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Summary of Discussion on Busman’s Honeymoon

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Our discussion of Busman’s Honeymoon covered genre – especially different aspects of melodrama; adaptation; the notion of authorship; and casting.

The film credits both Dorothy L Sayers’ 1937 novel, Busman’s Honeymoon, and Sayers’ and Muriel St Clare Byrne’s 1936 play of the same name. But we primarily discussed the film in relation to Sayers’ novel. This is partly because our theme for this term is adaptations of detective novels written by women. There is also a practical reason: the play is far less known today, and more difficult to access, than the novel. The two authors of the play nonetheless raise interesting questions about authorship which I return to towards the end of this post.

 

We discussed the titles of the novel and the film. ‘Busman’s Honeymoon’ suggests a mix of genres. The similar term ‘Busman’s Holiday’ refers to a vacation spent performing similar tasks to one’s ‘day job’. Lord Peter Wimsey investigates crime and Harriet Vane writes detective novels. We can therefore anticipate that their married bliss (significantly they are on honeymoon – implying romance – rather than on holiday) will be interrupted by crime. This is indicated more strongly in the subtitle to Sayers’ novel: ‘a love story with detective interruptions’. The title of the film on its US release, Haunted Honeymoon, is less explicit than the film’s UK title, perhaps the phrase is less well-known in the US. It still suggests that something unusual will occur during Peter and Harriet’s honeymoon in their new home.

We began our discussion on genre by commenting on this genre hybridity in more detail. The film’s genres are more equal than in the novel, which after all places primacy on a love story which is ‘interrupted’ by detection. The film switches between romance and detection more readily. Peter and Harriet’s jokey banter as they agree to stop investigating and writing about crime is juxtaposed with the crime itself. In this, the film more closely resembles the play’s subtitle (‘A Detective Comedy in Three Acts’) than the novel’s. The novel and the film begin with a focus on Lord Peter Wimsey (Robert Montgomery) and Harriet (Constance Cummings). But the film more quickly incorporates the crime by depicting the victim Noakes (Roy Emerton) and his relations with those around him. The film paints Noakes as an unpleasant man, with various people in the village shown to have motive for removing him. Noakes’ niece, Miss Agnes Twitterton (Joan Kemp-Welch), is revealed to be his heir, and in want of money in order to keep her fiancé, Frank Crutchley (Robert Newton). Frank has an additional monetary motive – Noakes owes him £10. The village policeman Constable Sellon (James Carney) also has a financial reason as Noakes is blackmailing him. Cleaning lady Mrs Ruddle (Louise Hampton) is another person who has been threatened by Noakes; he caught her stealing some of his fuel. Sure enough, Noakes is then knocked unconscious, presumably killed. This greatly contrasts with the novel as Noakes is only spoken of since we are introduced to the suspects once Peter and Harriet arrive at their new house.

We noticed that the film’s foregrounding of the crime also increased aspects of melodrama – especially male melodrama. Mystery is inherent in films which focus on detectives, and Violence is also often implied if the plot involves a murder. The film’s setting up of several suspects, each of whom is filmed creeping around the village and having unpleasant interactions with the victim, amplifies the mystery and means that the violence is enacted on screen. The chase aspect is also present. Again, this is emphasised in the film in comparison to the novel. In the latter when the policeman suspect, Constable Sellon, goes missing this is for a very short period of time. His discovery by a sergeant is only revealed to the reader in retrospect – perhaps partly because Peter is not involved. The film not only shows the chase, but, as with Noakes’ murder, the lead up to it. It inserts a car crash between a lorry and Lord Peter’s car in the centre of the village which is inadvertently caused by Constable Sellon. Constable Sellon flees the scene and the cinematography revels in the Devonshire landscape to picture policemen hunting their colleague. This is oddly anti-climactic as the audience does not necessarily think Constable Sellon is the guilty party; indeed, when Peter catches up with the fugitive he reveals that he does not believe in Constable Sellon’s guilt either. The chase scenes reminded us of Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (1935). But they play a far less central role in Busman’s Honeymoon and are shorter in duration than in either The 39 Steps or last time’s screening, Hitchcock’s Young and Innocent (1938). (see our discussion here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2020/01/21/summary-of-discussion-on-young-and-innocent/) This perhaps comments on the ability of film to show rather than tell. While novels are of course not limited to telling, and can ‘show’ via description of the characters’ behaviour and though dialogue, the visual image can be more vivid.

As was the case during our discussion of Young and Innocent, we noticed elements of more traditional melodrama in Busman’s Honeymoon – suffering women. This is less of a focus in Busman’s Honeymoon than the male melodrama, since the suffering mostly relates to supporting characters. However, the suffering, like the aspects of male melodrama, also seems emphasised in the film in comparison to the novel. While the novel delays revelations about Noakes’ murder, and Miss Twitterton’s and Frank’s relationship, the film divulges this information sooner. This means that we are aware of Miss Twitterton’s shabby treatment at Frank’s hands (including his cheating on her with Polly (Googie Withers)) for a longer period. Miss Twitterton also relives her suffering as she relates what has happened to her to Peter and Harriet when they visit her house. Miss Twitterton’s distress, while acute, is short-lived – she soon pulls herself together. This was also the case when she was, understandably, affected at the finding of her Uncle’s body.

The film’s other main instance of high emotion relates to Harriet, after the murder has been committed but before it has been discovered. The morning after Peter and Harriet’s wedding night we hear a loud shot. Harriet rushes out of the house, terrified, and screaming for Peter. The matter is soon neutralised, and even turned comical; the shooter is revealed to be the local reverend Simon Goodacre (Aubrey Mallalieu), and the victim not Peter, but a stoat. This is an invention of the film, as the novel introduces the clergyman in a more traditional manner.

