Each of us carries our own burden in childhood, some heavier than others. Every childhood is so different, even in the same household, naturally providing us with a rich vein of inspiration for film. Commonality, too, is important—we need to be able to recognise something of ourselves on screen. Terence Davies manages to take the schema of the kitchen sink realism films of the 1950s and 1960s as well as the sublime work done by Bill Douglas a few years earlier and create something that feels like a step forward.

Robert Tucker carries a heavier burden than most. Listless and quiet, he passively moves through the world in which he inhabits: a home where his father is raging against his approaching death and his mother cannot express anything and his strict Catholic school where he's tormented by bully and teacher alike. Sometimes he accepts the beatings, and sometimes he fights back. In a way, though, it seems pointless either way—little is likely to change. It becomes clear over the course of the film that Robert is gay, and it is difficult to truly understand in a nominally more inclusive society how difficult this must have been at this time. Davies lets this sense of hopelessness, of stagnation, soak into every frame. The black-and-white, 16mm film creates an oppressive atmosphere where we see with each passing day in Robert's life the guilt and confusion grow in him where there should be confidence and joy.

Phillip Mawdsley gives an astonishing performance as the young Robert. He gives, with apparent ease, the effect of a child totally robbed of any joie de vivre, indifferent on the surface but brimming, deeply, with rage and confusion and fear. He mechanically thanks the school's doctor after receiving his physical examination and there is just enough in his voice to break one's heart. When he finally breaks, screaming at a family friend, "I'm scared, Mrs May, I'm scared!" the effect is complete, and the rush of feeling I had for the boy took my by surprise. Robin Hooper frames the film as a now-adult Robert, sitting in various waiting rooms, still just as affectless. This is a young man who should be in the prime of life, but instead he's a diminished, apologetic figure. Still no interest in girls, the doctor asks, but the truth is that Robert doesn't have much of an interest in anything. A brief encounter leads him to the point of ecstasy but doesn't provide any lasting change or meaning.

As you might expect from a first-time director, there are elements of style here that show signs of beginning to coalesce without ever coming to something truly singular. The use of sound, something that would approach the transcendent in Davies' later work, begins to show signs of innovation here, overlapping and blending into the images we see, becoming inseparable from them rather than simply dressing. There is enough to suggest that we're on a path away from the more traditional realism of Douglas' _My Childhood_ towards something more rooted in the conscious mind. Davies weaves together something that is impactful, austere and subtle with the merest hint of a great well of emotion. For Robert, that emotion can only be released under extraordinary circumstances.