When They See Us

There’s a glut of true crime documentaries on Netflix. I’ve been a living room juror for a few of them: the sublime Making a Murderer as well as the twisty The Staircase. Although they’re enthralling pieces of television, they can be frustrating views. Filmed at the time of the case, the documentarians have no idea where the story is going; without foresight they’re shooting thousands of hours of footage that they then have to string into narrative. With the need to keep viewers entertained, cliff-hangers are shoehorned into the end of every episode, making it feel emotionally manipulative and artificially hooky,

With Ava DuVernay’s When They See Us this is not the case. The case of The Central Park Five was essentially closed in 2002 when New York City squashed the men’s conviction, exonerating all of criminal charges. The fact DuVernay has the benefit of hindsight, and knows conclusively that her subjects are innocent, allows her to create a work that’s focused in intent, putting the justice system on trial for racial profiling. Because this is not a ‘did-they-didn’t-they-do-it’: the viewer doesn’t have the chance to play settee sleuth. You can put down your notepad – there’s no place for half-thoughts here. Instead the programme reads less like a pulpy page turner and more like an essay, a treatise on what happens when institutions judge someone on the colour of their skin, not on the content of their evidence.

The Central Park Five was a 2012 documentary from Ken Burns, Sarah Burns and David McMahon. It chronicled how five boys’ decision to go the park had life-changing consequences. The date in question was April 19^th, 1989. Kevin, Antron, Yusuf, Raymond and Korey were in the main 7^th and 8^th graders. Boys, not men. Yusuf and Korey were friends; the others strangers. School had just kicked out and the boys celebrated their freedom by joining a quasi-conga line. Unfortunately, the group they followed were up to no good. When they got to the park, they were shocked by the behaviour on show. Reckless ‘wilding’ was occurring all around them. Innocent walkers were being harassed. Cyclists pulled from bikes. Punches were thrown. Purses stolen. The five were on the perimeter of this. When the sirens came calling, the boys made a run from it. Two of the hares escaped the hounds, the others were spat into police cars.

Meanwhile on the other side of the park, Trisha Meili, was being beaten and raped. Sexual assaults were up in New York and Linda Fernstein, Head of Sexual Crimes, needed results. With some young black men in custody for ‘wilding,’ she sent her officers to round up all the other black and Hispanic boys in the park that night. Before the evidence had been analysed, she concluded that the 'wilding' children were the ones guilty of rape. The next day, the police came for Yusuf. They had an ID on him and wanted to take him down to the station. They did not have a match on Korey, his friend. Aware that Yusuf’s mother would kill him if he didn’t have his friend’s back, Korey volunteered to go down the police station with him. This action changed his life.

Now the police had all five boys in custody. All but Korey were under 16; all but Korey should have had an adult in attendance. Korey himself had learning difficulties and needed the same. Either through sweet-talking, coercion or menace, the boys were denied guardianship and legal representation. They were 12-13-year-old boys, unversed in defence, going up against seasoned detectives, educated in examination. Desperate for a quick result, the NYPD constructed a narrative first, then wrote their characters into it. As far as they were concerned, the rape was carried out by all five. All they needed was for the boys to collaborate on the story. The trouble was, other than Yusuf and Korey, the boys didn’t really know each other. They didn’t even know each other’s names. Denied food, sleep and representation, it wasn’t long before they were giving up names hitherto unknown to them. With every police prompt promising, ‘You’ll go home tonight if you talk,’ they parroted back what they were told. Without realising it, they were building their own cages; every word a bar reinforcing their incarceration.

This is the first episode of DuVernay’s dramatisation of The Central Park Five’s conviction and exoneration. With the original documentary being 120 minutes long, this four episode re-telling has the chance to explore the boys’ stories in greater detail. The first few minutes are a masterclass in characterisation. We meet Antron disagreeing with his father on baseball. There’s Kevin dreaming of being ‘first chair’ in the school band. Korey is getting chastised by his girlfriend for skipping school. Raymond slings insults with his buddies. Yusuf is making plans with friends. Soon they are thrown out of the comfort of the stoop into the alien world of police interrogation. The acting on display is sublime, none more so than Antron (Caleel Harris) and Kevin (Asante Black), who show little boys lost as they scrabble to make sense of a situation they do not understand. Comic book kids trapped in a Kafka novel; they're put on trial for a crime they have no notion of. 

In episode two we come up for air. The claustrophobia of the police room is exchanged for the open court. Now the boys have lawyers on their side. Unfortunately, they aren’t necessarily knights of the round table. They’re a miscellaneous posse featuring a divorce attorney that’s never sat on a criminal case, a plea bargainer that favours negotiation over defence, and some pro-bono guys that might actually know how to fight. Somehow all the lawyers come together to make a good case; the trouble though is this is six years before O.J.

