Rescued by Rover (1905)
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| Ealing studio head, Michael Balcon, suggested that
In the immediate post-war years there was as yet no mood of cynicism; the bloodless revolution of 1945 had taken place, but I think our first desire was to get rid of as many wartime restrictions as possible and get going. The country was tired of regulations and regimentation, and there was a mild anarchy in the air. In a sense our comedies were a reflection of this mood … a safety valve for our more anti-social impulses. (Balcon, 1971: 159) The idea of getting rid of ‘as many wartime restrictions as possible’ and the country being ‘tired of regulations and regimentation’ is clearly relevant. And certainly the final comment here, suggesting Ealing comedies could be seen as ‘a safety valve for more anti-social impulses’, offers a further interesting perspective upon the role of comedy within society. Far from instigating, or even attempting to instigate, social change this would suggest comedy may actively work to prevent radical change. Notes
Further Reading Michael Balcon, Michael Balcon Presents: A Lifetime of Films, London, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1971. Charles Barr, Ealing Studios, Moffat: Cameron and Hollis, 1998. James Curran and Vincent Porter (eds) British Cinema History, London, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1983. Christine Geraghty, British Cinema in the 1950s: gender, genre and the ‘new look’, London, Routledge, 2000. Philip Gillett, The British Working Class in Post-war Film, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2003. Sue Harper and Vincent Porter British Cinema of the 1950s: the decline of deference, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2003. Andrew Higson, Waving the Flag: Constructing a National Cinema in Britain, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1997. Paul Johnson (ed) Twentieth Century Britain: Economic, Social and Cultural Change, Harlow, Routledge, 1994. Ian Mackillop and Neil Sinyard (eds), British Cinema in the 1950s: A Celebration, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2003. John White The Third Man (1949) [Production Company: London Film Production. Director: Carol Reed. Screenwriter: Graham Greene. Cinematographer: Robert Krasker. Editor: Oswald Hafenrichter. Music: Anton Karas. Cast: Joseph Cotton (Holly Martins), Orson Welles (Harry Lime), Alida Valli (Anna Schmidt), Trevor Howard (Major Calloway)] The Third Man has become an indisputable classic of British cinema, a mystery thriller with a wonderful twist, drawing on noir techniques, themes, characters, and moods. Based on a story by Graham Greene, it charts the post Second World War moral and material decay of Western Europe via the adventures of a naive American writer, Holly Martins, who goes to Vienna in search of his old friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles on magnificent form). At first told that he is dead, Martins is then disturbed to discover that Lime is alive and stands accused of being involved in black market drug-dealing, indirectly causing the death and suffering of hundreds of people, and hiding out in the Russian sector of the rubble-strewn city. Eventually Martins finds him but the story does not end easily for any of the characters involved. Such a simple tale and yet somehow The Third Man has succeeded in becoming one of the greatest British films of all time, with one of the most famous and memorable scenes in all cinema. Before unravelling this film’s apparent ‘greatness’, it is worth pondering its status as a ‘British’ film. Well before critics and academics began debating the complexities of ‘transnational’ cinema, along came a feature that posed a challenge to most of the traditional ways of deciding the national identity of a film. But surely The Third Man’s credentials as a British film cannot be called into question? The film’s iconic pre-titles image of Big Ben and accompanying text clearly establish its production ‘home’ as London, its celebrated director and writer were both British, and it was one of the first films to benefit from a new grants scheme set up to boost national cinema production. (1) And yet, before either Carol Reed or Graham Greene’s names appear on screen, the spectator is informed that the film is ‘presented by’ Alexander Korda and David O. Selznick. Korda was the Hungarian-born founder of London Film Production, whose Austrian-held account was called upon while filming in Vienna, while Selznick was already widely considered as one of the most influential Hollywood producers of all time. (2) Furthermore, The Third Man tells the story of one American character (Harry Lime) from the point of view of another (Holly Martins), while the British actors Trevor Howard and Bernard Lee play only supporting roles. As Rob White points out, it would be ‘misleading to call it simply a British film, given the central involvement of Selznick, Cotton and Welles.’ (2003: 9) Notwithstanding, while its national identity remains ambiguous, its status in British film culture is indisputable: in 2000, it came top of a poll of industry representatives designed to identify the best British films of the twentieth century, fighting off at least eight others made during the immediate post-war period when British cinema suddenly flourished. (3) Moreover, it led to its director being considered one of the greatest British film-makers of all time. Perhaps its anomalous national status is part of what makes The Third Man so distinctive, especially since ambiguity is at the core of the film’s thematic preoccupations. But of course the reasons for its longevity must extend far beyond its complicated production context which is already long forgotten. We need also to look at the way in which it draws so deftly on a range of cinematic influences, and crafts a story and characters of such interest as to create a work of overwhelming magnetism. Techniques of German expressionism, conventions of film noir and tricks of the thriller genre are all used to set up an engaging and unique portrayal of a post-war context that was steeped not in the more conservative ideals of conformity and unity, but in complex questions about the value of human life. Moral ambiguity is inscribed in its main characters, and the whiff of corruption, deception and betrayal pervades a city depicted as ravaged by conflict and ripped into four occupied zones along nationalist lines (British, American, French and Russian). In fact, the film foregrounds a constant blurring of physical, social, political and moral boundaries. Vienna is portrayed as a place of deep mistrust and a ubiquitous spy culture. Having suffered extensive damage from bomb attacks, its citizens are forced to survive despite relentless food and power shortages by relying on a thriving black market. The film’s shifting mood, from bleak cynicism to dark humour, is deftly achieved as national stereotypes are set up and then torn apart, preventing us from ever being really sure when to take things seriously. Much of what is regarded as important by the authorities – passports, border patrols – is ridiculed by the lack of respect paid to such conventions by most of the film’s main characters. It is important also to emphasise the distinctive formal components of this magnificently composed film, since it is only through a thorough understanding of them that we can begin to comprehend the complexities of the chaotic situation it seeks to express. As Phillips has observed, ‘The Third Man is an accomplished example of the ways that mise en scene, cinematography, editing and sound can help reveal and support a film’s settings, subjects, moods, and meanings.’ (2002: 179) While its cyclical narrative structure, starting and ending with the funerals (one a part of the deception, the other all too real) of one of its main characters is quite simple, what gives this film its classic status is its inventive cinematography and uncertain atmosphere. Robert Murphy describes it as a philosophical thriller, with just the right blend of: ‘realistic locations + slanting shadow throws + deeply diagonal night-streets […] + strong, insolent, secretive faces + charged acting + zithery-slithery vibrations tangling and unwinding our nerves, teasing and haunting us like a ghostly gurdy-hurdy’ (2001: 144). Robert Krasker’s Oscar-winning monochrome camera work accentuates the baroque contours of this once magnificent city, reminding the viewer of its high-culture status (statues and spires reaching up above the rubble) that has been largely deposed by a seedy underworld of criminality and deception. The film’s opening moments are particularly remarkable for the neat and concise way in which so much information is quickly conveyed. The image over which the titles appear is almost abstract with its extreme close-up of the moving strings and sound-hole of a zither, the music from which establishes the film’s uncertain tone, jaunty and sinister at the same time as if concealing a sense of unease amidst its irritatingly upbeat chords. As Amy Sargeant points out, ‘the Anton Karas score pervades the film, endorsing both its location [...] and its mood: the famous Harry Lime theme is woven is woven into an almost continuous warp.’ (2005: 167) The director himself then anonymously provides a brisk and ironic voice-over commentary as a swift montage of images gives further warning of the tone and concerns of the piece: street racketeers shiftily reveal cheap, fake watches hidden in suitcases, a dead body floats along the Danube, soldiers march up and down under instruction to defend artificial borders that mark the beginning of Cold War frontlines; classical buildings lie in ruins or cluttered by rubble. (4) Amidst this rubble, Reed’s emotionally complex characters struggle with questions of loyalty and morality. Which is worse – betrayal of love, or deception and crimes against humanity? The answer should be clear but the beauty of The Third Man is that nothing is ever clear. Harry Lime may be morally repugnant, but he is charming and charismatic nevertheless. He doesn’t even appear until just over halfway through the film and yet – thanks to that zither – his presence is felt throughout. Even after his death, his influence is such that his girlfriend will not acknowledge the ‘friend’ who finally betrayed him, despite his offer of help. Meanwhile, this friend, Holly Martins, who should be the hero of the piece, is constantly found wanting. He has only come to Vienna because Harry has promised him a job, and then tries to steal his girlfriend’s affections. This girlfriend, Anna, is herself the embodiment of masquerade: as a comedy stage actress, she is used to performing for the sake of others and her grief at losing Harry is revealed only in her most private moments. (5) As the object of the male gaze and passive until the final moments of the film (to Holly’s great disappointment), she operates in a kind of limbo throughout in terms of her own moral authority. Found guilty of identity fraud, she refuses to strike a deal with the authorities, but in taking that decision she becomes complicit in Harry’s crimes and thus the whole notion of loyalty is called into question. And so it is left to Major Calloway, supported by his sidekick Sergeant Paine, to provide the moral backbone of the film, somehow bringing order to the chaos around him, sweeping up the mess and offering the voice of common sense. Perhaps this is what really confirms