This article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 19 November 2016.
MY MOTHER AND OTHER
STRANGERS
Sunday,
BBC One
THE PITY OF WAR: THE
LIVES AND LOVES OF THE WAR POETS
Sunday,
STV
As
befits the spirit of Remembrance Sunday, our rival networks came together last
weekend to commemorate both world wars.
Despite
being tainted with a nagging tug of predictability, BBC One’s MY MOTHER AND OTHER STRANGERS is a
fairly promising new drama about life in a rural Northern Ireland parish in
1943.
The
opening scenes didn’t bode well. They unfurled in a studiously tasteful
procession of wartime clichés: children staring up at bombers flying overhead; women
in woollen berets riding bicycles; flat-capped men grumbling about spam; US
airmen swaggering into town on a wave of big band jazz (“All right, boys, this
is a dance, but they call it a ceilidh!”).
The
only thing missing was our old friend, the untethered horse cantering down a
cobbled high street.
Thankfully,
those dubious first impressions were gradually laid to rest. Much like Call the Midwife, this is a cosmetically
pretty – it’s beautifully photographed - yet fundamentally solemn and understated
Sunday night confection.
Our
protagonists are the Coyne family. Mother Rose (Hattie Morahan, hitherto best
known as the neurotic Jane from Outnumbered)
is an educated Englishwoman whose role as a pillar of the community still can’t
overcome her alien status. Although somewhat snobbish, she’s perceptive, humane
and – so it transpired – willing to take up arms.
Her
conflicted Irish husband, Michael, runs the local boozer, while her teenage
daughter and young son (whose weathered adult narration, courtesy of Ciaran
Hinds, provides the requisite air of ambiguous nostalgia) struggle to make
sense of their war-torn playground.
In
time-honoured and occasionally over-literal fashion, it’s a child’s-eye view of
a perplexing adult world.
When
Rose encountered a Tennyson-quoting US army captain (Mad Men actor Aaron Staton) on a picturesque clifftop, the stage
was set for an inevitable “will they, won’t they?” romance. Likewise, there
were few surprises in the story of Rose’s innocent daughter falling for a
charming American airman. His cards were marked from the moment he appeared.
Nevertheless,
it was a rather poignant vignette about adolescent confusion and the tragedy of
young men being sent off to certain death. These stories are fictional,
although loosely based on actual incidents. A palpable sense of sadness
permeates proceedings, and writer Barry Devlin isn’t afraid to explore the underlying
darkness, violence and bigotry of his rain-drenched parish.
If
he cuts back on the clichés, then I don’t see why this sincerely tender drama
couldn’t run and run.
Though
generally dismissed as a bulwark of bottom-drawer populism, ITV is very
occasionally capable of producing programmes of surprising sensitivity and
depth.
THE PITY OF WAR: THE
LIVES AND LOVES OF THE WAR POETS was one such anomaly.
This
one-off docudrama paid tribute to the soldiers whose experiences in the
trenches during World War One inspired some the greatest anti-war poetry ever
written.
It
was framed by John Hurt as an ageing Siegfried Sassoon, still haunted by the
war 50 years later. The great Thespian’s husky voice caressed Sassoon’s starkly
disillusioned words, while younger actors read from letters, diaries and poems
to provide a horrifyingly vivid picture of life on the frontline.
The
emotionally-charged yet platonic mentor/student relationship between Sassoon
and Wilfred Owen was touchingly portrayed. Owen, our greatest wartime poet, was
killed in action just one week before Armistice Day. But his harrowing work
lives on.
This
graceful programme served as a fitting testament to the subversive genius of
two outstanding poets, and to the fallen soldiers whose hellish nightmare they
immortalised so unsparingly.
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