Of all the strange places for an outing of the Bangor University Labour Society (of which I am a member), a visit to a film about history’s most vilified opponent of the Labour movement seems the most unlikely. However, a group of us from the Society went to see Meryl Streep’s portrayal of The Iron Lady at the cinema in Llandudno.
I felt rather out of place with this group, as only one of them was born when Margaret Thatcher came to power, whereas I had already voted in the 1970 General Election before that dark day in 1979 when she became Prime Minister. NB: I didn’t vote for her! My expectation and fear was that this film would sanitise her historical role and leave us feeling sorry for her in her confused state of Alzheimer’s disease. I had read reviews that she had been portrayed very sympathetically in those autumn years of her life so I steeled myself not to feel any undue compassion.
The film alternates between the present day and flashback throughout and it is the skilful make-up worn by Meryl Streep thet helps the viewer get the chronology correct. From the very start, in her role as the grocer’s daughter, you saw the determination, ambition and sheer bloodymindedness of Margaret Roberts, later Thatcher, in her determination to achieve her political goals.
The portrayal of Margaret Thatcher through her period as Education Secretary and then as Prime Minister was very much as I remembered it –obstinate, insensitive, arrogant and even cruel. It put me very much in mind of a sketch in the vicious satire Spitting Image where she is treating her cabinet to a meal in a restaurant
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Waitress: Would you like to order, sir?
Thatcher: Yes. I will have the steak.
Waitress: How would you like it?
Thatcher: Oh, raw, please.
Waitress: And what about the Vegetables?
Thatcher: Oh, they’ll [The Cabinet] have the same as me!
The only thing that caught me out was the scene that portrayed the killing of Airey Neave by a car bomb in the Palace of Westminster. Although the INLA (an Irish terrorist group) claimed responsibility, a Wikipedia article suggests the security services or even the Americans were responsible. I always wondered how the INLA could get into the underground car park at the Housees of Parliament. I remember the incident well and how affected I was at the time, emotions I relived while watching. The film then showed Mrs Thatcher running up the car-park exit ramp seconds later, having just said goodbye to Neave. I suspect that was just poetic licence!
I felt again that same surge of anger that I felt at the time of the events when the film covered probably her most controversial policies during the Miners Strike (1984-85) and the Poll Tax Riots (1990) Seeing again the newsreel scenes of appalling police violence reaffirmed my long-held views of anger and incomprehension of her coldness and brutality.
Ironically, I had always promised myself that if I were ever to meet Margaret Thatcher I would tell her exactly what I thought of her. In fact, I met her on two occasions but both times “on duty” where I was representing another organisation and had a prior obligation directing my conduct. I would not have been discourteous, I would simply have asked her if she was aware of the hurt, damage, pain, distress, hardship, and loss of hope that she had caused to the poorest and most vulnerable people in society. This is probably the closest I’ll ever get to having asked that question.
The portrayal that I struggled with the most in the film was that of Denis Thatcher. He came across as an affable, slightly dotty, harmless old man. The reality is that he was a sharp businessman and from all I have ever heard of him, not a particularly pleasant person to know. There is no doubt that Margaret and Denis had a remarkably close relationship and the film betrayed that well. Meryl Streep’s acting was breathtakingly good and one of the few good things that I can take away from the film that stirred up powerful negative emotions in me.
In Freshers’ Week I recall being given so much information that I couldn’t recall anything reliably. Subsequently, I learned to survive by becoming part of a group of seven friends, mostly mature students living in towns and villages between Penygroes and Mold. The whole semester I managed to have one of the group to follow to the appropriate seminar room or lecture theatre as I could never remember which room to go to.
As the semester wore on those dreaded deadline essays take over your life. We’d all been terrified by the stories of summary executions for the culprits of the heinous crime of plagiarism and of floggings for those who use Wikipedia. In this terrifying atmosphere our word processors agonisingly slowly racked up the word-count to those magical 2000 words. Then suddenly, you’ve somehow reached 2400 and are cutting frantically.
Exams, however, were a different matter. On Saturday 9th January, two days before the start of the exam fortnight, I was busy reading about Treweryn and Penyberth when I became of someone calling. I went outside to investigate and discovered my wife Christine had fallen and, as it turned out, broken her leg in several places. She was getting furious with Rhosyn, our lovely Welsh Collie, who kept bringing her a ball to throw. Clearly, she needed to see some Lassie films! I called an ambulance that couldn’t get near our house on the snow (we’re 1028 feet on a mountain-side and we were snowed in) so Christine had a dramatic trip in an air ambulance to Ysbyty Gwynedd. It played havoc with my exam schedule and I missed three exams but my tutor and the other lecturers could not have been more sympathetic and helpful.