You might remember that O.J’s acquittal owed much to the state of race relations in America. Just a few years prior, a black man Rodney King was beaten to death by law enforcers. Black America had had quite enough of white justice and took to the streets. Therefore, when O.J's case went to court, there was a sense of anxiety over what would happen if a white judge convicted a black symbol. In 1989 the hand of history was not on the side of The Central Park Five: truly innocent black men. The Black Movement not yet strong enough to gain traction. The white press still a powerhouse that crushed and suppressed. In fact, Donald Trump, a business tycoon at the time, took out full page ads demanding these boys be put to death, espousing his message on TV, calling on America to embrace hate as a way of ensuring something get done. DuVernay shows these real-life television clips, reminding modern America: ‘this is what you voted for.’ 

At the end of the trial scene there are haunting close ups of the boys. The one that got me most was Kevin, sitting on a chair in the middle of a street, looking directly into camera, blowing a haunting note from his trumpet. Most directors break the fourth wall to take their viewers out of the artifice of reality, to remind them that they’re in a make-believe world. This does the opposite: those boys look say, ‘This isn’t dramatisation. This is me. This actually happened to me. Look at me now. Look what happened to the child me. Make sure you don’t let it happen to any young boy again.’ If a camera shot could educate people on the consequences of racism, this is it.

The third and fourth episodes are split between the incarceration of the younger boys and the older one, Korey. Korey being 16 meant he was taken to full adult prison. His time there is harrowing, redolent of Shawshank Redemption. Only he doesn’t have the Andy DeFrain smarts to out-wit his opponents. Also, we must remember these boys were charged with ‘rape.’ In an Oprah interview with the subject that accompanies the show, Yusuf Salaam says, ‘Rape is only below child molestation.’ When these boys went into juvenile hall and prison, there was a target on their back. Their treatment in prison changes them, causing Antron McCray to maintain today, ‘My life is ruined.’

The five men now. Pic. Own.

When They See Us is a visionary piece of filmmaking. Unlike Making A Murderer and Staircase, there is no uncertainty over guilt. The absence of ambiguity allows for a certainty of conviction. The consequent work is searing and polemical, invoking the Black Lives Matters campaign. For me, it was the best and boldest examination of the intersection between race and institution since David Simon’s The Wire. It’s a programme that you shouldn’t just see, but see. Look deep into the boys lives and remember that for the colour of your skin it could so easily be you, your child. Then think how unfair that is. That instead of seeing a trumpet player, they saw a criminal. Instead of a lovelorn teenager, a criminal. Instead of a baseball nut, a criminal. The thing is they didn’t see; they judged. To see you have to look beyond stereotype, hear the words. Seeing is looking without prejudice. See this. See them.

When They See Us is available on Netflix

Big Little Lies

This week I watched Catch 22 be translated for TV. Although I admired the look of the piece, I have to say I’m unsure if they’ve captured its absurd humour. For me it feels too stylised and glossy to reflect the messy irony of its source. Adapting a book is hard. A book is more than its plot. Storyline and dialogue can be easily replicated; narrative tone and voice much more elusive. Writer Bruce Miller's translation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale achieved it through internal monologue. Given the book was narrated by Offred, having the screen version elucidate her true thoughts ensured its sardonic spirit was not lost. Just this year Phoebe Waller-Bridge gained plaudits for her work on Luke Jennings’ Killing Eve. Not having read the book I can’t comment too much on the changes made; however, from what others have said it appears she's added her own mischievous signature to a work of genre fiction. If anything she has done what all adaptions hope to achieve: live up to the original.

The jury is out.

I would make a similar case for HBO’s Big Little Lies. The source material comes from Liane Moriarty. The Sydney writer was a bestseller before the show brought her to public attention. Her specialism lies in – well – lies. Secrets and betrayals are the river that runs through her body of work. Her ability to tantalise and tease is why she is adored by millions. She imbues her novels with all the delicious tropes of detective fiction, drip feeding clues with clever, clever subtlety, causing reader to guess, then second guess their instincts. I read Big Littles Lies last summer in three addictive sittings. The Girl has gone on to read her others, commenting favourably on them. They are perfect holidays reads. But don’t let this nomenclature fool you. Moriarty skewers middle class mores with more skill than those more feted. The privileged façade of believing one is living and behaving better than others is pierced here; it’s just done in a more sizzling way than broadsheet darlings.

The structure of the novel is quite fiendish. The first chapter begins with a curtain twitcher spying on the goings on at a school fundraiser. This is not a champagne reception in the orangery, all twinkling glass and mellifluous chatter. No, this is carousing of a sort you would not expect from 'respected' society. There’s strong words, smashed glasses, thrown fists, huge screams, approaching sirens. The chapter ends with a Greek Chorus of voices offering their two cents on an incident, which won't be revealed to the final pages. The last voice is Detective Sergeant Adrian Quinn: ‘Let me be clear. This is not a circus. This is a murder investigation.’ Not only are we in the realm of whodunnit; we’re also in the place of ‘whom did it happen to who.’ 

'Life's a beach, but not for these women,' could have been a tagline. (I'm available for tagline work.)

