Rialto 5:15

The Memory That Film Makes

There are events the world remembers because they happened, and others because someone made a film about them, burning them into the collective retina of society.

Bloody Sunday is not among them.

Cinema is the memory machine of the modern world. Textbooks are read by academics, tribunals are forgotten, and reports gather dust, but film endures, and where no film exists, memory frays, responsibility fades, and violence is rebranded by the elite to serve their interests. Bloody Sunday remains, cinematically, unprocessed.

This is not a call for another recreation of tragedy. We have witnessed the tragedy or at the very least the sanitised imperial version. It is, instead, a demand for cinematic reckoning, because without film, Bloody Sunday risks becoming local pain, not global memory. Memorials and curated museum displays, while valued, are parochial. Government inquiries are bureaucratic, contrived, and agenda-serving, but film travels. It teaches. It makes the unbearable unforgettable.

The victims of Bloody Sunday were white, European, and Christian. This does not make their deaths more tragic than those who are not, but it marks a significance which helps to reveal the face behind the masks of their killers, as their deaths were, by the British state’s own implicit logic, less explainable and therefore more revealing. In the mechanics of empire and colonialism, violence is usually justified through difference. Colonial states kill with rhetorical ease when the victims are racialised, foreign, or marked as culturally “other.” i.e. – ‘not one of us’. Edward Said’s Orientalism showed how this process works: the construction of an “uncivilised” East in the cultural collective consciousness allowed the West to maintain moral superiority while committing atrocities, and, some may argue, continues to justify it today.

What makes Bloody Sunday even more unsettling is that the usual excuse, that the state feared the unfamiliar, collapses. The victims were white, European, and Christian. They lived within the United Kingdom and yet, they were treated as insurgents because to the British establishment, Irish Catholics had long been constructed as internal others. Their faith, politics, and resistance marked them as suspect. This was the “othering” of the domestic; colonial logic applied at home. The empire had come back through its own front door.

A growing body of scholarship shows why cinema matters so deeply to collective memory. Alison Landsberg describes prosthetic memory; the ability of films to implant the experiences of others so vividly that we feel we lived them ourselves. Marianne Hirsch’s concept of postmemory extends this: trauma can be inherited not through direct experience, but through images and stories absorbed across generations. These are not passive effects. Psychoanalysis affirms this logic: Freud’s concept of afterwardness captures how trauma re-emerges belatedly, retroactively charged with meaning. What was once incomprehensible becomes unbearable in hindsight and film, as both medium and memory, enables that psychic reckoning.

A film about Bloody Sunday would therefore operate at that level: it would not simply show what happened but embed it in the cultural global unconscious. It would force generations to confront what was unprocessed, and until now, unsaid, and not via the colonial version of ITV dramas, but through the unvarnished truth.

The thesis of this essay is clear: Bloody Sunday needs a major film not simply to honour the dead, but to hold the living to account. It is not enough that it made the headlines, or a museum exists in Derry. It must be remembered in the way our culture now remembers, through the cinematic lens, the greatest harbinger of truth, and not as popcorn fodder but as a tool of dignity, art and integrity. A film capable of reckoning with the perpetrators and not just mourning the victims. A cinema capable of doing what history books, curated displays, and apologies alone cannot: making denial impossible. It must be enlightenment over eulogy and not just the sun-rays through the clouds over Derry in 1972, but the searing of that light into our collective vision, so we can no longer look away.

What Happened on Bloody Sunday

On 30 January 1972, a civil rights march took place in Derry, Northern Ireland. The demonstrators were protesting internment without trial, a policy disproportionately targeting the Catholic population. The march was peaceful, comprising thousands of ordinary citizens, including families, clergy, and local activists.

As the march approached the Bogside area, British soldiers from the 1st Battalion, Parachute Regiment (1 Para) moved in. This unit was not trained for crowd control; it was a combat regiment, selected despite prior concerns over its aggressive reputation. Though officially tasked with arresting rioters, the soldiers advanced beyond their designated line and opened fire on unarmed civilians. Within minutes, 13 people were dead. A fourteenth would later die from injuries.