Harriet’s brief moment of suffering caused us to reflect on the fact that the film also has some gothic tropes. The house in which the murder has been committed is one bought for new bride Harriet by her wealthy husband Peter. This brings together both the old dark house often present as a setting in gothic narratives, and the idea of the unwise hasty marriage. The novel begins with a flurry of letters between various people, including members of Peter’s family, which comment on his and Harriet’s surprise recent elopement. These reveal that the pair did have a big church wedding planned, but that they decided on a smaller, more private, gathering. While the last-minute change of venue has caused consternation to some, it is made clear that Peter and Harriet have known each other for a long time. Those familiar with Sayers’ previous Wimsey novels would know that Peter and Harriet met several years earlier (in the 5th Wimsey novel, Strong Poison, published in 1930) when he defended her on a charge of murder against her live-in-lover. Harriet also appears, alongside Wimsey, in the 7th, Have His Carcase (1932) and the 10th , Gaudy Night (1935), novels of the series.

By contrast, the film introduces us to Peter and Harriet prior to their wedding. The film fleetingly pictures a society announcement of the upcoming wedding, noting that it is ‘long-awaited’. In the opening scene, Peter and Harriet are carrying out an inventory of wedding gifts, which include numerous, very gothic-looking, candelabras. Their relationship seems jokey but is not as obviously of such long-standing as in the novels. We do not see the wedding (this seems to occur at the time Noakes’ murder is taking place on screen), but we do glimpse Harriet trying on her wedding dress. Significantly, this is a traditional white gown. A letter from Peter’s sister-in-law, Helen, cattily comments that Harriet had the ‘sense and the propriety’ not to wear ‘white satin and orange blossom’ due to her scandalous past. We thought that the film therefore portrayed Harriet as less experienced, especially as there is no mention of her previous lover. While this is unsurprising, due to what was considered to be in good taste in the mass medium of film at the time, it can also be seen to position her more closely to the heroine of gothic narratives.

While we mostly compared the film to the novel to illuminate the former’s genre, especially melodrama, we also commented on the basic mechanics of the murder plot and representations of characters. Unlike Young and Innocent, Busman’s Honeymoon retained the same murderer and motive as its source novel. Frank killed Noakes for financial motives. We especially noted that the film stuck rigidly to Frank’s ingenious fake alibi. Frank set up a heavy plant pot, attached by wire to the radio cabinet; this struck Noakes when he opened the lid, as was his habit, at 9pm – a time at which Frank made sure he was seen elsewhere.

The film was very faithful to the novel in this respect, and most of the changes which heightened elements of melodrama simply moved aspects from later, to earlier, in the narrative. Moments at which the film diverged more strongly from the novel had a bigger impact on the characters, especially Harriet. In addition to small alterations which emphasise Harriet’s links to the gothic heroine, other elements give her less independence. Harriet’s means of earning her own income – writing detective novels – are denied to her in the film as she and Peter agree to both give up detecting. This affects Harriet more because Peter is very wealthy, and his work unpaid, while she will be dependent on him for money. In the novel, however, Harriet tells a journalist that she will continue writing; furthermore, she reveals that Peter is supportive of her stance: ‘he certainly doesn’t object- in fact I think he entirely approves’. The nature of Harriet’s work is also disparaged in the film. During the wedding gift inventory scene Harriet comments that Peter’s family thinks her novels are ‘junk’. This is not something Sayers states in the novel – perhaps because she herself is a female writer of detective fiction.

This returns us to consideration of authorship. Authorship is already a complex matter in films as they are the product of several collaborators – director, screenwriters, actors, camera operators, costume designers etc. This is intensified when the film is an adaptation. The authorship of Busman’s Honeymoon is especially convoluted. The film credits Sayers’ novel and Sayers and St Clare Byrne’s play. In addition, it lists that its screenplay was written by Monckton Hoffe, Angus MacPhail and Harold Goldman. But Sayers’ is probably the name we most recognise today. This was even the case at the time of the film’s release – via her 10 previous Wimsey novels and her co-writing of the play.

We can usefully compare the authorship of Busman’s Honeymoon to Young and Innocent. This too was a collaborative effort, but director Alfred Hitchcock’s input is probably most foregrounded in the present day. Hitchcock was well-known by the time of Young and Innocent’s release, though he had yet to achieve his almost mythic place in film. By contrast, its source, Josephine Tey’s novel A Shilling for Candles was only the second in her Alan Grant detective series. We can speculate that the fact that the public was less attached to Tey’s novel may have been part of the reason it was feely adapted – only the first half of the novel appears on screen, and her central detective Alan Grant was mostly absent. After all, the title had to be changed because this no longer made sense as a reference to the murderer’s motive as both of these had been altered.

 

Brief consideration of Busman’s Honeymoon’s director is also necessary. The film’s production is complicated. While the American Richard Thorpe began shooting the film in the UK in August 1939, the outbreak of World War II meant that this was soon suspended. Arthur B Woods, a less known British director, took over when production resumed in March 1940. Although Woods gained acclaim for his noirish They Drive by Night (1938), nearly half of the 27 films he had directed from the start of his career (in 1933) are missing, presumed lost. The reasons for the number of films produced by particular directors, and why some of their films are still extant while others vanish, is of course multifaceted. But in way of comparison, all 10 of the films Hitchcock directed between 1933 and 1940 are still in existence. Woods was also denied the opportunity to cement his reputation as he was killed in action in 1944 while flying with the Royal Air Force.