The second chapter flashes back to six months before the fundraiser. From hereon in we’re edging closer to Grim Reaper day, all that's left to uncover is the scythe holder, the why? wielder. With the story set before this date, we get a chance to know the characters. There’s Madeline, a mum who combines outspokenness with compassion; Celeste, who appears to have the world at her feet when in fact it weighs on them; and Jane, a new girl in town whose outsider status is exacerbated by being a young mum. Madeline and Celeste take Jane under their wing, helping her negotiate the playground drop-offs, school gate squabbles, PTA rough and tumble. All three are mothers of children the same age; they’re bound by this, but by character too: although their children mean the world to them, they aren’t their world. The word ‘mum’ is a vocation but not a definition. This standpoint is what gives them genuine friendship; they have the ability to talk about work, romance and sex – not just their children.

In the TV version Madeline, Celeste and Jane are played by Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman and Shailene Woodley respectively. The first two are established Hollywood stars; the last a brilliant turn in George Clooney’s The Descendants. It was Witherspoon and Kidman who optioned the book with a view to turning it into a movie. This plan changed into a miniseries where they then enlisted Ally McBeal writer David Kelly and Dallas Buyers Club director Jean-Marc Vallee. It being American money and stars, the book has been transposed from Sydney to LA. The first series remained largely loyal to the text, although that Greek Chorus are now talking to the police as opposed the press. Also a few subplots are dispensed with; these omissions, however, don’t feel like a betrayal of Moriaty's original, rather an understandable trade-off to flesh out its main characters. 

Kidman, Woodley and Witherspoon (left to right).

Part of this rounding of characters involves giving greater prominence to their home lives and families. Madeline is a mother of two, in her second marriage. Her youngest daughter Chloe is a particular delight. Precocious in wit and music taste, she is responsible for some laugh out loud zingers. Celeste’s husband is played by Alexander Skarsgard, in his most challenging role. Jane’s son Ziggy (Iain Armitage) is the rope caught in an adult tug-of-war; his presentation of a child strangled by grown up stupidity is nuanced and smart.

Ziggy is where the lies start. Early on in school he is accused of hurting another child. Jane does not think he’s capable of such a thing. She believes the little girl is lying. When an accuser is so young, it’s difficult to denounce them; therefore, Jane and Ziggy are powerless. They are new to the community and have no cache to defend the claim. Dividing lines are drawn. On one side Madeline, Celeste and Jane; on the other, everyone else. Moriarty’s work demonstrates how little lies can render someone ostracized. Just one throwaway comment can destroy a child’s reputation. Of course, children can be forgiven for the lies they tell: they are too young to understand lies gain oxygen, mileage beyond the school gates. What can’t be forgiven is how adults behave. In their search for truth they resort to childish name-calling, factions, fall-outs. Having children is meant to mature you, yet here in protecting it infantilises, causing them to act with prejudicial cruelty. Our loyalty lies with the three characters because they believe that protecting one’s child shouldn’t come at the expense of harming another.

It’s not just the children who lie: it’s the adults too. The big lie they tell is the one they tell themselves. Most of which are down to self-preservation. I’m happy. I’m content. Nothing bad has happened to me. Nothing bad will happen to me. It’s easier to hide behind the sofa than confront the intruder. Easier to say it never happened than accept it did. It’s easy to lie to others: to say, ‘I’m fine. I’m happy. I have a charmed life.’ But the mind can't be deceived. You may change the locks each time it comes. Each time it kicks your doors in. But it will come. It will keep coming. Coming until you stand and say, ‘Here I am. I know what you are; I know what you do.’ Only internal truth can defeat such pain. The book as well as the series does a tremendous job at showing the complexities of facing trauma head on.

'The worst lie is the one we tell ourselves.' (I can't help this tagline thing.)

The second series that has just started picks up from the first. Initially, there was no intention of a follow-up, however the success of the first put pay to that. Moriaty was tasked with writing a novella of sorts, which was then adapted by Kelly. The director has changed too with Andrea Arnold now at the helm. Arnold is an interesting choice. She is a Brit with experience in gritty dramas. I’ve seen Fish Tank and Wuthering Heights by her. Both are set in tough environments with characters battling for a way out. Her recent American Honey is a road trip picture where teenagers sell magazines to the wealthy and comfortable. In all of her pictures the broke form the focus for her sympathies. Big Little Lies does not have such characters. What may have interested Arnold then, who grew up on a council estate, is the opportunity to puncture middle-class sensibilities. The conservative values of materialism over socialism is seen when Renata decries her husband’s financial impropriety, ‘I’m not not going to be rich. I will not not be rich!’ Just because a story contains wealthy characters doesn’t mean it’s promoting them.

Another addition to series two is Meryl Streep, who plays the avenging angel – or is it devil? Streep is an incredible actress. A national treasure in countries where she's isn't even a citizen. Like Tom Hanks, she is the grounded millionaire we all love. In this role we appreciate her as a terrific actress. For someone so likeable to affect such dreadfulness shows her skill. Her scenes with Witherspoon, cat claws at dawn, are a delight.

Meryl as Mary Louise.

