
The Flats: Excellent post-Troubles documentary that illuminates how trauma can nag away for decades
The Flats
Director
:
Alessandra Celesia
Cert
:
15A
Starring
:
Joe McNally
Running Time
:
1 hr 54 mins
There is plenty to ponder during this excellent documentary on post-Troubles life in the largely republican New Lodge district of Belfast, but, among all the trauma, the most telling moment is perhaps a harmless exchange, carried on as Queen Elizabeth II's coffin is loaded on to an aircraft, between the charming Jolene and two older neighbours.
Nonchalantly puzzled as to her status, she wonders if they are 'half-Irish and 'half-British'. Her friend explains: 'We're full Irish, but they stole our identity.' When God Save the King (as I suppose it already was by then) comes on, one neighbour turns his back while the other puts her hands over her ears. 'It's only a bit of music,' says Jolene, puzzled. For many of her generation these symbols matter less than they once did.
Most of Alessandra Celesia's film focuses on a man who, raised among the worst of the atrocities, understandably finds it harder to set aside the old unhappiness. Joe McNally, an intense middle-aged man who has served time as an 'ordinary decent criminal', remembers the murder of his uncle, then just a teenager, by the Shankill Butchers.
McNally has never been able to shake the image of a plaster on the corpse's nose – placed to cover up the exit wound from a shot to the back of the head. Now, he rails against the drug dealers who moved in when the paramilitaries went elsewhere. It's now nearly as bad as Dublin, argues McNally.
READ MORE
[
Trauma of the Troubles: 'I threw my first petrol bomb when I was nine. I felt like a man after that'
Opens in new window
]
In her treatment of McNally, Celesia offers a moving, rigorous character study of how trauma can nag away for decades. The desperation with which he hangs on to a famous phrase by Bobby Sands ultimately becomes a little unnerving. 'Our revenge will be the laughter of our children,' he repeats in the manner of a fraught mantra.
The Flats keeps most of its focus tight on the subjects, but allows the occasional tasteful re-enactment. You could, at a stretch, see parallels here with Joshua Oppenheimer's approach in The Act of Killing, but here Celesia is in complete sympathy with her subjects.
It is not all gloom. Jolene, a fine singer with a good line in Ulster wit, gestures to a happier and less fraught future. Her Irish passport will, she clarifies, allow her to skip the queues at the airport. So there is that.
In cinemas from May 23rd
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


The Irish Sun
16 minutes ago
- The Irish Sun
‘This must be a first?' – Ireland fans puzzled by RTE's scaled back coverage for Luxembourg friendly
LUXEMBOURG vs Ireland was an instantly forgettable match with about the only standout aspect to it being RTE's scaled back coverage. There was no studio coverage before, during or after 2 In the second half Troy Parrott scored with a delicate chip but it was ruled out for offside 2 Some viewers also reported the sound was out of sync with the picture on their TVs Curran and Whelan were on commentary and also filled the half-time break by narrating 'highlights' of what chances were created by both sides. O'Donoghue was at least present in the stadium as he conducted interviews with Heimir Hallgrimsson, Player of the Match But the main talking point generated throughout the entire evening was that there were no pundits in studio talking things over. Among the tweets posted on X about the significant break from the norm, Indo Sport podcast host Joe Molloy posted: "No RTE studio panel for the match?" Read More On Irish Football The replies to his post were broadly critical of the national broadcaster. Barry fumed: "Shameful drop in standards!! Niall Bergin posited: "Surely cost-cutting from RTE but Most read in Football Finally, someone else pondered: "This must be a first?" However, others didn't think it was that egregious of a decision given last night was about as close to a meaningless international game as you're ever going to see. Inside Arsenal's Ibiza holiday as Katie McCabe and teammates pop champagne to celebrate Champions League win Mick Finn argued: "A meaningless, nothing game…lucky to have it shown." Lastly, one fan used what a dreadfully poor spectacle it was to crack an amusing gag. He quipped: "Is it possible they had one and they just all fell asleep? Understandable enough." HEIMIR HUFF Head coach Hallgrimsson The birthday boy admitted: 'Let's be honest, we're not happy with this performance. 'It's good to keep a clean sheet but we all felt that in the first half we were sloppy, the game was boring in the first half. "All the good things we did against Senegal were missing, all the quick movement, the press, the ball speed - so sloppy. 'We were so different from all the things we want to represent. We lost duels, we lost ball, our rotations were slow, our pressing was more individual than collective. 'It was not tactical, I think it was just focus. We were not doing the things we did four days ago. 'We changed in the second half, we had more tempo, and won more duels. 'But it was not good enough. We always like answers to questions and this one is a negative one, so we at least know that. His side will begin their World Cup qualification campaign with a similar double-header in September, hosting Hungary before travelling to Armenia.


Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
Remembering Housewife of the Year, deadbeat husbands and patronising Gay Byrne
For many of us who lived through the era covered by the recent Housewife of the Year documentary, the viewing was always going to trigger a dull, throat-constricting ache. A film about a 30-year old television show that ran for just 10 years would provoke less predictable responses in younger viewers. Some sat down to sneer but left it deeply unsettled. The cameras panning over the huge audiences in their Sunday best revealed glimpses of a deeply unfamiliar Ireland: shy, minimally made-up faces with uniformly dark hair, neglected teeth, unshowy clothes modestly buttoned up to the neck. This was Ireland in the 1980s, the country Gay Byrne correctly diagnosed back then as 'banjaxed'. I watched the film twice in an effort to distinguish the television show from its dapper host. Byrne was celebrated for the rare quality among chatshow hosts of a genuine curiosity about people. [ At home there's an apron with the slogan 'Calor Housewife of the Year 1985′ Opens in new window ] Introducing the first televised Housewife of the Year in 1982 he welcomed the fully-grown competitors as people who 'sing little songs for us and they write little poems and they do all sorts of quare things ...' READ MORE The women smiled desperately, often rictus-like, conveying the glassy look of rabbits caught in headlights. The questions – intercut with images of the 'simple' meals cooked by competitors – were eerily repetitive. How did you meet your husband? What did your husband do for a living? Did you make your own dress? Give us a twirl. Show us what you cooked. How have you taken to motherhood? You're a mother of 14, is that the end of it now Angela? (And coyly) would you go again Angela? Six children was the least of it. Where there was an evident gap in baby production, he asked what happened. He held hands with the women, doubtless to encourage them, and called himself Uncle Gaybo while leaning into a woman's pregnant stomach. A still from RTÉ's Housewife of the Year All this was expressed in Byrne's cheery light entertainment tone. None of it was said or done unkindly. He knew better than most the oppressive patriarchal depths of that Ireland and its calamitous impact on girls and women. His HOTY years ran alongside some of the nation's most tumultuous events, which in turn generated the agonising first-hand confidences that animated his daily radio show – the divorce referendums, the Eighth Amendment, the contraception battles, the death of Ann Lovett . These must have colonised some part of his brain while he perpetuated the same old patronising stereotypes on HOTY. But the ever-curious Gaybo was entirely absent. Perhaps it wasn't the time to ask the remarkable Lily, who had 13 children by the age of 31, how she was surviving physically or mentally. Or for a quick question about Miriam's life, a nurse who had loved her few carefree single years in London and had plans for Australia until called back to rural Cork to help care for her father. Or to ask Patricia – who said she loved not having to go out to work – how she squared the 'housewife' label with being the breadwinner, working as a 'postman' while rearing hundreds of turkeys 'and still had the housework' to do. Even the Roses of Tralee were asked about their hopes and dreams. The Housewives were never asked if they envisioned themselves as something other than 'housewife' – as the farmers, entrepreneurs, artists, designers, craftswomen some already were – because aspiring to anything beyond wife and mother would amount to betrayal of the script. From the film we learn that Lily, mother of 13, had a husband who 'receded further to the pub' with each new baby while she fed her children from a food charity. That Ellen's husband walked out on her without a word soon after the competition, leaving her destitute but bouncing back to found her own business – 'It was my money. No one was going to smoke it, no one was going to drink it ...' That Miriam, the nurse who had to give up her dream of travel and then her job on marriage, was rewarded with a dearth of pension contributions. Do we need reminding of all this, you might ask? That the national broadcaster and its national treasure were in cahoots with commercial interests to sell this society's idealised vision of a woman back to women on prime time TV? That the birth agony, care and maintenance of eight, 13 or 14 children were made to sound like a breeze. And that fathers were mentioned only in the context of their jobs or illness, copper-fastening the myth that the men could or would always be faithful providers to their women who stayed in the home? Just as de Valera's Article 41.2 continues to imply. But in the eyes of the State and society back then, those treasured mammies were just dependants on their welfare-dependent husbands. So perhaps the true marvel is that these women mustered the courage to enter a competition on prime time TV, dreaming of a break and public acknowledgment of their many labours. And perhaps it was the certain knowledge that Gay's questions would be kind, swift and superficial that encouraged them to step up to what for some – such as the extraordinary Lily – was a life-changing shot of confidence. But for others, the damage caused by the televised myth of the perfect and perfectly happy housewife is incalculable. In an era of backlash, we always need reminding. That dull ache will take a while to abate.


Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
To teenage me, caring about exams felt like conforming. My kids are different
It's not really exam weather, which is a minuscule mercy for all the young people sitting down at desks in school halls across the country. I don't remember much about the Junior Cert which in my day was called the Inter Cert, but I'm nearly sure it was exam-season sunny back then. In contrast, my daughters set off last week for their first exam under gloomy skies, clutching Leap cards and small plastic bags of pens and stationery. One daughter left her phone at home – 'too distracting' – but rang me from a friend's mobile minutes before the English exam so that I could read her some quotes from the battered flashcards she had left scattered across the kitchen table. She was hoping for a question that allowed exploration of her views on the character of Portia in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. 'Her ingenious, immovable and intelligent self enables her to find a way around all obstacles,' my daughter had written on a bright yellow card in blue pen. 'Because she is a woman, her father is still controlling her even from the grave.' [ Broadcaster Andrea Gilligan on the Leaving: 'I think the A-level system in Northern Ireland is far superior' Opens in new window ] 'I have a whole feminist thing about Portia, Mum,' J told me as she went off to get the bus to her first State exam. 'Examiners totally eat that stuff up.' We had marked the auspicious occasion earlier by blasting out the song Drive It Like You Stole It from John Carney's film Sing Street, which is part of the curriculum. 'This is your life, you can go anywhere/You gotta grab the wheel and own it/You gotta put the pedal down/And drive it like you stole it.' My other daughter P danced about in the kitchen, energised by the message, and I thought about this wonderful world we live in where English in the Junior Cert now includes studying Carney as well as Heaney . READ MORE I watched the two of them leave and felt a bit emotional. I wasn't sure why but hearing Heaney's Mid-Term Break read out as part of a last-minute cram over breakfast definitely didn't help. The exams marked another milestone for the girls, I suppose. I rang a friend with daughters also doing the Junior Cert. She was teary too. We talked about how proud we were of them but also about the privilege of even being able to do exams when there are a 1½ million girls and young women being subjected to gender-persecution in Afghanistan, banned from attending secondary school or university, who would give anything to be in their position. We marvelled about how prepared our daughters seem to be, how invested in the challenge. I had been neither prepared nor invested in the lead-up to the Inter. I didn't care. My not caring was the bluntest form of rebellion. Caring about exams, according to teenage me, was too much like conforming. In fairness to her, she was a mixed-up kid. In yet another contrast, my daughters have spent much of the past couple of months in their local Starbucks or the library studying their heads off. Self-motivated, I think you'd call it. All I know is that I can take no credit for their industry. And while Starbucks might seem like an odd study hall, I'm assured the coffee chain is conducive to academic preparation. At various libraries across the city, from Kevin Street to Raheny, they've been congregating in groups with friends, going through their topics in studious solidarity. The wonderful innovation that is transition year will wipe the slate clean The relief that I was not having to nag them to hit the books was immense. I just didn't have it in me to nag. Whatever about the Leaving Cert , the Junior Cert really doesn't matter except as a practice run for that more significant and consequential exam and I was never going to pretend otherwise. Anyway, the wonderful innovation that is transition year will wipe the slate clean and then, in fifth year, all the people who flailed or foundered in the Junior Cert can find fresh motivation. Or not. And in the end, they won't be defined by exams or points or CAO options or by how much history or Shakespeare they could regurgitate as a teenager but by who they are as people. By how they made other people feel. There are no State exams to measure that. However it goes when those exam results envelopes are opened, all over the country, thousands of variously prepared or motivated young people have presented themselves to be examined. No matter what the outcome, they deserve our praise and admiration. These ingenious, immovable and intelligent boys and girls have been putting their best feet forward whatever that 'best' looks like, and we know 'best' is different for everyone depending on their personal circumstances. Some of them have parents who can afford maths grinds and Starbucks coffees, some know what it's like to go to school hungry or to have to study quadratic equations in a noisy hostel for the homeless. Watch them all now, on the final lap of this gruelling exam course. Grabbing the wheel. Driving it like they stole it. Legends, every single one of them.