Film lovers, brace yourselves. This stunning period drama pulls you into a fragile world after World War I, where love tries to survive amid grief, silence, and shattered lives. Led by Olivia Colman and Colin Firth, alongside Odessa Young, Josh O’Connor, and Glenda Jackson, the performances are devastatingly intimate — every look, every pause heavy with emotion.

Adapted from a best-selling novel, the film explores what it truly means to rebuild after war: the love that was lost, the hope that feels dangerous to believe in again, and the quiet pain that lingers behind closed doors. With breathtaking cinematography and raw emotional depth, this is the kind of story that stays with you long after the screen fades to black.

Now streaming — and already leaving audiences shaken.

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In the quiet resurgence of period dramas that delve into the human soul, few films have slipped under the radar quite like Mothering Sunday (2021), directed by Eva Husson. Based on Graham Swift’s acclaimed 2016 novella of the same name, this intimate masterpiece has been quietly captivating viewers on streaming platforms, earning a devoted following for its unflinching portrayal of love, loss, and lingering trauma in post-World War I England. As of late 2025, with the film readily available on services like Netflix, Hulu, and others, audiences are rediscovering its power — and many are left emotionally wrecked in its wake.

At its core, Mothering Sunday is a story of forbidden passion and profound grief, set against the rigid class structures of 1920s Britain. The narrative centers on Jane Fairchild (Odessa Young), a young orphaned housemaid granted a rare day off on Mothering Sunday in 1924 — a traditional day when domestic servants were allowed to visit their mothers. Jane, having no family of her own, instead spends the afternoon in a secret tryst with Paul Sheringham (Josh O’Connor), the privileged son of neighboring gentry and her long-time lover. Paul is engaged to marry Emma Hobday, a woman of his own social standing, making their affair a dangerous defiance of societal norms.

What begins as a day of sensual abandon quickly spirals into tragedy, with repercussions that echo through Jane’s life for decades. The film nonlinearly weaves between this pivotal day in 1924, Jane’s later years as a successful writer in the 1940s and beyond, and glimpses of her middle age. These temporal shifts, though occasionally disorienting, mirror the fragmented nature of memory and grief, allowing the story to unfold like a deeply personal reflection rather than a straightforward tale.

The supporting cast elevates the film to extraordinary heights. Olivia Colman and Colin Firth portray Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Niven, Jane’s employers and close friends of Paul’s parents. The Nivens, like so many families of their class, are haunted by the war’s toll — having lost their sons to the trenches. Colman’s Clarrie Niven is a study in restrained devastation; her performance is a masterclass in subtlety, conveying oceans of sorrow through a tightened jaw or a fleeting glance. Firth, as the stoic Godfrey, embodies the British upper-class repression, his quiet dignity masking unbearable pain. Their scenes, though limited in screen time, are among the most poignant, highlighting how the war didn’t just claim lives on the battlefield but eroded the foundations of those left behind.

Glenda Jackson, in one of her final roles before her passing in 2023, appears as the older Jane in reflective moments, lending a gravitas that ties the timelines together with wisdom and weariness. Josh O’Connor, fresh from his breakout in The Crown, brings a reckless charm to Paul, making his character’s flaws both endearing and tragic. But it is Odessa Young who anchors the film as the young Jane — vulnerable yet resilient, her nudity and intimacy scenes handled with a raw honesty that underscores the film’s themes of bodily freedom amid emotional confinement.

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Director Eva Husson, adapting Alice Birch’s screenplay, crafts a film that feels both sensual and sorrowful. The cinematography by Jamie D. Ramsay is nothing short of breathtaking — sun-dappled English countryside, opulent manor houses bathed in golden light, and intimate close-ups that capture the texture of skin and the weight of unspoken words. Scenes of Jane wandering naked through the empty Niven estate after her rendezvous are particularly striking, symbolizing a momentary liberation from class and convention, even as tragedy looms.

The film’s eroticism is bold and unapologetic, yet never gratuitous. Husson uses these moments to explore power dynamics, desire, and the fleeting nature of joy in a world scarred by loss. The Great War hangs over everything like a shadow; the young men of Paul’s generation were decimated, leaving survivors like the Nivens and Sheringhams to grapple with “survivor’s guilt” in silence. Mothering Sunday itself becomes a cruel irony — a day meant for familial celebration, but for these characters, a reminder of absent sons and unfulfilled futures.

Critics have praised Mothering Sunday for its emotional depth and visual poetry. IndieWire described it as a “lush, aching period drama,” noting how the stellar cast grounds the nonlinear structure. The Guardian called it a “sensuous portrait of the artist as a young woman,” emphasizing its exploration of how personal tragedy fuels creativity. Jane’s evolution into a writer suggests that art becomes her way of processing the unprocessable — turning pain into prose.

Yet the film isn’t without its detractors. Some viewers find the pacing languid, the timeline jumps confusing, and the supporting roles (particularly Colman and Firth) underutilized. On platforms like Rotten Tomatoes, it holds a solid but not overwhelming score, reflecting its divisive nature: those who connect with its quiet intensity are profoundly moved, while others crave more conventional drama.

What makes Mothering Sunday so devastating is its refusal to offer easy catharsis. There are no grand speeches or melodramatic outbursts; instead, grief manifests in small gestures — a hand trembling as it pours tea, a forced smile at a social gathering, the way characters avoid eye contact when speaking of the dead. It’s a film about the things left unsaid, the loves that couldn’t be, and the resilience required to carry on.

In an era of blockbuster spectacles, Mothering Sunday reminds us of the power of understated storytelling. It probes deeper questions: How do we rebuild after catastrophe? Can love thrive in the ruins of societal expectation? What does it mean to mother oneself when the world offers no nurture?

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For fans of period dramas like Atonement, The Remains of the Day, or Downton Abbey, this film offers a more intimate, unflinching alternative. Olivia Colman’s performance alone is worth the watch — her ability to convey layered emotion with minimal dialogue is unparalleled. Paired with Firth’s restrained elegance, they form a portrait of marital grief that lingers long after.

As audiences continue to discover Mothering Sunday on streaming, social media buzzes with reactions: “I wasn’t prepared for how much this would hurt,” one viewer posted. “It’s beautiful and brutal — Colman and Firth break your heart without saying much.” Another called it “the most underrated film of the decade.”

If you’re in the mood for something that will challenge you emotionally, that will make you ponder the fragility of life and love, queue up Mothering Sunday. But be warned: it cuts deep, and it refuses to let go. This is cinema that doesn’t just entertain — it haunts.