Many victims were shot while running away or attempting to help the wounded. None were armed. No British soldiers were injured. Despite this, the army immediately claimed that the deceased had been armed insurgents or had engaged in violent disorder. This narrative was swiftly adopted by the UK government and much of the British media.

The initial inquiry, the Widgery Tribunal, was conducted within weeks. It largely absolved the soldiers and laid blame on the marchers. Families of the victims called it a whitewash. The tribunal failed to account for the extensive eyewitness testimonies, medical reports, and photographic evidence indicating the civilians posed no threat. It served less as a fact-finding mission than a mechanism of institutional self-protection.

For decades, the official version of events remained unchanged. It was not until 1998, after persistent campaigning by the victims’ families, that a new inquiry was launched. The Saville Inquiry, which ran for twelve years, eventually concluded in 2010 that those shot were unarmed, and that the killings were “unjustified and unjustifiable.” The British Prime Minister at the time, David Cameron, issued a formal apology in Parliament.

While significant, the apology came nearly forty years too late. No prosecutions followed. The soldiers involved were never held criminally accountable. Instead, the state’s recognition functioned as a symbolic gesture rather than a meaningful act of justice.

What happened on Bloody Sunday was not battlefield chaos. It was a failure of institutional discipline, oversight, and ethics. The decision to send a combat unit into a civilian protest was not a momentary lapse; it reflected a broader culture of impunity within the military and political command. The refusal to investigate or prosecute those responsible reinforced the message that certain lives could be taken without consequence.

This is not a story of confusion. It is a story of command, control, and denial. The mechanisms of the state closed ranks to protect their own and consequently, they ensured that the trauma of Bloody Sunday would reverberate across generations, rupture trauma fault-lines, and remain unresolved and largely unacknowledged by the very institutions that caused it.

Why Bloody Sunday Demands a Film

Cinema has become the primary vehicle through which societies process, transmit, and memorialise trauma. Its reach exceeds that of academic journals, court rulings, or government inquiries. Audiences who did not experience slavery, genocide, or occupation can nevertheless emerge from films like 12 Years a Slave or Schindler’s List with a moral memory of those events. This is not a substitute for history, but an intensifier of it. In the absence of such a film, Bloody Sunday has remained suspended in public discourse; known, debated, commemorated but never cinematically metabolised.

There have been depictions, of course. Paul Greengrass’s Bloody Sunday (2002), released on ITV and later shown in limited cinema screenings, offered a compelling docudrama format. It portrayed the chaos of the day with handheld urgency, emphasising confusion, panic, and the rawness of street-level violence but it was not a prestige film. It did not enter the Oscar race. It was not taught in global curriculums. It did not become cultural shorthand in the way Selma or The Pianist have. Greengrass’s approach was powerful, but it framed the event as a tragedy of miscommunication, an error, rather than an exposure of state logic. That framing matters.

Where Greengrass gave us noise, we now need silence. Where he gave us reaction, we need premeditation. A new film must not simply show what happened, but how it was enabled: the briefings, the paranoia, the class contempt, the political calculations, the normalisation of historical violence, intimidation and oppression against Catholics from British soldiers.

Britain has long avoided representing its own state violence onscreen. Its empire, once the largest in history, is either erased entirely or repackaged in nostalgic adventure films. The wounds inflicted in Kenya, India, and Malaya are missing from its cinematic canon. Ireland, closer to home, receives more coverage, but even then, the focus is selective. Films about the Troubles often centre IRA figures, martyrdom, or undercover infiltration. Rarely is the British state itself the subject. When it is, the frame is softened: honourable men in impossible circumstances, doing their best under stress. The result is not denial; it is dilution.