 

 

We also commented on the impact the film’s casting of actors had on the film. We were surprised that that two US stars played the quintessentially English characters. Cummings was most familiar to us as Rex Harrison’s second wife in David Lean’s adaptation of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit (1945). Montgomery had a long career, but we mostly associated him with high-class characters, such as in Robert Z Leonard’s The Divorcee (1930). Just prior to Busman’s Honeymoon, Montgomery starred in Richard Thorpe’s Earl of Chicago (1940). Montgomery’s character in this film starts off as a gangster. But on the death of his English uncle, he inherits an Earldom and a butler and is propelled into the higher echelons of English society. Montgomery had previously appeared, as the Irish Danny opposite Rosalind Russell’s Olivia, in Thorpe’s 1937 US film version of Emlyn Williams’ play Night Must Fall. While Busman’s Honeymoon is a British film it, like Night Must Fall, casts Americans as non-American characters, but retains British actors in supporting roles.

 

We especially appreciated Sir Seymour Hicks’ performance as the devoted butler Bunter, alongside Robert Newton and Frank Pettingell. Hicks was connected to melodrama through his long-running association with Charles Dickens’ character Scrooge. Meanwhile, Newton and Pettingell both starred in Thorold Dickinson’s UK version of the melodrama Gaslight the same year that Busman’s Honeymoon was released. The connection of these actors to melodrama, and dramatic acting, heightened Montgomery (Peter) and Cummings’ (Harriet) separation from them. We related these to both class differences (the American Montgomery and Cummings play the only upper-class characters) and the film’s genre hybridity (detective comedy and drama).

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Summary of Discussion on Young and Innocent

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Our discussion on Young and Innocent covered its relationship to both traditional and male melodrama; the main characters Erica (Nova Pilbeam) and Robert (Derrick De Marney) and the stars who played them; the film as an adaptation of Josephine Tey’s novel A Shilling For Candles; another of its director Alfred Hitchcock’s films from around the time.

We were especially struck by the melodramatic tone of the first scene, a direct contrast to the jaunty, 42nd Street-style music, which plays over the opening credits. In the first scene, a man (Guy, played by George Curzon) and woman (Christine Clay, played by Pamela Carme) have a blazing row. This is filmed straightforwardly, privileging the gestures of the characters. These gestures are rather broad, but the staginess is explained later in the narrative as we learn that both participants are performers – a musician and a film star. The lack of inventive camerawork means that we focus on the dialogue in which Guy accuses his wife, Christine, of infidelity. As the argument reaches its peak, sound is used imaginatively. In addition to music underscoring the characters’ emotions, the weather is also dramatic. A diegetic clap of thunder obligingly replaces the, presumably colourful, insult Guy directs at Christine. Drama conveyed by landscape and music is extended to the scene in which Robert Tisdall (Derrick de Marney) finds Christine’s strangled body on the beach. The lapping of waves at Christine’s lifeless, swimming costume clad, body is joined by another upswell of music.

 

Other aspects of the film can be more usefully connected to the male melodrama’s staple elements of mystery, violence, and chase. There is the central mystery of who killed Christine, and the whereabouts of the presumed murder weapon – the belt from Robert’s raincoat. Chase also plays a large part in the film as Robert soon goes on the run. Violence is implied in the hands-on method of the murder, even though we do not witness it. There is also the threat of violence, as we may fear for the life of young Erica (Nova Pilbeam); a woman who becomes bound up with Robert, and the film’s elements of mystery and chase. More traditional melodrama is returned to as Erica begins to regret helping Robert and fears for what will become of members of her family if she cannot return to them. Later Erica is reduced to tears again. The relationship between Robert and Erica has grown and, after a brief separation, they are reunited but she is distressed at the thought of losing him again.

The rhythm of the film is very important. There are points of high drama: a woman has been killed, Robert faces the death penalty if he is found guilty, and Erica faces expulsion from her family if she keeps true to him. There are car chases, a near train crash, and collapsing mineworks. But there are also slower moments. Notably there is comic relief we might compare to earlier stage melodrama which often used stock comic secondary characters. In Young and Innocent these are Robert’s surprisingly breezy solicitor, the incompetent uniformed police who are forced to travel in a cart with some pigs, Erica’s younger brothers, Erica’s Aunt (Mary Clare) and Uncle (Basil Radford), and Will the friendly china-mending tramp (Edward Rigby).

These secondary characters are incorporated more fully into the narrative than is often the case in traditional melodrama since Robert and Erica frequently interact with them. Robert steals his solicitor’s spectacles to effect a Clark Kent-style transformation in order to escape. He also inadvertently kicks a policeman in the head as he and Erica flee their hiding place – a remote mill. Will is enlisted by Erica and Robert to help them locate the real killer.

 

Some of these secondary characters are particularly attached to Erica. Her quarrelsome, but endearing, brothers and her aunt and uncle provide her with context. A visit to Erica’s Aunt and Uncle especially gives Erica and Robert the chance to extend the gentle badinage they have already begun to engage in as they drive through the countryside. The comic awkwardness of Erica introducing a new friend to her family is taken further. Erica’s Aunt questions Robert and, understandably due to his fugitive status, he invents a name for himself. He and Erica then have to improvise around this. When separately interrogated by Erica’s Aunt, they provide Robert with different professions: while Erica states Robert is an architect, he claims to write music. The use of fake names (and Robert’s is perhaps deliberately ridiculous) and the invention of identities brought to mind screwball comedy films. In films belonging to the screwball subgenre, generally thought to have begun in the United States in 1934, the main couple engage in ‘role play’ as part of creating their own world. Robert and Erica’s use of imagination is also employed when it is not necessary to put others off the scent. When they are alone at the cold and dark train station they begin to fantasise about a delicious dinner and a fancy hotel.

