Last modified on Tue 11 May 2021 09.25 EDT A steady flame of rapture and pain burns through Pat Murphyâs captivating Maeve from 1981, now rereleased: it is vehemently acted, superbly composed and remarkably shot on the streets of Belfast. It is a fierce, gaunt prose poem of a movie, born of the British Film Instituteâs art-cinema aesthetic of that era, starkly realist and yet at the same time mysterious and wan. It is theatrically stylised, always stumbling across dreamlike tableaux of its own devising. There is something of Terence Davies here, and also Ibsen and Beckett. This was an approach that went out of style in British cinema quickly enough, although Richard Billinghamâs Ray & Liz from 2018 is a potent, intelligent reminder.