This is in stark contrast to other national cinemas. German filmmakers, from The Tin Drum to Downfall, have repeatedly confronted the legacy of Nazism. American cinema, while often self-congratulatory, has grappled with slavery (12 Years a Slave), civil rights (Selma), and its role in global violence (Platoon, The Post, Munich). These films are not perfect, but they exist, and their existence allows cultural memory to evolve. Britain, by contrast, rarely makes films about its sins. When it does, it tends to outsource the blame: the rogue officer, the misunderstood soldier, the chaotic battlefield.

What makes Bloody Sunday unique, and uniquely suited to a cinematic reckoning, is the convergence of several disarming facts. There were cameras. There were journalists and the subsequent cover-up happened in full view of the public. This was not a secret war. It was not an act of rogue terrorism. It was an officially sanctioned military deployment against unarmed civilians on a city street and the British state’s response was to lie, delay, and discredit.

The Saville Inquiry took 12 years and cost nearly £200 million. Its findings, released in 2010, confirmed what had long been denied: the killings were “unjustified and unjustifiable.” Yet this truth has not permeated global consciousness. It remains a domestic story. That is the absence a film can fill. As cultural memory theorist Astrid Erll argues, the “mediality” of memory, the way we remember, is shaped by form. A book reaches one audience. A film reaches the world. A film forces emotional confrontation, creates empathy across borders, and stamps the event into cultural time.

Television cannot do this. Documentaries, however rigorous, reach small, self-selecting audiences. Legal reports, however damning, are rarely read beyond political circles. Film, especially narrative film, penetrates. It leaves residues in language, in image, in culture. To not film Bloody Sunday is, in effect, to allow Britain to forget it. Or worse, to remember it wrongly.

A prestige cinematic treatment would not be a monument to the past. It would be a challenge to the present. It would force new generations, in Britain, Ireland, and beyond, to ask how a state justifies killing its own. It would reveal the bureaucratic banality of empire. It would show that the Irish were not hysterical, the British were. It would undo the psychological narrative that has long cast the colonised as the problem. Most of all, it would provide a form of justice no court ever delivered: a shared, global witness.

Bloody Sunday was not a tragedy of tribalism. It was not a war between equals. It was the deployment of imperial logic within the bounds of a modern state. It deserves a film that understands that and refuses to look away.

What Got Filmed Instead: The Cinema of Historical Reckoning

Films like Schindler’s List, Selma, 12 Years a Slave, Munich, and Hotel Rwanda reveal how different societies process violence, oppression, and complicity. These films do more than dramatise the past; they perform a cultural confession of sorts, offering audiences not just memory but meaning. In each case, the story is not simply told but rather given moral weight, aesthetic force, and global reach.

Schindler’s List (1993) presented the Holocaust through the lens of individual redemption, yet it anchored its narrative in historical atrocity. The violence was not aestheticised; it was unrelenting, matter of fact, and morally indicting. The film became a touchstone for Holocaust education globally, precisely because it did not flinch. It showed what happened and dared the viewer to look away.

Similarly, 12 Years a Slave (2013) brought American slavery into a cinematic register that had too often been softened or sidestepped. It was neither melodrama nor metaphor. It was the embodiment of testimony; a Black story told by Black voices, with pain shown as structural and by design, not incidental. The brutality was intimate and institutional at once, and the film’s critical success was matched by its curricular uptake. It entered schools, debates, and consciousness.

Selma (2014) avoided hagiography and instead gave us Dr. King not as saint, but strategist; a man at the centre of a movement, not above it. The film acknowledged state violence and Black resistance, not just as a binary of good and evil, but as a clash of ideas, institutions, and risks. In doing so, it taught not only what happened, but how and why.

Munich (2005) was more morally ambiguous. Spielberg’s retelling of the Mossad’s response to the 1972 Munich massacre invited questions rather than answers. It gave complexity to vengeance and accountability, challenging the notion that justice and retaliation are interchangeable. Importantly, it humanised multiple sides without drawing false equivalence.

