Sunday Bloody Sunday (1971)

“Bob” (Murray Head) rather has his cake and eats it here as he enjoys being the centre of a consensual love triangle between older Jewish doctor “Daniel” (Peter Finch) and the bored “Alex” (Glenda Jackson). It’s not a venal arrangement, but he does play them off one and other by giving them enough to stay interested but never enough to get tired of him, or the scenario. Their young plaything is an artist - think Meccano rather that Monet - and when an opportunity to visit New York comes he has a new choice to make and difficulty telling his partners while they have to get to grips with the prospect of having none of him at all in their respective lives. Recently divorced “Alex” is weary. Of her job; of screaming kids around her all the time, of sharing her beau. She has tried other dalliances, but somehow this youthful man has an hold over her that has a rejuvenating effect. “Daniel” is steeped in a culture that fully expects him to wed a suitable young woman - or even a divorcée - to augment his professional status. He isn’t “out” nor is that a possibility, nor is he really in love with “Bob” either. He realises the man is toxic (with a small t) for his life, but like “Alex” reckons he’s better with him in it than the unthinkable alternative. As the week before his trip unfolds, we follow this trio through the trials of that time where truth melds into fantasy and each much face their own demons. Finch probably has more meat on his part and he plays the conflicted gent with a subtle positivity - even with some of his more hypochondriac patients. Jackson, likewise, adopts a smilingly stoic characterisation with a degree of realism that makes her performance come across as entirely natural. It’s Head, though, whom I think really stands out. Ostensibly flighty and selfish, but actually the more he portrays “Bob”, the more lifelike and complex his character becomes and the more unsatisfying his almost transient existence starts to appear. It’s not the quickest of films, pace-wise, but I think that lets the performances and quite a potently observational script permeate a little deeper before a denouement that is probably the only one that would have worked. It has dated, with much of the shock factor now dissipated, but it’s still quite an interesting dissertation on early 1970s mores.