Taken from a housewife's diary writing in Barrow in Furnness, in the North of England, during World War Two, this two hour trudge makes for a very dull evening. As each plodding scene followed the last you began to hope for a Nazi bomber to drop a bomb on the lot of them. Every character is one dimensional. Every scene is played at a smug snail's pace. It seems to be shot entirely in sepia, until the war ends and suddenly people start wearing red. The ghastly derivative acting, music and script have no sense of rhythm. It is all apparently true. Whoever said that real life was more interesting that drama? The whole thing seemed longer than the war itself, and not nearly as interesting.
Review of Housewife, 49
