My dear non-fleshie friends Kate and Millie (newly returned from exciting adventures in Sierra Leone!) have been nagging me for a long time to watch the Hayley Mills dream fest The Moonspinners (1964). Well I finally got my chance to see it (thank you so much, Kate!) and boy oh boy were they right about it’s scathing brilliance! I’ll share some of my reactions with you in a lovely picspam.

^the theme: I watched this over again three times before I actually started the film. Such a marvelous song. I was thrilled to find it on YouTube!

^Joan Greenwood and Michael Davis as Aunt Frances and Alexis. I think Michael Davis is a lot like Kate’s brother. Agree or disagree?

^Eli Wallach as the evil Uncle Stratos. A dramatic switch from the last film I saw him in, Babydoll.

^Once of the first good glimpses of Peter McEnery…isn’t he a dish?

^Hayley was SO lucky!

^The famous pink outfit! Kate, Millie & I find it hugely inspiring. I’m already working on a reproduction version of the top in my head.

^Better view of the shirt. See the amazingness? A button front and crazy tie belt. OH, and see who the other lady is? Irene Papas! I only knew her from Zorba the Greek, so I was glad she actually had lines in this film.

^And an amazing swingy back. I bet you are wondering where the belt is! And notice the red canvas shoes…red and pink…hmm. Normally I wouldn’t attempt such a combination, but Hayley really pulls it off.

^Pete is shot in the shoulder of the arm she’s pulling. He’s in huge pain and she pulls his bad arm?! Hayley! What were you thinking?!

^Eli is either really afraid or he’s been running around in the hot Greek sun too much…

^Lovely crazy cats! There are tons of them!

^Well, you’d run too if cats were hissing at you!

^Wow, Hayley Mills with a rifle! She must really love the guy…

^Wolf in sheep’s clothing, maybe?

^This has got to be one of the craziest scenes of all time: Joan Greenwood riding in a hearse with Hayley and Peter in the back, trying to get through a street celebration and being attacked by bizarre revelers!

^EhHEM! Just when did Hayley learn to drive a speedboat?

^Cats are everywhere in this film! Look at this unbelievable cat bed! Lap of luxury for kitty!

^I was so sad when it ended. Did anyone else think it ended rather abruptly?

I highly recommend The Moonspinners, if you get a chance to watch it. It is on DVD (thankfully, and only because it was a Disney movie): Amazon, Half, Ebay.

Happy Thanksgiving darlings!

Après trois ou quatre de films de faible ou moyenne notoriété (du moins pour le profane) j’ai décidé de revenir à quelque chose de plus largement reconnu. Noblesse oblige est un de ces films que toute personne s’intéressant un minimum au cinéma a dû voir au moins une fois. A cette époque, le cinéma anglais est à son apogée. Fer de lance de ce mouvement, les studios Ealing dont nous avons déjà parlé à l’occasion de la chronique de The Ladykillers. Plusieurs éléments on fait la renommée de Kind Hearts and Coronets parmi lesquels son humour typiquement british et la prestation (les prestations devrais-je dire) remarquable et remarquée d’Alec Guinness.

Louis d’Ascoyne Mazzini (Dennis Price), duc d’Ascoyne, vit sa dernière nuit en prison. Sa dernière nuit tout court à vrai dire. Le lendemain matin, il sera exécuté pour meurtre. Attendant la mort avec une dignité qui ne manque pas de stupéfier ses geôliers et son bourreau, il se décide à rédiger ses mémoires. Fils d’un chanteur d’opérette et de l’héritière d’une famille aristocrate – les d’Ascoyne – il se retrouve au bas de l’échelle sociale en raison de ce mariage contre-nature. La mort de son père les laisse, sa mère et lui, dans une grande précarité, les d’Ascoyne refusant catégoriquement toute assistance à cette branche qu’elle considère “abâtardie”. Nourri de rancœur, Louis se promet de venger l’honneur de ses parents, en devenant duc d’Ascoyne. Mais les obstacles qui se dressent devant lui sont au nombre de huit. Huit d’Ascoyne plus ou moins vigoureux sont prioritaires dans l’ordre de succession. Pour parvenir à ses fin il se décide à éliminer les uns après les autres ses cousins, ses oncles et sa tante. A mesure que la malédiction s’abat sur les d’Ascoyne, Louis se rapproche du titre ducale qu’il convoite. A coups de ruse, de stratégie et donc d’assassinats, il devient enfin duc d’Ascoyne. C’est ce moment que la police choisit pour l’arrêter et le condamner pour un meurtre, qu’ironie du sort, il n’a pas commis.