All in all, the second series is ticking along nicely; although, its tone is different to its first. For a start, there’s no whodunnit at its centre. No balcony fall in the distance. This one feels more meditative and reflective, examining the fallout of the fall. A big murder story dissolving into little human stories. Big Little Drama then. With a third series unlikely, we might just be looking at a perfect two-hander.

Big Little Lies is available on Sky Atlantic. (Thanks to The Girl’s mum and dad for paying the monthly subscription and allowing us to leech off their SkyGo account.)  

Rocketman

Watford FC were Elton John’s boyhood team. As his birth name Reg Dwight, Elton would go to games with his dad, a few miles from their home in Pinner. Having a strained relationship, it was the one thing the two men did together. Cheering on Cliff Holton and Barry Endean, it was a golden time for the boy: his heroes in front of him; his hero beside him. Years later, his music career took off and he left the club behind. His busy tour schedule simply did not allow him to keep up to date with the matches. Then an interview with the NME brought him back. Watford’s finances were ailing, on death’s door; they need a miracle man to come and revive their fortunes. The topic of a charity gig came up. In 1974 Elton along with Rod Stewart came to play at Vicarage Road, making a packet for the club. That day Elton was invited in the board room and over 40 years on he still hasn’t really left. From 1976 to 1987 Elton presided over the club’s greatest period. Appointing Graham Taylor was his masterstroke as together the pair oversaw Watford’s climb from the fourth rung of football to runners-up in the FA Cup and top division. For a club who nearly went out of business to become 'the business' proved apt for a chairman who made a similar climb. So Sir Elton is one of our own. His name is on a stand. His songwriter Bernie Taupin’s lyrics above, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while your in the world.’ Any film about him would therefore be of interest to me. The picture to use football parlance is a screamer into a top corner – it certainly is no damp squib.

Graham Taylor and Elton John in 1977.

Director Dexter Fletcher is at the helm of Rocketman. You might remember him as the child actor in Press Gang or the adult actor in Band of Brothers; if I’m honest, I remember him replacing Dominic Holland on GamesMaster (that’s right the one that had Patrick O’Brien looking like he’d put in an iPhone photo booth). However, his stock in trade is now filmmaking. Sunshine On Leith is his calling card; the music of The Proclaimers put to an original storyline. Think deep fried Mama Mia and you’d be close to picturing its gritty exuberance . From there he had a box-office hit with Eddie The Eagle, a national treasure story of an idiot learning to fly. After he sealed his place at the top table by rescuing Bohemian Rhapsody after director Bryan Singer fell out with the cast. Fletcher came in and made a movie out of the mess, scoring a Best Picture nod for the biopic.

Rocketman though isn’t a make do and mend film; it’s Fletcher’s rich tapestry woven from his own imagination. The first thing to say that it isn’t straight biopic like Bohemian Rhapsody. No it’s more of a homosexual one (a zinger of a joke there for people that thought the Freddie film ignored his sexuality). No, it isn’t nuts and bolts, tab A fits B, storytelling. It’s a fantasy musical that has time, people and songs behaving unexpectedly: new songs are used to score old moments; non-singers burst into songs and strict chronology is ignored in favour of creative truth. Bohemian Rhapsody had Fletcher as ghost-writer, channeling Singer’s voice to turn in a product for mainstream sales; Rocketman though is his and writer Lee Hall’s own fantastical invention; together they have fashioned something altogether more idiosyncratic than executives may like; the result though is more true given the film is centred on a man famed for invention, reinvention.

Dexter Fletcher: games master turned film maker.

We begin with absurdity. A devil walks into a group circle designed to exorcise demons. It is a treatment centre, the devil Elton in trashy costume. Symbolism plays a big part in the movie. At first when he sits down he’s reluctant to talk, doesn’t understand how it will help. Through some probing he begins to tell his story of how he came to be here. His first telling takes us out of rehab into the suburbs of Pinner. To the sound of Bitch is Back, grown up Elton is Del and Rodders at a wake, standing out like a sore thumb as the neighbourhood dances around him. It establishes early how Elton wasn’t born into ostentation, rather a normal world of milk bottles on the door, washing on the line.

The framing device of rehab works a treat as over the course we see a kind of reverse metamorphosis as the colourful butterfly becomes a moth again. This shedding of flamboyance is what Elton needs to become human. Because somewhere on the highway of rock n’ roll he’s broken down and requires desperate repair. Through the flashbacks into his life, we learn how and why things spun out of control.

Elton didn't get the message fancy dress was cancelled.