the film’s national allegiance: its apparent alliance of the qualities of decency and valour with Britishness, and those of treachery, malevolence and violence with the Americans, the Czechs, the Hungarians and the Russians. Anyone but the British. The ending of The Third Man was the subject of a major dispute between Reed and Greene, the latter unconvinced that audiences would tolerate anything other than a happy conclusion with Anna and Holly leaving together. The choice of closing image is even more striking for its bold use of a long-held deep-focus shot that allows Anna to walk towards and then past the camera, as the Harry Lime theme plays out. It worried Selznick also for expecting audiences to wait until the end (he shortened it), but its mixture of suspense and defiance works a treat. As Murphy suggests, ‘like the strings pulling up the sails in a bottle it jerks everything into place.’ (2000: 198) In the end, questions have been answered and order is restored as Calloway drives off to resume service. Notes
Further Reading Robert Murphy, British Cinema and the Second World War, London and New York, Continuum, 2000. Robert Murphy, The British Cinema Book, 2nd edition, London, BFI, 2001. W.H. Philliips, ‘Expressive Film Techniques in The Third Man’, in Film: An Introduction, London, Palgrave, 2002, pp.35-43. Amy Sargeant, British Cinema: A Critical History, London, BFI, 2005. Rob White, The Third Man, London, BFI, 2003. Sarah Barrow The Cruel Sea (1953) [Production Company: Ealing Studios. Director: Charles Frend. Screenwriter: Eric Ambler. Cinematographer: Gordon Dines. Music: Alan Rawsthorne. Editor: Peter Tanner. Cast: Jack Hawkins (Captain Ericson), Donald Sinden (Lockhart), John Stratton (Ferraby), Denholm Elliott (Morrell), Stanley Baker (Bennett), Virginia McKenna (Julie Hallam), Moira Lister (Elaine Morrell), Liam Redmond (Jim Watts), Bruce Seton (Bob Tallow), Megs Jenkins (Tallow’s sister).] British war films made after 1945 are sometimes seen as distinctively different from those produced during the conflict, containing a nostalgic yearning for the unity of purpose achieved by the country in the war years; but there is actually a strong sense of thematic continuity in this genre throughout the 1940s and 1950s. (1) What does change is the context in which these films are viewed: while the conflict is taking place an idea such as the need for different classes to work together and the suggestion that there exists a quiet, determined, particularly British form of heroism are (at least debatably) acceptable to a majority of viewers, but with the post-war break-up of British overseas power and the increasing willingness of the working class to question their class subordination such concepts appear to be an increasingly desperate attempt to stem the tide of a changing world order at home and abroad. In other words, the propaganda inherent in the genre comes to seem false, forced and increasingly out of tune with public opinion. It is useful to compare The Cruel Sea both in terms of style and content with on the one hand say In Which We Serve (1942) and The Way to the Stars (1945) and on the other perhaps The Dam Busters (1954) and The Colditz Story (1955), but we should beware of making too easy assumptions and generalisations about films from the two different periods. It is worth considering to what extent and in what ways each film concerns itself with the horror and brutality of war; and relating these representations to the contexts of the different periods. How are issues of patriotism and the nature of ‘Britishness’ addressed? Are those taking part in the struggle shown as heroic; does the expression of heroism alter in any way, and if so, in what ways and for what reasons? How are the different classes represented and what role do women play in the films? In line with other films from the period The Cruel Sea shows war, despite its brutality, bringing out the best in people; but it also clearly displays the horrific waste of decent ordinary people’s lives (Watts and Seaton floating away from the life-rafts after the sinking of Compass Rose, for example), debates the value of war and points towards the madness of it all (‘Number One, this is quite a moment. We've never seen the enemy before.’/ ‘They don't look very different from us do they.’). This film is certainly one of a number made in post-war Britain that looked back at the war years as a heroic period in the history of a country that had opposed Hitler’s Germany with Churchillian defiance. Each of these films contributes towards promoting a certain version of the war that is in line with the dominant middle-class outlook on the world and carefully avoids too much of the harsh reality. (2) But this film does attempt to push forward more uncomfortable questions about the war. (3) In terms of both plot and character development the film revolves around the moment Ericson makes the brutal war-driven decision to plough his ship through British seamen in the water in order to attempt a ‘kill’ on a German U-boat; but on the other hand the reality of conditions onboard for those below decks is never explored (4) and the gulf between the officer class and ordinary seamen is never seen from a below-decks perspective. In fact, men at every level or rank are shown to be not only content with their place within the order of things but also intensely aware of their role and place within an efficiently functioning hierarchical unit. Attitudes towards war displayed in the film have been shaped by the dominant norms and values of 1950s British society. This is a highly selective view of things presented for the consumption of cinema audiences with a clear eye to shaping the way in which the war will be seen by the public. It is the