Sunday Bloody Sunday

This civilized movie, of autumnal sadness, is such an actors' film.
Especially when those actors are Peter Finch and Glenda Jackson.
It is a pleasure to watch them at their craft. John Schlesinger has
directed Penelope Gilliatt's script with an eye for rich detail, and
such seemingly minimal emotions of the leads that comes through
the performances so perfectly, as delicately formed and precise as
snowflakes. They feel deeply, do Daniel (Finch) and Alex
(Jackson). Though they must not let on. It would be bad form to.

That they both love Bob (Murray Head) seems a conundrum. But
Daniel and Alex are of an age when there might be no one else,
save Bob, who is one of those curious, mercurial people who can
go from person to person, without caring one bit, beginning,
during, after. He literally feels nothing, save the rudimentary ( the
word is full of them) but he is perhaps seen by Daniel and Alex as
what they want him to be. Such is love. They recreate him from his

vagueness. And of course they must not be jealous of Bob's other
lovers. Such as Bob always require that, and consider otherwise to
be so bloody selfish.

He doesn't intentionally hurt anyone. He uses people as things, so,
to him, they are replaceable. When he is the replaceable one, if only
they could see it. He is not worth their integrity, and intelligence
and complexity of heart. Yet, when one loves, one cannot think of
him or her without making them, perhaps, mythic. To someone

else, they would be just another person, for others see them as
ordinary. This, the film explores with such finesse and grace.

Daniel has a monologue, told to us personally, the words of which
are beautiful and touching, that just about rips your heart out. Finch
adds to the words, so seemingly somewhat matter of factly saying
them, ( a person has to comport themselves properly after all)
though from deep inside, with such thought and honesty, and
searching still in these later years, and with no apology. You see the
worth and goodness of the man most especially then. You want to
put your arms around Daniel and Alex and hug them, for their love
is doomed, as they know too well. They are having to deal with the
loss, the void, to reconcile themselves to it, even during Bob, and
learning how to get through the day, routinely, like everyone else
pretends to.

"Sunday Bloody Sunday" is a film that one feels honored to see. Its
ad line-- "This is a story about three decent people. They will break
your heart." Indeed.

While I concur with many of the reviews posted here, there is not enough praise bestowed on the sublime Glenda Jackson, who remains the great lost actress of her generation. Though the recipient of two Oscars ("Women In Love", "A Touch of Class") and two other nominations ("Sunday.." and "Hedda"), as well as a criminal snub for the landmark "Stevie", Ms. Jackson seems to be little remembered today. It seems inconceivable now, since in the early Seventies, only Jane Fonda and Vanessa Redgrave could be considered her equals. For me, her Alex in "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" is my favorite of her rich performances. She is conflicted with her obviously unsatisfying affair with her bisexual (and, more importantly, shallow) lover, unfulfilled at her job, and basically adrift, just marking time in her life. The simple, yet powerfully suggestive emotions Jackson offers do much to help us identify strongly with her character. Who hasn't felt that, at times, their life is merely counting days, waiting for weekends which ironically do little to feed our spiritual or emotional needs? And the pattern continues, which to me is what the somewhat cryptic title implies. So much pressure is put on "the weekends" to make us happy that we can easily just wish our lives away, as Alex seems to. Its hard to find the final straw which Alex finds to salvage her life and begin again without this crippling relationship, but Jackson's brilliantly layered performance is a wonder throughout. Mr. Finch received many plaudits and is very respectable, but seems to be playing it safe here. His Dr. Hirsch is supposed to be the emotional, reasonable center of the movie, but Finch is a bit too reserved; the events don't seem to really happen to him at all. He stands curiously to the side, which may have been the author/director/actor's intent, but we don't have enough of the character's back-life for this to register. Murray Head is simply a cipher, which is all that is required, but a pleasant one. And any chance to see the divine Peggy Ashcroft and Bessie Love again is welcome.

When this movie first came out, it had that wonderful aura that many of the pictures of that era did: the essence of the forbidden--the promise that new and undiscovered worlds and situations would be examined that had never been dealt with in film before. I remember the same feeling accompanying "Cries and Whispers", "McCabe and Mrs. Miller", and "Women in Love", movies which have stood the test of time. "Sunday, Bloody Sunday", though not without its flaws, has also held up. Its a perfect time capsule of a certain period of time and change for working-class Londoners still woozy from the Sixties and not anywhere near ready for what would be the Eighties. Its also a remarkable document of a brilliant actress at the height of her estimable powers. Highly recommended.

One could take Penelope Gilliatt's script untouched, recast it with today's contemporary actors and make a film that would resonate as strongly today as it did forty years ago. Of course one would also need a superb master technician such as the late John Schlesinger and brilliant actors such as the late Peter Finch and Glenda Jackson to make it fly. Beautifully observed, incredibly witty at times and painful too. One of the most adult films of the 20th century and one of the most moving.This film is for anyone intelligent who has been in love and realized what a very lonely yet satisfying experience it can be.