Drinking and Driving Wrecks Lives: Funeral (aka Real Lives)

"Funeral" (aka "Real Lives") is a sombre affair. I wouldn't have expected anything less from one of the earliest PIFS in the "Drinking and Driving Wrecks Lives" campaign, but this one really goes out of its way to be as grim and as colourless as possible. It's sombre to a degree that honestly blunts its effectiveness, resulting in the only film in that D&DWL line-up that I'd say fringes on dullness. There's an affecting chilliness to the film's design, with its washed-out tones (aesthetic and atmospheric) being entirely appropriate to the ambience of a funeral, and to a family in a state of deep emotional shock. But what it lacks is a cumulative effect, one final sting in the tail that gives its scenario the kind of potent lingering aftertaste that seriously throws off your mood should it happen to catch you unawares during an ad break. Of the initial batch of D&DWL films, the most impactful came with an extra magic ingredient that enabled them to land their punches at the end, be it the bracing anger of "Fireman's Story", the haunting solitude of "Jenny" or the creeping sardonicism of "Pier". All "Funeral" has to offer in that regard is a rather clunky piece of closing symbolism. The sadness of the occasion is sufficiently communicated, with the actors playing the bereaved family doing a fine job of conveying their collective grief, but knowing just how sharp the campaign's teeth could already be at this stage, "Funeral" feels an atypically vanilla addition.

The funeral in question is for 19-year-old Stephen Webster, who was killed when a drink driver at the wheel of an estate car collided with his vehicle head-on. Characteristic of the D&DWL films of its era, the PIF favours grim realism and a frosty calmness that barely conceals the emotional devastation nestled within every last inch of the seeming mundaneness. Not a lot happens onscreen, and certainly nothing overtly dramatic. Mourners mingle glumly at a reception, and later the deceased's family are seen clearing out his bedroom and being overcome by the remnants of his sadly truncated existence. Its most distinguishing move is in how it chooses to link these images to the issue of drink driving, forgoing the usual tactic of having the bereaved (or, in the case of "Pier", the victim themselves) tell their story directly, and placing expository duties on an unseen, BBC-accented third party relating the facts of the case as printed in a local newspaper. I suspect the intention behind this PIF was to present with us two parallel perspectives, each of which support one another on the narrative front but seem somewhat disparate tonally. The newsreader speaks with a gravitas that underscores the tragedy of the situation, but it's delivered in a very matter-of-fact manner that feels slightly impersonal when juxtaposed with the first-hand glimpses of the family's suffering. "Funeral" has you approaching the scenario initially as an outsider, with its opening image reflecting the perspective of a reader stumbling across news of Stephen as they flick through the pages of their paper, a tiny article squirrelled away amid a spread of competing stories. This piddling report represents Stephen's public legacy, and for the casual reader there's not a lot to be done other than to shake their heads sadly and carry on with the rest of their day. For those who knew and loved the deceased, there is obviously no such release. "Funeral" looks to shed light upon the real people behind such stories, and on the lives irrecoverably affected, by dropping you in among the mourners and letting it fester by staying with the family for a smidgen of the aftermath. We follow them home and observe as they get started on what will obviously be a long and arduous process of adjusting to life without Stephen. While packing away his clothes, Stephen's parents come across his watch, which evokes a particularly strong reaction from his father. We're given no narrative information as to why the watch should be such a significant personal signifier of Stephen's existence; its ends are purely symbolic, with the father's grasping of the watch being indicative of his desire to hold onto his son, and to a time that has tragically expired. I wish this image moved me more than it did, but I find the obviousness of the metaphor a little hard to get past.

Noteworthy is that there are actually two versions of this PIF, each offering different takes upon its latter end. In one, the newsreader remains active throughout and reads out the report, as displayed in the opening print image, more-or-less in full, while the family themselves do not receive any dialogue. The business with Stephen's watch is still included, but the final acknowledgement goes to his 12-year-old brother Thomas, last seen sitting dolefully outside his vacated bedroom. In the other edit, the one that appears to be more common in terms of online uploads, the newsreader only reads out the details regarding the accident itself, from which point onward the bereaved family are left to speak for themselves. Or rather, his father does. We're privy to what I presume is meant to be overheard dialogue from the funeral reception, with Mr Webster talking, in full broken record mode, about how Stephen deserves to be remembered. I am torn as to which version I think works better. On the one hand, the framing of the final shot, in which Thomas appears to be boxed in and dwarfed by the darkened bedroom, makes for more effective closing symbolism than his father's fumbling with the watch. On the other, something about Mr Webster's funeral speak genuinely gets to me. He's clearly babbling, and I suspect the repetitiveness of his dialogue will prove profoundly irritating to some, yet it seems entirely authentic to a person in a state of deep grief who can barely process the shock of what's occurred. He's reaching to say something profound, but the words aren't coming, and he's left with with only the floundering reflex to keep reasserting his son into the present moment. The fact that the viewer learns so little about Stephen, and what he's going to be remembered for, makes it all the more unsettling - all we see is a sorrowful void, and the human debris swirling helplessly around it.