The cinema of Mike Leigh has always been something I’ve been so deeply fascinated by, with his work being pivotal in my development to truly appreciate the art of filmmaking. One of the first encounters I had with Leigh was when I stumbled upon Vera Drake just after its initial release. Too young to fully understand what it meant, it was always a film I intended to revisit at some point – and considering how Leigh essentially made one of the films that influenced me most as a cinephile (Naked, which remains one of the finest films I’ve ever seen), the eventual reprise of Vera Drake was always imminent. There is always a danger with revisiting something that has occupied such an important area of your memory since the mystique of the past often erodes the experience. However, there’s very little logical way to deny that this film is a singular masterpiece, and amongst Leigh’s finest work. Produced during a time in which Leigh was entering into the territory of being a highly-influential elder statesman of cinema, while still retaining his sensibilities as one of the formative voices in the “angry young man” movement that he helped define with his writing in the 1970s, Vera Drake is an incredibly challenging film, one that takes on an entirely new wealth of meaning when we consider the various intricacies that the director imbues into the film, which only becomes evident on additional viewings. In no uncertain terms, Leigh’s work here is distinctively his own – from working with some of his regular collaborators to the haunting score by Andrew Dickson to the exploration of the human condition done in a way only Leigh is capable of, Vera Drake is one of his masterworks, a delicate social drama that is both searing and beautifully poignant for many reasons.

Vera Drake (Imelda Staunton) is a humble woman living in 1950s London. She spends her days working in the homes of a variety of members of the high-society who employ her as a housekeeper while finding time to do acts of charity for many of those around the community that need her help, whether it be checking in on someone who benefits from a fresh cup of tea or a warm hug. However, Vera finds herself extending her empathy extremely broadly, creating a niche for herself as someone who can perform an abortion very discreetly, particularly in a socio-cultural landscape where terminating a pregnancy was nearly impossible without permission from a psychiatrist and a hefty fee, making Vera’s practice, which is actually facilitated by a crooked merchant (Ruth Sheen), a riskier but far more affordable option to resolve such a problem. Vera’s methods are safe and painless, but incredibly illegal, which means she has to conceal this aspect of her life from her family, which she has been doing for decades. She sees this as an act of charity, helping young women who simply need to get out of such a precarious situation, whether it be the fear of someone like a parent or spouse finding out, or the fact that England was still recovering from the war, making the idea of bringing a child into the world almost incomprehensible. Her family is singularly unaware of what Vera does in her spare time, with everyone in her immediate proximity viewing her as a loving, endearing woman who would never willingly break the law, not knowing that she has quietly been responsible for innumerable illegal abortions – and as it happens, an unfortunate event launches her secret actions into the path of the law enforcement, who soon find themselves circling Vera, demanding answers from a woman who wasn’t even quite sure of what the question was to begin with.

Something that has always been quite striking about Leigh’s films, albeit rarely ever discussed, is that while he is certainly a very versatile director who has done work in numerous genres, each of his films share certain fundamental qualities, making them distinctly his own, even when he is working from slightly different conceptual standpoints. Vera Drake is a combination of the hauntingly beautiful dramas Leigh has made throughout his career and the grittier British crime films that were most popular prior to and around the era in which kitchen-sink realism (a movement that Leigh helped in establishing) was gaining popularity. Films such as It Always Rains on Sunday and 10 Rillington Place appear to be small but impactful influences on this film – this doesn’t mean that Leigh was necessarily attempting to make something that could stand alongside them in the sense that they’re on the same thematic level, but rather the kind of brooding film about working-class crime, centred around ordinary people driven to criminal activity out of desperation, especially when the crux of the film is that the perpetrator doesn’t quite realize what she’s doing is criminal. In her mind, she’s being charitable. Naturally, we can’t reduce Vera Drake to just another one of these films – not only is that structurally and spiritually untrue (since this film is far more focused on the more human aspects, rather than the crime, with the idea that the titular character isn’t even aware that she’s committing a crime being quite prominent throughout the film), it takes away from the general motivation Leigh had when making this film. However, considering how Vera Drake descends from a small but fascinating sub-genre of storytelling that endeavoured to represent the harrowing reality of many who suffered through such a difficult time in history, crippled by the social malaise and thrust into a position where there’s nothing they can do other than attempt to survive.

