We always think ourselves to be in the vanguard of history, liberated from prejudice, free, and civilized. It's salutary, therefore, to be reminded that there have been many vanguards and that history doesn't so much advance as it loops and spirals. John Schlesinger's Sunday, Bloody Sunday was made in 1971 and it chronicles two love affairs involving one handsome, if remote, young man, Bob Elkin -- he is simultaneously engaged in sexual liaisons with a thirty-year old woman, Alex (Glenda Jackson) and a middle-aged Jewish doctor, Daniel Hirsch brilliantly played by Peter Finch. The film is completely matter-of-fact about the gay sex -- there's no hint of prurience with respect to either the heterosexual or the homosexual affairs. Indeed, if I have a criticism of the film, a picture that I rate highly, it's that the movie is so intensely civilized that, at times, it feels just a little bit wan -- there's passion implicit in the film, but the characters are too British, too well-bred to show it and, I think, the movie suffers a little from its own intrinsically non-dramatic stoicism.
Penelope Gilliat, the former New Yorker critic (she alternated with Pauline Kael) wrote the script and it's highly intelligent and, as I have mentioned, just a wee bit bland. There are no passionate outbursts, only some mild recriminations, no surprises and no revelations -- Alex knows that her lover is also sleeping with a man; this is pre-HIV and so she isn't concerned, although she would like to have her boyfriend to all to herself. Only in the last couple minutes in the picture does Alex actually meet Dr. Hirsch and, then, they don't really have much to say to one another. There are puzzles in the picture that might be, perhaps, more explicable to a British audience -- for instance, Alex babysits the children in a large family. The kids are irritatingly precocious and nosy and seem to know all about Alex's affair with Elkin. At one point, in a scene that is shocking now, the six-year smokes some of her parent's marijuana, something that everyone regards as perfectly fine and that no one even much comments on. (We seem to have retreated from the level of tolerance about drugs existing in 1971). In the final scenes, the hyper-liberal parents and their protégée, an African writer, have returned from wherever they went and I was mildly perplexed to see that Dr. Hirsch was a guest of the family, dining with them and playing with the nasty little brats. Ultimately, it turns out that everyone in the picture is connected somehow, although it isn't apparent at first why or how -- I suppose, however, this is purely realistic: we don't fall in love with strangers; rather, we fall in love with people with whom we have close connections by family or friends. Indeed, one of the themes of the film, very analytically developed, is the question of how groups of people are related to one another. In the film, the indistinct, rather enigmatic Bob Elkin is a sexual go-between linking the upper-class world of Alex (her father is a banker or financial minister) and the upper-class Jewish world of Dr. Hirsch -- a key scene involves a Bar Mitzvah ceremony and, then, a lavish party for the celebrant. Mozart's music, used as accompaniment to many scenes, also links imagery involving Alex and Dr. Hirsch who, of course, will not meet until the film's very ending. We see close-up shots of the technology linking the characters -- in this case, an answering bureau with mechanical links and wires literally connecting the characters when they speak by phone. (The old ladies in the messaging service seem to know a lot about the two parallel love affairs because, of course, they are also go-betweens.) Finally, as it turns out the large, peculiar ultra-liberal family with the dope-smoking children and the African novelist is a link between Alex and the doctor.
The picture is shot in a nervous jittery style influenced by Richard Lester's work with the Beatles and his powerful movie about domestic abuse, Petulia (1968). Now and then, the film has an aspect not unfamiliar from a Godard picture -- snippets of music, mostly Mozart's great trio from Cosi Fan Tutti, news casts, shots of a hellish-looking London in a red, blazing sunset, images of strange folks in the streets, the soundtrack interspersed with remarks about an economic crisis that Britain is said to be experiencing. There are lots of jarring close-ups, jump cuts between the two parallel love affairs, close-ups of curious-looking art objects (Elkin is an artist), and odd reaction shots. The picture starts on the weekend that Alex babysits for the ultra-liberals and shares a bed there with Elkin. Elkin deserts her to see Dr. Hirsh. Alex pouts but makes no demands. Elkin plans to leave for America to the dismay of both Dr. Hirsh and Alex. We see some of Hirsh's sad patients, desperately lonely and without love. A dog gets run over and we see the Bar Mitzvah lovingly depicted in the synagogue and, then, at the party. Alex gets drunk and sleeps with one of her clients -- she's an employment counselor. (The man is older than her and looks a lot like Dr. Hirsch -- he's been sacked and is miserable and she seems to have sex with him to comfort the poor fellow.) Elkin arrives during the love scene between Alex and her client -- he's indifferent. Indeed, he shows little emotion throughout the whole film -- he's not a bad man, not even very selfish, he just exemplifies a sort of nihilistic freedom: "We're free to do what he wants," he says. (For present day viewers, the bland, pale Elkin is a weakness in the film -- it's hard to understand how the two highly intelligent characters are smitten with him, although I guess we don't see what he does in bed. The character is played with intentional blandness by Murray Head and he has a very, very unfortunate Prince Valiant hairdo -- he looks like a depraved Robert Wagner in that 1954 film.) The film ends with a monologue that ruptures the "fourth wall", a speech directed to the audience by Dr. Hirsch. In the speech , he recounts, I think, how he met Elkin and cared for his sickness, a cough. It's like the rest of the film: too well-behaved to be much of a climax or, even, commentary. The best analysis of the film is provided by its opening lines -- Hirsh is examining a somewhat hysterical male patient and says to him: "Do you feel anything at all?" I think the same words could be directed to Bob Elkin's character who ends the film by departing for America. I've known about this film for more than forty years and always been put-off by descriptions of the picture -- but I enjoyed the film and it is to be cherished for the spectacular performance of Peter Finch; he is unbelievably handsome and you can't take your eyes off him: his own eyes glint maniacally sometimes -- with his swept back hair and startling eyes, he sometimes looks like Udo Kier. It's a wonderful piece of acting.
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