Hotel Rwanda (2004) dramatised one of the late twentieth century’s most horrifying genocides through the eyes of a hotel manager. It was a story of institutional failure and individual courage and, crucially, it showed the West’s silence. While its accuracy has been debated, the film nonetheless introduced global audiences to a story most had ignored.

These films do more than teach. They position the viewer. They force an encounter with complicity, distance, or denial. They don’t simply say “this happened” but ask: “what now?”

Against this backdrop, Britain’s cinematic silence on Bloody Sunday is deafening. While Germany has faced its past, and the U.S. continues to reckon, however inconsistently, with its racial history, Britain has, with few exceptions, turned its lens away from its own domestic empire.

Even when British violence is shown, it is often deflected or depoliticised. Bloody Sunday by Paul Greengrass, though gripping and well-crafted, was limited in scope and reach. It lacked the prestige platform of global cinema, was framed through handheld realism rather than aesthetic distance, and focused on immediate chaos more than institutional design.

The issue is not that Bloody Sunday has been ignored entirely but that it has not been filmed like it matters. It has not been granted the formal seriousness, narrative scale, or global audience of the films listed above.

Then there is Argo (2012). The Iranian revolution, which included the storming of the U.S. embassy in 1979 by Iranian protesters, is shown with suspense, threat from the ‘other’ but not context i.e. – the CIA and the UK’s role in the 1953 coup, the Shah’s brutality, or the West’s support for autocracy are absent. The result is a narrative of American ingenuity against faceless rage – ‘they are inherently violent and against us because they are not us’. The audience is not invited to understand the roots of violence, only its spectacle.

That is not to excuse or justify violence born of oppression. It is to contextualise it, to insist that cinema must do more than reassure. It must offer the complexity history demands. A Bloody Sunday film would not absolve. It would clarify. It would allow audiences to understand why those events unfolded and who allowed them to happen. It would invite accountability, not just empathy.

Britain’s cinematic refusal to confront Bloody Sunday is not accidental. It is ideological. Where other nations use cinema to confess, Britain uses it to forget. And until that silence is broken, the moral ledger remains unfinished.

Lessons from Holocaust Cinema: The Three Phases of Moral Processing

Cinema does not only depict trauma; it digests it. The evolution of Holocaust films over the last 75 years demonstrates how moving-image media can gradually move from documentation to introspection to inheritance. These phases are not merely stylistic developments. They are indicators of how a society metabolises atrocity.

Phase 1: Witness & Exposure (1945–1970s)

Show what happened because much of the world did not believe it.

This era relied on direct imagery and survivor testimony. The violence was often depicted explicitly, serving as a rebuttal to denial. The message was simple: this happened, and here is the proof.

Key Films:

• German Concentration Camps Factual Survey (1945) compiled by Allied governments, shelved for political reasons.

• Night and Fog (1955) Alain Resnais’s groundbreaking mix of archive footage and present-day ruins.

• Judgment at Nuremberg (1961) courtroom procedural that introduced the concept of moral responsibility to a wide audience.

These films documented the evidence of atrocity, but stopped short of interrogating complicity, ideology, or cultural inheritance. They were urgent but limited.

Phase 2: Moral Reckoning (1980s–mid-1990s)

Understand how societies, and individuals, allowed it to happen.

This phase marks a shift from showing atrocity to questioning it. The focus moves to perpetrators, collaborators, and the ambiguities of human behaviour under totalitarian regimes. Films from this period ask not only what happened, but how and why.

Key Films:

• Shoah (1985) Claude Lanzmann’s nine-hour oral history that excludes archival footage to focus solely on survivor and perpetrator testimony.

• Schindler’s List (1993) combines brutality with redemption, wrapping horror in a morally digestible arc.

• Life is Beautiful (1997) reframed the Holocaust through tragicomedy, broadening emotional access for global audiences.

In this phase, the Holocaust becomes not only a historical event, but a prism through which societies interrogate their values, failures, and moral landscapes.

