTF category. It may not be the campiest film ever made, but its tents are in the front row of the bivouac grounds. Its charm is that it’s quirky and strange; its weakness is that both qualities are served in gluttonous portions.

Let me set the tone by describing the opening scene. The camera looks down upon a village encased in apocalyptic amounts of snow. We gaze upon a quite obvious toy-sized set before we are taken inside a library where Fiona (Fiona Gordon) sits behind a desk looking like she is where fashion went to die. Then we are treated to a gag torn from the pages of the W.C. Fields film A Fatal Glass of Beer (1933). A door opens, fake snow flies everywhere, and the wind blasts with such force that everyone and everything is blown sideways. The door closes and all returns to normal. And by ‘normal,’ I mean absurd. Cue some Canadian accents.

The person entering the room delivers a soiled letter that was accidentally thrown into a garbage can rather than placed in the post box. It’s from Fiona’s elderly aunt Martha (Emmanuel Riva), a once-famous dancer but now 88 years old and trying to keep French authorities from squirreling her away in a nursing home. (She has a unique way of dodging authorities and it’s one of many reoccurring jokes.) So it’s off to Paris for Fiona, who apparently has never been off the tundra before.

If you plan on watching this film, surrender all logic right now, as things are about to get so absurd they would make Eugene Ionesco check into rehab. We next see Fiona in Paris, her stick-like figure crammed into a clingy green dress, a pair of cheap tennis shoes upon her feet, her face framed by glasses dubbed ugly by Geeks United, her hair crimped and curled by a mad hairdresser, and hefting an enormous orange backpack. Cut to the next visual joke—it takes a contortionist to get it through the Metro turnstile. Oh—the backpack is also flying a Canadian flag from its frame. 

The best way to describe the rest of the film is to say everything gets sillier and that its loose (as in very loose) structure is built around miscommunications, misassumptions, misfortunes, mistaken identities, misconnections, slapstick routines, and repeated jokes. Among the latter are setups involving Martha’s escapes from French authorities, a neighbor’s missing sock, chance encounters with a Mountie, a persistent dog, an even more persistent street bum (Dominique Abel), and the McGarrigle sisters singing Loudon Wainwright III’s “Swimming Song.”* That song reoccurs because people and things have a habit of falling into the Seine, with the objects resurfacing later in hands other than those that first dropped them.

Gordon plays the gal from snowy Hicksville set adrift in the City of Light with wide-eyed fascination and goofy desperation. She is literally lost when separated from her backpack, clothing, money, and passport, but gains the bum Dom, who won’t leave her alone and whom she finds alternately annoying, useful, and kinda cute. (Physically he puts one in mind of Roberto Benigni.)** Most of the action is set along the Seine, at Pont Grenelle (where there is a smaller version of Auguste Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty), at the Père Lachaise Cemetery, and atop the Eiffel Tower.

Really, though, neither the plot nor action is much more than an excuse to string together gags and surreal situational comedy. At its best, Lost in Paris evokes the preposterousness of Jacques Tati and the nimble-footed physical routines of Harold Lloyd, though far too often it’s like a cloying old Jerry Lewis vehicle or one of those painful Saturday Night Live sketches that went on twice as long as it should have.

I probably would have walked out had I been in a theater and I contemplated switching off the DVD at least half a dozen times. So what kept me in my lounge chair? Lost in Paris is indeed a WTF film. It’s so odd that I found myself watching like a voyeur at a disaster scene. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, something utterly charming occurred—like Riva chancing upon Norman (Pierre Richard), an old dance partner and lover, and doing an impromptu seated soft shoe routine, he in a hospital gown and ancient shoes, and she in cast-off clothing, wool socks, and Birkenstocks. There are also situations akin to those in the old Airplane movies that are just so dumb you can’t resist them, though you feel guilty as hell afterward. I mean, can one not watch slapstick inside a crematorium?

