Archive for A Passage to India

You are in the village

Posted in FILM, MUSIC, Mythology, weather with tags , , , , , , on December 23, 2014 by dcairns

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These two young go-getters are writing their names in the snow, which isn’t easy in Japanese. It takes years of calligraphic tuition.

The movie is Shohei Imamura’s THE BALLAD OF NARAYAMA (it’s not like any ballad I ever heard) and I thought I’d enjoy the snow scenes, since Mother Nature hasn’t provided us with any good ones in Edinburgh so far this winter.

In fact, the movie is resplendent with nature footage from every season, though the human drama inclines to the grim. Though not without humour, also grim. All I knew going in was the premise than in this mountain village, when people get to be seventy they go up into the mountains in winter to perish, this relieving their relatives of the burden of supporting them. It’s like a sclerotic LOGAN’S RUN (which also has some nice snow scenes, including AN ICE CAVE with A ROBOT! The most Christmassy thing ever!)

A dead baby turns up in a muddy field; one oldster has brought shame on his family by apparently running off rather than doing his duty to the mountain gods; his wife is so keen to make up for this that she’s stoically chipping away at her teeth trying to make herself decrepit sooner; one family are caught pilfering from the others and meet a terrible fate; a chubby virgin with appalling halitosis tries to seduce the neighbours’ dog. Much of this is observed with a slightly wry detachment, making it less unbearable to watch than you’d think. And it’s all rendered perversely beautiful by the photography and music.

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Imamura intercuts his shots of animals copulating, giving birth and killing one another with less documentary material of his human characters doing likewise. The effect is NOT AT ALL like the love scene in RYAN’S DAUGHTER, for reasons which may be illuminating to examine. Dispensing with the fact that David Lean built hs forest in a studio space, an incredible feat in itself, there’s the deeper meaning of the juxtaposition of man and nature in each filmmaker. In Lean’s work, weather and nature are either a crucible to test human character, as is largely the case in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA and a bit in DOCTOR ZHIVAGO and maybe even the caves in A PASSAGE TO INDIA have mutated from their more mysterious purpose in E.M. Forster’s book to assume this role, albeit in a somewhat perverse and enigmatic way; or else they are anthropomorphic, mirroring the emotions of human characters. We see this in particular with the thorns which entwine together to suggest the mother’s birth pains in OLIVER TWIST, and we see it in the aforementioned arboreal love scene in RYAN’S. In this sense, Lean is Shakespearian, with weather serving as an emotional barometer.

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Imamura’s point is at once more blunt and simple, and more definitely true — he shows that humans and animals are in many ways similar, driven by lusts and appetites but also by the need to fit into their surroundings. Cutting from a love scene to copulating frogs may seem obvious, and certainly unpoetic, but it’s also an honest observation, and not one that lends itself to a more subtle approach.

And then Imamura climaxes the film with the ascent of the mountain by mother and son, in almost total silence (as decreed by mountain law), for forty-five minutes, an astonishing bit of epic drama, ending amid the vast open-air ossuary in a parting that’s genuinely moving. Neither character has been entirely endearing — both are, in fact, effectively murderers — but the unspoken farewell is extraordinarily powerful. And then there’s the most impressive bit of bird-wrangling since Hitchcock.

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The movie was a gift from my pals at Masters of Cinema, and is available on Dual Format Blu-ray and DVD here ~
The Ballad of Narayama (1983) (Masters of Cinema) [Dual Format Blu-ray & DVD]

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Film Club 2: Film Club Breeds Contempt

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Mythology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 10, 2009 by dcairns

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It’s 00.31 here and I’m posting this early so maybe there’ll be some comments in the morning before I go to work…

Side-note: it’s weird how some titles are known in translation and some in their original languages. In the case of Godard’s LE MEPRIS, that’s what we call it in the UK, even though we don’t generally know what that word means, and in the US it’s always called CONTEMPT, which makes more sense, I’d say. Anyhow —

This is a film that I sort-of knew, in that received wisdom kind of way, and having seen lots of clips and maybe having caught half an hour or so of it here and there. Which is NO GOOD. So Film Club serves a valuable function, for me at least, in nudging me into actually watching the damn thing. Thanks to David Ehrenstein for the suggestion.

