DVD/150: MY BOY JACK (Brian Kirk, 2007, tv)

In 1997, I saw David Haig play Rudyard Kipling at the Hampstead Theatre in his play MY BOY JACK, ten years on he starred in a tv adaptation, with Daniel Radcliffe as his son John, Kim Cattrall and Carey Mulligan.

In 1914, Kipling was an exponent for Britain entering World War 1 - and accepted a Government offer to write propaganda - while also encouraging his 16 year-old son John to join up.

But John was rejected by the navy and the army due to chronic short-sightedness.

Kipling pulled strings and John became a lieutenant in the Irish Guards, much to the shock of his mother and sister. 

A fortnight after arriving in France, John went missing during the Battle of Loos. He was 18.

After doggedly inspecting photographs of injured soldiers, the Kiplings finally heard that John was last seen disorientated during the battle. They never found his body.

Shelf or charity shop?  One for the plastic storage box.  It is a sombre story, soberly told.  A little too soberly perhaps as the film seems to want to build to an explosion of anguish which never comes.  Carey Mulligan is fine as the 'modern' sister who shares John's wish to leave their stuffy family home but her character fades after John's death, while Kim Cattrall is admirably restrained as Kipling's American wife Carrie but her release of anguish is not the fireworks you expect.  Daniel Radcliffe's usual gauche manner suits John Kipling well and he plays well against David Haig's all-enveloping Kipling, his stiff-upper-lip facade trembles marvellously as he attempts to hide his pain.  The most niggling thing about it all is that the poem MY BOY JACK was not written for his son but for Jack Cornwell, the youngest sailor to die earlier in 1916 during the Battle of Jutland.  John Kipling was always called John, not Jack.

"Have you news of my boy Jack?”
    Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
    Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Has any one else had word of him?"
    Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
    Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
    None this tide,
    Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind—
    Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
    This tide,
    And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
    And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!