We also spent a fair bit of time discussing the two main characters, Erica and Robert, and the actors who played them. We considered the possibility that Erica was a suffering heroine, at risk from violence at the hands of Robert. In fact, this does not seem applicable to Erica. We were impressed with the spirit she showed throughout the film, and which is established in her first appearance. Erica breezes confidently into the police station at which Robert is being held. While Erica’s assurance is partly due to her status as the daughter of the chief constable, it is also influenced by her forceful personality which belies her youth. On seeing that Robert has fainted, Erica swiftly administers physical aid and offers alcohol in an effort to revive him. Erica is equally able to take charge at home by keeping her younger brothers in line – even when one produces a dead rat at the dinner table.

Erica is not limited to spaces connected to her father, though, as her ownership of a car allows her to travel wherever she pleases. It is significant that she alone seems able to persuade her old heap to work – her mobility is only possible because of her determination. Erica’s access to a car means that she can help Robert in his escape and subsequent investigation. She is also an active participant in this. She leaves Robert waiting outside as their quest for Robert’s missing raincoat leads them to Tom’s Hat café. While inside she chats naturally with the regulars, mostly lorry drivers, finding out that Will, a china-mending tramp, was seen wearing Robert’s coat. The release of this information leads to fight breaking out. During this, to Robert’s surprise, Erica is able to take care of herself. She also stands up to Robert as she insists, on more than one occasion, that her dog is not left behind. It is Erica’s knowledge of first aid which unmasks the killer. Will has revealed that the man who gave him Robert’s coat had a twitch. When Erica rushes in to help a musician who has collapsed at the Grand Hotel she realises that he too has a twitch. Her identification leads to him taking full responsibility for the crime, thus exonerating Robert.

We also thought a little about the fact that the film places Erica centrally. Nova Pilbeam receives star, above the title, billing. This mention of Pilbeam reminds us the that characters in films are connected to the stars who play them. Pilbeam was indeed young, aged 18 at the time of Young and Innocent’s release, and had only appeared in a handful of films. The characters she portrayed in these can be usefully compared to the independent Erica. In Berthold Viertel’s Little Friend (1934) Pilbeam played a girl who becomes aware that her parent’s marriage is disintegrating. The same year she appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much – as the kidnapped daughter of Leslie Banks and Edna Best. Just prior to Young and Innocent, Pilbeam starred in Tudor Rose (1936, Robert Stevenson) as Lady Jane Grey, ‘the Nine Days’ Queen’, who was executed at the age of 17.

The struggling youths Pilbeam had previously played mitigates Erica’s independent spirit. Furthermore, the title of the film on its US release, The Girl Was Young, underlines that Erica is the Young and Innocent of the UK film’s title. While in the film Pilbeam’s independence is championed, the outside context of her earlier films and the film’s titles on UK and US release, potentially place her at more harm from Robert.

This consideration that Erica might be a ‘woman in peril’ also needs to be contextualised in reference to Robert’s character, de Marney’s billing, and his previous films. Although Robert is suspected of murder, the only violent act we see him commit is an accidental one – the kicking of a policeman in the head. Robert manages to stay calm while he is on the run, and his role-play with Erica is good-humoured. When reflecting on how a star’s previous films affect his or her current role, it is worth noting that de Marney started in silent films in 1928. Because he had appeared in more films than Pilbeam by 1937 (19 to her 3), it is less easy to provide a summary of the types he played – both larger and smaller roles – in lower and higher budget films. He does not seem to have been attached to villainous characters, however. In Edward Godal’s ‘quota quickie’ Adventurous Youth (1928) de Marney played the main role of a heroic man fighting for his village during the Mexican Revolution. In the year of Young and Innocent’s release, de Marney, appeared in the small role of Young Disraeli in Herbert Wilcox’s Victoria the Great. De Marney played the same character in Wilcox’s sequel, Sixty Glorious Years (1938), and was connected to the role earlier in his stage career. It has been important to look at Robert’s character, and at de Marney’s previous heroic and statesmanlike roles when considering whether Erica is in danger, but it is also true that Erica and Pilbeam’s earlier roles hold more sway. She is after all, more centrally placed. While Pilbeam is given star billing, de Marney is only afforded a ‘with’ credit, which is places below both Pilbeam and the film’s title.

In addition to thinking about how the characters in the films are portrayed and the connections we can draw to the actors, they are further illuminated in comparison to Josephine Tey’s novel. The film is a fairly free adaptation. It changes the identity of the murderer. In the novel this is revealed to be Christine’s brother, Herbert Gotobed, after her husband, Lord Edward Champneis, is first suspected. Christine’s brother does not appear in the film, and her husband, now renamed Guy and redeployed as a musician, is the guilty party. Guy does not play a large part in the film, though he is involved in the key moments which bookend it: he argues with Christine in the opening scene, leading to her murder, and he confesses to his crime in the film’s last moments. The revelation of his guilt just prior to this is especially arresting. The camera sweeps from its initial focus on guests in the lobby of the Grand Hotel to the crowded dance floor, the group of the black-face orchestra, and finally to the twitching drummer – Guy. As well as demonstrating the impressive range of the camera, it is perfectly timed with the sound, as the close up coincides with the line of the song ‘no one can like the drummer can’.

 

We also discussed the fact that the film only adapted the first half of the novel – Erica’s meeting with Detective Inspector Alan Grant and her subsequent undertaking to prove Robert’s innocence. The second half of Tey’s book moves to Grant’s uncovering of the real culprit. In the film, which changes the identity of the murderer, the matters are tied together: finding Robert’s missing raincoat leads to the identification of a twitching man who used the belt to kill Christine. The film’s change in scope also means that it pulls focus. While Grant provides the through-line for the novel, he is barely present in the film, as the renamed ‘Inspector Kent’ (John Longdale) who briefly interrogates Robert at the police station. We were able to recognise that ‘Kent’ was Grant as the dialogue Erica shares with Grant in the novel is allocated to Kent. The film’s main detectives are instead Erica and Robert. 

