Boys Will Be Boys (UK, 1935)
This one stars and is written by Will Hay, popular of yore, pretty obscure now, and quite undeservedly so. He is a very amusing figure, here inaugurating his soon to be celebrated schoolmaster role. It's a charming character, part clever and crafty, part dumb idiot. This film is especially admirable for what it adds to that solid centre, for the dimension and wit
of any number of secondary characters: the Lord, his buck-toothed nephew, the
flirty lady who's so unconcerned about her jewelry, the larcenous
butler-cum-thief, the quite defiantly and completely delinquent school boys.
These characters are involved in a plot of sorts, but in best Hal Roach fashion the participants don't let plot get in the way of a good gag, or even, as in the final rugby game, an average gag way overplayed. Hal Roach—I'm meaning to say that this is very Laurel and Hardy-like. With its relaxed and spacious air it might even have been directed by Leo McCarey. It is in fact helmed by another under-remembered filmmaker, William Beaudine (US, Pickford's Sparrows, etc.). Anyway, back to the jokes, that's one of the many things that's so marvellous about all the humbly derived—vaudeville, music hall, New Comedy and the commedia, if you like—films like these. Comic lineage comes to the fore, and the modest and pleasurable effectiveness of these familiar situations with their familiar elaborations. Innovation gives way to the humanity of tradition, in which a lame joke between friends becomes a positively holy thing.
These characters are involved in a plot of sorts, but in best Hal Roach fashion the participants don't let plot get in the way of a good gag, or even, as in the final rugby game, an average gag way overplayed. Hal Roach—I'm meaning to say that this is very Laurel and Hardy-like. With its relaxed and spacious air it might even have been directed by Leo McCarey. It is in fact helmed by another under-remembered filmmaker, William Beaudine (US, Pickford's Sparrows, etc.). Anyway, back to the jokes, that's one of the many things that's so marvellous about all the humbly derived—vaudeville, music hall, New Comedy and the commedia, if you like—films like these. Comic lineage comes to the fore, and the modest and pleasurable effectiveness of these familiar situations with their familiar elaborations. Innovation gives way to the humanity of tradition, in which a lame joke between friends becomes a positively holy thing.
The Mikado (UK/USA, 1939)
I liked it! The film’s middling reputation is somewhat justified. Kenny Baker’s Nanki-Poo sings sweetly, but he’s really boring. And what's with casting an American! This is Gilbert & Sullivan! The movie is also a bit wan in spots. In addition it is, as everyone seems to like to say, somewhat stagey. Or it’s trying not to be stagey, and it shows. But if the stage roots are evident—the rights-holding D’Oyly Carte gang actually required some of that, didn’t they?—then there are still a lot of aptly decorative compositions and camera movements. And whether rooted in stage or screen, the design is a delight. What costumes! And what preposterously candied, eye-popping Technicolor work. Thank goodness for Black Narcissus, but look what you can do when you use the process in the way it was intended, or in the way they forced you to do (cf. Natalie Kalmus).
In addition to pretty and pleasing, W.S. Gilbert’s somewhat dire sensibilities do shine through. It a powerful anomaly—so crowd-pleasing, so simultaneously savage. Ko-Ko’s excised song about the people he would like to eliminate is a good example. And more than savage is that great discussion about Pooh-Bah holding every official position in the government. At one level this effectively lampoons the presumptions of power. Better than that, it’s a pretty spectacular demonstration of the nature of perspectives. Things do depend.
(Try this piquant non-musical selection from Mr. Gilbert: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext97/2babb10h.htm)
Green and Granville, Barclay and Willis are really formidable performers. They’re shticking it of course, but they’re so the old pros. Also, this film features superb extra work, which, given that we’re talking about an operetta chorus, is actually very much more than mere extra work. Individuals and communities, the concerto grosso, etc. And speaking of the troopers and the chorus, Sullivan really does provide us with some melodies and, even more, harmonies, that sneak into realms of the movingly beautiful.
The Spy in Black (UK, 1939):
Thrilling, not just because of its effective
generic/genre qualities, but because there's such life and feeling beyond the form. Powell and Pressburger's film strikingly resembles Jean Renoir's much more celebrated pacifist piece, Grand Illusion. That seems obvious, but it's less obvious that the similarity is as much a matter of shared
sensibility as any borrowing. These filmmakers are their own men, right from the start.
This is where Powell and Pressburger/the Archers introduce the bold thing for which they would later become so controversial, and then so famous and admired. In this British film protagonist/star Conrad Veidt is a German spy, from the film's beginning all the way to its shattering close. The WWI setting of the plot can't have fooled contemporary British audiences, over whom the storm clouds of impending war were so forebodingly gathered. That's why the filmmakers' sympathy for their protagonist is so striking, so shocking even. It is established right at the start, clearly and without apology. In an elegant opening, set in a German restaurant, this sympathy is also extended to any number of sharply sketched peripheral characters—also German. Winston Churchill would later say of the Archers' similarly sympathetic The Life and Death of Col. Blimp that such film fraternizing was bad for British morale. This is an interesting point, and probably worthy of consideration. But as also demonstrated by, say, Humphrey Jennings, this sympathy is the very stuff of civilization, which is always more stirring when it's affirmed in the midst of assault.