Elton’s upbringing was not an easy one. Although the family’s finances seem comfortable, the relationships weren't. His dad the archetypal absent father. Paradoxically, this absence is felt more when he is there than when he isn’t. He shows no affection to his son and denigrates him at every turn. When Elton asks for a hug it’s unforthcoming. Hugging isn’t something men do. Elton’s mother is dissatisfied in her marriage and takes it out on the boy. There’s a sense that the hatred the couple have for one another finds voice in how they speak to their son. In a spine-tingling moment the 2001 hit I Want Love is transposed to Elton’s childhood with mother, father and young Elton all contributing to the lyrics, ‘I can’t love, shot full of holes, Don’t feel nothing I just feel cold.’ A musical allows the taciturn to communicate their feelings. Elton’s dad would never expose his emotions but the device makes him more rounded, so we can see there is some complexity to his brutishness. At times then it feels like Distant Voices, Still Lives, Terence Davis’ kitchen sink drama where ordinary people sing their pain, yet when Elton discovers music the musical morphs into something else.

With Elton answering an ad in a musical publication he is paired with Bernie Taupin. Taupin will provide the lyrics and Elton the score. Initially, record company boss Dick James isn’t impressed (played brilliantly by Stephen Graham). When he hears Your Song though he knows that he’s onto something special. Thus begins Elton’s rise to superstardom. From the ground control of Pinner to Hollywood’s hills, he is the rocket man. 

The way Fletcher captures this ascendancy is sublime. When Elton plays LA’s iconic The Troubadour, Egerton takes flight mid-song. Gravity and reality is suspended as the singer floats from the piano stool, representing how his career is in lift off. Later, the spaceman trope is manifest when Elton plays the Dodgers Stadium. With the crowd roaring and America taken, Fletcher rocket fuels Elton into space. These dream-like sequences are perfect for the unreal world of celebrity. In a way it’s a surprise we have so many by-the-book biopics when the rock n’ roll life is far from that. Elton though is Icarus, he flies too close to the sun: burn out and crashing landing is coming. Houston, we have a problem. 

His combustion is presented in full. The drink, the drugs, the spending, the sham marriage. His freefall is ugly, his behaviour too. The poignant Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word sung by Jamie Bell (a perfect Bernie Taupin) shows how many people felt about Elton. Instead of playing by human rules, he was the bitchy diva, someone who apologised to no one when really he needed to apologise to everyone.

Apart from a misstep at the end where we see what Elton is up to now (is there anyone out there who really doesn’t know he’s now happily married? These black and white facts take us out of the colour of the film. They’re unnecessary), the film is a triumph. And for Watford fans I should add there are three nods to the team. Blink and you’ll miss them though. I missed one – The Girl had to tell me – but I spotted the other two.

For Watford fans, you’ll go anyway: he’s one of our own. For the rest of you, go and see a picture that is deep, intelligent and fun. Hall and Fletcher have found the perfect way to tell this story, so go and have a listen to it. 

Rocketman is available now.

The Virtues

This is Stephen Graham’s time. With a mainstream turn in Line of Duty and film-stealing cameo in Rocketman, the actor is being talked about as one of Britain’s finest. It’s his role in The Virtues though that finally cements his place in the pantheon of greats. On his shoulders this show rests. He appears in nearly every scene, negotiating clownish wit and fractured masculinity with consummate ease. A lot of Graham’s early work consisted of gangsters; his most iconic roles have been Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire and Combo, a NF member, in This is England; but boy can this lad do soft hands as well as mean eyes.

The Virtues is a Shane Meadows production. He is the co-writer and director of the Channel 4 miniseries. Meadows' films frequently invoke his teen years, where he went off the rails, falling into gangs and petty thieving. Often they begin with knock-about joviality, before descending into explosive violence, leaving lives in debris. Simply, his films pack a punch. Dead Man's Shoes is a picture that has stayed with me for years. I can’t shake it, nor do I want to: it remind us the past can't be unwritten, wrongs will right.

It feels though that Meadows’ work has been building to this. Recently, he spoke in a Guardian interview about his desire to adopt a more European approach to filmmaking, where the scene slows and dissolves into you, as opposed to jabbing you with rat-a-tat-tat dialogue. Also, Meadows’ own buried pain, that’s alluded to in previous work, has been successfully excavated following work with a clinical psychologist. Where the theme of abuse was one of a multitude in This is England, here it is front and centre. Meadows has talked about it in his own life; now, he’s ready to process that catharsis onto screen.

Shane Meadows.

The Virtues begins with Joe coming back from a job on a site. He goes into his Sheffield high rise, runs a bath and looks out the window. He sees children playing. The vista causes him to cry. Next, we’re with him as he walks across town, the camera his only companion. The walk is long which has us wondering why he hasn’t taken transport. Our hunch here is Joe can ill-afford it. The house he arrives in belongs to his ex-wife. She has a lovely partner; together they bring up Joe’s child, Jay. For Joe, this is the Last Supper. His son is being taken away. His ex and her partner though aren’t the cruel stuff of characterisation, rather they're humane and warm to Joe. They want a better life for Jay and judging by Joe’s courtesy at the table one he approves of. The scene where Joe puts Jay into bed and gives his son a pep talk on new beginnings is deeply moving. Joe is a thoroughly decent man willing to relinquish his happiness for his son; put himself on the cross to free his child from sin. For we learn as Joe exits the reason for his estrangement. His ex checks he's going to be alright: ‘You’re not going to … are you?’ The word unspoken is drink. Joe has lost his wife, child and happiness to the bottle. He understands that them going to Australia is penance for his past behaviour.