My Jean-Luc Godard issues: I think as a kid, getting into films, I probably caught a mixed bag of his movies, some of which intrigued but some of which alienated, and not in a good way. My attempts to build up a resistance are only now paying off. I always liked ALPHAVILLE, I now like BAND A PARTE and UNE FEMME MARIEE, and a few others. And I sort-of like WEEKEND and SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL and a few others. Recently, his episode of TEN MINUTES OLDER was really strong. And I’m intrigued to re-see some of the stuff that put me off. If I can remember what it was. The stuff that was like slide-shows, you know.

But CONTEMPT isn’t like that — critic Jonathan Romney has called it the only Godard film you could possibly shed a tear to, which seemed like it could be interesting, engaging and possibly so atypical of JLG that I won’t get any closer to liking him as a whole, but I like a good weepie, so here we go (rolls up sleeves) —

The opening shot shows a camera sliding towards us on tracks, “exposing the mechanisms of cinema” in a way that’s not too Brechtian really, since the movie is about movie-making, so the camera’s appearance is narratively “legitimate.” Love the way the camera turns to face us with its cyclopean eye, the widescreen matte-box around it forming a frame within the frame. It’s echoed by many more frames-within-frames, like this —

Georges Delerue doesn’t get the love he deserves, I feel. His score for this film is typically lush and emotional, only slightly counterbalanced by Godard’s tendency to repeat it until we become rather more aware of it than would be normal. And the theme obstinately refuses to develop, so we’re on the verge of some catharsis with these unbearably gorgeous strings playing, but we never quite reach it. Somehow that makes it even more paifully moving.

Also, spoken word credits — I always approve of these. Welles, of course, has the best, aided by the fact that he’s got the best voice to deliver them with. It’s unfair, really: nobody else can compete. In FAHRENHEIT 451, Truffaut uses spoken credits because the written word is outlawed. Here, the movie is based on a book (Alberto Moravia — anyone read it?) and the hero is a writer, so the absence of onscreen text is more allusive and mysterious. It might be something to do with the powerlessness of the writer in this world of images…

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Godard then wisely proceeds directly to Brigitte Bardot’s naked ass, thus ensuring at least some of his audience will stay to the end. Jesus Franco once used the example of the nudity in this film, and the fact that JLG said he’d included it for commercial reasons, to basically justify his entire career. I do like some Franco, but his argument does not entirely convince me. As to this nude scene, what’s unusual and fun about it is the way BB is talking about her body while the camera shows it: nudity is redoubled. It’s kind of a titillation/sexploitation scene, but her aimless prattling does have enough naturalistic value to give it another quality: it’s like a gentle parody of how women do sometimes talk. (Is this going to get me in trouble?) The most affectionate scene in the film.

Perhaps feeling that the scene was too simple, Godard spices it up with heavy colour filtration, which clicks off midway, leaving natural skin tones and a sudden renewed sense of nudity. It’s been said that Godard marks each part of the filmmaking process: his art exposes rather than conceals art, drawing our attention to script, performance, composition, lighting, design, editing, music and sound. This may be why so many filmmakers love him — he exploits the beauty of the unfinished, using rough edges that normally only the maker gets to see. And yet, Godard’s work has another kind of beauty, directly opposed to the first —

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Off to the screening room! A particularly pleasing one, with its blue chairs. Why does Godard use such lovely bright hues? I’ve never read an attempt at explanation of that — we can simply accept it as being just the kind of thing he likes, and agree with him that the intense slabs of flat colour make for beautiful graphics, but I’d be very interested in a theory that added to that. Minnelli being the filmmaker most referenced here, in the dialogue about SOME CAME RUNNING and the film’s relationship to TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN (I think Godard’s referred to it as his sequel), we could draw on Minnelli’s decision to make SCR look like “the inside of a jukebox,” but I don’t feel like JLG is trying to create a visual critique of society in this way: it would be more accurate to say he’s making the world look beautiful the way he wants it to.