N’y allons pas par quatre chemins, Noblesse oblige est une véritable merveille d’humour noir. Rien n’est plus plaisant et de plus immoral que de suivre Dennis Price, superbement cynique et aristocratique, dans son entreprise criminelle. Et que dire – que dire ! – d’Alec Guinness qui interprète avec son incomparable talent pas moins de huit rôles (la famille d’Ascoyne dans son ensemble, y compris Lady Agatha). Des dialogues incisifs et poétiques (qui aurait pensé à citer du Longfellow en abattant une montgolfière, et Lady Agatha par la même occasion) et une excellente interprétation font de ce film une des œuvres phares des studios Ealing dont il a définitivement assis la réputation. Son étiquette de classique de la comédie est amplement méritée. Noblesse oblige fait partie de ces petits plaisirs coupables auquel le cinéphile ne rechigne jamais à s’adonner.

I’ve watched quite a few 1930s and 40s films giving down-to-earth portraits of men’s working lives, including a number about the armed services – but haven’t come across all that many older movies about women at work, or at war.

However, thanks to the UK TV station Film 4, now I’ve seen this British wartime propaganda film about the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service), directed and narrated by Leslie Howard, which was quite an eye-opener to me. It isn’t a masterpiece, but I  think it has worn pretty well, despite the patronising title and an occasionally heavy-handed commentary from Howard, for instance, quoting lines from poems about women’s traditional role as they are seen carrying out military tasks. He is only briefly glimpsed from the rear – in what sadly turned out to be his last film appearance before his own death in the war.

After Howard opens the film by picking out seven women in a crowd at a railway station to be his heroines, the rest of the movie gives  what looks to be a realistic portrayal of life for these characters, all from different backgrounds. I was impressed that there is no attempt to make any of them look particularly glamorous, and the real hard work is not glossed over. The meals and dormitories seem very realistic.

At times it is hard to keep track of all the individuals, especially as I thought one or two of the actresses looked rather similar. Maybe there are just too many of them for any one to get enough screen time. Joyce Howard (no relation to Leslie) plays Anne, who is from a service family and quickly gets into the routine, with Rosamond John as cheery Scottish Maggie, who quotes Robert Burns to herself to count her stitches when knitting. Jean Gillie plays Dot and Joan Gates is Gwen, two modern working women who I kept mixing up with one another.

A very young Joan Greenwood plays the baby of the group, Betty, who has never been away from home and “Mummy”, and is at first overwhelmed by the thought of doing ordinary household tasks for herself – but quickly finds that she can cope.   The least sympathetic member of the group is bossy, upper-crust Joan (Barbara Waring), who gets her stripe as a corporal – but although there is occasional friction between her and the others they manage to work alongside one another and eventually it is revealed that much of her snappiness is really down to shyness. It was nice to see a film where the focus is on the women helping and supporting one another rather than on any rivalry.

I thought Lilli Palmer gives the most moving performance, as an exiled “foreigner” – probably Polish, as her character’s name is Erna Debruski, but I believe her country is never stated, probably deliberately, so that her plight can represent that of all the exiles who had signed up to fight in the British forces. Most of the time she stays silent about what she has been through, with just her burning eyes telling her story – but there is one powerful scene where, in response to another character, Joan, thoughtlessly remarking “At least the Nazis are efficient”, she tells them exactly what that efficiency means in terms of death and suffering.

A scene from the movie featured on the sleeve of a Spanish DVD

Apparently the movie was made with the co-operation of the ATS and some of the extras were real servicewomen. The film shows them training and carrying out tasks such as driving lorries through the night and, in the most dramatic scene towards the end of the movie, operating anti-aircraft guns under fire. A male soldier expresses surprise at the lorry-driving, commenting: “Women, working through the night?” and is told: “Yes, this is a woman’s war.”