product of a particular society at a particular historical moment made by middle-class filmmakers from a middle-class perspective. And yet, in addition to the stereotypical officer class heroism of Ericson there is also an awareness of the quietly stoical heroism of very ordinary people. One thing that has shifted considerably since the war years is the attitude towards Germans expressed in the film. As demonstrated by the quotation above they are seen as the enemy but also as ordinary human beings caught up in the events. In the context of the Cold War there is an increasing need in the post-war period to see Germany as a potential ally rather than enemy. What appears to be a decision by the filmmakers to identify the enemy as the ‘cruel sea’ and war itself as much as ‘the Germans’ could also be seen to address an ideological need. As with the comedy genre of Passport to Pimlico made a few years earlier what we see is the importance of considering genre not purely as a functional approach to film form but as operating within a specific socio-historical context. This is a war film reflecting a certain version of the experience of war and the nature of war. It is made at a specific point in British history, not during the war but eight years later. At its heart The Cruel Sea is a love story between Ericson and Lockhart. When they first meet Ferraby is also present but the exchange that ensues is essentially between these two and subsequently they share a series of intensely intimate one-to-one scenes throughout the rest of the film (‘You alright, sir?’/’No, I don’t mind telling you, I’m not.’). He discusses this relationship with his female love-interest, Second Lieutenant Hallam: Hallam: You must be very fond of Ericson. Lockhart: I feel I want to finish the war with him and with no-one else: David and Jonathan. Does it sound silly? Hallam: No, but women don’t often have that relationship and if they do it’s not usually about something important like running a ship or fighting a war. It is also a careful exploration of the psychological changes that come over the central character as he struggles to maintain both his sanity and his humanity in the face of the brutality. See, for example, the opening scene alone on the bridge of the new ship, Saltash Castle, in which the sight of the communication tubes creates a flashback to the remembered sounds of the screams from below decks on Compass Rose. Both Ericson and Lockhart are clearly denoted as members of the well-to-do middle class, and class divisions are made apparent throughout the film. Filmic codes such as dress and language use mark out officers from other ranks. The middle class officers, for example, use words and phrases such as ‘I say’, ‘grand’, ‘terrific’ and ‘old chap’. In this connection, Bennett is immediately marked out as different, in a variety of ways, but certainly through his language use (‘Snorkers, good oh.’). And he is different - he is from the wrong class: Morrell: He sounds a very ‘experienced’ officer, the First Lieutenant. Lockhart: Very, until four months ago he was a second-hand car salesman. Morrell: Ah, I see. When we first see Ericson he is wearing overalls and workingmen’s gloves; the top of the overalls is open to reveal his officer’s jacket and tie and he is wearing his captain’s hat. He moves around the ship with purpose, constantly looking about him. He is the captain clearly but he is also able to join with and move amongst the ordinary seamen. Almost immediately we are given a contrast between not only the cut of his gloves compared with those worn by the First Lieutenant, Bennett, but also the way in which he wears them. See how Bennett is positioned above Ferraby and Lockhart when the three first meet and how the glove is used as an emblem of his character. A range of women are shown in the film (helping perhaps to open the genre to a wider audience). Women have often been portrayed as either caring and selfless or uncaring and selfish; is this pattern followed in this film? Painted beauty, in the case of Morrell’s wife, is clearly seen as deceptive and false; while plain beauty, in the case of Hallam, is not only real and true but also part of that which is able to nurture and support a man. The presence of women also allows some exploration of war on the Home Front and this is very much connected to a class division. Morrell’s wife seems to be part of a stratum of society that continued to do well and live the high life during the war while others experience the hardship. Glad, by contrast, is a representative of the terraced house working class who took the brunt of the Blitz. She is common decent humanity that suffers and dies in war. Her death is dealt with in a low key way that demonstrates the understated best of this film. Overall, what view of Britain does this film present? It was made eight years after the end of the war and in order to answer this question we would need to consider more carefully what Britain was like at this time, and why it chose to look back to World War Two in films from the period. This is a prejudiced middle class film with for example the second-hand car salesman being unable to deal with the demands of being an officer and with little real understanding of the day-to-day hardship of working and living below decks on the Atlantic crossing. But it is also a film that in contrast to many from the period is prepared to explore harder questions about both the nature of war in general and the nature of the British experience of a specific war. Ultimately it offers no real analysis of the situation but does at least raise the issue of the madness of it all. Yüklə 1,18 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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