Because the film’s aspect of investigation is very narrow – finding the lost raincoat – it does not explore the motive for Christine’s murder. I have already mentioned that Guy only bookends the film. Christine is afforded even less attention. This is not the case in the novel, which provides lots of information about Christine’s public image (in fan magazines) before it delves into her past.

Although the film removes some characters, and provides less information about others, it supplies new characters too. These are mostly Erica’s relatives – her brothers, her Aunt and Uncle – and add to the film’s comedy. While this bolsters Erica’s role, it mitigates her self-sufficiency. By contrast, Robert is given less of a back story in the film than the novel which details a previous name change so that he was able to receive an inheritance. The fact that in the film Robert accompanies Erica on the investigations she pursues alone in the novel impacts on her status as an independent woman. In the novel, Will is a menacing figure, who threatens Erica when she visits his isolated caravan alone. Will is altered to a more genial type in the film – he even gets dressed up and dances with Erica at the Grand Hotel. In addition, Robert’s own solo hunt for Will at a boarding house, gives Erica less opportunity to display her bravery.

The placing of a bickering couple at the film’s heart, in contrast to the novel, brought to mind another of Hitchcock’s’ films from a few years earlier. In The 39 Steps (1935) attention is expanded to encompass both Richard Hannay (Robert Donat) and Pamela (Madeline Carroll) in a significant divergence from John Buchan’s novel. This couple-focus is not exclusive to Hitchcock as Hollywood films especially privilege the couple. The mix of screwball and detective aspects was also in fashion at the time. The hugely popular The Thin Man (1934, WS Van Dyke) starring William Powell and Myrna Loy spawned many imitators and five sequels. This returns us to consideration of Young and Innocent’s genre. It deftly combines not just detective tropes and comedy elements, but aspects of male, as well as more traditional, melodrama. In Erica, it has a spirited, but at times vulnerable heroine, who interacts in interesting ways with the film’s elements of melodrama.

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Summary of Discussion on Doctor in the House

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(Apologies for the couple of months delay in posting this. I’ve backdated it so that it fits with the ‘timeline’ of our Bogarde screenings and does not interrupt more recent news about The War Illustrated workshops etc.)

As noted in the introduction to the screening of Doctor in the House, the comedy can hardly be described as a melodrama. We showed it due to the important place it has in Dirk Bogarde’s screen image. The film was hugely popular in the UK in the year of its release (1954). It  also had an afterlife as Bogarde continued to play the role of Simon Sparrow in later films in the series (all directed by Ralph Thomas and produced by Betty Box): Doctor at Sea (1955), Doctor at Large (1957), Doctor in Distress (1963) and a cameo as Simon Sparrow in Wendy Toye’s non-Doctor film We Joined the Navy (1962). This was significantly the only screen character Bogarde played more than once, though he did not appear in the films Doctor in Love (1960), Doctor in Clover (1966) or Doctor in Trouble (1970). It is likely that audiences from the time would have especially connected Bogarde to Simon Sparrow. In the text below, I therefore go into some detail on Simon Sparrow’s personality and Bogarde’s interpretation of the role. This is aided by some consideration of the film’s other characters.  Our post-film discussion also touched on how we as modern audience members viewed the film today. For many of us, this was shaped by our knowledge of the film’s sequels and its similarity to the humour exhibited in the ‘Carry On’ series of films (1958-1992). This brought up the matter of sexism, as well as differences in generational and national perspectives.  I briefly discuss some of these matters in relation to the film’s reception on its 1955 US release.

 

Doctor in the House was based on Doctor Richard Gordon’s 1952 novel of the same name. The series of 18 novels (the final, Doctor in the Soup, was published in 1986) drew on Gordon’s own experiences as a medical student and later a qualified doctor. This was emphasised in the novels by the use of Gordon’s own name for the main character. This character was re-christened Simon Sparrow in the film, with Bogarde later revealing that he chose the name (in Brian McFarlane’s An Autobiography of British Cinema, 1997, p. 69). It is an especially appropriate moniker: the Hebrew meaning of the name Simon is ‘listen’, while Sparrow conveys the image of a sweet and non-threatening garden bird.  Simon is a good-natured man, trying his best to deal with the attentions of women while completing his medical studies at St Swithin’s hospital.

Simon’s experiences with women take place at home and at work. He receives the attentions of his stern landlady Mrs Groaker’s (Joan Hickson) beautiful daughter Milly (Shirley Eaton) when she engineers an opportunity for him to examine her ankle. His unworldliness and embarrassment mean that he promptly leaves his lodgings to move in with some fellow male medical students. Simon’s housemates gently tease him about his lack of success with women, even asking ‘Don’t you want a girlfriend? Or have you a mother complex?’ In order to persuade his friends that he is keen to be in a couple, Simon agrees to be set up with ‘Rigor Mortis’ (Joan Sims). The film’s sexism is evident as the men only refer to this nurse by her unflattering nickname. The technical term refers to the first stages of decomposition post-death, but presumably it has been bestowed upon the nurse to imply that she is not the most scintillating company. ‘Rigor Mortis’ is also referred to as a ‘trial’ girlfriend – i.e. only worthy as a temporary distraction until Simon finds someone better. The scene in which Simon and ‘Rigor Mortis’ spend time alone together pokes fun at them both, though. Her appetites, and perhaps her wish not to get involved with Simon, are referenced by her continuously munching on an apple. Simon seems to be making more of an effort with their date. He is dressed in a smoking jacket and some of his gestures imply that he is playing a part – that of a prospective seducer. Any spell is quickly broken as Simon realises that his date is not enthusiastic about him. His offer to make her a cocoa is readily accepted and the mood changes from a possible hot date to a staid night in. Simon Sparrow’s behaviour here suits his name.  He listens to his date’s aural and visual cues that she is not interested in him and rather than being angry or upset he is gentle and considerate.