I was surprised to see how little romance there is in the film – Leslie Howard actually comments as narrator that the women are too busy to have much time for love. Anne has a brief whirlwind romance with soldier David, played by John Justin, who is later lost in action, “missing believed killed”. But she only has a couple of scenes with him and then one with his mother, Mrs Sheridan (Mary Jerrold). During tea with Mrs Sheridan, Anne starts to declaim about how women are now serving alongside men for the first time and predicts that the role of women will change after the war. Mrs Sheridan quietly reveals in response that she herself was an ambulance driver at Ypres in the First World War, and was wounded in action – but gives the impression she wants to see women’s social position change too.

Maggie does dance once with a middle-aged Scottish soldier in full Highland dress, Alexander, played by Dad’s Army favourite John Laurie, and we are told in voiceover at the end that they will marry – but, apart from that, love is very much secondary to work throughout the film, and the women are shown working alongside men in matter-of-fact style.

I especially liked the ending of the film, where the women are seen queuing for mugs of tea in the open air, and Leslie Howard bids each one goodbye in turn, giving a brief suggestion of what the future may hold for them, but with no certainty, either for them or for the viewers.

Oddly enough, the movie appears to be only available on DVD in Spain – but it seems to be shown on TV in the UK quite often. After enjoying this film, I’m hoping to track down another one which Howard produced about wartime nurses, The Lamp Still Burns.

Title: Kind Hearts and Coronets
Year: 1949
Director: Robert Hamer
Writer: Robert Hamer & John Dighton, based on the novel by Roy Horniman
Starring: Dennis Price, Valerie Hobson, Joan Greenwood, Alec Guinness
Music: Ernest Irving
Distinctions: currently #135 on IMDb’s Top 250
Length: 106 minutes
Synopsis: an estranged descendant of a Duke murders his relatives for an inheritance
How I saw it: on video (rented from Netflix), yesterday
Subjective Rating: 7/10
Objective Rating: 8/10 (points off for cinematography and music)

It’s only occasionally funny enough to get a laugh, although it is consistently entertaining otherwise. Alec Guinness plays eight roles (all of them fun characters), and I might not even have guessed they’re the same person if the blurb (and the opening credits) hadn’t pointed it out.

[These are some notes for the benefit of anyone approaching the film for the first time. You may find some plot spoilers within; nothing too disastrous to your enjoyment, but you might want to avoid reading further until you've seen the film.]

It’s a poised, pristine, perfectly paced comedy of manners full of precise etiquette and immaculate decor. But it’s also a film about a serial killer, in which the the details of murderous schemes are laid out with no less care than the arrangement of a a drawing room or the delicacy of a gentleman’s handwriting. As such, what seems like a prim costume drama is actually an unsettling cynic’s charter with a wicked kicker of an ending. Lindsay Anderson found it “emotionally quite frozen”, perhaps missing the point that its discomforting chill comes from what it says about society’s replacement of feeling with gesture, romantic love with strategic connubiality. Here’s the plot synopsis as published by Monthly Film Bulletin in 1949:

Comedy Thriller. Louis Mazzini is the son of an English mother and an Italian father; his mother was the daughter of the 7th Duke of Chalfont, his father an impecunious singer who died at Louis’ birth. Because the family refused to allow Louis’ mother to be buried in the family vault Louis vows vengeance, and contrives the disappearance of eight of the heirs who stand between him and the dukedom.

The film begins in the prison where Mazzini is awaiting execution. The executioner has come to meet him prior to the ceremony. During chit-chat with one of the guards, he treats the impending killing with the professional nonchalance of one who has roped and broken a fair few necks in his time, but announces that he will soon retire since “after using silken rope, I’ll never again be content with hemp” (his jaded fastidiousness can’t help but bring to mind England’s most famous hangman of the age, Albert Pierrepoint). Kind Hearts sets out its stall right from the start: this will be a chirpy discussion of terrible things, but the casual treatment of death when sanctioned by the state foreshadows the air of entitlement and purposeful diligence with which Mazzini sets about dispatching his victims. The executioner’s fuss over the details is an early indicator of the part that will be played by manners, tradition and ceremony in the ensuing (though told in flashback) story. He is about to put Mazzini to death, but still stumbles over the question of how to address the Duke correctly in his final hours.

