Loach is a leech.
A Glasgow, Scotland based newspaper recently revealed how Ken Loach had completed another of his social commentary meanderings, after visiting the set each day from his Hilton hotel room.
The green-tea socialist set of the West of Scotland were aghast - he didn't sleep in the homes of the amateur actors that occupied his screen? The myth of the director squatting down and breaking bread with his untrained, then abandoned actors was demolished. His recent toe-dip into commercialism in Britain with a film about Eric Cantona added to feelings of confidence trickery by the denizens of art-house cinema. Why was anyone surprised?
'Riff Raff' (1991) is almost a caricature of a Ken Loach film. The film was publicised as containing searing social comment on the aftermath of Thatcher's Britain and the camera does capture the fresh wounds on the physical and spiritual landscape of Britain in some moments - the building site that appears never to near completion to the unchivalrous crowd response to a female singer in a pub.
This is where the good faith that might be earned by the film ends - Loach could have delivered vignettes on this Britain, but cannot help but have his improvising actors weave an overbaked tale of bleak morality and agit-prop cliché (a hippy woman inexplicably produces a heroin needle at one point, while a worker is immediately laid off after one union-based entreaty to his gaffer). Loach doesn't just let loose his bid for working class heroism - you can almost hear him salivating for the accolade.
Loach's view is that the default moral and cultural position of the working classes is debauchery and bad taste. When a female enters the building site, not dressed like Sam Fox on a hen night, but wrapped in more woollens than an Inuit chieftain, she is wolf-whistled. One can almost hear the Professor Yaffle tones of Loach screeching with glee "Yes, wolf-whistle her - that's what you lot do, isn't it?!"
This is masturbatory fantasy of what working class life is like,aimed at hash-cake eating and joss-stick burning university graduates. It clearly influenced the more patronizing parts of Caroline Aherne's 'The Royle Family', treating the working class men as toby-jug faced cheeky-chappies with hearts of gold and the women as despondent ragdolls.
It is modern titillation on a par with what Hogarth produced in his etchings centuries before and is as vile as Thatcher herself.