It’s not the same – they’re really not the same. But I’m going there.

Apocalypse Now, in a cinema in downtown Grimsby, and The Quiet Girl, ‘at Haverfordwest Film Society, last night. The former immediately obvious as a giant; the latter a quiet insinuator. The scale, thunder and ego of the one and the timeless farmyard-backwater of the other. Brando and delirium and slaughter; grass and potatoes and family.

Both will haunt me, or have registered in a way that feels weirdly comparable. They were both palpably affecting.

In Grimbo all those decades ago we walked out shell-shocked in a deeply disturbed silence that defied the cut of conversation or analysis. The heft of the fucking thing left us gobsmacked – 100 people, maybe. That noise; that scope; that insane, thrilling annihilation with or by poetry! Not understood or received in the same way, of course: not to be snobbish but guessing only a handful of us had read Heart the Darkness but… nobody said or *could say* a word, as we traipsed out. Not us punkettes; not the Ordinary Locals. A) Out of multi-level deference to Coppola’s staggering achievement and b) because it felt necessary to slump against the nearest wall first… and – sheesh – recover.

1979, or possibly 80. But the two lads walking out together were as they say(?) changed by the event: how could we not be when it felt obvious we’d just seen the most powerful film ever made? It was like some public/communal de-flowering – and if that’s a dangerous image, who cares? This was a dangerous, wonderful, ruinous, life-changing moment which went beyond ‘the flicks’. However we might express it – with a shrug, with a nauseated heave – we all knew this was a truly rare affirmation of the power of art.

The Quiet Girl doesn’t look to compete with that – or not in the same key. But it does affect. As the bastard-of-a-father angrily stomped to either collect his wayward daughter or (we can only hope) give her up – yup, probably angrily – to the Other Couple, people around me were already raising hands to their faces. As the credits rolled and the lights prematurely rose, nearly everyone was tearful – and some were exposed ‘in bits’. Sobbing. So The Effect was not the same… but the validation, the triumph, the rubber-stamping of the capacity of words and pictures to move folks, to stir them up or down, was there.

Quiet Girl is traumatic despite being something of an ode to the pastoral. It’s all ‘unspoilt Ireland’, except for the unseen but undoubted abuse. It’s cows and hay and loveliness and that thing of handing over – ‘just for a bit, y’understand’ – a child who may be traumatised already and feels like one too many to cope with. Whilst the baby’s being born. ‘Sure y’understand?’

In case you’re wondering, if there is ever a fear that the universe doesn’t need another exposition of any sort on the mistreatment of children then that concern is emphatically and skilfully dumped, here – in fact it’s never raised! – by the compelling nature of the tale and the acting.

This Irish Story (in the Gaelic) looks and feels grippingly authentic, except perhaps for the brief scene where the girl’s potential saviours (Eibhlin and Sean) mistakenly allow her to be watched over briefly by a neighbour. (Have foolishly just read a review of the film, from the Guardian, to grab names/check spellings – forgive me if I don’t spend ages digging out the accents over some of the names – and it completely contradicts what I am about to say about the minor role of Una. Lols. But out with it). Sean, when the child (Cait) is rescued, swiftly and profusely apologises for the error, describing it as an example of his wife’s naive generosity. She even believed in Una. (This we can believe: Eibhlin is a genuinely gorgeous human).

Two things on this: Una is so witchlike the handing-over, even for a short time, didn’t seem plausible, even allowing for the plot-line development in the relationships. And also, for me, Una is poorly-executed. Neither convincing nor darkly funny. Something may be lost in the translation, but she seemed irritatingly out of kilter with the fabulous acting from Cait’s adopted ‘parents’ and from Cait herself. But this is a minor quibble, given my intention here is to thoroughly applaud the first-time direction of Colm Bairead and re-state that this is an outstanding, affecting film. So much so, I might even quote the Guardian, for my deferential, peacemaking final flourish:

‘It is a jewel’.