Those final hours of life will be spent penning his memoirs which, despite the pressing deadline, he does with the utmost formality, his desk neatly arranged in an effort to maintain decorum in the most definitively degraded situation. What follows is Mazzini’s narration of the events which have apparently led to his incarceration. Over the course of this tale, he will have directly or indirectly caused the deaths of eight members of the D’Ascoyne, out of whose dukedom he feels himself cheated, and he will also have created for himself a difficult dilemma over two women. Sibella, the original, aloof object of his affections (Joan Greenwood, whose voice suits the film perfectly by coupling an accent of fine breeding with the timbre of filth) is contrasted with Edith (Valerie Hobson), the widow of one of his victims, who represents the wise choice in terms of his will to reinsert himself into the branches of the family tree. He thus has to choose between dull and unchallenging breeding with Edith, or the elicit eroticism of Sibella, between functional or recreational sex. Their juxtaposed images aligns one with society and the law (note the crowds and the policeman behind Edith on the left), the other with exclusion (note the air of funereal isolation around Sibella on the right).

But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Where did this film come from? The short answer is Ealing Studios, but I’m afraid that there are rarely any short answers on this blog. Even if you’re not acquainted with the films themselves, you’ve probably heard the affection with which Ealing comedies are cited as treasured relics of British culture. It’s not true that Ealing made only comedies (see Went the Day Well?, in which a village community repels Nazi invaders, the crime melodrama It Always Rains on Sunday and the self-explanatory Scott of the Antarctic for proof of this), but some of their best and brightest achievements, including Passport to Pimlico, Whisky Galore (both of which came out just months prior to Kind Hearts, an extraordinarily rich creative stretch), The Man in the White Suit, The Ladykillers, are undoubtedly the comic ones, and these comprise the popular image of what Ealing represented. The building which still houses Ealing studios in west London is the oldest studio facility in Britain, having been in use since 1896, but it only became known as Ealing Studios from 1931. In his important study, Charles Barr pretends to invent a classic Ealing comedy plot (actually a synopsis of 1939’s Cheer Boys Cheer, produced by Michael Balcon, who took over from theatre producer Basil Dean in 1938 and changed the company’s name from the less catchy Associated Talking Pictures to match the name of the studio facility itself):

A big brewery tries to absorb a small competitor, a family firm which is celbrating its 150th anniversary. The offer is gallantly refused, whereupon the boss’s son goes incognito from the big firm to infiltrate the small one and sabotage its fortuns. Gradually, he is charmed by the family brewery and by the daughter of the house, saves the company from ruin, and marries into it. Officials and workers unite at the wedding banquet to drink the couple’s health in a specially created brew.

From this you might infer that Ealing made films about underdogs battling big business, defending their communities from engulfment by homogenising external forces. Jeffrey Richards has noted how the Ealing approach transformed from films built around individual comic talents such as Will Hay and George Formby In Passport to Pimlico, for example, the locals discover documents revealing that Pimlico is legally part of Burgundy, and that they, as an independent dukedom, are not subject to the strictures of postwar rationing. Asserting their separateness, and isolated by the British government, this London district becomes the site of a contest over national borders and identity. As Christine Geraghty as highlighted:

The people of Pimlico become the people of a misplaced bit of Burgundy – foreigners in their own land – so that opposition to the British state is no longer a question of grumbling but is legally demanded. The film’s major fantasy is a return to wartime unity, which of course involves an increase in restriction. But this fantasy is predicated on another: that the state can be restored to its wartime role of representing and protecting the people rather than bullying them. Passport to Pimlico mourns the loss of Ealing’s wartime myth that the people were the state and offers a reluctant recognition, through its use of fantasy, that this equation can no longer be assumed.

But Richard Dacre has suggested that what we think of as the Ealing house style is actually the individual concern of screenwriter T.E.B. Clarke, the “architect of Ealing’s popular image of cosy whimsicality”; the films he wrote “depict a Britain of shopkeepers, friendly spivs, jolly coppers, incompetent but honest bureaucrats, kind-hearted squires, contented old-age pensioners and eccentrics”, while the works of Alexander Mackendrick and Robert Hamer (including Kind Hearts) offer “a dark commentary on those values”.

