Hard Truths

There is no filmmaker alive who understands the mundanity and quiet grace of the human experience quite like Mike Leigh. Over a decades-spanning career he’s found poetry and pathos in the everyday business of being alive. From David Thewlis’ nihilistic Johnny in Naked to Sally Hawkins’ irrepressibly effervescent Poppy in Happy-Go-Lucky, his characters feel intensely real while also reflecting a subdued desperation at the heart of British society.

After taking on a larger canvas with Peterloo, Leigh makes a welcome return to intimate character studies with Hard Truths, shooting in a stripped-down style that echoes the television films that made his name. He reunites with Marianne Jean-Baptiste, who he directed in the Palme d’Or-winning Secrets & Lies, and who here gives a truly astonishing performance as a woman who cannot articulate her abject misery.

An affecting portrait of a woman in crisis

Pansy (Jean-Baptiste) constantly lashes out at everyone around her, directing her ire at strangers and family members alike. She lives a comfortable suburban life with her resigned husband Curtley (David Webber) and listless adult son Moses (Tuwaine Barrett), but is trapped by antipathy towards humanity that often confines her to her bed. She’s like a wounded animal, aggressive out of fear and pain.

Initially, Pansy’s poisonous wrath is funnier than it is distressing to witness. A brilliant rant about nonsensical features of baby clothes is a highlight (“What’s that baby gonna keep in its pocket?!”). But Pansy is often searingly cruel and spending time with her can be punishing, even as we recognise her profound vulnerability. The truth hurts. Any warmth in her life comes from her relationship with sister Chantelle (a wonderful Michele Austin), who attempts to envelop Pansy into her own loving family milieu. But this is a Mike Leigh joint, and any expectation that Pansy can be magically healed is misplaced. “Why can’t you enjoy life?!” Chantelle asks her in frustration, to which she cannot respond, retreating into herself as if she wants to completely disappear. It’s utterly heartbreaking, and at times you might find yourself desperate for the film to end, simply to escape from her relentless fury and gloom.

One of many hard truths is that Pansy’s hurt runs so deep, she might never be free from it. Her depression and hostility also acts as a reminder of the isolation we all endured in lockdown and its lingering impact on our collective mental health. But while this film is sometimes unbearably bleak, the tenderness and empathy with which Leigh views her makes it an affecting portrait of a woman in crisis.