Archive for Tom Bell

Memory Monday: The Ass on the Bathroom Door

Posted in FILM, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 1, 2015 by dcairns

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So, I’m revisiting those filmmakers I devoted Official Weeks to in the past here on Shadowplay. Joseph Losey got his own week because I had a sense that I hadn’t seen nearly enough Losey and that I hadn’t appreciated him enough — a sense that, actually, I might have some kind of antipathy to his whole approach. As Richard Lester said to Soderbergh, Losey was the last person you would use the word “zany” about, and in fact I found there was a lack of humour which was almost heroic at times. MODESTY BLAISE is the one film Losey made that could be called a comedy, and indeed is absolutely dependent on whimsy since it refuses to be what the producers evidently intended, a campy James Bond sex-and-violence wallow. The only part of that equation Losey didn’t have a fierce antipathy to is the “campy” part, and yet even that was kind of alien to him, which is how he was able to make BOOM! a great piece of unconscious camp.

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I somehow didn’t have a copy of THE CRIMINAL to hand when I did Losey Week, though I knew I would like it when I saw it. When Losey played thrillers more or less straight, they were gripping. When the movie insists on providing a commentary on what it’s about, instead of just being about it, you could get problems, as with the stuff with the gangsters in Losey’s maudit remake of M: the movie insists on offering up a pinko analysis of organised crime as a manifestation of Capital. THE GODFATHER succeeds simply by allowing this idea to play out as drama, not even as an allegory, but as a simple statement of fact. Nobody needs to point it out.

Losey described THE PROWLER, another excellent noir I didn’t get around to writing about, as “a film about false values,” and such stories are powerful and compelling as long as the scenarist can resist inserting a mouthpiece to put it all into words. “The playwright should show conditions and leave it to the audience to draw conclusions,” as Brander Matthews put it.

And so to THE CRIMINAL (1960), which does just that. I think the avoidance of proselytising is something Losey ultimately found very sympatico in the British writers he worked with, which is what led him to bond so well with Pinter, who NEVER tells you what’s on his mind. Here, the writer is Alun Owen, later to pen A HARD DAY’S NIGHT. Richard Lester remarked to me that Owen had a multiplicity of useful hats he could put on, as both a Scouser and  a Welshman, and he had a wealth of life experience which informed his work. Very unusually for a British crime film, THE CRIMINAL sets out simply to record a series of events, into which the viewer is invited to read meanings. What it avoids is any Marxist or Freudian analysis of what leads to a life of crime, though you can hunt for clues if that’s your bag.

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We begin in prison, though Owen has written a careful gag, a high-stakes poker game between Brit-flick stalwarts such as Murray Melvin and Patrick Wymark (shockingly young, a tufty-haired rolly-polly joker with a sinister edge, not quite the Toby Jug he would morph into just a few years later). We’re clearly meant to be taken by surprise when we discover the game is being played with matches by lags in a cell. But Losey takes his directorial wrecking-ball to the gag, framing Melvin against a painted brick wall pasted with suggestive imagery (I think that might be Abbey Lincoln and Frances Bacon!), and even before that there’s a short of a prison gate with the producers’ credit over it. This is either a crass insertion by Nat Cohen and Stuart Levy of Anglo-Amalgamated, who had just made PEEPING TOM and were considered the dregs of the industry, or else Losey himself couldn’t resist sticking their names over a shot of a prison gate (maybe he had more wit than I credit him with).

Losey had earlier made a short for Hammer, A MAN ON THE BEACH (1955), a dull Tales of the Very Expected thing entirely predicated upon the shock revelation that Donald Wolfit’s character is blind. Wolfit, whose tread could be as leaden as Losey’s at his worst, plays the whole thing with an unblinking middle-distance star and groping hands, telegraphing “I can’t see a bloody thing” from his first entrance, rendering the whole enterprise pointless. So Losey is one of those filmmakers with a constitutional aversion to the “pull-back-and-reveal” gag, it seems.

