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With the exception of his 2007 documentary Of Time and the City, a lament for the lost landscape of his youth, Davies has abandoned direct autobiography ever since in favour of literary adaptations such as The House of Mirth and The Deep Blue Sea. It evokes the calm between two storms: Dad is gone, the misery of school is only just beginning to dawn, and there is succour to be found in cinema, family, music and the texture of 1950s Liverpool. That fleeting paradise, which glows in the gloom of his past like a stained-glass window, is distilled in The Long Day Closes, his magisterial second feature. Photograph: United Archives GmbH/Alamyīetween the ages of seven and 11, there was a respite during which Davies was “sick with happiness”. I still get these very bad nightmares where someone is coming into the room to kill me.”įleeting paradise … Davies’ film The Long Day Closes. His father died of cancer when Davies was seven the body was kept in the front parlour for 10 days. When Postlethwaite questioned the scene’s veracity, Davies gave him his sister’s number and said: “Call her.” The 1988 diptych Distant Voices, Still Lives is dominated by a volatile patriarch, played by the late Pete Postlethwaite, who beats his daughter with a broom until it breaks. The trilogy, made between 19, covers his wretched school days in Liverpool, his father’s death, his tortured sexual identity (“Still no interest in girls?” asks a GP) and his own imagined future decrepitude. When he talks about being bullied at school, or the cruelty of his “psychotic” father, the corresponding scenes from his films are already flickering in your head. Meet him and it hits you just how fully he has reconstructed his traumas on screen. “Especially when it masks tragedy.” He would know. Jeremy Irvine as a withering Ivor Novello and Simon Russell Beale as Robbie Ross (Oscar Wilde’s former ally) are among the notables trading barbs and throwing shade. But as the dressage line makes clear, the picture is also disarmingly funny in places, conveying the prickly vitality of Sassoon and the men in his orbit. “You can get that from dressage but without the guilt,” says his son.Ĭatholicism, homosexuality, poetry, torment: these are a few of Davies’ favourite things.
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Peter Capaldi takes over the role in Sassoon’s vinegary dotage, when he is unhappily married and has converted to Catholicism in search of something constant. Jack Lowden plays him as a young man, drifting from one gay relationship to another after his fellow poet Wilfred Owen (Matthew Tennyson), whom he befriended when they were both convalescing at Craiglockhart war hospital, is sent back into battle, and to his death. His ninth feature, Benediction, drops anchor at two points in the life of the first world war poet Siegfried Sassoon. “Being in the past makes me feel safe because I understand that world,” he says. Photograph: Laurence Cendrowicz/Vertigo ReleasingĪside from the trilogy of autobiographical shorts (Children, Madonna and Child, Death and Transfiguration) that announced him as a rigorous, poetic film-maker in the early 1980s, he has never directed anything with a contemporary setting. Humour is so beguiling … Davies on the set of Benediction.
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I shall just be like one of those wonderful women in 50s British cinema: I’ll be terribly brave, and I’ll call myself Muriel.” “Considering I’m the runt of 10, I’ve not been too bad where health is concerned. I thought: ‘Blimey, I’m heavy!’” He has decided to count his blessings today. “Having a fall reminds you of your mortality,” he sighs. Four days earlier, he tripped and fell at home, dislocated his shoulder, and spent 13 hours in the local A&E department. “I’m not able to shave,” he explains, indicating his right arm hanging limply at his side. On his face are the bristly beginnings of frost-white facial hair. Rising from an armchair, Davies is wearing a light blue shirt, blue jeans, grey socks and slippers. He is 76 now but has given the impression of being old since the day he was born. It is likely that he popped out of the womb that way, and that his first words took the form of rhapsodies about Bruckner or the Shipping Forecast. Davies’ burly manager, John, shows me in, but the first glimpse I get of the man himself is in oils on the living room wall: a large portrait, painted by a neighbour, shows the bespectacled director of Distant Voices, Still Lives looking ivory-haired, pink-faced and pensive. T he door of Terence Davies’s 18th-century cottage is ajar when I arrive, the afternoon sun spilling into the hallway from the village green.