The next scene is Meadows’ whole career in microcosm. I spoke earlier about the yin-yang collision of comedy and tragedy – well, it’s here too. When Joe goes into a pub to drink his wounds, the hilarity of those first few pints descends into the blackout darkness of those later ones. At first he’s the life and soul, the Pied Piper of Hallam, whistling his flute, corralling them into song and dance through offers of free drinks and easy charm. Joe though is not of stable income; the chip and pin world is not for him. As his reserves get depleted, we begin to worry. This isn’t disposable income; this is rent money he’s putting into the barman’s coffers. When Joe leaves the camera style is redolent of Smack My Bitch Up, the dizzying point-of-view angle captures a man taken by alcoholism, unable to stand or speak straight. The next morning, he awakes to a pool of vomit. Joe can’t drink. Like all addicts, the drink drinks him. Seeing him splayed on the living room floor surrounded by kebab and grime makes us appreciate why his wife left him.

The camera doesn't spare Joe's dignity.

Missing work because of his hangover, Joe knows the sack awaits. With the few pounds he’s got left, he decides to run away to Ireland. Through the episode we’ve had some small signs that Joe is running from something else, with snatches of repressed memory invading the present day. In the next episode we discover he wasn’t running away from his life, but running to his past, in the form of his sister.

He awakes outside her home; his rough sleeping means Anna doesn’t see a brother but a threat to her family’s security. She beckons her husband out and asks him to deal with the tramp. Soon the truth emerges, and brother and sister are re-united after all those years. The two were separated as children following their parents’ death. Anna was taken in by family, but Joe wasn’t. They only had room for one, so the lad was made an orphan. It’s quite clear how that decision has impacted upon them. Anna marshals a mad, happy home where meals are served with banter. Joe, on the other hand, has a broken marriage, budget and psyche. He’s come hoping his sister will fix him.

I remarked earlier about Meadows’ battle to survive the trauma of abuse and it’s no spoiler to say Joe is doing the same. In finding his sister, he risks losing himself. For being back in his childhood town brings memories to the fore. Those snatches of memory earlier become elongated. The grainy footage Meadows adopts to distinguish this becomes more pronounced. The past Joe has buried in alcohol and distraction is scrabbling to the surface. At the moments it’s just a hand, but we know by the end the whole body will be exhumed. Joe can’t run any longer; his childhood is coming.

Joe can't escape what happened to him as a boy.

The subject matter is dark, yet in all Meadows’ work there is light. Not for a second did it feel like misery-lit; a genre designed for the perverse who think reading them qualifies as therapists. No, it isn’t designed for rubberneckers to gawp at, instead something people must understand. Abuse happens to people. But it isn’t the whole thing that happens to them. Joe experiences kindness, humour too. And the comedy in episode three is quite divine. When going to the pub to escape his memories, the barman brings him over a pint; the description of which is sublime, ‘With the collar on that at first, you’d think the Pope was coming.’ Has there ever been a better description to describe a beer with a big head? Later, Joe’s drunkenness means Anna and her sister-in-law, Dinah, must come and collect him. His behaviour in the car with Dinah is outrageously rude, so much so she punches him in the gob. When Joe apologises in the early hours, the pair literally kiss and make up. The invective that follows from Anna is from the Malcolm Tuckeresque. The pay-off section though is something else, ‘Boxing the jaws off him one minute, chawing the jaws off him the next. Very Liz Taylor of you.’ Meadows along with co-writer Jack Thorne have a way with dialogue, but the delivery of Helen Benah is something else. Her effing and jeffing is the stuff of modern poetry, the counter-balance rhyme of ‘boxing’ and ‘chawing’ lyrical, then there’s that incongruous last line of old Hollywood. Combined, it had me howling with laughter.

As with all of Meadows’ work we’re building to a showdown. In the director’s corner is a battle cry I’m yet to mention. PJ Harvey provides the score to this devastating work. And in a thirty year career it’s some of her best music. Meadows' past work is layered with classical piano, the work of Ludovico Einaudi. As beautiful and beguiling as it is, I do feel it's a bit on the nose. Film Reviewer Mark Kermode spoke a few weeks ago about the score of If Beale Street Could Talk, commenting favourably on music that operates like it isn’t there. A good score should hide in plain sight, pickpocketing your emotions, without you realising what's happened. I feel Harvey’s music does the same. It creates an atmosphere without making a spectacle of itself. It’s less ‘look at me,’ more ‘look at this.’ And so it should, because The Virtues is a wonder. 

Funnelled through Stephen Graham, Meadows has created a vital work that will speak to many adults who were child victims. For the rest of us, it reminds us to protect the young because one day they will grow up. Those little hands become fists. Those innocent eyes sharp. Those joys numbed. This fate will befall them if adults mistreat them. And be sure, the consequences will be felt in fire, blood, anguish. How such a hellish topic can be communicated so wondrously is a credit to Meadows, the divine creator. The Virtues is his most complete work. Watch it and be enthralled. Watch it and be appalled.

