Hunger

In a brief digression from the turmoil of the global financial crisis and the fallout from last month’s Budget, we turn to the altogether cheerier subject of the 1981 Hunger Strike.

Well, perhaps not the Strike itself, but the debut feature film of Turner Prize-winning artist Steve McQueen: “Hunger”.  Even with the involvement of playwright Enda Walsh (among other things an alumnus of Greendale Community School), McQueen would hardly appear to be a likely person to not only tackle this subject, but to do so in such a personal way.  While the work that brought him early recognition and won him the Turner Prize could hardly be described as political (except in the most oblique way) and was far more resonant of the films of Andy Warhol than of Ken Loach, McQueen is also the official artist of the Iraq War, commissioned by the Imperial War Museum.  Neither factor would lead one to expect a work of this nature, or on this subject.

In an interview with the Observer, McQueen explains his interest in the subject – and in Bobby Sands in particular – in the following way:

‘What initially brought me to the subject was the notion of what an individual is capable of doing just in order to be heard,’ he says. ‘I remember, as a kid, seeing Bobby Sands’s image on the news every night and this number underneath, which, I later found out, corresponded to the number of days he had gone without food. That somehow stayed with me.

A parallel could, perhaps, be drawn with Richard Hamilton, another major British artist drawn to the subject having seen it covered on the television news (leading to the creation of his piece The Citizen).  Would it be that much of a stretch to suggest that in both cases the fact that their exposure to the subject was mediated through television was a key factor in their artistic responses being primarily visual and almost completely devoid of background or context (and this is not a criticism in either case)?

The film itself is a fascinating and powerful piece of work.  Anyone going in the expectation of an explanation or analysis of the Hunger Strikes, or the wider political context, however, is likely to be disappointed.  While it’s advertised as ostensibly a film about Bobby Sands, McQueen’s own description is far more accurate:

People say, “Oh, it’s a political film”, but, for me, it’s essentially about what we, as humans, are capable of, morally, physically, psychologically. What we will inflict and what we can endure.’

The film is structured into three acts.  The first is an evocation of the blanket protest in the period between the end of the first and beginning of the second Hunger Strike, shown from the perspectives of both a number of prisoners and a prison guard (in this section, Bobby Sands barely appears).  It’s rather brutal and visceral but is also, in places, extraordinarily subtle.  There is very little dialogue and little in the way of background information given to the audience.  Instead the story is told almost completely through carefully crafted images: long scenes where the camera stays fixed on a single point, or slow, deliberate tracking shots.  It assumes a background knowledge on the part of the viewer or, at least, a viewer with an attention span of more than ten seconds.  While it’s difficult to watch in many parts (indeed, this section is perhaps the most difficult as it’s the one which details the brutality of the prison system including scenes of intense violence), it’s also nice to see a film where the viewer is treated as an adult, for once.

The second act (or brief interlude between the first and the last) is a long dialogue between Sands (Fassbender) and a West Belfast priest (played with typical hard-chaw toughness by Liam Cunningham).  In what’s virtually a single, 20-minute shot, the two men discuss the moral and political justification of the hunger strike, which Sands has just announced to the priest is about the recommence.  It’s to the credit of Enda Walsh that he doesn’t engage in leaden, expository dialogue or attempt to explain the context to a viewer not already aware of it.  The conversation strikes one – to an extent – as what a conversation at that time might have consisted of.  Only to an extent, though, as Sands’ reminiscences about a dying foal on a cross-country run (which, to the best of my limited knowledge is fictional) does seem a little more heightened than authentic.

The story of the foal is interesting, and is central to the film, as it acts as an explanation, if not justification, of the action of the Hunger Strikes.  It, and the subsequent hallucinations on Sands’ part in the final act (which documents his physical deterioration, again with little or not dialogue) are precisely the kind of things which should ring false, and in the hands of a less subtle filmmaker, probably would.  But here, for some reason, they don’t.

Is it a good film? Undoubtedly.  Is it a good film about the Hunger Strikes? Probably not.   You’ll learn little about the strikes themselves from the film and will certainly learn little or nothing about the political background to the protest.  But, perhaps, if you’re looking for that kind of understanding, you’d be better to try a library than a cinema.

That said, as a film, and even as a film about the Hunger Strikes, it’s far superior to the heavy-handed, ‘Troubles-by-numbers’ piece that was ‘Some Mother’s Son’, a film that wouldn’t be out of place on the Hallmark Channel and treats its audience like simpletons (including Tom Hollander as a cartoonish British villain at whom the audience can boo and hiss, and Helen Mirren as a northern Catholic who needs the phrase ‘Tiocfaidh Ár Lá’ translated for her).

‘Hunger’ by contrast suggests everything beautifully, while saying very little explicitly.  At the same time, it’s also incredibly balanced, not in the over-literal way you will find in some political films, but in the way it portrays both the prison officers and prisoners as victims of a brutal system (while never falling into the trap of equating the experience of everyone).  One very simple, but powerful, point the film makes is to note the number of prison officers killed during the course of the protests during the same summation at the end where it notes what happened after Sands’ death (which is where the film ends).  As an aside, if you want a reading of the film that’s close to funny in how far it misses the point, see here.

I should say that many of these thoughts hadn’t occured to me while I was watching the film, and I can’t say that I was immediately bowled over by it.  In particular the rather overt religious imagery (the washing of the bloody hands, Sands’ eyes looking to heaven Christ-like while he’s in bed, and the obvious Pieta-image of Sands being carried from the bath by a loyalist orderly) were a little grating, particularly in a film that for the most part is more like a piece by Alan Clarke than Martin Scorcese.  However, it does have a haunting quality that stays with you for days after seeing it, something that’s all too rare in the majority of films today.  For that, alone, it’s worth seeing.