WHEN Chariots of Fire appeared last month in the New York Film Festival, it was greeted with hats-off applause and wild huzzahs. Recently a backlash has begun, with suggestions that this might not, after all, be the film of the year. The revisionism seems entirely appropriate.

The movie contains much that appeals, but its foolishness of technique and mistiness of sentiment grate on the nerves. The plot, concerning two British runners whose dogged loyalty to principle makes them heroes of the 1924 Olympics, lends itself to pathetic romanticization. To make matters worse, the cinematography and direction seem intent on emphasizing rather than minimizing this cornball emotionalism.

On the wild, hazy Scottish moors where he lives, Eric Liddell (Ian Charleson) explains to his earnest sister his motivation for running: "God made me fast, and when I run I feel His pleasure." Liddell plans on a missionary career in China, but first he must spread public awareness of the Lord by himself acquiring worldwide renown. His sister fears that fame will corrupt the purity of his soul, but she needn't worry. Liddell refuses to race in the Olympic preliminary heats because they occur on Sunday; instead, he delivers a sermon in church.

Charleson handles his part well; he conveys the appropriate combination of an unswerving religiosity and an ecstatic, near-orgiastic love of running. But the film requires suspension of critical judgment: It demands not only our acceptance of Liddell's surety that his speed represents an heavenly visitation, but also our belief that Liddell is correct, that his swiftness really is the gift of God.

Harold Abrahams (Ben Cross) exhibits an equally fierce and unusual motivation for running: He is a Jew, and wants to counter anti-Semitism with an Olympic victory. While Liddell races for love, Abrahams races for hate; Liddell's gift is natural, an inspiration, but Abrahams must work hard to win. In a facile attempt to provide concrete visual proof of Abrahams' Judaism, director Hugh Hudson cast Cross, whose dark complexion and hooked nose reflect the stereotypical conception of a Jew. The problems don't end there; Cross badly overacts. It is the desire to show' em all that lends fire to his eye and wings to his feet, granted, but must he appear quite so fanatical? His zealotry, his appearance, and his heated but vague claims of discrimination constitute almost the entire treatment of the issue of anti-Semitism in the film.

The sole specific example of prejudice comes from Sir John Gielgud as a biased Cambridge don who rather tiresomely and foolishly repeats that young Abrahams represents "a different God and a different mountain." As Cross plays the stereotypical Jew, so Gielgud plays the stereotypical Cambridge/Oxford master: stiff collar, talk of good sportsmanship, supercilious expression, after-dinner liqueur. His upper-crust old-schoolishness lacks a human spark; consequently the character appears a flat cardboard mockup of the real thing.

UNFORTUNATELY, the Jewish runner and the university don are merely two examples of the unconvincing stereotyping that pervades the film. Intent on criticizing the stuffiness and conservatism of the British aristocracy, director Hudson seemingly has forgotten that any portrayal--particularly a negative one--requires detail to convince. But detail does not appear. Instead, scenes flash by disjointedly: Gielgud and his colleague sip port and discuss school spirit; the Prince of Wales languorously puffs a cigarette and tries to convince Liddell to run the preliminary heat on Sunday "for the love of country."

The film's equally unconvincing technical composition inspires tender sympathy for its well-meaning unprofessionalism. In order to emphasize the mental concentration and the spiritual intensity of racing, Hudson treats nearly all the running sequences--training sessions, sprinting for fun, competitions--with the old foggy slow-motion treatment, and the symbolism weighs heavily. Add to this ponderous device the dreadfully outdated technique of indicating a quick rise to fame by presenting quickly-revolving newspapers that stop twirling long enough to exhibit a banner headline, and the verdict must be: technical naivete.

Other cheap shots include the incorporation of a love interest simply for the sake of filming a pretty woman and a kiss or two; and a deliberately vague and utterly pointless sequence involving an American runner whose pursed lips and pink-rimmed eyeglasses blatantly suggest homosexuality, whose furtive movements imply an unidentified danger, and whose existence in the film never is justified even remotely.

Since Chariots of Fire is an historical film, the love interest, and the American seeming-homosexual, and the stuffy Cambridge master probably did exist. Probably Abrahams did "look Jewish"; probably Liddell did stroll the heath and discuss God with his sister. But truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction; the fact that something happened is no reason to find it convincing on film. And what lacks realism cannot inspire sympathy: thus, disappointingly, Chariots of Fire.