The Uprising

On its surface, the Peasants' Revolt of 1381 in England speaks perfectly to our times. We recently experienced a widespread pandemic that lead to the deaths of many loved ones, inflation (both circumstantial and self-imposed) has driven up the cost of living while wages have stagnated without showing any signs of slowing, and our leaders seem scared to piss off the wealthy, allowing them to get ever richer while the vast majority of people struggle. In the US, there's the additional parallel of an inept leader who generally goes along with the decisions of his more capable advisors, made up of unqualified cronies who have no compunction about using their standing to enrich themselves however possible. The Revolt is the story of a group of regular people who became so enraged at the cruelty of the system that they found power in collective action, an inspirational tale that realizes Howard Beale's call to action.

Interestingly, though, as the details come tumbling out of writer/director Paul Greengrass' screenplay, its politics become more and more confused. Some of that is simply that an adaptation of the historical record is rarely going to map onto our modern ideas of "right" and "left", especially when transposed across an ocean. Setting that aside, it's strange to see the people express sympathy towards King Richard II (Woody Norman), claiming he's as harmed by his council as they are, despite being in charge. Sure, he's only fourteen, but it's a bit of a stretch to imagine someone whose authority allegedly comes from God as a "victim". While the rebellion's righteous anger escalating into wanton violence is a matter of historical record, that our protagonist (Ploughman, played by Andrew Garfield) looks upon it with such scorn turns it from fact to moral judgement. Maybe most jarring is the moment a council member refers to the crowd as "deplorables", a term that Americans cannot help but associate with Donald Trump's supporters, and thus describes people whose misplaced fear is stoked by an authoritarian turning neighbors against each other. All combine to form a centrist bent to a story in which the people take on the crown, which plays strangely against a modern backdrop.

Ploughman, whose nom de plume he explains with a pained "All I have left is my work", is the one who unintentionally kicks it all off. He explodes in anger at the demand for yet more taxes, depriving the people of the fruits of their labor, pushed over the edge when witnessing soldiers "check" the age of girls by forcibly feeling between their legs, calling to mind a host of related injustices in the modern age. It leads to violence, inspiring nearby villages. John Ball (Jamie Bell) and Wat Tyler (Cosmo Jarvis) harness that energy into a march on London, and recruit Ploughman and his fellow villagers to join their thousands. That Ploughman is not at the center of this rebellion is an interesting choice. His advocacy for caution rarely wins out, despite quickly gaining the confidence and friendship of Tyler and John. When given the chance to speak, his words are well regarded, and he finds his voice over the course of the journey. But it takes quite a while, during which time Garfield is a strange presence, a ghost haunting the movie while saying very little.

That muted tension marks the middle of the film, as they acquire more allies through Ball's inspired preaching, and the story trudges towards its inevitable conflict. It's not that nothing happens, but that it leaves little impression. The events depict a stacking of minor injustices (and a major instance of the King spurning his people at the behest of his advisors), but none add all that much nuance to the dispute, either with their country or with each other. How could they? It's all fairly straightforward. The crown is taking a huge portion of what they produce, binding them to blighted land. For that, some in the crowd want blood, any blood, whereas Ploughman implores them to be strategic to deny the King an easy excuse to write them off as brutes. Each side has two factions, and not much deeper thought on any of it.

The most interesting element is not something that reflects too favorably upon Greengrass. Aside from the King's mother, Joan of Kent (Katherine Waterston), who doesn't do a whole lot except look at him with concern, the only prominent woman in the rebellion is Alyce (Thomasin McKenzie). While women were involved in the real-life uprising (including co-leader Johanna Ferrour), Alyce is a creation of the screenplay. So the decisions attributed to her are those of the script: to make her bloodthirsty, one of the most reckless in her desire for retribution, the most clearly responsible for whipping the crowd into a frenzy, and thus all that comes from it.

Although that's somehow not the most confusing fiction of the tale. The final reveal of this movie would have been a massive spoiler, had Focus Features not incorporated it into the marketing a few weeks ago. The ultimate twist is that Ploughman becomes Robin Hood, the hero of legend who was first written about in the years before the Revolt took place. The instinct is reasonable, but it lands kind of hokey, to claim that such a grand figure not only existed, but was forged by this historical event. Even more so when Ploughman steps into the road in the distinctive green tunic, albeit looking far more ratty and worn than even donned by a cartoon fox. The scene itself, however, it quite exciting, easily the best of the entire film. For one, it's the first time the shaky cam that pervades the film feels at all justified instead of lazy, as the action that erupts is tight and gritty and personal, casting us as voyeurs. But it's also the most focused, vicious, venomous scene of the whole film, as opposed to the previous grand sense of righteous anger. This is about breaking out of the system, knowing that you cannot fix it, but doing what you can to aid those with whom you come into contact.

It ensures the film ends on a hopeful note, after a bleak and depressing come down. Little of what came before is particularly satisfying, there's not much beauty to witness (the world is deliberately washed out and gray), and none of the attempts at soaring language lands. The film certainly has value, if for no other reason than to remind us that the plight of the people is not new, and that worse situations than ours have been overcome. But that point could have been made more strongly and powerfully if it stuck to its guns, and was willing to indulge the fury that's only ever hinted at around the edges.