Archive for Guy Green

Take My Life — Please

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , on October 17, 2014 by dcairns

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TAKE MY LIFE (1948) is Ronald Neame’s directorial debut. As you might expect if you know of Neame’s background as cinematographer for David Lean, the film is often very beautiful. And as you might expect if you’ve seen other Neame directorial jobs (eg GAMBIT, HOPSCOTCH), it’s a mildly diverting thriller — though of course he had other strengths (THE HORSE’S MOUTH, THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE).

What stops it from reaching the Hitchcockian heights it presumably aspires to (it’s a wrong-man thriller, after all) is perhaps a shortage of truly tense scenes, and a slightly dodgy structure, where it seems to be missing most of a second act. It’s based on a novel by Winston Grahame (MARNIE) and inventively folds its set-up into a summing-up by portly prosecutor Francis L. Sullivan with illustrative flashbacks, the last of which reveals that arrested man Hugh Williams is not the culprit — instead, joy of joys, we get Marius Goring, aged up with some grey streaks to his hair and face, as a Scottish schoolteacher secretly married to the victim. Now, Williams’ wife must investigate for herself, locating and somehow incriminating the sepulchral Scotsman.

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As lit by Guy Green, star Greta Gynt displays Norway’s most alluring complexion. Her character’s career as opera singer allows for some nice visuals early on, and her artistic temperament ultimately triggers the circumstance that gets her husband incriminated (strict structuralism demands that this temperament return to play a role in the plot later, but it doesn’t). Hugh Williams, being imprisoned for much of the plot, can only look guilty — of what, we never know, since we know he’s not the murderer, but with his oiled beetle-shell of hair and somehow untrustworthy fleshy features, he is physiognomically incapable of projecting innocence.

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After the stylish and moody opening, the film has to rely on the threat to Williams to supply all dramatic tension, since Gynt’s efforts to clear his name do not put her in peril, do not give her problems she can struggle with, and rely on a wild and lucky coincidence to come to their resolution. Only when Goring is reintroduced and comes face to face with her can some proper suspense be created (Didn’t Goring ever play a vampire? He should’ve.) Apart from the ageing makeup, which looks fine in medium shot and goofy in close-up, he seems to have elongated the shape of his face, I think just by putting the tips of his teeth together rather than clenching them. At any rate, sometimes you can’t quite believe it’s him.

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The film’s other pleasant surprise is the darkly beautiful Rosalie Crutchley, whom I normally associate with her gloomy housekeeper role in Robert Wise’s THE HAUNTING. Here she gets to be a bit glam, and makes me wish she had gotten leading roles exploiting her slightly Latinate charms. An impossibility in the British film industry of the time, I fear.

 

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Nonce Upon a Time in the Midlands

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on June 2, 2012 by dcairns

THE MARK seems to be pretty well a forgotten film — which is a shame because it has strong performances and a daring theme. Stuart Whitman, who got an Oscar nomination which marked the peak of his career — if anything, the film may have hurt him professionally — plays a man convicted of child abduction and released after a prison sentence and group therapy conducted by Rod Steiger. He’s theoretically “cured” of his pedophile impulses, and embarks on a relationship with secretary Maria Schell.

Manchester in this movie is a pretty cosmopolitan city — Whitman is American playing Canadian, Steiger is playing Irish, Schell is unmistakably German. Interiors were actually filmed in Ireland (where presumably the Church welcomed a film on this subject?), and among Whitman’s fellow convicts are Eddie Byrne and Al Mulock (the knuckle-cracker from the opening of ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST — who committed suicide on the set of that film).

The film is compassionate, sometimes ploddingly earnest, but Guy Green’s direction does include some elegant lap dissolves drifting into flashback — the idea here isn’t anything bold (the really hep film-makers were into direct cutting at this point) but long dissolves that creep across a b&w ‘scope frame are always beautiful to look at: think THE INNOCENTS.

Where the film has dated is probably its assumption that pedophiles can be cured, which at present looks doubtful. With the simple faith in Freud common at the time, the movie posits that a domineering, puritanical mother and weak father have rendered Whitman unable to face adult female sexuality, leading to his libidinous impulses taking a predatory interest in children. He abducts a little girl but can’t go through with assaulting her, which allows the audience to retain some kind of sympathy with him. Steiger’s aggressive therapy sessions force Whitman to confront his demons and he leaves prison ready to begin a mature relationship. But is society ready to have him back?