Simon’s interaction with another woman is also telling. He first meets model Isobel (Kay Kendall) just outside the hospital.  She responds positively to his moderate attentions and their subsequent date can be usefully compared to his with ‘Rigor Mortis’. The two women are very different characters with Isobel’s job (and the fact she is played by Kendall) partly explaining her glamour and poise. Their date at an expensive club reveals the gulf between Isobel and Simon’s incomes and expectations.  After seeing some of the prices on the menu, Simon arranges to be interrupted by an urgent phone-call. Unfortunately this backfires as he is then unable to stay when some friends of Isobel’s arrive and offer to pay for their meal. While Simon would have enjoyed a free meal, he seems intimated by Isobel’s forthright nature.

The woman who plays the largest part in the film is nurse Joy Gibson (Muriel Pavlow). Simon and Joy’s relationship gets off to a rocky start when they meet on his first day at the hospital amidst his suitcase embarrassingly spilling open. There are also misunderstandings as when they take a walk in the park each thinks the other is there under duress. This is overcome relatively quickly, but Simon then gets into trouble for returning Joy late to her nurse’s quarters which leads him to scale the building and unexpectedly drop in on another resident. The film ends with Simon and Joy together. We might expect the couple to again appear in the film’s immediate sequel Doctor at Sea (1955), but in this Bogarde’s love interest is played by Brigitte Bardot.  Joy returns in Doctor at Large (1957) and significantly this time is training to be a doctor. The relationship has ended by the time of Doctor in Distress (1963) in which Simon is involved with model and actress Delia Mallory (Samantha Eggar). Bogarde’s last ‘Doctor’ film therefore seems to backtrack on the advancement of the third in which his love interest is also a doctor. Overall in Doctor in the House, Simon’s interactions with women show him to be nervous and inexperienced, though a good listener when he picks up on ‘Rigor Mortis’’ lack of interest and finally realises that he and Joy have a lot in common.  While Simon is less enthusiastic (and sexist) than some of his friends, he is clearly heterosexual.  This is unsurprising given the time, though some of Bogarde’s later roles (including Victim, 1961, and Death in Venice 1971) as well as knowledge of his personal life may cause us to revisit and reinterpret the admittedly throwaway comment about Simon’s ‘mother complex’.

Simon’s lack of confidence which is displayed in relation to women can also be seen in his approach to his medical studies. He is conscientious and kind with patients, but not always sure of himself.  This is especially highlighted in scenes with (the admittedly very intimidating) Sir Lancelot Spratt (James Robertson Justice). Robertson Justice loomed large in the series, appearing in all 7 films, though not always as Sir Lancelot. His Captain Hogg in Doctor at Sea nonetheless also combines abrasiveness with a weighty physical and vocal presence – the films well utilise Robertson Justice’s booming voice. In one of Doctor in the House’s most well-known gags, Sir Lancelot pounces on Simon for his inattention during the medical examination of a patient who may need surgery. While Sir Lancelot’s ‘What’s the bleeding time?’ is asking about testing the length of time for a patient’s platelets to function, Simon assumes he is being gruff and responds that ‘It’s ten past ten, Sir’. (The phrase ‘What’s the bleeding time?’ has become so iconic it even provides the title of James Hogg’s 2008 biography of Robertson Justice.) Simon gains medical experience and his delivery of a baby in the middle of winter is especially effective. Simon’s first attendance at a childbirth does not start well (he has bicycle trouble on the way), but he treats the expectant mother (Maureen Pryor) calmly and kindly, so impressing her that she names her new-born after him. We had thought that the scene would be played for laughs, but it is actually very touching.

Ralph Thomas agreed with Brian McFarlane’s opinion that Pryor’s performance was affecting (McFarlane 1997, pp. 557-558). Bogarde also played the scene with sincerity: he retrospectively commented that he insisted on playing a ‘real doctor’ who never instigated anything funny (McFarlane, 1997, p. 69). Thomas reflected further on this as he claimed that the cast as a whole ‘played it within a very strict, tight limit of believability’ (McFarlane, 1997, p. 557). While this seems true of Bogarde, and indeed Pryor, we were less convinced that this was the case for Donald Sinden (playing Tony Benskin) and to a lesser extent Kenneth More (playing Richard Grimsdyke). It is worth considering Simon in relation to his fellow medical students particularly in terms of the way each approaches his love life and career. Richard is settled with his girlfriend, Stella (Suzanne Cloutier) but incredibly lax about his studies.  He has a legacy from his grandmother which offers him a generous stipend while he studies medicine – it is not in his interest to pass his exams and graduate.  In fact at the end of the film Stella decides she will study medicine and Richard is thrilled that he will be a ‘kept man’. Tony is not at all settled romantically and sees all nurses as potential targets of his extremely overt attentions. When he inadvertently proposes May (Gudrun Ure), who readily accepts him, he quickly makes sure he is not tied to her by swiftly proposing marriage to all the other nurses as well. Tony’s exam preparation is also ill-organised. The non-subtly named Taffy Evans (played by Welshman Donald Houston) seems nice enough, though his focus on Welsh sport is at the expense of his medical studies. Simon is clearly the main character. As well as having more screen time, he has the most sympathetic personality, which develops in confidence in relation to both women and his studies.

