Review
Ageing
Assisted dying
Culture
5 min read

For love there is no charge

Out of mind old people are at the centre of Allelujah! Sian Brookes reviews the film adaptation of Alan Bennett’s play.

Sian Brookes is studying for a Doctorate at Aberdeen University. Her research focuses on developing a theological understanding of old age. She studied English and Theology at Cambridge University.

In a hall decorated for a celebration a person stands in front of a seated group, all have their arms raised in celebration.
Jazz hands at the hospital.
BBC Films.

Spoiler alert – this film review reveals significant elements of the plot. 

Allelujah! is not a film that shies away from the big issues. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a big issue this comedy/political commentary/drama/part-thriller doesn’t at least make reference to (and yes, it spreads itself across all of these genres too). With such an eclectic approach it is difficult at times to keep up with the narrative, and the deeper meaning of the film. Based on the Alan Bennett play, the plot centres around The Bethlehem, a small northern hospital for geriatric patients, which is facing closure due to the Tory government’s efficiency drive. It focuses on two members of staff, Alma Gilpin, a stoic and matter-of-fact but seemingly excellent nurse who has served the hospital her entire career, and a younger Dr Valentine. Other protagonists include an ex-miner patient and his son, a management consultant who has “made it” to London and is currently advising the Health Secretary to close hospitals such as the one in question for the sake of government finances. 

Whether it’s politics or the personal, this film has it all. It deals with levelling up, the cultural and economic gap between the north and south, the challenges of budget cuts in the NHS, the problems of a national health service claiming to 'care' but with managers more preoccupied by Westminster’s economic priorities. It depicts families waiting for older relatives to die in order to grab their inheritance, the broken relationship between an ageing man and his son, and those all-important stories of the older patients’ lives well-lived. And yet as the story line develops, a plot twist emerges which comes to overshadow the entire film, and in the process speaks to what is perhaps the most poignant of the many discussions it raises. Nurse Gilpin, who, until now has appeared consistently caring and committed to her patients, has been quietly administering fatal beakers of milk and morphine to those who she deems to be on “her list” of those who most need relief from their situation. When confronted by the doctor she justifies her actions with a multifaceted answer based on the requirement to provide more beds to a broken healthcare system, but also insisting “I had ended someone’s suffering”.  

When Dr Valentine remarks, “I like old people” a visitor responds “not even old people like old people”.

The manner in which Nurse Gilpin goes about what is effectively enforced euthanasia, is deeply chilling. And yet her reasoning is not entirely foreign to us – to end suffering could be deemed a noble cause. In fact, the need to simply delete the reality of suffering, particularly the suffering of the old is one that perhaps is not so uncommon. Throughout Allelujah!,we are reminded of our tendency to run from, to detest, to reject the suffering of the elderly in our society. When Dr Valentine remarks, “I like old people” a visitor responds “not even old people like old people”. A teenage intern declares to a patient “I hope I never live to be your age”. At the same time, characters look back on the days “when the elderly weren’t farmed out”, and questions are asked of families “if they love them, why do they put them away?”. A very good question. Of course, care needs are often too great for families to endure, yet it is still important to ask why the suffering of the old has become a professionalised service, which most of us avoid at all costs. Perhaps the answer to this is that we don’t like to watch the old suffer, we don’t like to watch them die, because their suffering and their death remind us of our future selves, our future suffering, our future death. In our sanitised, anything-is-possible-with-medicine-and-science society, death and the suffering that comes with it, is something from which we flee at all costs. Instead of acknowledging and working with it, we would rather pretend it wasn’t there at all.  

And yet, even as we try to avoid it, suffering and death are both certain parts of all our futures. 100% of us will die. For Nurse Gilpin, the solution to this is to bring on death prematurely, to erase the pain, overcome the misery by offering a false hope – that it doesn’t need to exist at all. In direct contrast to this, in a film which is littered with Christian references (Allelujah, The Bethlehem), there is a different approach taken by a messiah-type figure who seems to get everything right. Dr Valentine is compassionate and understanding. He not only challenges the political systems which undermine those most at the margins of society, but also has the kind of bedside manner we would all hope for in a doctor. In a closing monologue Dr Valentine utters the words of the doctors in the NHS, “We will be here when you are old, and we would die for you, we are love itself and for love there is no charge”.  