But perhaps the colours have symbolic value? Again, theories welcome. We might produce a colour chart to hand out with future copies of the DVD. Red certainly = violence, as in the car crash, whereas the cool blue of the sea takes on tragic connotations…

Jack Palance and Fritz Lang and Giorgia Moll. Palance and Lang’s first scene is possibly their best. Palance using a film can as a discus is a nice moment, and his moronically gleeful reactions to the sight of a nude “mermaid” in Lang’s footage are priceless. Moll is charming but contradictory: she exchanges literary quotes with Lang, but allows Palance to sign a cheque on her back. Godard’s objectification of women — and the word is peculiarly accurate with him — is one of the things that’s creeped me out about him in the past. The body-part portraiture in UNE FEMME MARIEE is beautiful and rather tender, but the headless shots of a nude Bardot that come later on in this film seem glossy but brutal. Moll is part character, part plot function (translator) and part furniture, it seems.

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Feminist theory might call this shot dehumanizing. But that’s definitely a human arse. But it’s certainly depersonalizing, and that’s something Godard has been guilty of a lot. But not consistently — Bardot’s character is also a character, not just a shapely figure. She’s mysterious, which I sometimes feel is a get-out clause for directors who don’t regard women as people, with comprehensible motivations the same as men, but it’s also a legitimate response to the problem of communication: other people are unknowable. LE MEP definitely falls more on the legitimate side of this divide.

Moll’s interpreter character was apparently Godard’s device to stop the Americans dubbing the movie: Moll repeats what Palance says in English, in French, and what Piccoli says in French, in English. The distributors dubbed the film anyway, so Moll now became a strange person who follows people around repeating or rephrasing whatever they say. Godard’s Parrot. I’d love to see that version.

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Palance, whose presence evokes Hollywood and THE BIG KNIFE, is a pretty broad caricature of the vulgar producer. LE MEPRIS was co-produced by Joe Levine, who made his fortune with the Steve Reeves HERCULES. Palance plays Jerry Prokosch, producer of THE ODYSSEY.

Lang, as gracious and stately as most people found him in later life (he was much less of a gentleman when actually directing movies, by all accounts), is the film’s August Presence, the representative of art — we don’t gain much confidence in Piccoli as a writer, Palance represents the ugliness of commerce, Bardot is a typist, but Lang’s genius is to be taken as read. The shots we see from his movie (they’re already shooting it? The production process here doesn’t seem to make sense) are not actually Langian, and they’re certainly the kind of artsy stuff that would have got any director on a Greek myth sword-and-sandal epic shown the door, but they’re very pretty. When Godard cuts in shots of the Greek statues later on, interrupting the story of marital breakup, the effect is poetic, mysterious, and slightly chilling.

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Back to that colour: the film has no credited art director, but do we believe that JLG bought all the coloured chairs and props and towels himself? The design is certainly his in conception, and you can see it expressed in his other movies, very consistently, even in their credits. But somebody must have helped. The IMDb lists one Pierre Guffroy as production designer (uncredited) on PIERROT LE FOU, which has a matching Technicolor look (remember Belmondo’s painted face at the end?), perhaps he should be investigated?

Outside the cinema, Palance offers Bardot a ride and Piccoli urges her to accept it. There’s a slight sense that he’s pimping her out, or at least trying to curry favour with his new boss. Bardot appears reluctant, Piccoli insists, and for the rest of the movie she resents him. The question of what actually happened during the half hour when Piccoli and Bardot were apart is never answered, making this one of the most important and infuriating narrative ellipses in all cinema. It’s vaguer than the Marabar Caves scene in EM Forster’s A Passage to India. (They should have put that on the poster. “Vaguer than Forster!”)

Love the fast cuts of Bardot, jumping from scene to scene — this seems to evoke memory and Poccoli’s character’s subjectivity more strongly than any other scene. JLG is basically inventing Nic Roeg here.

The big sequence in Piccoli and Bardot’s half-furnished flat is the bit that apparently drove The New Republic‘s Stanley Kauffman berserk, as he imagined Godard’s fans gasping: “‘That film must cost so-and-so many thousands of dollars a minute! Any commercial hack would be concerned to make each minute count for something. But Jean-Luc doesn’t care!’ The hidden referent here is not aesthetic but budgetary bravado.” It’s always dangerous to imagine what a film’s fans are admiring and then attack it for that — it puts a filter between critic and film that’s even thicker than Godard’s red gel.

In fact, while the protracted semi-breakup in the apartment is challenging in its duration, there are no dead moments in it, and it’s all informed by the drama of Piccoli’s plight and the mystery of Bardot’s behaviour. Piccoli’s behaviour is pretty obnoxious, but more straightforwardly motivated. After The Mysterious Event in the Marabar Caves, he leches after Moll, as if to revenge himself for Palance’s presumed depredations. Bardot catches him, and for a while he assumes that’s what she was mad at. But her frostiness towards him predates that infelicitous discovery. He also assumes the problem has to do with money, and the flat they’re buying and decorating. But we get no sense that he’s right here.

