09
Nov
In 2020, it’s hard to imagine a workplace that engenders less sympathy than the trading floor of a City bank. A puppy-kicking farm, perhaps? The Trump Campaign? Being asked to experience fellow-feeling for the people who choose to work in the gurgling bastard tank of corporate finance is a tall order. We all recognise City traders as the bad guys – to a one, rapacious, conscience-free, Patrick Bateman-alike monsters who’d sell their grandmother a bundle of toxic assets if it turned them a profit. A viewer could be forgiven then, for approaching a drama about a cohort of graduate interns…
