This article was originally published in The Courier on 26th July 2014.
The
Mill: Sunday, Channel 4
Paul
Whitelaw
In theory at least, The Mill
is everything a factually-based period drama should be: a thoroughly
researched, character-driven piece that resonates politically,
culturally and emotionally with modern viewers. Given that it was
Channel 4's most successful drama of 2013, some would argue it
succeeds on those terms.
And yet, and yet... its fundamental
failing is writer John Fay's heavy-handed eagerness to draw parallels
between the oppressed plight of 19th century working class
mill workers and the injustices endured by the poor and vulnerable in
2014. It's not that these shameful parallels shouldn't be
highlighted – centuries of unbreakable government oppression is hardly a trifling matter – but that Fay makes his point with all
the subtlety of a pitchfork crashing through a Westminster window.
I'm all for furious polemics aimed at
the establishment, just as long as they don't descend into
inadvertent farce. The Mill skirts dangerously close at times.
As we returned to Quarry Bank Mill in
rural Cheshire, Fay wasted no time in reminding us of its brutality.
Huddled urchins trudged through muddy puddles, their hob-nailed clogs
offering scant protection from the elements, as a coughing girl
warned of an incoming smallpox epidemic. But at least they have the
support of each other, as we're reminded time and time again.
Meanwhile, thin-lipped overseers - to whom the mere idea of human
happiness is a damnable sin – cracked the whip and cow-towed to
their privileged masters.
The problem I have with this
particular mise en scene isn't that it's misleading, it's that it
undermines genuine historical suffering by going for the jugular in a
borderline comical fashion. Fay's intentions are entirely sincere,
but a little finesse wouldn't go amiss. This opening episode was a
shapeless, spluttering mouthpiece. It struggled as drama.
It's frustrating, as his talent for
characterisation is obvious. Mill girl Esther – played with
exceptional charm, cheek, grit and soul by Liverpudlian actress
Kerrie Hayes – is one of TV's strongest female protagonists. It's
just a pity she's sidelined by clumsily-written scenes in which Irish trade unionists bop us on the nose with Fay's central themes.
“The English labourer did not cause
the downturn,” he railed, “a banking crisis in America started
it. So why should he suffer?!” Do you see, viewers? Do you see?
In case you missed the thrust of
Fay's point, he juxtaposed this rabble-rousing speech with scenes of
a girl giving birth to the entitled mill owner's child in full hot
water and towels agony. And the world turns.
Again, it's frustrating. These scenes
take place in reaction to the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1843, a
repulsive, far-reaching mandate placing the poor into 'deserving' and
'undeserving' categories. Iain Duncan-Smith probably has it stitched
into his duvet. But you should never patronise your audience when
delivering an important message.
Writing these words gives me no
pleasure, as I'm constantly droning on about the urgent need for more
politically aware, compassionate populist dramas. The Mill
ticks all those boxes, albeit with a paste brush strapped to a
cannonball.
In the seasoned hands of someone like
Jimmy McGovern – with whom Fay has collaborated – this approach
can work. It's also effective if the intent is scabrous, sledgehammer
satire a la Lindsay Anderson. Unfortunately, The Mill never
quite settles on the appropriate tone.
