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Sunday Bloody Sunday

Sunday Bloody Sunday. John Schlesinger. 1971.

There’s a few movies I have that I have no idea why I’ve bought. Some of these may just be things I’ve picked up at random at sales, but not this one, I think.

From the name of the movie, I’m assuming it has something to do with the Irish Problem.

John Schlesinger… the name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

Ah! Midnight Cowboy and Marathon Man. I’ve seen those. Otherwise not a lot from his career…

Oh! It’s not about the IRA at all.

This is intensely late-60s British: All muted browns and greens and beige. Everything’s so outrageous: Older women (and men) having affairs with young hunks; children smoking pot; rubbing cigarette ashes into carpets.

The woman looks awfully familiar. Glenda Jackson. I feel like I must her a gazillion times, but looking at her imdb, I’m getting nothing. Perhaps The Music Lovers? Or perhaps a TV series of some kind?

So now that I know what the genre is (at 20 minutes in), I’m making this prediction: The gayest one will die, and the two other ones will have learned something deep about their own lives.

OK, enough with the cynicism: Even if the script feels like a random walk of Pressing Issues, it’s difficult not to be entranced by some of these scenes. The performances are marvellous. The cinematography is… er… clear: We’re being shown things in a most didactic manner. And the phone service thing to tie everything together is quite clever.

And spoiler: my prediction was totally off the mark. This is a really good movie.

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