Director: Eva Husson
Writers: Alice Birch, based on the novel by Graham Swift
Stars: Odessa Young, Josh O’Connor, Colin Firth, Olivia Colman
Synopsis: A writer reminisces about the affair she had in post-World War I England with a man who was about to marry another woman.
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Just as the Academy has a soft spot for films about moviemaking, so are film critics naturally vulnerable to films about a writer’s anguish. Even more so when the film is based on a book. Both are the case with Mothering Sunday, a new film from director Eva Husson and based on the 2016 novel of the same name by Graham Swift, adapted for film by Alice Birch.
Writer Jane Fairchild (Odessa Young) is struggling to write her latest book, distracted by memories that keep flooding back of a time when she worked as a maid for an upper-class family in England before, during, and after World War I. The specific memory that sticks with her is that of Mothering Sunday, 1924. Mothering Sunday, the equivalent of Mother’s Day in the United States, is the day when families get together to celebrate, but, for families in England who lost sons in the Great War, it was difficult to find joy in much of anything. The Sheringhams lost two of their three sons in the war, but they are clinging to the joy they can find in the upcoming wedding of their youngest and only surviving son, Paul (Josh O’Connor). On this day, the Sheringhams are meeting the family of Paul’s fiancée, Sylvia (Caroline Harker) for a picnic lunch by the river, joined by Mr. and Mrs. Niven (Colin Firth and Olivia Colman), who Jane works for. Because of the holiday, Mr. Niven gives Jane the day off, but, because she’s an orphan, he wonders how she will fill her day, with no family to visit. Little does he know that Jane will be sneaking over to spend the morning with Paul, with whom she is having an affair. Paul tells his family he will be late for the picnic because he has to study, but Sylvia blames his tardiness on the fact that he’s just plain inconsiderate, not knowing it’s really because he is with Jane. Sylvia’s sullenness at the picnic makes for an already awkward meeting of families who are all still grieving the losses of their soldier sons in the war.
While the mothers continue to grieve, perhaps nobody carries the weight of the losses more than Paul, the only surviving son of the three families, who now feels the expectations fall heavily on his shoulders to live the life that his two brothers never got the chance to, including getting married, having children and becoming a lawyer. The only control Paul has over his own life is to steal some precious moments with Jane, the only person he can truly be himself with and can talk to. As for Jane, she allows herself to dream of what it would be like to be a part of his life, to live in a house as the mistress of the house instead of the maid. Their morning together is sensual and intimate and, after he leaves to go join Sylvia and his family at the picnic, Jane wanders around the empty house, naked, taking in every extravagant detail of the lavishly appointed house, with its paintings, books, and flowers, and imagines herself a part of it. Tragedy then befalls the families yet again, marking the day forever in time.
It was just the sort of day that lingers in one’s memories, and, as we see Jane many years later, in a relationship with another man, it’s one that she keeps going back to, replaying it in her mind, all the sorrow, all the hope, all the passion of that one, idyllic and tragic day. Director Husson does well to tap into the things that keep memories alive, like specific sounds or smells that instantly transport us back to a place and time. The older Jane is somewhat haunted by her affair with Paul and all the melancholy that surrounded him and she often finds it difficult to escape from it, no matter how happy she may be or what success she finds. There is a deep sorrow that she continues to carry, something that, ironically, Mrs. Nevin had once declared she would be free from because she has no family. It turns out sorrow can come from any number of places, and love is not only devoted to blood relations, and neither is pain.
While there really isn’t anything new or groundbreaking in a period drama about sad British people, Husson still finds a way to keep this relatively simple story engaging enough, largely on the strength of O’Connor and Young, who provide intimacy in their performances that draw us in. O’Connor has mastered the troubled young man routine and plays the “poor me” thing to the hilt, but he still finds an empathy in his character, the spoiled young man with the world at his feet who is drowning in guilt and familial expectation. He plays off of Young with a vulnerability that she absorbs to make her stronger, giving a performance that is confident and self-possessed.
When we see Jane again as an old woman (played by Glenda Jackson), she is successful but still holding onto memories that she has finally accepted will never leave her. While it’s great to see Jackson, it’s too bad she only gets one scene, and a quite confounding one at that. There’s a feeling of wasted opportunity with Colman as well, who clearly put in a day’s work and was done. She is paired with Firth, who is given much more to do, but they have little actual interaction with each other, which leaves the audience naturally wanting so much more.
Sandy Powell’s costumes and Jamie Ramsay’s cinematography are luscious, but there is more of a sense of what is missing in Mothering Sunday than there is to recommend it. It’s always difficult to make a film that is organically very interior—what someone is feeling, remembering or regretting is hard to capture visually and it takes a truly skilled hand to be successful. Husson does an admirable job and Mothering Sunday certainly is beautiful to look at, but it is just not able to achieve the emotional wallop that it’s going for. The dramatic beats feel too on the nose and the sense that we’ve seen it all before prevents the audience from getting wholly invested. There is just a little too much languishing in the moment and not enough coloring in the details. A writer’s gift is in the illumination of experience, and, sadly, Mothering Sunday leaves its audience just a little too much in the dark.