Piccoli slapping Bardot is a nasty moment, and a problematic one (but with Godard, “problematic” = interesting). I’m reminded of my friend Simon’s remarks, after viewing TWO FOR THE ROAD (a considerably lesser sixties relationship movie, I think we can agree) that Albert Finney’s character was incredibly obnoxious and arrogant. “But men were like that then,” his mum informed him. I don’t get any sense that Godard approves of Piccoli’s bit of domestic violence, but he sees no reason to step in and offer his editorial judgement on it.

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Bardot dons wig. If we associate red with aggression and Palance, her choice of apparel may be telling us something here. But Piccoli, despite being a playwright, isn’t adept in the interpretation of toweling. He needs a towelomancer.

Richard Brody, in his much-criticized JLG bio, seems to suggest that many of Godard’s films are not only direct commentaries on his relationship with partner and sometime star Anna Karina, but actual admonitions to her, attempts to keep her in line, or something. The rather unsympathetic portrayal of Piccoli in this film would seem to argue against that, unless we’re going to accept Godard as an insensitive clod who thinks the Piccoli character is actually behaving well. While I’m willing to believe bad things about JLG, I don’t buy that one.

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Split-screen effects created by architecture of flat seem like a clear influence on LAST TANGO IN PARIS. Bertolucci may have symbolically “killed” Godard in THE CONFORMIST, but the influence lingers. Godard’s widescreen enhances his ability to break up the frame like this. The wide-angle lens causes some rubber-walling distortion which gets in the way of his graphic flatness, but it’s not a significant issue. The white walls bounce the light around which helps them film on a location with real daylight as source. Reflected light is not flattering to the complexion, but when you’ve got somebody as smooth as BB (like porcelain yet more elastic) you can get away with it.

Weirdly ugly (in this ravishingly beautiful  film) scene in a barn-like Italian cinema, reverberant music, which Godard jump cuts around the conversation. Cinema screen is brown. Afterwards, Lang quotes Berthold Brecht, calling him “BB.” An acceptable in-joke which could pass in a regular movie, but the fact that Bardot laughs at it is genuinely Brechtian — her character is called Camille, it’s the actress herself who’s known as BB.

Incidentally, isn’t BB good in this? Here and in Clouzot’s LA VERITE you see a very capable performer playing two very contrasting characters with the same set of distinct physical qualities, but her pouty beauty counts for something different in each film. The moment here where she aggressively shoos Piccoli out of the bedroom when her mum calls is a favourite: completely naturalistic and kinda funny. Piccoli also disappears into his role with unshowy grace, but he’s not as cute.

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Capri! Where Palance’s villa, a bizarre structure, has a set of stairs that allows Lang to craft some genuinely Langian compositions. Again Piccoli urges BB to take a ride with Palance, this time by boat. Discussing Palance’s moronic “re-imaging” of the Odyssey with Lang (Ulysses takes ten years to return to Penelope because he’s just not that into her) Piccoli, perhaps by accident, hits on what may be the truth about Bardot’s attitude to him (which she has now given a name: Contempt). By refusing to eject the suitors, Ulysses emasculates himself in Penelope’s eyes. So then he has to kill them. Lang tells him that that would solve nothing.

The subsequent death of Palance and Bardot in a car accident seems like a flat narrative contrivance — this movie may have more of a conventional story than most Godards, but it’s still not his primary interest, I feel — but all is redeemed by the unbelievable lovely end shot, where Godard’s camera intersect its path with Lang’s, a sort of reverse-angle of the opening shot where the two lenses met and “kissed.” Godard/Lang stare out at the infinity of the sea, as a sinister voice pronounces “Silencio,” through a megaphone. David Lynch makes a mental note.

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Lions in the Scottish Highlands

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2009 by dcairns

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THE 39 STEPS, we all agree, is where Hitchcock’s thrillers really catch fire. He’d been making films since 1922, scoring considerable success, and many people, including Hitch himself, may have thought he had already shown what he could do — but this film raises the bar still further. It pleases me inanely that this is Hitchcock’s Scottish film, with Scottish settings, characters, and a source novel by Scotsman John Buchan (pronounced “buckin”). In Hitchcock’s movie, as in Buchan’s book, man of action Richard Hannay must follow the trail of a spy ring from London to the Highlands.

