It’s such a shame that I only started to get into Ken Loach’s work so close to the end of his career. Sure, retirement in the arts has a faster revolving door than Arkham Asylum, but this is one of those deals that might actually stick. And given how immensely depressing his last film was in Sorry We Missed You, along with the equally depressing impression left by The Boy And The Heron earlier this year, I was a bit apprehensive about this at first. But hey, as I pointed out when I highlighted SWMY as one of my faves of 2019, films that bum me the hell out tend to win my favour in the attempt.
Set during the 2016 refugee crisis resulting from the Syrian Civil War, Loach and writer Paul Laverty examine the sociopolitical effects of the event through their characteristically working class lens. In this case, it’s through pub owner TJ (Dave Turner), whose budding friendship with refugee Yara (Ebla Mari) starts his journey from passive to active. At every turn (heh), Turner does beautifully in the role, grounding his progression as an ally and activist in flawed and rather heartbreaking humanity. He got me to cry more than a few times, especially when he showed just how much his dog means to him.
As someone who lives in a British colony, it’d be easy (and tempting) to just immediately call out the racist reception the refugees encounter from the locals, in particular the regulars of the titular pub like Charlie (Trevor Fox), for the sheer gall of their actions. Like, yeah, you’re only subjects of one of the largest colonial powers in the bloomin’ world, which has had zero fucking issue barging into other people’s homelands and causing this exact same displacement of civilians. But as soon as one of those countries wants you involved, it’s all crickets and thrown beer bottles. Hey, if you’re going to judge individuals based on the atrocities of their leaders, be expected to cop the same.
But. I am not holding onto that feeling personally. Even with the occasional “I’m not racist, but…” moment, Loach takes care not to turn them into caricatures fit for a political cartoon. He never excuses their actions, but he does show the root of that hostility. The depiction given of the British working class, as it usually is in Loach’s films, is that of a community left behind by the toffs. The people who needed help, were turned away, and who, to them, are seen as lesser as the refugees who just showed up. Using a fitting and tragic dog metaphor at crucial points, the film depicts them as abused creatures that can’t reach the hand holding their leash, and instead lash out at whoever is closest.
And it’s in the recognition of that hand, of that shared source of pain, that TJ finds purpose for himself. It’s been a while since a film got me this choked up not through cruelty, but through kindness. Through depicting human beings helping out other human beings, as TJ starts using the pub’s backroom as a food bank, feeding the needy no matter where they started from. While it’s still grounded in Loach’s often-bleak sense of realism, it offers real hope that unity is indeed possible. It’s a right bloody mess to get to, most assuredly, but the worst of us can only succeed if the best of us do nothing.
For a filmmaker who has spent basically his entire career championing the working class, The Old Oak is an emotional and even optimistic note for him to bow out on. Building from the history of England’s miners’ unions and racial tensions, the film is upfront about the obstacles in the way of doing the right thing for others, but also of its necessity. It’s the kind of impassioned, honest, and rousing cinematic work that highlights why it’s important to preserve these moments in pictures: So that we can learn from where we were to know where we need to be. Solidarity. Strength. Resistance.
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