Phase 3: Memory, Inheritance & Silence (Late 1990s–present)

Explore how trauma echoes across generations and becomes embedded in national identities.

This present phase often avoids depicting violence directly. Instead, it shows how the Holocaust has shaped lives long after the camps were emptied through guilt, silence, repression, and inherited trauma.

Key Examples:

• The Reader (2008) explores guilt, literacy, and the generational processing of complicity.

• Son of Saul (2015) depicts the Holocaust almost entirely through peripheral imagery and sound, emphasizing disorientation and dehumanisation.

• The Zone of Interest (2023) focuses on the perpetrators’ domestic life beside Auschwitz, with violence implied offscreen, creating a chilling juxtaposition.

Where Bloody Sunday Stands

Bloody Sunday, in cinematic terms, remains stalled in Phase 1: a forensic depiction without cultural integration. Britain has yet to process the event through the moral and narrative maturity evident in Holocaust cinema. The comparative breakdown above reveals both the urgency and the opportunity of a new cinematic approach.

Paul Greengrass’s Bloody Sunday (2002) fits squarely into Phase 1. It is urgent, raw, and documentary-like in its presentation. It serves a vital function in bearing witness. However, it lacks the aesthetic and structural depth that could elevate it into Phase 2 or 3. There is no reckoning with systemic rot, no exploration of how institutions enabled the atrocity, and no sustained meditation on memory or denial.

Britain has yet to produce a film that reaches Phase 2, let alone Phase 3, for any of its imperial legacies. In fact, the cinematic silence around events like the Mau Mau Uprising, the Bengal famine, Amritsar, and Bloody Sunday suggests a cultural refusal to process at all. The absence of narrative reckoning is a form of denial.

A film about Bloody Sunday could break this pattern, not by revisiting the massacre itself, but by interrogating the systems that enabled it. The next phase of representation must go beyond gunfire. It must stage complicity, fear, political cowardice, and the moral blindness of a state that shoots its own citizens and then denies it, preferring to slander and libel the victims’ memories in exchange of protecting its illusion of order.

Just as Holocaust cinema matured into a genre of haunting introspection, British and Irish cinema must find the language to confront colonial guilt. Until it does, Bloody Sunday will remain not just an unhealed wound but an unacknowledged one.

What the Film Could Look Like

To film Bloody Sunday like it mattered, not only to Ireland, but to the world, would be to film a psychological and political thriller in the quietest, coldest sense. A study in procedural collapse. A film that begins in restraint and ends in revelation. Not a bloodbath, but a reckoning.

The mise-en-scène must reflect this restraint. We open not in chaos, but in near-domestic calm. The colour palette is muted: fogged windows, pale winter skies. Derry must feel lived-in, tight, ordinary. This ordinariness is what makes the violence obscene. We avoid the romanticised visual grammar of “resistance”, no slow-motion flag-waving, no melodramatic scoring. Instead, the tension accrues in silence. Consider Sidney Lumet’s decision not to use a score or soundtrack for Dog Day Afternoon (1975). In so doing, he moves the audience into the bank to become part of the ordeal. A score-less Bloody Sunday film could mirror that effect. Put the viewer in the middle of it all and make it impossible to forget.

Casting must reflect the thesis: The soldiers are not snarling caricatures. They are procedural men, executing what they believe is control. The civilians are not canonised martyrs. They are people with stories and lives. The closer we remain to the ordinary, the more devastating the rupture.

In terms of direction, this is not a film for an action auteur. It is not for someone who wants kinetic violence or courtroom fireworks. This is a film for a director with experience in quiet suspense, someone like Pablo Larraín, Steve McQueen, or even an early-era Kathryn Bigelow. It requires a hand that understands the politics of the slow build and the ethics of the long take. The aesthetic should lean toward realism but never mimicry. It is not verité. It is composed, quietly curated, clinical but empathetic. The camera is not handheld. It observes. It accuses.

