John Schlesinger (Darling, Midnight Cowboy) was never an auteur à la française: much too transparent, much too uninvolved and dull in his transitions from the individual (intimate dramas) to the collective (social injustice) and vice-versa – there are only some of the bad positive lessons of British kitchen sink dramas, a movement that was still encouraged to embrace the new realities of urban, middle-class youth by Schlesinger through his significant contributions: connected, yéyé, never lacking in vices, pretensions and boredom. But, for the moment, I cannot think of any other title in British cinema except his 1971 directorial effort, Sunday Bloody Sunday, which has the power to evoke the sparks of tortured, sentimentalist films that are consumed for the sake of absolute love, the kind at which French filmmakers excelled at around the same period of time. Of course, if one is to compare it with the emotional intensities that were practiced across the Channel, Sunday Bloody Sunday will certainly seem clinical, animated – or, rather, extinguished – by a neutral and profane tone, which serves perfectly at tying the floating manners of the heart to the cold ground. And the British term „affair”, with all of its prosaic connotations, has never seemed more suitable than to describe this individual that is torn between two relationships – one with an upper-class woman; the other, with a reputable doctor – which he aptly and phlegmatically negotiates, without the fear of having shed his skin along the way.

The lion’s share of this film’s triumph lies in the precise brushstrokes with which it seems to have copied the nonchalance of its protagonist, in a sample of scriptwriterly success that doesn’t draw attention to the aces it has up its sleeve. As a pioneering work in terms of gay representations, Sunday Bloody Sunday has nothing of the hazardous risks of a manifesto. On the contrary, it is precisely the unapparent smoothness with which it melds this element – two men loving each other in peace – into a story that is capable of cushioning any possible shocks is what transformed Schlesinger’s project into a classic that was two laps ahead of its times. As seen in 2021, the film stuns through the force with which it slams two love relationships to the floor, giving shape to a back-to-back which is both improbable, ridiculous and touching, following in the footsteps of a professional opportunism that has no time to tie its hands up with details or pleasantries. And it’s as if the distinctive textures of these human interactions would pale in the front of this emotional unavailability touted by the lover, one which cancels out any desire, any potential towards affective transport – and which would thusly be reduced to the common denominator of tears, pain, and broken hearts.

In particular, Sunday Bloody Sunday proves its strength when it crushes the common-sense, crusty, moral ideals of the bourgeoisie – seen from this angle, both the doctor (Peter Finch), with his rigid posture, and the clerk, Alex (Glenda Jackson), who at one point visits her parents in their opulent villa, have much in common. Paradoxically (or not), the film’s preference goes towards Bob (Murray Head), who’s creative (and rather volatile) job makes him more movable, more absent-minded, more uncaring. If the relationship between Bob and Daniel is not working, that is not due to a cliché bad look in society, but due to Bob’s capriciousness, who much rather prefers to cherish his freedom. The idea is interesting – and I must admit that I have rarely seen a duller character to play in such a tyrannical manner with the complicated destinies that surround him.

Beyond the positives which are destined for the one that was the first, or amongst the first – under the shape of a radicalism that can do nothing but lose its edge across time -, the film is striking to this day due to the roundness of the characters which set it into motion, and which managed to breathe life into it almost effortlessly, in a tangle of lives which we are only now starting to untie. This is why we find out, in the most anodyne of manners imaginable, that Alex was once married: an information that is decisive in any biography – and what is this film, if not a clash between aimlessly wandering biographies? -, which the film treats with the indifference of overheard gossip, canceling its scope out almost immediately. And this is also how we find out, towards the end, about Daniel’s close ties to the Jewish community to which he belongs: a moment all the more touching, given that it is freed of any emphasis, its entire significance concentrating on the searing drop that transpires in an exchange between a mother and a son: „Don’t you think about finding a woman that is in your league?”. 

In 1971, a project such as Sunday Bloody Sunday could bank on the juicy, reveal-like atmosphere of one who – in contrast to his naive mother – can see things from behind the curtain. It’s a good thing that Schlesinger quickly disarms the secret, announcing that we won’t find any scandalous gossip, deviations or thickly-drawn, bad-taste caricatures in the backstage – but rather, the naturalness of a live lived in fear of voyeurism. The film is cruel; its personal-political restlessness has the effects of a fire which must be extinguished by those left behind, Daniel and Alex, with their bare hands, saving what they can from the fire’s ruthless path. Moreover, I am always touched to see Glenda Jackson here, since she seems to pass through the entire film on the verge of tears, devoured by the fear of loneliness on the inside, while still trying to project as pained, circumstantial smile; and Peter Finch, in the social position of one that is forbidden to suffer, since he is preoccupied with consoling and saving the others, is at least just as haunting, akin to this film which holds onto the predefined route, but which leaves behind itself a trail made up of the unseen mayhem of the matters of the heart. Schlesinger’s gaze was never more disposable, more careful with every character’s load – all of them are rightful in their suffering, more generous with the havoc that is borne out of love, and more precise in depicting the beauty of this havoc.

Sunday Bloody Sunday will screen at the Eforie Cinematheque as a part of the „Film Menu” Cineclub, on the 4th of December.

Victor Morozov

Film critic and journalist; writes regularly for Dilema Veche and Scena9. Doing a MA film theory programme in Paris.