I didn't have great hopes of last night's TV movie My Boy Jack. I didn't think it would tell me anything I wasn't already tired of hearing. And I was afraid it would be cruel and unfair to Rudyard Kipling- a writer I love. I've read Wilfred Owen and the other war poets, I'm even a little sick of them, I've seen all those movies about the horrors of trench warfare and I've heard the crack about lions led by donkeys so often I'm beginning to want to question its truth- but in the event this turned out to be just about the best drama I've ever seen about the First World War. We glimpsed the horrors and the military unpreparedness and the political hysteria but mainly it was a story about how one typical, atypical family- father, mother, daughter, son- got torn apart. We saw how they divided along lines of age and gender and how they annoyed and resented and betrayed and loved one another. It was beautifully written and beautifully acted. And, yes, Danny Radcliffe was in there- one of the ensemble, sharing the acting honours and proving- as he hardly needs to any longer- what a starry presence he is. I'm not often moved these days by what I see on screen- I'm too busy picking everything apart- but this moved me deeply.