Un amour pas comme les autres

There's a frustrated young man, name of Vic, from a pool of young ladies he's picked, Ingrid Rothwell's her name, with a blonde flowing mane, she's the lass with whom he wants to tick. Ingrid's just as fond of this lad, now he's making advances she's glad, but he runs hot and cold, wants to do more than hold, so she lets him explore and un-clads. No surprise as nature takes its course, with a marriage hastily brought forth, which Vic starts to abhor, lives with Mother-in-Law, and his compass no longer points north.

Great dialogue, great performances, in a perpetually told tale of the ages, where the outcomes invariably reflect the times when the drama takes place, and leave you grateful for the times you live in today - I think it's called progress.

What a great time in my life, I was 14 when this film was being made in my home town of Bolton. I had already appeared as a non speaking actor in numerous TV plays and was then offered the part of a "milk boy" in this first class film. I'm still there today in the background carrying some crates of empty milk bottles to the milk truck about 40 minutes into the film. I remember the scene was filmed in Ancoats Manchester early on a Sunday morning late in the year,it was rainy and cold, but I loved every minute of it. Met and played football with the late Alan Bates between takes, those were the days, happy or what?. After all these years its still a film which I never miss on TV and I recently bought the DVD. If you get the chance to watch this 60@s classic ,do so, you won't be disappointed.

June Ritchie makes this story work. She gives an unaffected portrayal of a young woman needing to overcome her vulnerability with a combination of guile and passive aggression. It's the truest and most honest performance in the film. Bates is a star, Ritchie works a miracle. James bolam is quietly brilliant and. The supporting cast is of the salt of the earth type of genius available to directors at that time. I did not read the book but I feel the this movie version makes the task unnecessary.? What a great period of story telling this was. Bates was wonderful on film but on stage he was even more special. I was lucky to experience both. His hamlet. Though forgotten, was so pure, so honest, so sexy.

This film reflects on how social and economic pressures impact on sexuality and relationships. Class, politics, working life, changing attitudes about gender and marriage, and even scarcity of cheap housing are all referred to or explored. Against the wider social backdrop the character of Ingrid's mother represents repression and rigidity to a large degree, although even she is shown with some saving graces. All the characters here are cast in shades of grey, all internally conflicted, all in a cauldron of social pressures. The film ends with the maturing of the main characters, and also with a note of hope. An excellent script, excellently directed and acted, and a brilliant evocation of another era.

Excellent work from all concerned has gone to create what is probably, in spite of its generally melancholy atmosphere, the warmest of the realistic school of British movies from the early 1960s. Vic Brown is not as angry as Arthur Seaton in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning nor as alienated from his family as Billy Fisher in Billy Liar. And he is more likable than either Joe Lampton in Room at the Top or Frank Machin in This Sporting Life. Both Vic and Ingrid are sympathetic, recognisable people, who find themselves trapped in a situation with which their society's stern morality of self-control and self-denial, vividly expressed by Vic's sister towards the end of the film, has no sympathy at all. We finish with them trying to muddle through, and it is this compassionate but still unresolved finale that gives the film its hesitant title.

On the production side, the script, taken from Barstow's novel by those two stalwarts, Waterhouse and Hall, is bang on target; the photography, never less than excellent, is often breathtaking, as in the wonderful long shot of a romantic couple on Southport beach, gradually withdrawing into the confines of a hotel bedroom. But the usually reliable Ron Grainer doesn't quite seem to know where he's going with the music.

The performances are wonderful. The Brown family is lovingly portrayed with the lightest of touches, with particular praise earned by those two veterans, Gwen Nelson and Bert Palmer, as the parents. In the workplace, a fine group of actors, a number of whom were to become household names in the UK in later years, show their true mettle. And leading them all, that magnificent trio of Thora Hird, June Ritchie and Alan Bates.

Of Bates, a fine actor, who left a legacy of performances on film, there's no need to say much: he's perfect for the role, gets under its skin, reveals the longings, the confusions, the contradictions, the lovability, the vulnerability and the folly. No one could ask for more or better.

Thora Hird went on to enjoy a considerable Indian summer of success under the wing of the playwright Alan Bennett, but in spite of some remarkable work during those years, it's at least arguable that she never did anything on screen as intensely realised as Mrs Rothwell. Hird ensures that she is never a figure of fun or a caricature - indeed, she is often very touching in her protectiveness towards her daughter - but at the same time she gives the comic side of the character full value.

June Ritchie is absolutely wonderful as Ingrid. She may never have become the star that, say, Julie Christie (somewhat unwillingly) became, but she was and still is a remarkable actress, worthy of the greatest of respect for her achievement here. In a remarkable way, she fulfils all that was required of a Hitchcock blond: cool on the outside, with fire inside. In fact there's a moment early in the film where she is photographed from Vic's point of view, from behind and slightly above, with a hairdo reminiscent of Kim Novak's in Vertigo. One wonders whether the movie-going that was so evidently part of life in the town spills over into Vic's imagination at this point.

This is the work of a director who seems to have fallen out of favour in recent years, and there is a case to be made that he somehow lost his way. But A Kind of Loving is one of a trio of films, along with Billy Liar and Sunday Bloody Sunday, of which any director could be proud. Of the rest of his output, perhaps only his final collaboration with Alan Bates, An Englishman Abroad, has the same balance of clear observation and compassion.