I’ve been involved in a debate about politics recently with someone who takes a communist slant on things.  That is, inequities in the distribution of capital are perpetuated by those benefitting from the current state of play, to the disadvantage of a lot of people at the bottom of the pile.  And, as far as it goes, that’s unarguable.  As far as it goes being the operative words.  That’s because of my conviction that being a member of a set statistically discriminated against does not mean that individuals within that set have to treat probability as destiny.  Meaning, it is possible for people to rise above the situation they’re in, and make a stand for difference.  Without that belief, born out by experience, I’d find it very hard to maintain any faith in this species.

Anyway, all of this came together in tonight’s episode of The Street, in a blindingly well scripted tale from Jimmy McGovern and Peter Lloyd.  Centred on a bigoted chef, Kieran, the story is the journey of someone who has no reason to believe he is loved, and as a consequence sees only fear and hate around him, emotions that he articulates against anyone he deems to be foreign.  It was a masterpiece of storytelling, turning points brilliantly set up to send the protagonist from being a self-loathing coward to a man who has loved and lost and learned, all in the space of one expertly crafted hour.

The set up was examplary.  There’s a house fire, and Kieran is in the area when it happens.  He hasn’t got the courage to go inside, but his pal has.  Only his pal is claiming incapacity benefit, and therefore can’t be seen to be rushing into blazing houses rescuing children.  So, he gets Kieran to take the credit — for saving the life of  a young girl who happens to be Polish.  This after earlier expressing his venom towards a Polish bus driver, not to mention the black boss he’d arranged a date with not knowing her colour.  Oops.

So, the chef’s face is plastered all over the local papers for his heroism, which leaves his pal seething when the two of them are in the pub together and it’s looking like Kieran is going to pull at least one of the women he’s talking to.  The natural order has been upset: the chef is in reality a coward, his pal can’t claim the glory that’s rightfully his.  It’s got to end in tears, or at any rate a bloody nose.

Next thing you know, the Polish mother whose daughter was saved is moving into Kieran’s place while hers is being cleaned up after the fire.  Which only serves to make his pal all the more livid, in ways that were structurally smart.  One clever move is the daughter being asleep when the chef is armtwisted into visiting her in hospital — meaning she doesn’t get to identify the chef as the coward in the rescue yet, but will when she’s awake, which can’t be long now.  And in the meantime, touched by the warmth that people have been expressing towards him in the belief that he’s a good guy, Kieran is starting to think and act differently — not to mention wanting to bed the girl’s mother.

It can only end badly.  But there’s plenty of interest along the way, as the chef agrees to let one of the kitchen staff go and see her boyfriend who’s being deported.  That shows an empathy that he didn’t know at the start of the story.  As does the device used to communicate with the Polish woman when she has left him: knowing what will happen, he records some pieces to webcam for her to watch in the aftermath, and seeing them is enough to prompt her to realise that — now — he’s a good man.

Really, the story is about love.  About how fear and hatred can only grow in the void formed in love’s absence.  And about how even a flicker of unconditional love can rekindle what’s best in someone.  And it’s that which is missing in the communist perspective on social ills: however accurate the socio-economic analysis may be, I’m not prepared to wait for major social upheaval to bring about reform.  Not when it’s possible at any moment at an individual level when love is in the air.

Want new insight into a creative project or other issue?  Come to the Constellations workshop in Nottingham, August 29.  Click for more details.

Can a genre be said to be exist on the basis of two examples?  For me, John Carpenter’s Dark Star and Douglas Trumbull’s Silent Running belong together as intelligent lo-fi science fiction movies that had a reach extending far beyond their humble budgets.  I saw both films in my teens, and even then was struck by the fact that they didn’t feel like any other sf movies I’d seen.  And now, all these years later, a third film sits alongside those two: Moon, written and directed by Duncan Jones.

Moon captures the grubby ambience and intellectual sophistication of the books of Philip K. Dick far more successfully than any of the actual adaptations of his work, such as Blade Runner and Total Recall.  The latter are almost obliged to up the action and sexiness of Dick’s decidedly unglamorous creations to justify their humungous budgets in the hope that they’ll do at the box office what other big shiny sf movies have achieved.

Duncan Jones studied philosophy before working in commercials, and both influences show.  This is very much a film based on concepts of identity, which is what makes the Dick comparison apt.  A man — played by Sam Rockwell — working on his own on the moon discovers that there are a whole bunch of clones of him stashed away, which doesn’t do wonders for his state of mind and leads to him uncovering what amounts to a corporate conspiracy.  Why it works is because this isn’t played out as an intellectual issue: it’s emotionally charged, and wisely pitched at the level of feelings throughout.

As a first film, Moon is an astonishing feat.  Yes, Jones has been directing commercials for a while, and learned a lot at the level of craft and discipline from that experience.  More impressive is the understated intelligence of the story, which is by turns shocking and touching and never goes near overplaying what some filmmakers would have made gimmicky.  The fact that Trudy Styler is involved in producing it is enough to make me forgive her for inflicting Guy Ritchie on the world.

Moon works on every level.  Sam Rockwell’s performances are first class, neatly delineating one clone from the other without it being at all showy.  The look of the film is similarly understated, influenced by 2001 and Alien without labouring the point.  And Clint Mansell’s music is beautiful, haunting and subtle, featuring simple piano motifs against atmospherics and propulsive drumming: I’m listening to it at the moment, making the most of its availability on Spotify.

Altogether, this couldn’t be a more satisfying debut, and I’m sure that Jones will go on to make more films with the same kind of signature intelligence that characterises the work of his father, David Bowie.  Next up is a bigger budget project, another science fiction offering, Duncan’s take on something like Blade Runner, set in a future Berlin.

Given the paucity of quality British film making, and of original voices within the scene, it’s refreshing to come across someone with the quiet questioning attitude that Duncan Jones brings to Moon.  And it’s interesting that he comes to us via the world of advertising, and not the UK Film Council and its regional franchises.  Say what you like about commercials, but you learn a lot making them, and can earn enough from doing so to develop a future as a filmmaker — one of the executive producers on Moon is Trevor Beattie, corkscrew-haired adman behind campaigns including FCUK and Wonderbra, and a man with a keener eye for popular culture than most.  Maybe in the absence of guidance from the UKFC, we have to turn to the man who gave us FCUK…

Want new insight into a creative project or other issue?  Come to the Constellations workshop in Nottingham, August 29.  Click for more details.