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Jimmy Sangster, who apparently originated the story of THE CRIMINAL as well as scripting that benighted short, based a lot of his career on that very narrative trope, churning out DIABOLIQUES rip-offs for Hammer, so Losey’s rejection of the approach is an early sign of an exciting battle of sensibilities. Unlike Sangster, Owen is drawn to narrative sidetracks, and invents a whole prison populace of distinctive characters who don’t really need to be there for story reasons, but are essential for world-building. Asides from Melvin and Wymark (and it’s typical the show opens with such minor figures), we’ll soon get Gregoire Aslan (chucklesome charm subdued into lizard-eyed menace), Tom Bell and Kenneth Cope, who fulfills a similar function here as in X: THE UNKNOWN, which Losey nearly directed and may well have cast him in: turn up, look scared, suffer An Appalling Fate.

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As always, Patrick Magee, of the curling lip and watery eye, who plays the corrupt prison warden Burrows, threatens to rip the whole thing apart with a performance evoking paranoid schizophrenia, satanic possession and narcissistic personality disorder all at once. The only way Richard MacDonald’s spectacular prisons set can contain him is for Owen and Losey to open up other avenues into disintegration, safely channeling the Magee Overflow. Most eye-popping occurs during a monologue by mentally-ill prisoner Brian Phelan, where Losey pushes in fast to a tight closeup and actually irises in to shoot the actor in a vignette, suggesting simultaneously his frightening isolation from reality and his inability to reach Baker on any meaningful emotional level.

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Baker himself is astonishing, the kind of actor without whom this kind of film would be unimaginable. Unapologetically macho — and also willing to associate closely with the film’s themes of sexual variance. His close-quarters combat with Bell and Neil McCarthy has sexual intimations, even down to the “nothing-happening-here” pretense when Caught At It by the warden. Tough guy Clobber (Kenneth J. Warren) has pugilists on his walls and a tender relationship with Phelan.

The film, unusually, contains two long prison sequences, as we meet Baker the day before his release, and when arrested again he arranges an escape. In the outside world, an agressive, overstated heterosexuality reigns. Baker’s swinging crim pad is awash with nudes, both artistic and actual. He playfully spanks the full-length odalisque on his bathroom door. She has a nice behind, but come on — who spanks a door? When former squeeze Jill Bennett is edged out by newbie nudie Margot Saad, she’s more naked that I would have thought was possible in 1960 Britain, unless you were Pamela Green. The value of eroticism was probably the one area where Losey’s interests coincided with Anglo-Amalgamated’s.

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The film has hilariously little interest in its heist, apparently forged in a masterplan by grinning idiot John Molloy inside — we never even see the full robbery, just its aftermath, and never learn the plan, just the betrayals afterwards. These involve sad-eyed copper Laurence Naismith, purring creep Sam Wanamaker, and swaggering Nigel Green, enormous in an overcoat with padded shoulders, inflating his physique to Honey Monster proportions.

It is tempting just to list the cast, isn’t it? But the film is shot by tetchy genius Robert Krasker (THE THIRD MAN) and edited by Reggie Mills who cut most of Powell & Pressburger’s movies. He’s wonderfully sloppy about continuity, and incredibly tight about narrative and psychology, and he has his own taut sense of rhythm. There’s a riot scene which energises all of these talents, and the ragged-edged cast, around MacDonald’s panopticon prison set and allows Losey to really break loose with the camera, which cocks its head like Ygor, crabs fast like Astaire, swoops in like Baron Harkonnen, combining the sardonic glint, the grace, and the leering aggression of all three of those figures. I should add that Johnny Dankworth’s score adds immeasurably to the atmosphere and drama, its romantic longing largely in counterpoint to the hard-edged action.

It’s a bleak film. “Miserable time of the year,” remarks Magee. “If we could only have some flowers. Down there. In summer it’s a blaze of colour.” Here’s the prison garden:

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Here’s a park.

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Here’s a field.

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England as a BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN no-man’s-land. Losey is starting to feel at home.

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The ’68 Comeback Special: The Long Day’s Dying

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2013 by dcairns

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“There ARE men dead. I know of men dead. And, and I know of a girl dead. This girl, this girl was loved by one of our lads who was asked questions and had lighted cigarettes pushed into his face… but survived. And came home, to bed and beauty. And she kissed him in the night, asleep. With love. And he stuck a knife in her, without waking, up to her heart. He woke up in Broadmoor.”