Ealing comedies poked fun at the foibles and idiosyncraises of Brits and their institutions, rather flattering them with the attention that comes from noticing their nuances in the first place. It was a gentle attack; Michael Balcon claimed that:

We had great affection for British institutions: the comedies were done with affection, and I don’t think we would have thought of tearing down institutions unless we had a blueprint for what we wanted to put in their place […] The comedies were a mild protest, but not protests at anything more sinister than the regimentation of the times.

Kind Hearts and Coronets may be different. It still has a keen eye for body language and a keener ear for verbal stratagems (there is, for instance, a razor sharp Wildean paradox  in the line “it is so difficult to make a neat job of killing people with whom one is not on friendly terms”, or the moment when he notes, without a whiff of irony, his distaste for bloodsports). Tim Pulleine notes that this is sourer than its precursors and the films that followed it:

Crucially, this is a film that centres on that most English, but generally un-Ealing, preoccupation of class distinction, and although the plot is motivated by revenge for class-based snobbery, the impulse that sustains it is far from a democratic one. Moreover, it is defiantly amoral.

So, when you’re wondering who to cheer for, be prepared for a film that gives you no easy target for your sympathies. You might find some of the minor characters endearing, but they’re usually made unpleasant or daft in some way. Take for example, the eight characters played by Alec Guinness, all of whom will be bumped off or die of shock or some such.All of them can be seen in this immaculate trick shot:

Aided by great costumes and make-up, Guinness gives each character, however briefly they appear, a virtuoso twist of individuality, but the decision to cast one actor for them all creates a striking line-up of genetic stagnation. Their family is thus a stronghold of genealogical purity, inviting the heroic charge of an underdog outsider. Mazzini will infiltrate this familial fortress with his foreign blood (his father was Italian, his mother (conspicuously not played by Guinness) disowned by the D’Ascoyne’s for marrying him).

The sense of Mazzini’s murders as distressing crimes is lessened by this depiction of the D’Ascoyne family as a privileged superorganism whose parts were merely expendable appendages of a bigger beast. But it might also be a disturbing picture of class warfare – attacking an entrenched aristocracy requires blindness to the individual rights of the persons who comprise it – and the winner does not overturn the system, but merely takes up the same position at its head. Mazzini longs to occupy, not demolish the manor he sees as his birthright. In the earliest scenes of his backstory, the sets are cramped and humble. He has his eye on the open spaces and and high ceilings of Chalfont, gazing repeatedly at a picture of his future home (on the back of which he crosses off the family members as they fall).

His story takes him from small house to enormous house and ends up in the big house (that’s “prison” for those who aren’t as good at slang as what I is), while the mise-en-scene and visual style of the film obligingly conform to his version of the tale: there are no attempts to aesthetically pass judgement on the evil of it all with foreboding shadows or distorted angles. His narration is in control. As Michael Newton puts it:

Louis is a man without depths. His meaning exists on the surface: of clothes, of manners, of wit. When the mask slips, only anger and inner confusion appear. Behind the apparent politeness is the real confusion of evil: the evil that cannot distinguish one woman from another, or one victim from another. The film brings together a love of the surface (the well-litness of the film is its ironic undermining of film noir – evil is best understood in the light) and the use of the supposedly ‘literary’ device of the voiceover (actually a cinematic coup). Both are ideal expressions of Louis’s shallow, empty evil. The film’s love of style, the way in which everything shrinks to a style, is actually the moral meaning of the film. This is what happens, it tells us, when everything becomes just style: murder becomes a comedy; people become things. And in believing that, Louis is us all: the modern flirt; the addict of cool.

Positioning himself close enough to the family to kill them requires Mazzini to assume a range of disguises, all of which he pulls off by feigning the correct codes of conduct for each situation. Rather than etiquette being a gestural manifestation of good character, in Kind Hearts and Coronets it is a mask for malicious intent, wicked innuendo or hypocrisy.

Even when Mazzini’s emotional life is probed, it’s hard to find him in moments where he doesn’t peer out from behind a veneer of respectability. Best evidence of this is to be find in the curiously drawn courtship (which we are led to believe is consummated on a regular basis) with Sibella. It’s a strange love affair, he being a mass murderer and she a skittish, changible, permanently pouting and petulant child-woman (did I mention she also has an unfeasibly sexy voice?).