On the surface, the film’s approach to women is reductive. The women are mostly either threatening (Milly and Mrs Groakes for different reasons, Isobel, and the stern Sister Virtue (Jean Taylor-Smith)), arrogant (the only female medical student, Jane, played by Lisa Gastoni) or considered to be unattractive (‘Rigor Mortis’). This is reinforced by some of the male characters’ sexist attitudes towards women, especially Tony’s. The women also exhibit strength, however. The two older women both have authoritative manners and a certain amount of agency:  Mrs Groakes manages property, and Sister Virtue is in charge at the hospital. Sexual attractiveness is limited to the younger women, with both Milly and Isobel acting on their desires (even if they frighten Simon in the process) while sister Virtue is revealed to have had a racy past dressing as Lady Godiva. Isobel’s career as a model may objectify her, but she earns a good living from it, and other women characters also have careers, such as the nurses. Despite the notion that ‘Rigor Mortis’ is unattractive, she still fails to fall at Simon’s feet. The two most rounded female characters are Stella and Joy. Like ‘Rigor Mortis’ Joy does not just submit to Simon’s charms, and Stella’s relationship with Richard seems quite equable with her deciding to become a doctor near the film’s close. Significantly, Joy re-emerges as a trainee doctor in Doctor at Large.

It is tempting to attribute some of this more progressive approach to women to the film’s female producer, Betty E. Box. While this would be reductive, as well as difficult to prove, it is worth considering Box’s role a little more. She began producing films in the late 1940s and had taken charge of more than 15 films by the time of Doctor in the House. Her very presence as a powerful woman off screen was unusual at the time. Box’s status as a woman in a man’s world is directly commented on by Justine Ashby’s 2001 PhD thesis ‘Odd Women Out’ which examines the careers of Box and her sister-in-law the director Muriel Box. Betty E. Box played an important role in making sure the first Doctor film made it to the screen. Box relates how she read Gordon’s novel on a train and thought it would work well on the big screen (McFarlane, 1997, p. 87). She also commented on the large role she played in casting. After finding out that her first choice, Robert Morley, was far too expensive, Box secured Robertson Justice as he ‘doesn’t have to do very much except be himself’ (McFarlane, 1997, p. 87). Box noted that the downside of the film’s huge success meant that she became trapped into producing the sequels (McFarlane, 1997, p 86). Box still negotiated opportunities to produce other projects. She often collaborated with Doctor director Ralph Thomas, and at several of their films starred Bogarde – for example A Tale of Two Cities (1958). (For more on Box, see Ashby’s chapter on Betty E. Box in Ashby and Andrew Higson’s 2000 edited volume British Cinema, Past and Present.)

 House and Doctor at Large starring Richard Briers. The first of several UK television series started the next year, this again beginning with Doctor in the House, which ran until 1970. The series did not share characters with the film series, or involve Box and Thomas,  but had constancy with its own characters and actors in the sequels, at Large (1971), in Charge (1972-3), at Sea (1974), on the Go (1975-77), Down Under (1979) and the much later at the Top (1991).

We also commented on the fact that the comedy in the Doctor series of films pre-dated similar humour in some of the Carry On Series. The Carry On series began with Carry on Sergeant in 1958 and ended with the last official film Carry on Columbus (1992), though there were also TV shows and there is continued talk of a revival. All the Carry Ons were produced by Peter Rogers, Doctor producer Betty Box’s husband, and directed by Gerald Thomas – the brother of Doctor director Ralph. (The Thomas brothers co-directed Regardless in 1961 and Cruising in 62). This signals significant overlap. Saucy Carry On humour (largely characterised by innuendo and commentary on gender relations) can be traced back to music hall, seaside postcards and the like. But the fact that the series had several medical instalments is worth further comment. They comprise the films Nurse (1959), Doctor (1967), Again Doctor (1969) and Matron (1972). The Carry On medical cycle therefore started after the first 3 Doctor films had been released, and after Bogarde left the series (though he chose to return once for Doctor in Distress in 1963). Ralph Thomas asserted that the Doctor films were the first to poke fun at the medical profession (McFarlane, 1997, p. 557) and perhaps paved the way for medical humour in the Carry Ons. The large (8 year) gap between the first and second medical Carry On, and the fact that there was only 1 Doctor film after this, suggests that the medical Carry Ons briefly took the place previously occupied by the Doctor films. The medical Carry Ons only returned for one instalment after the Doctor series ended, though, with medical humour more evident in the various Doctor series on television throughout most of the 1970s.  

 The Doctor and Carry On series therefore share humour in medical situations as well as connections with their behind-the-scenes personnel. Links are also evident to audiences since some cast members appear in films from both series. Doctor in the House’s ‘Rigor Mortis’ actress, Joan Sims, appeared in a further 4 films in the Doctor series (Sea, Love, Clover, and Trouble, essaying different characters each time). She was also a stalwart of the Carry On series, starring in 24 of the total 31 films, including all 4 of the medical instalments.  Joan Hickson appeared in the Doctor films House, Sea and Love and was a ward sister in Carry on Nurse. Shirley Eaton was in two Doctor films (House and Large) and, like Hickson, played a nurse in the first Carry on medical film.

Some male actors were also seen in both series. Leslie Phillips took on a main role as in the Doctor series during Bogarde’s absence, starring in Love, Clover and Trouble. His 4 Carry Ons included Carry on Nurse, in which his character’s name, Jack Bell, helped to provide one of his catchphrases ‘Ding Dong!’ when glimpsing an attractive woman. Connections between the two series are furthered by a portrait of James Robertson Justice (presumably as Sir Lancelot Spratt) appearing in Carry on Doctor. He impressively manages to somehow cross the boundary between the two film series’ worlds.