As my partner-in-crime Dave Scout Tafoya wrote last week, the would-be 1968 Cannes Film Festival contained good as well as bad competitors for the Palm D’Or, I’ll be writing about at least one of the British duffers later on, but it’s heartening to report that I’ve just seen a British entry which, though little-known and rarely-seen, proves to be a terrific piece of cinema.

Peter Collinson’s career is mysterious — the only quality linking most of his films is their tendency to be chamber pieces, either with a fringe theatre influence or tending more towards the suspense potboiler. One of the few filmmakers to carve out a distinct oeuvre at Hammer un-influenced by the major commercial trends at that establishment, Collinson gave us the fascinating oddities THE PENTHOUSE and STRAIGHT ON TILL MORNING. More conventionally, he helmed FRIGHT and THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE.

Right before this one he was responsible for UP THE JUNCTION, the film adaptation of a kitchen sink TV play originally directed by Ken Loach — I think this is what gave Collinson the respectability to be considered for Cannes. Right afterwards he made THE ITALIAN JOB, his biggest hit and the film he’s most remembered for. In the window in between he made the movie with the highest artistic ambition, but on a small scale and tight budget.

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A LONG DAY’S DYING follows three British soldiers lost somewhere in Europe in WWII. Charles Wood adapted the screenplay from Alan White’s novel — the previous year Wood scripted HOW I WON THE WAR and the same year he wrote Tony Richardson’s THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. He also contributed heavily to the screenplay for PETULIA, another film due to have been screened at the abortive Cannes ’68. A sort-of-pacifist who is also an enthusiast for military history, Wood brings acute authenticity to his army stories, combined with a surreal sensibility which makes for rather thrilling, disconcerting contrasts. The main manifestation of this here is the internal monologues he gives to all his characters, which seem to talk to one another at times in a kind of faulty telepathy. The characters are always either overhearing each others’ thoughts or else failing to do so. Sometimes they shout-think their voice-overs at each other in a pathetic attempt to be heard and understood. It adds a strangeness to the simple tale of survival (or the failure to survive).

The Brits are David Hemmings (heart-breakingly youthful — a baby-faced killer) Tom Bell (before he got raddled — actually dishy) and Tony Beckley (also in THE ITALIAN JOB). The lone German is Alan Dobie, who sadly can’t do the accent — he sounds Russian. That, and some heavy-handed music choices at the start and (especially) the end are the film’s only major flaws.

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Sadly, many of Collinson’s films have vanished from view, and this one could only be found on a rip made from a faulty VHS tape, which was a pan-and-scan butchering to begin with. The movie is strong enough to deserve DVD resurrection by the BFI’s Flipside label, I’d argue. Particularly with such a strong Hemmings perf. As a result, the cinematography is impossible to assess — even its atmospheric, earth-tone loamy quality may be simply a result of a bad transfer.

John Trumper’s editing survives better, although obviously the visual rhythms are thrown off by the cropping. Trumper, who would cut GET CARTER, has an edgy way with violence, cutting the graphic moments short and leaving us blinking in disbelief. At one point, Beckley’s character is warned that a grenade will go off in his face one day, and we cut not-quite-subliminally to Beckley’s bloody face and torn lips, as if it’s happened, and then back to reality. Disconcerting.

Collinson also throws in some slow-motion falls, and it’s tempting at first to see this as standard-issue action film-making. But this is 1968, and BONNIE AND CLYDE is only just coming out, Peckinpah hasn’t been allowed to use slomo yet, and so Collinson is ahead of the curve with only Kurosawa as his obvious influence.

It really is only the use of Elgar at the end that spoils this film. Fiona thought the freeze-frames were also overdoing it, but had they unfolded in silence I think they could have been starkly effective, even with all the overuse of that device in the ensuing decade. Collinson’s tendency to over-eggery may be the reason most of his films aren’t so well-remembered — that and, to be fair, his tragic early death at the hands of Ricky Schroder.*

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*For legal reasons, we would like to make it clear that child actor Ricky Schroder did not in fact kill Peter Collinson.