The formation of the romantic couple is usually the driving force of narrative cinema. It’s what creates a backdrop of suspense, marks the fulfilment of a conclusion and lets you hope for a better life for your protagonists. But it’s hard to really hope these two will get together. She has little interest in him until he holds a dukedom, and his yearning for her is too closely linked to his desire for Chalfont to be wholly admirable. It’s not clear whether it is vengeance for the slight on his mother’s honour that drives him to serial murder, or his wish to prove his suitability to Sibella. For her part, she seems to find her devious intent out of boredom, or perhaps even to prevent Mazzini from taking up his title without her. She’d destroy him before seeing him succeed on his own.

Like the film itself, I’m stuck for a conclusion to this post. I don’t want to give too much away by discussing the ending, except to say that it is perfectly inconclusive, refusing to allow the simple closures that are left just within reach to stamp the film with a definitive attitudinal stance on the moral and crimes of its protagonist. But the film’s knives in the heart of heritage cinema and costume drama are there to delight anyone who is just happy to see a mockery of mannerism. I referred earlier to Kind Hearts as a cynic’s charter. I think therefore that I’m in agreement with Michael Newton, to whom I hand over the final word:

Kind Hearts is a great work of art, and if art matters then it matters. It is very funny and, in a demonically subtle way, very wise. And for the bitter, the easy self-deprecators, the procrastinators, the snobs, the junkies of possibility, the flirts, the wits, the wastrels, the overly wordy, for all those it is perhaps the perfect movie. It is not a film for the humble or the dull. They are too good to need it. For the rest of us, it is both the disease and the cure.

Further Reading:

Charles Barr, Ealing Studios. Cameron & Tayleur, 1977.

Richard Dacre, “Traditions of British Comedy” in Murphy (ed.) The British Cinema Book 2nd edition. British Film Institute 2002.

Ian Green, “Ealing: In the Comedy Frame” in Curran & Porter (eds.) British Cinema History. Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1983.

Martin Hunt, “New Labour, New Criticism: A Contemporary Re-Assessment of Ealing and The Archers”. Quarterly Review of Film and Video 19 (2002), 261-269.

Michael Newton, Kind Hearts and Coronets. British Film Institute, 2003.

Tim Pulleine, “A Song and Dance at the Local: Thoughts on Ealing” in Murphy (ed.) The British Cinema Book 2nd edition. British Film Institute 2002.

Jeffrey Richards, “Basil Dearden at Ealing” in Burton, O’Sullivan & Wells (eds.) Liberal Directions: Basil Dearden and Postwar British Film Culture. Flicks Books, 1997.

Review and clips at Screenonline.

Review at Britmovie, extracted from George Perry’s Forever Ealing.

History of Ealing Studios at Wicked Lady.

Ealing Studios homepage.

Interactive Video: Jonathan Ross on Ealing Studios.

Screenonline’s guide to Ealing Studios.

Studio: Starz/sphe Release Date: 11/11/2008 Run time: 85 minutes Rating: Nr

Ealing comedy–cozy, gentle, and whimsical, right? In this case, think again. Alexander Mackendrick was always the most politically aware of the Ealing directors, and in The Man in the White Suit (1952) he takes the studio’s favorite theme of the little man up against the system and gives it a sharp satirical twist. Sidney Stratton (Alec Guinness at his most unworldly), a maverick scientist working in a textile mill, invents a fabric that never gets dirty and never wears out. He’s hailed as a genius–until management and unions alike realize what his brainwave implies. Mackendrick’s humor is exact and pointed, and the satire turns savage as a lynch mob of bosses and workers hunt Sidney down through dark, narrow streets. Mackendrick’s disenchanted view of class-ridden British society still rings horribly true, and he draws note-perfect performances from the cream of British character actors: Cecil Parker as the liberal mill owner (based, it’s said, on Ealing boss Michael Balcon); Ernest Thesiger as the evil old godfather of the industry; and, wittily sensual as Sidney’s confidante, the ever-wonderful Joan Greenwood. Plus, listen out for the “voice” of Sidney’s bizarre apparatus, the funniest and most unforgettable sound effect ever devised. –Philip Kemp

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Other Products of Interest

• The Lavender Hill Mob
• The Ladykillers
• Kind Hearts and Coronets
• School for Scoundrels
• The Horse’s Mouth – Criterion Collection