Much like the majority of Leigh’s films, Vera Drake is most remembered for its performances. The director has consistently been one of the most brilliant when it comes to working with his actors, particular through the well-publicized process of developing the story alongside the performers, allowing them to find their characters along the way in a series of workshopped rehearsals. This gives his films the quality of being inextricably human, with each actor giving performances that are tailor-made to their own sensibilities. Moreover, as is the case with most of his work, there’s one performance that stands out, in this case this comes on behalf of Imelda Staunton, one of Leigh’s most distinguished, but under-represented collaborators. Her work in Vera Drake has risen to the level of almost folkloric, and rightly so – she gives one of the finest screen performances of the 2000s, portraying the titular character with heartbreaking sincerity that we simply don’t see anymore. Staunton affords us one of the rare glimpses into the human condition through her work here, bringing such natural authenticity to the part, it’s unsurprising this was the film that established her as one of the industry’s most sought-after character actresses. It’s a performance simmering with sadness, and she conveys every emotion with such unimpeachable nuance. She’s supported by a wonderful ensemble with Phil Davis coming close to matching her in terms of his heartbreakingly honest portrayal of her husband. Vera Drake is worth watching both for Staunton’s incredible performance, and the ensemble littered with some of the director’s most notable collaborators, all of which turn in genuinely impressive work that bolsters the film around them.

One of the more troublesome aspects of Vera Drake is that it’s far too often equated to other “issue films”, whereby important messages are sewn into the fabric of the story, a result of a need to convey some particular meaning to audiences. Leigh has rarely been one to attempt to make single-issue works, and while everything he has done has harboured some socio-cultural or philosophical meaning, to reduce them to just one concept misrepresents the wealth of other ideas present in his work. Vera Drake does centre on a woman who secretly conducts illegal abortions, which is the centrepiece of the film. However, it doesn’t only revolve around this particular issue – in fact, it is presented in such a matter-of-fact way, we aren’t really sure that it’s happening until its clear what she’s done. The first half of the film is dedicated almost entirely to Vera balancing her personal life with the broader cultural zeitgeist, which is evident by the film being set in 1950, with the aftermath of the Second World War looming heavily over the proceedings. Like the realist works that Leigh started his career with, Vera Drake is an attempt to capture the spirit of a particular time, both in terms of the general mentality and the underlying social context. Basing the story partially on his own working-class upbringing (as was the case for many of his films), Leigh is setting out to deliver a poignant message of ordinary folk, siphoning it through a more quietly subversive commentary on mid-century social order. Leigh traverses the narrow boundary between insightful and exploitative by never centring the film around the debate of whether abortion is morally right or not, with the story being disinterested in making a statement on either side (going so far as to include a sub-plot that demonstrates the safe, clinical procedure those who can afford it were able to get). Instead, he’s attempting to portray a snapshot of life that remains a reality for many people.

Vera Drake is an incredibly resonant film, which is not unexpected from a film by Mike Leigh. His work is consistently insightful, with each one of them being poignant portrayals of life, whether celebrating it for its charming idiosyncrasies, or commenting on the more bleak aspect of existence. While he did make other films that are normally upheld as generation-defining masterpieces, Vera Drake is one of his strongest works, a simple and elegant drama that sees the director keeping everything at the fundamentally human level, never wavering in his immense dedication to a kind of subversive social commentary that doesn’t wish to persuade or ruffle any feathers, but rather be a simple, powerful film about ordinary people in challenging circumstances. Anchored by an astonishing performance by Imelda Staunton, who continues to be one of the most fascinating actresses working today (even though she’s far too underused, considering her herculean talents) by giving one of the most heartbreakingly earnest portrayals ever committed to film, and told through a very simple but beautifully effective tale of human connection and the lengths to which our inherent empathy can both be a blessing and a curse, Vera Drake is a masterful work of fiction, put together by a filmmaker who is able to both make powerful period dramas and deeply relevant works that delve deep into the heart of the human condition, putting us through the emotional wringer as we undergo the process of being confronted with reality in a way none of us could have ever imagined. This is a brilliant film, and one that only becomes richer with each subsequent viewing, each small existential detail compounding until we’re left with nothing but stark, harrowing honesty in the most distilled, and truly unforgettable, form.