At first glance, Ken Loach's 1994 film Ladybird, Ladybird looks like what people assume is his typical fare: a depressing story of working class misery as a woman tries to keep access to her children, despite social services denouncing her as an unfit mother. Ordinary people ground down by a faceless, heartless establishment was a well-established theme in Loach's work by 1994, but in most respects Ladybird, Ladybird is quite unlike anything he has made before or since, a fact that can be attributed to his one-off collaboration with Scottish playwright Mona Munro.
Loach's detractors have argued - not entirely unfairly - that the characters in his films lack diversity, with the majority of his protagonists being white, working-class men. This is largely due to his the screenwriters he regularly collaborates with, primarily Barry Hines, Jim Allen and (to a lesser extent) Paul Laverty, all men from white, working class backgrounds whose scripts are often informed by their own experiences. By contrast, Munro's script for Ladybird, Ladybird features a female protagonist with a mixed-race son, and a non-white male secondary protagonist. But that isn't the only way in which the film feels notably different to most of Loach's other work, which often has a one-sided message. Here, Maggie Conlan's children are repeatedly taken away from her by social services, but social services aren't demonised: whilst the film's individual social workers aren't especially memorably, collectively they are portrayed as people trying to do a difficult job and willing to work with Maggie.
And that is what is really striking about Ladybird, Ladybird. Initially, Munro invites the audience to sympathise with Maggie, a woman who grew up with an abusive father who subsequently had a string of abusive lovers. But as Maggie's refusal to cooperate after Sean nearly dies is followed by a repeated habit of making unwise decisions, such sympathy is severely strained: when Maggue us openly hostile to a health visitor, one can't help but wondering just what is going through her mind. Ultimately, when a judge describes Maggie as "A woman of low intellect and little self-control", it's hard not to agree with him. At the same time, Munro doesn't entirely abandon her main character: her developing relationship with the caring Jorge offers a ray of hope that ultimately provides her with something vaguely resembling a happy ending. In fact, the script's only real fault is that unpleasant neighbour Mrs Higgs catalyses the loss of Maggie and Jorge's first two children by lying in court; given that the loss of her previous children is largely due to Maggie's refusal to work with social services, this feels like an unnecessary contrivance that significantly muddies the story's waters.
Being presented with such a script and characters brings out the best in Loach's direction. In another first for him, the film has a partly non-linear narrative (flashbacks show Maggie's father physically abusing her mother, and how Sean ended up in care), which he handles with great confidence. At the same time, his usual habit of filming entirely on location - coupled once again with Barry Ackroyd's grainy cinematography - provides the sort of realistic look that he favours. The scene of Simon assaulting Maggie is skilfully shot: we never actually see a blow land, but the moment is harrowing in its intensity.
Stand-up comedian and occasionally actress Crissy Rock is astonishingly convincing as Maggie Conlan, giving an utterly believable, powerful, emotionally charged performance. Amongst the many notable examples is her reaction when the police and a social worker enter the flat and take her baby. Vladimir Vega is equally convincing as Jorge, as is Ray Winstone in the relatively small role of Maggie's alcoholic, violent ex-boyfriend Simon. The rest of the cast, as per usual for Loach, consists of relative unknowns which, not for the first time, results in at least one actor stumbling over his lines and actually makes his performance that little but more realistic.
Ladybird, Ladybird is, to date, the only feature film with a wholly original screenplay written by Munro (although she later adapted a novel for the screen for Loach's son Jim), who is best known for her many stage plays and occasional television scripts, particular the two she has written for Doctor Who. It is an impressive piece of work and not just for her: this may not be typical Loach, but by forcing him to expand his scope beyond his usual preoccupations, it serves as a reminder of how talented a director he actually is.
Loach's detractors have argued - not entirely unfairly - that the characters in his films lack diversity, with the majority of his protagonists being white, working-class men. This is largely due to his the screenwriters he regularly collaborates with, primarily Barry Hines, Jim Allen and (to a lesser extent) Paul Laverty, all men from white, working class backgrounds whose scripts are often informed by their own experiences. By contrast, Munro's script for Ladybird, Ladybird features a female protagonist with a mixed-race son, and a non-white male secondary protagonist. But that isn't the only way in which the film feels notably different to most of Loach's other work, which often has a one-sided message. Here, Maggie Conlan's children are repeatedly taken away from her by social services, but social services aren't demonised: whilst the film's individual social workers aren't especially memorably, collectively they are portrayed as people trying to do a difficult job and willing to work with Maggie.
And that is what is really striking about Ladybird, Ladybird. Initially, Munro invites the audience to sympathise with Maggie, a woman who grew up with an abusive father who subsequently had a string of abusive lovers. But as Maggie's refusal to cooperate after Sean nearly dies is followed by a repeated habit of making unwise decisions, such sympathy is severely strained: when Maggue us openly hostile to a health visitor, one can't help but wondering just what is going through her mind. Ultimately, when a judge describes Maggie as "A woman of low intellect and little self-control", it's hard not to agree with him. At the same time, Munro doesn't entirely abandon her main character: her developing relationship with the caring Jorge offers a ray of hope that ultimately provides her with something vaguely resembling a happy ending. In fact, the script's only real fault is that unpleasant neighbour Mrs Higgs catalyses the loss of Maggie and Jorge's first two children by lying in court; given that the loss of her previous children is largely due to Maggie's refusal to work with social services, this feels like an unnecessary contrivance that significantly muddies the story's waters.
Being presented with such a script and characters brings out the best in Loach's direction. In another first for him, the film has a partly non-linear narrative (flashbacks show Maggie's father physically abusing her mother, and how Sean ended up in care), which he handles with great confidence. At the same time, his usual habit of filming entirely on location - coupled once again with Barry Ackroyd's grainy cinematography - provides the sort of realistic look that he favours. The scene of Simon assaulting Maggie is skilfully shot: we never actually see a blow land, but the moment is harrowing in its intensity.
Stand-up comedian and occasionally actress Crissy Rock is astonishingly convincing as Maggie Conlan, giving an utterly believable, powerful, emotionally charged performance. Amongst the many notable examples is her reaction when the police and a social worker enter the flat and take her baby. Vladimir Vega is equally convincing as Jorge, as is Ray Winstone in the relatively small role of Maggie's alcoholic, violent ex-boyfriend Simon. The rest of the cast, as per usual for Loach, consists of relative unknowns which, not for the first time, results in at least one actor stumbling over his lines and actually makes his performance that little but more realistic.
Ladybird, Ladybird is, to date, the only feature film with a wholly original screenplay written by Munro (although she later adapted a novel for the screen for Loach's son Jim), who is best known for her many stage plays and occasional television scripts, particular the two she has written for Doctor Who. It is an impressive piece of work and not just for her: this may not be typical Loach, but by forcing him to expand his scope beyond his usual preoccupations, it serves as a reminder of how talented a director he actually is.