Directed by Ken Loach. Starring Paul Brannigan, Roger Allam, John Henshaw, Gary Maitland, William Ruane, Jasmin Riggins, Siobhan Reilly 15A cert, Cineworld/ IFI/Light House/ Screen, Dublin, 101 min
BACK IN THE day, rightly or wrongly, the Ken Loach brand was synonymous with council estate grit, miserabilism and getting a good metaphorical thump with a thoughtfully worded socialist placard.
But, wait. The Angels’ Share, a wacky comic caper, arrives in a sequence that includes murder-mystery Route Irish, football- themed comedy Looking for Eric and historical drama The Wind That Shakes the Barley. The winner of this year’s Jury Prize at Cannes could, without fear of contradiction, be marketed as Ken Loach’s Whisky Galore! Whither the kitchen sink?
The Angels’ Share does, in fact, start out in one of Glasgow’s less salubrious locales. Robbie (Paul Brannigan) is a young thug attempting to go straight and settle down with Leonie (Siobhan Reilly), his pregnant girlfriend. Fans of Loach’s earlier Scottish collaborations with longtime screenwriter Paul Laverty (My Name Is Joe, Sweet Sixteen, Ae Fond Kiss) will not be surprised when complications arise.
Robbie, even as he attempts to straighten up and fly right, can’t seem to escape a long-running family feud and is loathed by his prospective father- in-law. His future prospects fall somewhere between dismal and none.
Enter Harry (John Henshaw), a kindly community service supervisor, and an oddball gang of low-level offenders whose idiotic crimes include drunken excursions onto train lines and an attempt to sneak a macaw out of a pet store. Under Harry’s tutelage, it transpires that Robbie has a keen nose for whisky, a talent that leads him and his new madcap pals to an opportunity for One Big Score.
The Angels’ Share is lightly gritted with violence, demotic language and a painful reconciliation scene between Robbie and one of his former victims. Mostly, though, it gives everyone an even break and some kind of parity. Giddy enough to pass for an Ealing standard and light enough to feature gorse tableaux to the strains of
The Proclaimers’ 500 Miles, this is less like reportage and more like benefaction. The film’s more implausible turns are grounded, not undone, by Loach and Laverty’s realist tropes.
We’ve never really bought the idea that Ken Loach is a British Ulrich Seidl, but we never thought the film- maker behind Kes and Family Life would send us cartwheeling joyfully out of a cinema, either. The feel-good comedy of the summer. Who knew?