The Virtues is available on All4.

One Night in Paris

The alarm goes off at five. I roll over and check to see if my mortgage partner is awake. Her stir and slide to the floor suggests so. I’ve now got the bed to myself. I adopt a diagonal and catch another forty winks. Knowing that I’ve lapsed into forty-two, I make a bid for planet Earth. My feet touch down and I’m taken out of space, landing heavily on gravity. How has this been allowed to happen? On this our half-term holiday, why am I up before BBC breakfast? Hell, even Theresa May is probably still asleep. Dreaming of a sliding door world where she wasn’t saddled with Brexit. A universe where she didn’t have the worst hand at the table. Where in the poker of politics, no one could tell she had a two and a seven. A place where she was nicknamed ‘The Steel Lady’ and not Maybot, the malfunctioning robot.

The reason why we were awake is because we were off to Paris. Off to Paris to saunter down the Champs Elysees with the apple de mes yeux. We were also off to see a show. Not just any show. A show that our mate was in. The Girl’s schoolfriend, Clare Halse, yet again had a leading role; this time in Guys and Dolls. 

In the programme.

We arrived at Kings Cross just before seven and were immediately thrown out of half-sleep into hyper-reality. The queues for the train were long and far. Tourists for Europe. Families for Disney. Businessmen for work. Fortunately, we were there early. (If The Girl were a Mr. Men character, she would be Little Miss Punctual.) An hour later and we were on the train heading to Paris. My reading has been atrocious this holiday so I took the chance to redress this. The material for the journey was Hologram For The King, a sort-of re-working of Miller’s Death of a Salesman by Dave Eggers. Whilst consumed in my book, The Girl came back with a treat from the buffet cart: a croissant and a café au lait. We hadn’t yet entered France, but her choice in food and boisson got me into character early. (For the record my persona for this trip would be Manuel Ennui: a philosopher, thinker and poet that through the power of a withering glance can change a person's mind.) The book was good, the company great and the journey on time. We were in Paris.

Preferring to see a city on foot, we made the forty minute journey to the hotel on our pieds. Dropping our bags off, we then made our way to a nearby café, where we waited for the leading lady to meet her public (us). We caught up with Clare on how things had been going, and it was lovely to hear how much she had enjoyed her run in Paris. After the physical demands of 42^nd Street, she’d appreciated how this role had more of an emphasis on voice than movement. It’s easy for us to look at performers and think they only do eight shows a week, each two and a half hours long, and think they’ve got an easy life. But the demands on your body are incredible. Keeping your body match fit means yoga classes, runs and vocal lessons are a must outside of theatre time.

The three of us then made our way on the Metro to Montmarte or as I nicknamed it, ‘The Bristol of Paris.’ The reason why I’ve given it this sobriquet is because it’s bloody hilly. I used to live in Bristol – more or less at the bottom of a hill. My university was at the top of the incline. Each morning I would heave my pasta belly and beer head up the slope, vowing never to mountaineer again.  But yet again here I was. Climbing up flight and flight of steps. The Girl has walked marathons. Clare dances them. In comparison I'm unfit. But it was worth putting on my walking boots because it’s such a lovely place to have a nosey.

The Catholic Church spent their money on this as opposed to Key Stage 3 textbooks.

First, we went to get some food in the Soul Kitchen. Here, the staff put pay to the idea that all French people are miserable with lovely, personable service. Clare recommended the three course special, where you get starter, main and dessert for 19 euros. I hadn’t eaten for six hours (a new record for me), so I wolfed mine down double quick. From there, we went up by the Sacre-Coeur, a Catholic church so lavish and expensive, it left me wondering why we had to share textbooks in our Catholic comprehensive. The church stands on top of the hill; perhaps as impressive though is the view going the other way. Looking away, the whole of Paris spills out before you. Astronauts say that it’s only in getting to the moon that you realise the beauty of Earth. So it was here. Sometimes things are worth climbing for. After this, we went to the Musee de la Vie Romantique where we got talking to a couple celebrating their 10th anniversary. She had been a child actor and once worked alongside Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Apparently Elizabeth Taylor's timekeeping wasn't as good as my wife's. 

The Romantic Museum is what it says on the tin: romantic and a museum.

Saying goodbye to Clare so she could go home and get ready for the evening, The Girl and me got some cheese, olives and meats, and made a picnic of our hotel room. After eating enough fromage to give us nightmares for eternity, we put our glad rags on and made our way to Theatre Maringy for a performance of Guys and Dolls. I wanted to try out some GCSE French, so I said to the Box Office lad, ‘J’ai une reservation dans le nom de Clare Halse.’ How fucking French do I sound? Someone roll me a cigarette whilst I prepare a bus strike. ‘I can’t find your reservation, Sir.’ To me, I sounded like Serge Gainsbourg; to him, Derek Trotter. Necking our drinks like Brits, we made our way into the auditorium.

