IT WAS the details in Samantha Morton's lyrical, quiet drama, The Unloved, about a girl growing up in care that were heartbreaking; the way 11-year-old Lucy took off her shoes at night, placed them side by side, then folded her dirty white socks into
them, knowing she would be wearing them again tomorrow. The way she tucked her 16-year-old roommate into bed when she'd zonked out after sniffing an aerosol can, the younger, still innocent child parenting the older, damaged one. It was seeing her alone – the way we always saw her – beside a sign saying 'Unattended bicycles will be removed'. The message was stark: unattended children are less seen, less cared for, and less loved.
The Unloved was Morton's directorial debut, based on her own childhood growing up in care, though she has said she left out the more abusive details of her past. That's not to say that this was a sweetened pill. It was very much a drama from the school of hard knocks of Ken Loach and Lynne Ramsay.
We first saw Lucy being bellowed at by her father, played by Robert Carlyle with more tragedy than menace, for returning home without his cigarettes. The beating that followed was heard rather than seen. Once again Lucy was taken into care, paraded through the system of teachers, social workers, and staff in a children's home who were institutionalised in their own way. "What about my other foster parents?" she asked. "That's not an option I'm afraid," replied a social worker we only saw at waist level, for this was Lucy's story and we saw things as she did.
In a way, nothing much happened. Lucy went to the shops with her roommate, who got caught shoplifting. She wore make-up for the first time. She got a new pair of shoes. She saw things she shouldn't. The point was these were all experiences walked through without a parent. The loss of a childhood, Morton seemed to be saying, was felt in every mundane moment.
Everything was seen through Lucy's sad eyes, and Morton had coaxed an incredibly nuanced performance out of Molly Windsor. She hardly spoke and was an observer rather than a participant in her own life. In the final scene, the camera shot her straight on, for minutes, riding a bus after visiting her estranged mother. Her face barely registered an expression, but it was a riveting, painful non-ending.
If I was looking for affirmation that once girls grow up it gets easier, it was not to be found in The Trouble With Working Women. The first documentary in a two-parter, it opened with Justin Rowlatt, Newsnight presenter and father of three daughters, surveying an office of women and whispering to Sophie Raworth "are they all secretaries?" And he was one of the presenters probing the 21st-century glass ceiling. I'd have liked to see him flattened by it.
All the grim statistics were rolled out. A full-time working woman earns £369,000 less than a man over a lifetime. By the age of 30, women earn 7% less than men; by 40 it jumps to 20%. And here's one that socked it to me: more than half of women with degrees are childless on their 40th birthday. Yes, the word childless was used. Twice.
Everywhere our gaffe-prone presenters turned, to police, surgeons, investment bankers, or Rosie Boycott, the options were clear: have career and be childless, have children and lose job. No, there was a third way. It's called having it all, and that one didn't turn out so well either.
Raworth fitted in her job as a newsreader with three children, but she was battling guilt. Michelle 'Ultimo' Mone returned to work four days after "pushing one out". Then there was the full-time working mother of four kids who had done a five-hour day by the time she arrived at work. Her husband graciously said he supported her working and then asked her for clean underwear. When a boxer claimed "men are superior to women", Raworth giggled in response.
Feeling childless and ready to hand back my university degree, I marooned myself on the most dangerous island on earth. Five seasons into Lost and the question has changed from "where are we?" to "when are we?" The answer, interestingly, has remained the same: "Eh?", followed by guns coming out, jungle chases, and possible sightings of Smoke Monster.
For those higher beings who have stuck with JJ Abrams' Byzantine six-season conundrum – I am one of them – it was a stupendous finale to the penultimate series, in which everyone who left the island goes back to try to save those who stayed. Time keeps shifting, so no one knows when they are.
The way of saving everyone, conversely, is by blowing the whole damn place up. Don't ask. Finally we got to see Jacob's house inside a statue of a giant foot, which did prompt me to wonder why no one had spotted it before. Jacob is the island's puppetmaster, and after 102 episodes and a writers' strike it turned out he wasn't the Smoke Monster or a figment of Ben's imagination but a very good-looking chap who spins yarn.
I should have known. Being very good-looking is your best chance of survival on the island. I've often wondered if the real reason everyone is so desperate to get back is because they are so gorgeous there, all matted hair and sweat-glazed bods.
It was another orgasmic head-scratcher of a finale, offering up the possibility that everything that had taken place might not have happened after all. I actually wept tears of joyful frustration. No doubt Justin Rowlatt would attribute this to my being the weaker sex.
The full article contains 1013 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
