![]() Davies films exteriors in 65mm and captures the idyllic rapture of gently shimmering wheat fields but avoids undue romanticisation. The plush splendour of the landscape is a tonic for Chris’ woes. Trite though it may sound, the immense power of Sunset Song derives from the insistence – via Davies and author Lewis Grassic Gibbon, upon whose sublime Scottish pastoral the film is based – that we must learn from the past without dwelling upon it. She’s an optimist, though not to the point where she’s able to brush off tragedy and move on – she takes on knowledge with each new setback, allowing it to make her stronger. Yet the film is never morose, and she willingly adapts to the constant changes of situation. The comfort of family life brings more loved ones to be placed on the chopping block. A sexual awakening brings possibility and danger. Each scene segues into the next with a vaporous cross-dissolve as time is seen to build and destroy, softly, and without discrimination.Ĭhris loses her family, acquires a new one and then loses that as well. The brutalising effects of the conflict on her affectionate beau, Ewan Tavendale (Kevin Guthrie), are bracingly felt through her restricted perspective. His wrath is later displaced by the onset of World War One. Chris’ abusive father (Peter Mullan) dominates the film’s opening chapter, a quick-tempered man’s man who is so consumed by self-loathing that he drives away those close to him. Deyn, it appears, is wholly simpatico with this artisan process.ĭavies’ masterful Sunset Song offers a panoramic survey of an era as directly experienced by a single person. His process of adaptation isn’t merely a case of pruning back a source to fit the screen, but ingesting it whole and producing a work that could only exist as a film. The subtlety with which this stylistic gradation is executed exemplifies how deeply Davies understands the medium. This acknowledgement of the story’s literary roots is suggestive of a conceit that’s close to director Terence Davies’ heart – that art and life are not merely inextricable from one another, but are the same thing. She speaks not as if addressing a figurative audience, but as if she is reciting poetry in private. ![]() The way in which Deyn intones her narration is in itself a marvel of emotive enunciation. For Chris, the landscape is an extension of her very being, a tangible memory bank which remains steadfast as family and friends are brought into the world and made to exit from it. For them, a house is more than an ascetic domicile, it’s a specimen jar filled with remembrances. Perhaps we could see her as a more melancholic and dainty version of Scarlett O’Hara – both characters cherish the land as a preserver of personal history. It’s understandable considering all she goes through – lightly numbed to adversity and contentment both. Tears roll down her cheeks as a manifestation of her pain, her body lacking the resolve to hold them back. The film sees her rebuffing the torments of daily life with nary a pout, while accepting good fortune with guarded cheer. She is Lilian Gish in The Wind or Way Down East, her captivating innocence made to stand firm while under heavy fire. It’s due to her ethereal presence that we are plausibly transported back to the rolling farmlands of early 20th century Scotland. It’s a sensational performance: generous, tender and discreetly controlled. As Chris Guthrie, she inhabits the soul of this beleaguered waif. This Terence Davies passion project showcases an incandescent performance from Agyness Deyn.Īgyness Deyn is the star of Terence Davies’ rhapsodic Sunset Song.
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