The film must be shot in Derry. Not a stand-in. Not a soundstage. Derry’s geography is central to its politics. The corners, barricades, sightlines. They matter. We must feel the slope of the streets, the proximity of housing blocks to government eyes. As for funding, this cannot be a British government co-production. Cultural independence is essential. Potential funders include Irish or other Celtic national bodies, European film grants, and international partners with a track record in human rights cinema. Think A24, Film4, or Participant Media.

What this film demands, above all, is courage. To resist the temptation of simplification. To render state violence not as spectacle, but as bureaucracy. To show how control masks fear and how empire, when faced with its own citizens demanding dignity, answers not with listening, but with lead.

We’ve seen Bloody Sunday through grief. Through courtroom drama. Through docudrama television. What we have not yet seen is what it looked like from the other side of the glass. From the decision rooms. From the silences that followed. That is the film that remains to be made, and it is the film that will finally make memory unignorable.

Reframing British and Irish Identity On Screen

Historically, the screen has reinforced a colonial binary: the stoic, rational British officer versus the chaotic, irrational Irish rebel. This trope has been replicated across genres, from war films to period dramas, where British control is framed as calm order and Irish resistance as emotional volatility. Even well-meaning portrayals often fall into this trap, unwittingly validating the imperial gaze.

Bloody Sunday is a rupture in that narrative. In truth, it was the British who lost control. The 1st Battalion Parachute Regiment did not act with dispassionate professionalism. They panicked. They overreached. They made a series of emotionally driven decisions, all under the guise of military discipline. Their actions were not calculated statecraft but chaotic responses to the perceived threat of democracy.

The film must flip the lens. The Irish marchers, often vilified or reduced to symbols, should be rendered with nuance: measured, strategic, and human. The British forces, by contrast, are not monsters but men overwhelmed by institutional paranoia, imperial fragility and the rendering of the Northern Irish Catholic as ‘the other’. This inversion is not simply historical correction. It is a cinematic reckoning with who gets to appear rational on screen and who is dismissed as emotional.

The mise-en-scène should underscore this shift. Cold interiors, clipped dialogue, and bureaucratic tension for the British command; open streets, quiet dignity, and communal care for the Irish marchers. The contrast is not just aesthetic but moral. This is the reversal of cinematic codes; a reframing of who is in control and who is losing it.

It would show, frame by frame, how order can be a mask for fear, and how silence, when weaponised, becomes the loudest indictment. In doing so, it would challenge decades of cinematic assumptions and expose how empire scripts its own righteousness.

The result is not a role reversal, but a narrative correction. A film that finally gives the Irish not just their pain, but their poise and tenacity, and strips the British command of the moral mask it has worn on screen for far too long and raises the Irish gaze from victim to victor.

Silence Is Policy

We have seen Bloody Sunday from the street. Blood-stained sheets and baby-grows, priests waving handkerchiefs and weeping families, but what we have not seen is what happened behind the glass, where decisions were made, where orders were given, where the rationale for death was dressed in protocol.

That omission is not accidental. It is policy. Cultural, political, historical.

Britain’s refusal to dramatise Bloody Sunday at the scale it demands is a continuation of the same suppression that began in 1972. It is not just a cinematic absence. It is a deliberate cultural decision to avoid the mirror.

The stakes are not historical. They are ongoing because if the state can kill its own citizens, lie about it, delay justice for decades, and then move on without cultural consequence, then the machinery of impunity is alive and well.

A film about Bloody Sunday would not be comfortable. It would not end with catharsis. It would not flatter the powerful or tidy the past. It would accuse.

And that is why it must be made.

For decades, Britain has exported stories about honour, order, and stoic restraint but the truth of Bloody Sunday is that it was British disorder, not Irish defiance, that unleashed the violence. The empire imploded inward and in the silence that followed, denial became heritage.

It is time to break that silence.