I’d watched Guys and Dolls on TV at Christmas and been surprised to find Marlon Brando in it. All machismo and grunt in The Godfather and On The Waterfront, I had no idea he could sing and dance. Despite being second choice to Gene Kelly, he is surprisingly good. Overall, I liked the film without really loving it. I felt quite different on seeing it live.

Whilst the movie seems to drag in places, this production had a kinetic thrill. The transitions between numbers are sharp, unrelenting, never giving you time to think your way out of 1920’s New York. The humour has real zip too. The original script didn’t cut the mustard, so the producers had comedy writer Abe Burrows re-write it.  Long-term engaged, never married, Miss Adelaide and Nathan Detroit are hilarious creations. Nathan is afraid of commitment; Miss Adelaide longs for it. So much so she fabricates to others the strength of their love. She’s told her family they are married. Told them she has children. But Detroit isn’t ready to play husband or father. He wants to play craps. It being the 20’s, a time of prohibition and illicit frisson, he's a man married to excitement. The only thing he’ll bend one knee for is shooting dice. The challenge lies in finding a game when the police are trying to shut you down. Joey Biltmore offers his venue on one condition: Nathan pays him a $1000 retainer. Trouble is Nathan hasn’t got the money. A man he knows does though. Sky Masterson. He will bet on anything. If Nathan can just find a sure thing, he can dupe Sky into parting with his cash. Cue Miss Sarah and the Salvation Army marching band. I bet Sky couldn’t get a date with that doll? Sky shakes his hand, takes the bet.

Outside the theatre.

Miss Sarah is played by our Clare in the Paris version. Her character is one that goes on a journey from buttoned-up moraliser to revved-up firecracker. When Sky promises to get more people into the Salvation Army in return for a date, Miss Sarah relents. The scene for the date? Cuba. The stage transformation from New York streets to club Havana dancefloor is incredible. The breakneck speed of the band is mirrored in the frenzied steps of the performers. With Miss Sarah unknowingly under the influence, she sheds her shyness and loses herself to the rhythm of the night. Clare said before the show she was worried about doing drunk. She needn’t have worried: George Best would have raised a glass to her.

The Girl has three close friends from secondary school- Clare being one of them. All four are so proud of how much each has achieved; it’s just they get to see Clare at work. In 42^nd Street the singing demanded control and finesse; here though it can be unfettered and charged. In ‘If I Were A Bell’ there's an exuberant chime to her voice; the celebratory clamour of a wedding day. Most incredibly, there are moments when her voice feels operatic, demonstrating how a contained character is capable of huge, important emotions. Last time I saw Clare, I was dazzled by her dancing; this time it was her voice. How depressing to have two talents. I haven’t even mentioned her acting, which is lovely, particularly alongside grandad Arvide in ‘More I Cannot Wish For You.’

The next morning we went to Clare’s apartment for breakfast. I had croissants in a nod to my French persona, and a bowl of cereal in homage to my British one. We then parted ways, wishing her well for her last few shows.

The Girl and I made our way down to Bateaux-Mouches, which translates as boat something or other – I really should look it up. This took us all the way down the Seine, taking in the sights off The Musee D’Orsay, Notre Dame Cathedral, Louvre – and pedestrians waving. Why is it that we feel compelled to wave at people on boats? Anyone who waved at me, I waved back. I could see them smile as I did so. In turn, this made me smile. This circular reciprocation of goodwill is a strange phenomenon in a world where people are feeling more and more isolated. Maybe we just need to walk around with cardboard boats – like a Year 2 version of Moby Dick- and we’d be more welcoming to one another. The trip ended by taking us back to the Eiffel Tower, which is even more impressive from water than land. I even broke my selfie embargo to have a picture with The Girl. With the water a diamond mine, the sun a golden wonder, her in the foreground, that in the background, there really was no better place to be.

Does this need a caption?

Leaving the boat, we walked the way we rode, going past the landmarks on foot. At the end we arrived at Shakespeare & Co., one of the most famous bookshops in the world. This version was 2.0. Sylvia Beach, who founded the original, was the person responsible for publishing James Joyce’s seminal work Ulysses and encouraging the publication of Ernest Hemingway’s debut. The shop was a wonderful collision of lending library and store; in literary history though it’s best known for being a modernist hang-out, where Ford Maddox Ford rubbed shoulders with Ezra Pound. Now in its second incarnation, the store is still as characterful, boasting a staircase collection of Agatha Christie, an upstairs piano where a housecat sits, and pictures of famous guests. There’s even camping mattresses among the shelves that fold out to sleep aspiring writers. It's a booklovers paradise.

Shakespeare would approve.

So that was that. We made our way home on the Eurostar- this time though in Standard Premier. For some reason it was cheaper to get an upgrade, therefore the return leg involved more leg room and a light meal. More impressively, a complimentary beer, as well as tea/coffee service. At one point, I had a book on my knee, a beer in hand, my wife next to me and a cuppa waiting. C’etait magnifique. One night in Paris. Memories for life.