After a time I admired the moxie of Abel and Gordon for being able to poke so much fun at themselves. Their physicality is also impressive, as evidenced in everything from pratfalls to an impromptu tango. If you can put yourself in the mood for wall-to-wall silliness, I can give this a qualified recommendation. It’s unlikely you will view anything weirder in 2018, so score one for uniqueness. I’m glad though, that Riva got to make one film before she died in early 2017. It looks like she had fun in Lost in Paris, but I wouldn’t want this fart cushion of a movie to be the last for such an important icon of French cinema.

Rob Weir

* That makes more sense than most things in the film. Kate McGarrigle was once married to Wainwright.

** In life, Gordon and Abel are married. She’s actually Australian and he’s Belgian.


I, Daniel Blake Indicts Heartlessness


Directed by Ken Loach
eOne Films, 100 minutes, not-rated
* * * * *

I, Daniel Blake is one of the saddest films I’ve seen in some time and that’s saying something as its director, Ken Loach, has never been known for making uplifting films. Loach is an unabashed champion of the British underclass and the sort of director who is unafraid to call out phonies and power abusers.

His target this time is privatization of the British safety net. I, Daniel Blake plays like a blue-collar version of Bleak House or The Trial. Its titular character is, simply, a decent human being. Everyone likes Dan (Dave Johns): his mates from the shop where he worked, people he meets on the street, even his Afro-British neighbor who Dan yells at to take his garbage to the bin instead of leaving along the flat complex balcony. And would they not like him? Dan is a standup guy, the sort who doesn’t have to be asked to help out a person who needs assistance. That includes Katie Morgan, a down-on-her-luck single mom of two children: the sullen, mildly feral Dylan and mixed race Daisy. To make matters worse, British social services relocated Katie (Hayley Squires) from London to Newcastle because the latter has housing for welfare cases such as she. Never mind that Katie knows no one in Newcastle and her mother is in London. 

Dan has problems too. He had a heart attack and can’t work—at least that’s what his cardiologist says. The privatized employment office says otherwise; according to their work capability assessment he is eligible to work because, of course, some tick-the-boxes form knows way better than a heart surgeon. The upshot is that Dan can’t work and he can’t get benefits unless he looks for work that he can’t accept even if he secures it. He can, of course, appeal, but that involves filling out an online form and scheduling a hearing—except he’s a carpenter who has never touched a computer and he has no income. His is the ultimate Dickensian nightmare merged with a Kafkaesque labyrinthine absurdity.

Dan does all he can to maintain his dignity and composure and then some. He is a veritable lifeline for Katie and her kids and the conduit through which Dylan leaves his shell. Katie’s struggles alone will break your heart, but if you think you can’t keep a good man down, maybe you’re naïve. The system Dan encounters isn’t just complicated, it’s so heartless and cruel that even Ann (Kate Rutter), the welfare agent who tries to help him, gets into trouble for not following protocol. I do not exaggerate when I say that Dan’s treatment is the sort that would lead an American to lock, load, and shoot everyone in sight. Dan’s response, as befits a good man, is somewhat less aggressive.

Loach’s film is a searing indictment of the callous profit-makers and mindless pencil-pushers who don’t give a damn about decent people or poor mothers who burst into tears and cram unheated beans into their mouths at food banks. It is also an indictment against all those who watch and merely tut-tut the injustices before their eyes or actively enforce rules they know to be immoral. The sort thst doesn’t think they are to blame if their actions cause antisocial responses. Okay, this is a film script, not a documentary, but if a tenth of what we see on the screen is accurate, Great Britain should hang its collective head in shame. Except, of course, this film could have been made in the United States as well. In fact it was. Moonlighting or Florida Project anyone?

I know I’m soap boxing but dammit, it just shouldn’t be this way. What does a man like Daniel Blake have to do to reclaim his humanity? He shouldn’t have to do anything; decency should be its own ticket to personhood. This film will leave you shattered, but shame on you if you think it too depressing to watch. I’m glad we still have directors like Ken Loach with the courage to speak for those whose tongues are silenced by sanctimonious monsters.

Rob Weir