47/100
Undoubtedly a huge influence on Terence Davies, whose initial fictionally autobiographical trilogy more or less replicates Douglas'. (For those unaware, My Childhood, which runs only 46 minutes, was followed by two more medium-length features in the same vein, 1973's My Ain Folk and 1978's My Way Home. I'll likely watch those eventually despite being underwhelmed by this one.) Thing is, I called Children "the largely naturalistic and overwhelmingly despairing work of a filmmaker in whom I'd have had little interest, had he continued in that dolorous mode." And while Douglas may well similarly evolve in directions that appeal to me, My Childhood—the blunt title alone is off-putting, especially given that Childhood's protagonist is named Jamie, not Bill or William; seems as if it may have been imposed on Douglas, who originally called his film Jamie—pretty much defines prosaic miserabilism. Davies' formative years were defined by an abusive father, whereas Douglas essentially didn't have parents; onscreen, Jamie's father was never part of the family (despite living practically next door), his mother's institutionalized, his grandmother seems to be battling dementia or at least late-stage senescence, and his older brother delights in tormenting him, as older brothers will. Respite comes in the form of Jamie's attachment to a German POW (it's 1945) laboring nearby who functions as his surrogate dad but of course must inevitably abruptly disappear from his life, so that misery may engulf all. You folks know me, I'm the overly sensitive dude whose emotional hatches auto-batten at portraits of suffering unleavened by radical dissociative formalism, like say Brechtian chalk outlines or the fragmented memory shards that Davies quickly favored. And this sucker was hard to watch (albeit mercifully brief) without being artistically rewarding. I wound up liking "Madonna and Child" and "Death and Transfiguration" significantly more than Children, though, so Mr. Douglas will get another couple of chances.