p starkey

Why the devil did the director think anyone would be interested in an Upstairs Downstairs portrayal of his upbringing. Fair enough, here’s one view of a family’s struggles with parental breakup, chaired by childminder, with a backdrop of the county’s political discord at the time. A British equivalent might have shown power cuts and IRA bombings. Minus the star nanny. Shallow plot too. Why didn’t we explore Cleo’s background more, or why the youngest sibling she was minding was convinced he was a pilot and a sailor in previous incarnations or why the head of the household decided life with his mistress was better than what, on the face of it, was a strong family unit. Instead we were fltting from scene to scene, frequently returning to the man outside the cinema flogging yo-yo balls on elastic or being shocked when student protestors are chased into Mothercare, where Cleo is trying to choose a cot, and are shot. Black and white too. At least this spared us the detail of the dog poo. Which seemed to be aother key element of this film. Enough said?