The demonizing of the press, with their panic-stirring moral campaigns, does still feel relevant — is there any subject more muddled in hysteria in the UK than child sexual abuse? And this problem is all the more serious because there are matters of genuinely tragic import within it. The fact that the media recognize no distinction between a pedophile — someone sexually attracted to children, which seems to be as innate a condition as any sexual preference, and therefore a biological rather than a moral failing — and child molesters, who are people who CHOOSE to act on those impulses and are therefore both morally and criminally guilty (and likely more motivated by a desire to control and cause suffering than by biological imperative) — means that it’s quite hard to sanely discuss the issues. The fact that the law here seems to regard a pornographic drawing as just as sinister as an actual photograph suggests that the natural revulsion to child abuse is possibly clouding the clear-eyed judgement essential for protecting children from harm. It seems like every time there’s a hot-button topic involving real dangers and real evils, a lot of people think the correct way to react is by being really stupid, as long as they evince the correct form of emotion. And I’m prepared to bet that many of the people calling for convicted child abusers to be killed, tortured or castrated are themselves deriving illicit sexual pleasure from their socially-conscious snuff fantasies.

That said, THE MARK is in many respects a fascinating period piece rather than a powerful drama, since it’s based on a naive understanding of how seemingly fixed sexual preference is. It would be great if a real “cure” existed — except that I’m sure a lot of reactionary fools would start applying it to other, perfectly innocent sexual quirks or leanings. But it might be amusing to have a world where everybody could switch preferences at any time.

Blind Tuesday: As Farrar as the Eye Can See

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2011 by dcairns

Extraordinary! No sooner have I watched one obscure blind-person-in-jeopardy movie starring a BLACK NARCISSUS alumnus (Kathleen Byron in MADNESS OF THE HEART) than another comes along (David Farrar in NIGHT WITHOUT STARS) And they’re practically the same movie!

Novelettish title: check (the night is without stars because he’s BLIND, geddit?). Southern French setting: check . Miracle cure around halfway: check. Insanely jealous incestuous relative: check. But this movie, directed by Anthony Pelissier, is quite a bit more compelling and less cheesy than Charles Bennet’s potboiler, even if nobody in it’s as compelling as la Byron.

Jumble up the first film as if in a dream, and you have the second film. Winston Grahame (MARNIE) scripts, from his own novel. Farrar is a veteran who lost most of his vision in the war. Holidaying in France, he falls for a girl, Alex, widow of a resistance fighter, but suddenly she has a hostile fiance. Farrar gets to demonstrate impressive sang froid while dealing with this Gallic lout —

“Go on, go on, before I keek you downstairz!”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that, do you?”

“I zuppose you seenk your blindness protectz you?”

“On the contrary, I should have thought it’d make it easier for you.”

Suave.

But then, a panicked phone call — in French, which DF doesn’t speak — from Alex, inviting her over to the guy’s apartment on an urgent matter. He comes. Nobody seems to be there. As he prowls around, cinematographer Guy Green (GREAT EXPECTATIONS) lights him with a follow spot, emphasizing his isolation — the light beams onto whatever Farrar touches, making us feel the limitations of his senses. As he moves about the deserted apartment, finding a smashed vase and strewn flowers, an abandoned piece of jewelry, a gun… a loud ticking sound builds, oppressively…

Of course it’s Farrar’s giant alarm clock from THE SMALL BACK ROOM, tockative companion to the more famous giant whisky bottle. Has to be. In the insane Wikipedia article of my mind, Farrar had it in his contract that both items had to accompany him on every set, in case he wanted to time himself having a big drink. Or no, maybe the alarm clock sort of STALKED him, like the one that stalks Captain Hook in Peter Pan from inside a crocodile. Or maybe the sound just sort of imbued itself into Farrar’s cinematic presence. Sound men would protest when he was cast, because they knew they could record him in conditions of absolute silence and yet still on the tape, at the end of the day, would be heard that phantasmal tick-tock… That’s why there’s so much John Barry music in BEAT GIRL, it’s to drown out the beating of that infernal clock!!!

THE SMALL BACK ROOM.

Ahem. A nasty moment follows when Farrar sits on the bed and the fiance’s corpse slumps over on him. He flees, waits for police reports, but nothing. Then he discovers that the cafe where he used to dine with Alex has vanished, or rather it has a different name and a different proprietor. Alex herself has vanished. WHAT is going on?

Anthony Pelissier, who directed THE ROCKING HORSE WINNER, had an occasional tendency to stylistic verve (the climactic “rocking” scenes of that film are visually WILD), tamped down by the time and place he was working in. I suspect if he’d been able to get started earlier in the forties we’d have seen some masterpieces from him, exploiting the feeling of innovation and brio in the air. As it is, this is a twisty thriller with a stiletto-hurling bad guy and a third act detective inspector deus ex machina to sort everything out. Farrar’s experience with matte-painted mountainsides comes in handy at a dicey moment, and we establish for certain that bottle bottom glasses are not a good look for him. And Nadia Gray is tres charmant (although actually Romanian, not French).