What is also remarkable is the fact that, unlike Renoir's piece, this is no art film. It is a commercial product pure and simple. Notwithstanding that fact, and in spite of commercial film's usual preference for clarity, which is so often sought at the expense of subtlety, or even human reality, The Spy in Black wants to be thrilling and thoughtful both. And decent as well. The film only has one dishonourable character, and it turns out that he was lying the whole time, and isn't dishonourable after all. Combatants/stars Veidt and Valerie Hobson develop and maintain true feelings for each other. These are honourably and sadly and properly not acted upon for a number of reasons that bear on the complexity both of the plot and of life.
Also, unlike Renoir's film, TSIB is not really
pacifist at all. At least it's not just unthought peacenikery. The
reasons for war are hinted at, as is the importance of honour and duty and
other such combative and dangerous qualities. It's even better then that
the cost is counted and the toll is taken. The cruelty of it all, and the
kindness that can still survive in cruel times, are extraordinarily
concentrated in a beautifully judged climactic moment. The German Captain
has captured the little British boat (notice the recalcitrant and resourceful
Scottish engineer by the name of Scott), but it appears that he is about to lose his advantage. He is feeling betrayed but
knowing why it had to happen. He steels himself to do his duty for his
nation. "Anyone disobeying orders will be shot!"
A baby cries, and he says with tender sadness and unforced, sincere humanity,
"with one exception."
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| Veidt! |
What is also remarkable is the fact that, unlike Renoir's piece, this is no art film. It is a commercial product pure and simple. Notwithstanding that fact, and in spite of commercial film's usual preference for clarity, which is so often sought at the expense of subtlety, or even human reality, The Spy in Black wants to be thrilling and thoughtful both. And decent as well. The film only has one dishonourable character, and it turns out that he was lying the whole time, and isn't dishonourable after all. Combatants/stars Veidt and Valerie Hobson develop and maintain true feelings for each other. These are honourably and sadly and properly not acted upon for a number of reasons that bear on the complexity both of the plot and of life.
What results, results, serving the temporary services of propaganda and the deeper imperatives of humanity. Fast forward a couple of years. Remember what Hollywood/Warner Brothers did with the extraordinarily cultured and compassionate, skillful and attractive Veidt in Casablanca? Draw your own conclusions...
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| Boo! |
Went the Day Well? (UK, 1942)
This is an amazing movie, experienced without diminishment every time I see it. At a recent in-class screening we asked if any of the students had ever encountered it, or even heard of it. With one anomalous exception, no one even remotely had. As it turned out, those students got their timbers well shivered. There's an obvious lesson here, which is that there’s no end of great, including and especially the obscure great. We can’t just let them tell us what to watch, or stop searching ourselves!
Of course beyond that platitude are the particulars of this jaw dropper. It's kind of haw haw/I-dare-say at the beginning, then the screws are tightened with awesome exactitude. Technically this is basically perfect: framing, pacing, telling the story and keeping track of the characters within it. There are several effective procedural strains, some pleasing humour, and a few quiet, perceptive observations about class and such.
Of course beyond that platitude are the particulars of this jaw dropper. It's kind of haw haw/I-dare-say at the beginning, then the screws are tightened with awesome exactitude. Technically this is basically perfect: framing, pacing, telling the story and keeping track of the characters within it. There are several effective procedural strains, some pleasing humour, and a few quiet, perceptive observations about class and such.
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| Mrs. Collins |
But most impressively there’s that violence. It’s still shocking, not comparative to modern levels, but in itself. And very importantly this violence is shocking, but not immoral. Mrs. Collins hatchets that guy and her soul is rent by the necessity of it, just as ours are rent by what follows. Very wartime, and very wartime complicated (cf. Jennings, Ford's They Were Expandable, etc.)—her death isn’t quite futile, but help thou my unbelief.
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| Note the literary source! |
The aforementioned film students were a bit confused by the melodramatic treatment of the Germans in a film that was also presented to them as being psychologically complex. Fair. Remember those Randolph Scott westerns that Burt Kennedy and Budd Boetticher put together in the fifties? Those superb, searching inquiries into the complex nature of protagonism and antagonism, of the good and ill within us, also shorthands things by making the native Americans into basic generic baddies. That's a shortcoming, and yet the films still stand, shining. As for Cavalcanti's movie, the Germans are there to evoke sympathy and provide dramatic conflict. And not much more. They're Orcs, basically. The filmmakers' more important point has to do with the flawed diversity of the town's people, and how all that must and can be transcended. To demonstrate we have the formidable character of Mrs. Fraser. Her evolution from battle-ax to the cinema’s most heroic and heart-rending death is positively wrenching, and inspiring. Since everyone has her reasons, we’d best be humble and grateful.
A final note: William Walton’s brief fanfare is identical, beginning and end. At first it’s stirring; at last it’s devastating. What must they have felt in 1942?
Went the day well?
We died and never knew
But well or ill
Freedom we died for you.
Green for Danger (UK, 1946)
Incidentally, or even not incidentally, that droll Scottish policeman, the film's more-or-less main character, kind of, enters thirty-eight minutes in. That is pretty nervy when you think of it. Speaking of which, I think people are tempted to give Alastair Sim a free pass, but he really is effortlessly funny and paradoxically charming.
So though there are laughs, bits of breeziness, and lots of felicitous cinema—cf. how the second murder comes resoundingly at the end of an extended, rather bravura party sequence, and its wonderfully operatic resolution. But mostly, something’s rotten. Even the innocent are guilty! Was Gilliat consulting Henri Georges Clouzot? Unusual, and interesting.
The Man in the White Suit (UK, 1951)