It is this suffering with which is so compelling, this suffering with which is truly sacrificial.

Nurse Gilpin and Dr Valentine offer two fundamentally different approaches to end of life care. One hastens the end quickly, deletes the suffering as efficiently as possible in order to make way for those in less pain. The other sits with those who suffer, holds their hand, gently cares for the human person that is in front of them. Even more, and perhaps most significantly Dr Valentine does not only watch from afar, but is willing to suffer himself for the sake of those in pain - working tirelessly, giving himself over day after day, fighting on with little sleep for limited pay just to make things a little less painful. It is this suffering with which is so compelling, this suffering with which is truly sacrificial, this suffering with which speaks of something much greater than politics, efficiency or inheritance, this suffering with which is indeed “love itself”, completely free of charge.  This is the logic that Christians see in the ancient notion of the incarnation, celebrated every Christmas, of God with us. This is what our older people need, this is what we will all need when we grow old. Let us only hope that when we get there, we find the one who is willing to offer it.

Review
Books
Character
Culture
Football
3 min read

This football autobiography deserves its status as a Sunday Times bestseller

A refreshingly honest confession from Big Dunc

Henry Corbett, a vicar in Liverpool and chaplain to Everton Football Club.  

  

A footballer is interviewed on the side line.
Ferguson at Everton.
Pete from Liverpool, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Duncan Ferguson was sent off as a Premier League player for Everton eight times. On his own admission he drank too much alcohol, misspent his earnings to the extent that he had to declare himself bankrupt, and deeply regretted holding a grudge against the Scottish Football Association that meant he only played seven times for Scotland. By following his father’s advice to “throw the first punch” he ended up in Barlinnie prison.  

Confessing those mistakes in his new autobiography, Big Dunc, makes for a compelling read. It’s not surprising that the book has topped the Sunday Times best seller list for weeks and sits front and centre at Waterstones in Liverpool. Ferguson – who played for Dundee United, Glasgow Rangers, Everton, Newcastle and Scotland - is brave with his admissions. Not many autobiographies would be so honest. And confession has been good for sales. 

But then, honest confession has always made a good story. A glance through the Gospels and Paul’s letters shows the apostles Peter and Paul being very willing to confess their faults. Peter is told “Get behind me, Satan” by Jesus. He impulsively cuts off a servant’s ear. He denies knowing Jesus to an inquiring bystander. Immature, daft, and actions he later regrets, yes. The apostle Paul calls himself the “chief of sinners.” He confesses to persecuting zealously the Church before his conversion. Autobiographies that confess to mistakes, weaknesses and shortcomings are far more helpful – and relatable - than those that seek to airbrush any such blunders out of the picture. It helps, of course, if you also scored 106 goals in 360 appearances.  

Just as appealing is the fact that the book is also about change and reconciliation. These days, Ferguson is off the alcohol. “I wanted to be a better person, a better father,” he writes. He has coached young players back at Everton and seeks to help them avoid the mistakes he made. His father’s advice to be loyal was good advice that he followed. He has taken on two very difficult manager’s jobs. He has apologised to people he had fallen out with; relationships have been healed and a fresh start offered. 

Big Dunc is also a love story - in fact two love stories. The first is with Everton and the Everton supporters. Even in his wildest, most regretted moments, Ferguson connected with his fans. When he was in Barlinnie prison for 44 days he received around 10,000 letters from Evertonians and he tried to reply to them all. If he was ever in a Liverpool pub or club he would enjoy the company of fans. Whether he was visiting Alder Hey Children’s hospital, a youth club, or a supporter he’d heard was in need, he was always up for a photo or an autograph. His treatment by the authorities, whether the law in sending him to prison, or the Scottish FA in banning him for more matches, struck a chord with Evertonians who also knew about injustices in life. And he was a centre forward, a number 9, and supporters love a centre forward who leads the line, scores goals and wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he does maddeningly get sent off and too often carried an injury not always unrelated to lifestyle. 

The second love story is between Ferguson and his wife Janine and their three children. “They saved me”, he writes. The book ends with “Take care, God bless, Dunk” and then this acknowledgement: “Thank you to my wife, kids and family for putting up with me and for supporting me through the good times and the bad times. I love you all.”  

So there is a positive ending. Honest confession, change, reconciliation, love and a good ending. It deserves to be a bestseller.  

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