We have seen Bloody Sunday from the street. Now we must see it from the other side of the glass, through the most powerful instrument of truth we possess: the lens of cinema.

*********

The fourteen unarmed civilians killed on Bloody Sunday, 30 January 1972:

· John “Jackie” Duddy (17)

· Patrick Doherty (31)

· Bernard McGuigan (41)

· Hugh Gilmour (17)

· Kevin McElhinney (17)

· Michael Kelly (17)

· James Wray (22)

· William Nash (19)

· Gerard Donaghy (17)

· Gerard McKinney (35)

· William McKinney (27)

· John Young (17)

· Michael McDaid (20)

· John Johnston (59) (died later from injuries)

References

Cameron, D. (2010, June 15). PM’s statement on the report of the Bloody Sunday Inquiry. GOV.UK. https://www.gov.uk/government/speeches/pm-statement-on-the-report-of-the-bloody-sunday-inquiry

Erll, A. (2011). Memory in culture (S. B. Young, Trans.). Palgrave Macmillan.

Freud, S. (1920). Beyond the pleasure principle (J. Strachey, Trans.). Hogarth Press. (Original work published in German)

Greengrass, P. (Director). (2002). Bloody Sunday [Film]. Granada Television / ITV.

Hirsch, M. (2008). The generation of postmemory. Poetics Today, 29(1), 103–128. https://doi.org/10.1215/03335372-2007-019

Landsberg, A. (2004). Prosthetic memory: The transformation of American remembrance in the age of mass culture. Columbia University Press.

Lumet, S. (Director). (1975). Dog day afternoon [Film]. Warner Bros.

Said, E. W. (1978). Orientalism. Pantheon Books.

Saville, M. (2010). Report of the Bloody Sunday Inquiry. The Stationery Office. https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/report-of-the-bloody-sunday-inquiry

Widgery, J. (1972). Report of the tribunal appointed to inquire into the events on Sunday, 30 January 1972. Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. https://cain.ulster.ac.uk/hmso/widgery.htm

Appendix: Filmography

Bigelow, K. (Director). (1995). Strange days [Film]. Lightstorm Entertainment.

Cuarón, A. (Director). (2006). Children of men [Film]. Universal Pictures.

Ford, S. (Director). (2004). Hotel Rwanda [Film]. United Artists.

Greengrass, P. (Director). (2002). Bloody Sunday [Film]. Granada Television / ITV.

Lanzmann, C. (Director). (1985). Shoah [Film]. Les Films Aleph.

Larraín, P. (Director). (2016). Jackie [Film]. Fox Searchlight Pictures.

Lumet, S. (Director). (1975). Dog day afternoon [Film]. Warner Bros.

McQueen, S. (Director). (2013). 12 years a slave [Film]. Regency Enterprises.

Miller, G. (Director). (2015). Mad Max: Fury Road [Film]. Warner Bros.

Mungiu, C. (Director). (2007). 4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days [Film]. Mobra Films.

Polanski, R. (Director). (2002). The pianist [Film]. Focus Features.

Resnais, A. (Director). (1955). Night and fog [Film]. Argos Films.

Sorrentino, P. (Director). (2013). The great beauty [Film]. Indigo Film.

Spielberg, S. (Director). (1993). Schindler’s list [Film]. Universal Pictures.

Spielberg, S. (Director). (2005). Munich [Film]. Universal Pictures.

Spielberg, S. (Director). (2008). The reader [Film]. The Weinstein Company.

Spielberg, S. (Producer), & Affleck, B. (Director). (2012). Argo [Film]. Warner Bros.

Spielberg, S. (Producer), & DuVernay, A. (Director). (2014). Selma [Film]. Paramount Pictures.

Tarr, B. (Director). (2011). The Turin horse [Film]. T. T. Filmműhely.

Triet, J. (Director). (2023). Anatomy of a fall [Film]. Les Films Pelléas.

Zahavi, D. (Director). (2023). The zone of interest [Film]. A24.