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Loach is perhaps Britains foremost cinematic chronicler of working-class angst and quotidian humanism.
Strident outrage bubbles just beneath the ambling, improvisational cadences of his films.
Ricky is tired of being beholden to others, of taking orders.
Theres always someone on your back, isnt there?
he observes, bitterly.
(Have you ever been on the dole?
Id rather starve first, Ricky replies.)
You dont work for us; you workwithus.
You dont drive for us; youperform services.
Theres no employment contracts, Maloney continues.
Theres no wages, butfees.
But hey, Rickys got his freedom, no?
Master of your own destiny, Ricky, Maloney crows.
Sorts the fucking losers from the warriors.
In fact, Ricky turns out to be master of nothing.
Rickys got one of those jobs that economists like to call a growth sector.
His wife, Abbie (Debbie Honeywood), has another, as a home health-care worker.
And Loach doesnt judge any of his characters.
Even the boorish, brutish Maloney is ultimately a servant of the system.
Everybodys caught inside a giant machine that discards the weak, feeds on the strong, and perpetuates itself.
