The drowning of a young boy is snuck almost inconspicuously into the world of 70s Glasgow, where slinging mud into faces down at the dingy canal is considered leisure. The community barely pauses to acknowledge the death, as if it is simply a fact of life, causing James, who holds himself responsible, further distress. While the rescue of another boy from a similar demise is celebrated as a miracle (in a similarly dingy ceremony in a dingy church), Ryan Quinn becomes a statistic. What is intriguing about Lynne Ramsay's debut film is how it initially positions us from Ryan's perspective, presenting James as the seeming bully, before asking us to consider his personal struggle for redemption.
Ramsay pokes his camera into neglected domestic corners on the edge of society, building on social realist representations of Britain in the vein of filmmakers like Ken Loach and Terence Davies, but with a grimier lens. These families are caught in a punishing paradox; their conditions are barely livable, but this only serves to greaten their chances of being chosen by housing commission inspectors to move into new dwellings on golden Elysium fields out into the country. The transition is as literal as it is metaphorical. For James, scampering between half-erected kitchens and spotless bathtubs, he is reenacting the life that he never received. It's also one of the few times that Rachel Portman's sparse score springs into life, steady beats of the synthesizer and plucks of the guitar providing non-diegetic solace that the urban city cannot (and a voice for a boy who has no voice). The scene is something of a transcendent, out-of-body experience, as James approaches the window that promises the golden wheat fields outside, and clambers over the sill as if entering a painting hung on the wall. It serves as pure escapism in the same sad way that the family perch in front of the television, serenaded by Tom Jones. The room also doubles as a bathroom for washing in troughs of metal, not white porcelain.
But for that one moment of freedom the rest of his life is dreary and confronting. William Eadie steps into the role with little wiggle room, allowed a singularly pinched expression, perpetually crestfallen, and his pupils rapt with attention in terror and anxiety. His thin limbs hang helplessly at his sides, unable to stand up against the sexual abuse of his friend at the hands of juveniles. When he and Margaret lay in bed later that night, she asks, "James, do you love me?" What a question in this world. How can he possibly know the answer, when his only models are a violent father, a muted mother and a band of hooligans? Earlier on, Margaret attempts to 'flirt' by placing his hand on her upper thigh, offering her body to the only person who doesn't use her for it. Neither know how to proceed. The rats have soiled their innocence.
Lynne Ramsay has made a name for herself as an intuitive storyteller, one who values the intimate, minute details of the screen's image. The less clutter in the frame, the better the narrative is served. Consider how she makes the simple re-gifting of a pair of shoes into a devastating blow. Or how she depicts brother and sister, after having spent an entire lifetime looking in the wrong places for love, curl up into each other on a couch. Through our patient observation, we know there is nowhere else for them to lie. In the end, Ramsay asks us not to judge, but allows us to understand what James does in plunging into that river, to atone for sins that may or may not be his burden.
Ramsay pokes his camera into neglected domestic corners on the edge of society, building on social realist representations of Britain in the vein of filmmakers like Ken Loach and Terence Davies, but with a grimier lens. These families are caught in a punishing paradox; their conditions are barely livable, but this only serves to greaten their chances of being chosen by housing commission inspectors to move into new dwellings on golden Elysium fields out into the country. The transition is as literal as it is metaphorical. For James, scampering between half-erected kitchens and spotless bathtubs, he is reenacting the life that he never received. It's also one of the few times that Rachel Portman's sparse score springs into life, steady beats of the synthesizer and plucks of the guitar providing non-diegetic solace that the urban city cannot (and a voice for a boy who has no voice). The scene is something of a transcendent, out-of-body experience, as James approaches the window that promises the golden wheat fields outside, and clambers over the sill as if entering a painting hung on the wall. It serves as pure escapism in the same sad way that the family perch in front of the television, serenaded by Tom Jones. The room also doubles as a bathroom for washing in troughs of metal, not white porcelain.
But for that one moment of freedom the rest of his life is dreary and confronting. William Eadie steps into the role with little wiggle room, allowed a singularly pinched expression, perpetually crestfallen, and his pupils rapt with attention in terror and anxiety. His thin limbs hang helplessly at his sides, unable to stand up against the sexual abuse of his friend at the hands of juveniles. When he and Margaret lay in bed later that night, she asks, "James, do you love me?" What a question in this world. How can he possibly know the answer, when his only models are a violent father, a muted mother and a band of hooligans? Earlier on, Margaret attempts to 'flirt' by placing his hand on her upper thigh, offering her body to the only person who doesn't use her for it. Neither know how to proceed. The rats have soiled their innocence.
Lynne Ramsay has made a name for herself as an intuitive storyteller, one who values the intimate, minute details of the screen's image. The less clutter in the frame, the better the narrative is served. Consider how she makes the simple re-gifting of a pair of shoes into a devastating blow. Or how she depicts brother and sister, after having spent an entire lifetime looking in the wrong places for love, curl up into each other on a couch. Through our patient observation, we know there is nowhere else for them to lie. In the end, Ramsay asks us not to judge, but allows us to understand what James does in plunging into that river, to atone for sins that may or may not be his burden.