Hitch and collaborator Charles Bennett (who shares Hitch’s cameo in this one, a unique honour) famously abandoned or greatly altered large parts of the source novel, so that even the title became something of an irrelevance, to be explained away as brusquely as possible, but if you read the book (I did, years ago) it’s fun to see how elements are reconfigured: a throwaway line about a trip to the music hall is expanded by Hitchcock into a hilarious opening sequence, introducing hero Hannay, Mr. Memory the mnemonic genius, and a female spy calling herself Annabella Smith (Lucie Mannheim), whose murder sets things in motion.

Inspired by a surge of national spirit, I hopped on the train to retrace Hannay’s steps, but since I’m perennially cash-strapped, I only went from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station to the Forth Bridge. Hannay, fleeing the scene of a murder for which he’s automatically blamed, boards the Flying Scotsman locomotive, sharing a compartment with a traveller in ladies’ undergarments and another loudmouth, who seem to keep up a non-stop barrage of double entendres and man-of-the-world smut for the entire journey.

The train pulls into Waverley Station, Edinburgh, and one of the men flags down a news vendor. “Speak-a da English?” he asks. I wouldn’t try this in Scotland if I were you. The newspaper purchased carries news of Hannay’s pursuit, and the suspense is ramped up.

I don’t see any newsboys in the station when I’m there, but they have an entire newsagents shop, and a Burger King, which I feel gives me the edge on old Hannay. I hop in the train, with a ticket for North Queensferry, which means I’m crossing the bridge but no more. As Hannay is evading capture in his train, I’m snapping pictures out the window of mine. No knicker salesman, no compartment, no steam engine, no Madeleine Carroll…

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There are actually two bridges now, the Road Bridge and the Rail Bridge, but the Road, a common suspension job, is regarded with contempt by locals, so when we say “the Forth Bridge” it’s always certain which we mean. A massive Victorian construction, it’s constantly being painted with a special paint, known as Forth Bridge Red. The Victorian engineers who constructed it said that as long as you kept painting it, the bridge would last forever. They start at one end, work there way to the other, then start again. It’s become the perfect metaphor for any unending, Sisyphean task.

Of course, when the bridge was privatized, the management idiots announced that they would no longer paint the bridge, since it was “too costly and dangerous,” which is an amazing bit of half-wittedness. MORE costly and dangerous than allowing it to rust? Sure enough, soon bits of corroded bridge were dropping onto North and South Queensferry, and a lot of money had to be spent repairing the structure. Painting has resumed.

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The Forth Bridge, by Cairns.

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The Forth Bridge, by Hitchcock.

One of the things that’s so outrageous about THE 39 STEPS is the use of narrative ellipsis to get around tricky plot problems. The first major cheat is near the start, when a woman is killed in Hannay’s flat, knifed to death, without any explanation of how the killers got in, or why they didn’t then kill Hannay. Hitchcock at this point apparently had little fear of those annoying folks he called “the plausiblists” — although the list of Hannay’s neighbours includes a “Porlock”, suggesting that he was aware of the various ways in which ordinary persons can hinder the artist at work.

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The second massive cheat comes after Hannay eludes his pursuers on the bridge — we not only don’t see how he gets down from the bridge, the next time we see him he’s strolling through Glen Coe, about a hundred miles away. Hitch gets away with this kind of barefaced cheek in part because he’s so good at transitions. A cut from a screaming woman, discovering a corpse, to a train blowing it’s whistle, is a particular classic. But the movie abounds with inventiveness in sound design — when the female spy is murdered in his flat, Hannay remembers her words, and we hear them, as if filtered through a long-distance telephone connection.

Then there’s the famous crofter scene, a touching and atmospheric vignette, featuring John Laurie (previously seen playing Irish in JUNO AND THE PAYCOCK) and Peggy Ashcroft, which deliberately slows the pace and alters the tone: Hitch was fond of tonal shifts and his movie really unfolds like a piece of music. A terrible shame that the mesmerising Peggy didn’t make more films — we otherwise see her mainly in old lady stuff like A PASSAGE TO INDIA. Laurie was a real-life crofter’s son, although in the lowlands rather than the highlands. The accents all through the Scottish section are wildly variable — the bad guy’s maid is hilarious, although she gives it her best shot.

Such is Hitch’s verve and cheek that he can get away with things that really make no sense — Hannay travels to Scotland in search of the fiendish master-spy with the missing finger. Once in the right neighbourhood, he asks around about newcomers, and determines that there’s only one. Visiting the fellow, he finds him hosting a party, and is lulled into a state of relaxation. And soon he is shocked — shocked! — to discover that this is none other than the man he has been looking for. Well, duh — and yet it’s an effective shock moment, don’t ask me how.

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(Note the bad guy’s bespectacled daughter, named as Patricia, just like Hitch and Alma’s only child. It’s not our Pat, though, since she was only a little nipper at the time.)

Another great trick, when Hannay survives being shot at close range due to a hymn book in his pocket, its presence established afterwards in an impudent cutaway back to the crofter, whose coat Hannay has taken.

This being a typical Hitchcock nightmare, the police are useless and don’t believe our hero, so now he’s on the run again, and worse still, he has no clues left to follow. Never passing up the chance to take the mickey out of public speakers and large gatherings, Hitch bundles Hannay onto the stand at a political rally, where he bungles the candidates name, so that McCorquindale becomes McCrocodile, but otherwise scores a rousing success with an extemporised speech which not only serves as a potted story-so-far autobiography, but sets out the film’s woolly but sincere vision for the world’s future, after the current threats to peace and freedom have been eliminated. But this grants Hannay only a temporary respite, and he’s soon in the hands of the police — or are they? — again.

Fate throws him a blonde, Madeleine Carroll, and soon the two are famously handcuffed together. Up to now I’ve been calling him Hannay, because up until now he’s been more of a plot function than a character, but Robert Donat gets to do some proper acting once the girl is in the picture, and she’s very good too — Hitchcock called her the first proper Hitchcock blonde.

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Hitchcock and Hannay treat her rather harshly, seemingly as punishment for her giving him up to the police on the Flying Scotsman (quite reasonably, under the circumstances). Ivor Montagu recalled that the writing team quite deliberately invented as many miseries as possible for the character — this seems to have been the beginning of Hitch’s odd reputation as a misogynist (I can understand it, totally, in FRENZY, but not earlier), and Hitch added to the theme by inflicting constant practical jokes on poor Madeleine Carroll — more on this in another post.

It struck me in the past that Carroll enters the story rather late, after her earlier appearance on the train. This time, it seemed perfect. Hannay begins as a nobody, his flat undecorated, his face unglimpsed until long into his first scene, and we are able to accept him as our substitute because, although he’s vague and unformed as a piece of writing, he’s embodied by the appealing Donat. Only halfway through the story does Hannay really start to dominate his own story, and he does it by dominating Carroll, though he, like his audience, can’t help but admire her pluck. In obstreperously resisting everything Hannay does and says, Carroll becomes a useful foil, and also a winning character — she confounds cliche more thoroughly than previous Hitchcock heroines.

(In NORTH BY NORTHWEST, Hitch completely reverses the blonde’s introduction, to further avoid cliche: when Eva Marie Saint recognises Cary Grant, on another train, as another wanted murderer, she not only doesn’t give him up to the cops, she blatantly comes on to him.)

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An overheard phone call, implausible but not wildly so, enables our protags to make it to the climax, back at the music hall where the film began — in another of Hitchcock’s musical MacGuffins, Hannay recognises a tune that’s been running through his head as the one from Mr. Memory’s act, and the entertainer becomes the key figure in the whole plot. I’m not sure if Memory’s punchline — answering a question asked during his act, even though it gets him shot — is totally clear. Bennett and Hitch were proud of the idea that Mr. Memory cannot bear to let a question go unanswered: it’s a matter of professional pride. But the idea isn’t, perhaps, as fully expressed as it could be. But his death scene is properly moving and absurd (the secret formula he’s memorized is sheerest crap — a MacGuffin of a MacGuffin) and we’re also graced by a cameo by a positively nubile Miles Malleson. And what do we say when we see Miles Malleson, remembering his scene as the dirty-books buyer in PEEPING TOM?

Altogether now — “He won’t be doing the crossword tonight!”