 

One of our group was from the US and found some the situations present and accents used in Doctor in the House mystifying. (We offered to turn on the subtitles, but were not sure if some of the vocalisations, especially by Sinden, could be accurately conveyed in language!) This caused us to consider not just the film’s place in British culture (and it does seem very much based in British culture) but how it was seen in US on its release on the 2nd of February 1955. Nearly a year before this date, at the time of the film’s release in the UK, US trade paper Variety’s London reviewer opined that the film’s ‘marquee appeal may be restricted across the Atlantic’ (7th April 1954, p. 6). US trade papers on the film’s US release were generally positive, with Motion Picture Daily noting that while the cast may not be well-known to American audiences, it was likely to do better than other UK imports (18th February 1955, p. 6). The Independent Film Journal (19th February 1955, p. 29) and the Independent Film Bulletin (21st February 1955, p. 14) similarly commenting on the unfamiliarity of the cast. They both downplay Bogarde’s role by noting the presence of Kenneth More and Kay Kendall who were in Henry Cornelius’ 1953 film Genevieve which was successful in the US on its release. The Independent Film Bulletin considers that Doctor in the House ‘lacks the universal humor of the popular Genevieve’ but ‘has plenty to amuse fanciers of British humor’. This suggests that its humour is peculiarly British, and that this was not the case with Genevieve.

The two trade papers also interestingly comment on the specific exhibition circumstances: it is thought that Doctor in the House would do well in ‘art house’ cinemas (perhaps because of its very British flavour) but if correctly exploited could also succeed in the ‘general market’. The Chicago Daily Tribune (21st March 1955, p. B15) reinforces the view that the film would be well-received by the general public (‘I think you’ll have fun with this import’) as the newspaper’s readership was likely to be general rather than specialist. Another newspaper, the New York Times (18th February 1955, p. 18), implies that part of this appeal is due to the film’s innovative stance in poking fun at the medical profession, an opinion also advanced by the April 1955 issue of fan magazine Photoplay (p. 30). This recalls the director Ralph Thomas’s comment referred to in the section considering the film’s relationship to the Carry On series. While medical humour may have crossed the Atlantic at the time (despite the notion that Doctor in the House’s humour was less universal than Genevieve’s), the fact that our research group member from the US was puzzled suggests that the temporal boundary was more difficult to traverse. We wondered if her lack of exposure to Carry On-style humour was partly related to the change in television viewing habits. 15 years ago, live TV was perhaps the main way of seeing films, even though films were available to view on DVD. The rise in On Demand means that more recently viewers have had far more content to choose from and in many ways film-viewing has become less communal. We especially appreciate that the melodrama research group screenings give us an opportunity to gather together to watch films and share our diverse points of view.

 

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Summary of Discussion on Death in Venice

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(Apologies for the few months delay in posting this summary. I’ve backdated it so that it fits in with the flow of discussion on the blog, allowing the focus to be on our more recent events such as The War Illustrated project.)

Our discussion on the film covered: its relation to melodrama; its music; its setting in time and place; films it reminded us of; the film’s place in Dirk Bogarde’s screen and star images; material in magazines.

We discussed melodrama in terms of the suffering of the film’s main character, composer Gustav von Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde). The film unfolds at a leisurely pace with the seriousness of Von Aschenbach’s purpose for staying at a hotel in Venice, an illness, revealed as time progresses. This is compounded by Von Aschenbach contracting cholera after witnessing those around him undergoing the awful effects of the disease. The film ends with dying on a beach. Furthermore, Von Aschenbach undergoes emotional distress as he feels unrequited, and inappropriate, desire for an adolescent boy, the Polish Tadzio (Bjorn Andresen).

The film’s flashbacks also convey Von Aschenbach’s previous suffering. This is mostly emotional, rather than physical. Von Aschenbach has an extreme reaction to the poor reception of one of his musical works, and subsequently collapses. The inclusion of these scenes suggests that Von Aschenbach is still feeling their effects. Not all the flashbacks are unhappy. Some show Von Aschenbach happily spending time with his wife and daughter. This fits in with the rhythm of melodrama, since it shows both the highs (happy moments with his wife and child) and the lows (his extreme grief at their loss). We thought it interesting that Von Aschenbach’s wife and child, and indeed the happiness, was included given the film’s main focus on Von Aschenbach’s controversial desire for young Tadzio. Von Aschenbach is a complex character with a backstory which is revealed in a piecemeal fashion.

We also commented on Death in Venice’s relation to the mystery, violence and chase elements of melodrama. Only the last of these was present in the film. As Von Aschenbach becomes increasingly ill, he worries about Tadzio’s health, and pursues him through Venice’s streets. This ends with him collapsing in the street with exhaustion. Unusually for a pursuer in the chase, then, Von Aschenbach action causes him suffering, heightening this aspect of melodrama.

Death in Venice’s musical score, later released by EMI, was also discussed by the group in terms of melodrama. The opening shots of the film are languid long takes accompanied by the music of Gustav Mahler. Music also punctuates other significant moments in the film. Von Aschenbach feels embarrassed by his desire for Tadzio and decides to leave Venice. As he embarks on a long boat journey leisurely music accompanies the close-up shots of his sad face. After a mix up with Von Aschenbach’s luggage, he chooses to return to his hotel, and to Tadzio. Again, close-ups of Von Aschenbach are provided, though he is now smiling, and the mood of the music also seems to have lifted. Other points at which music is used especially effectively include the chase sequence referenced above, as well as the moving end of the film where Von Aschenbach falls ill on a beach and passes away.

The film’s extra-diegetic music seems especially appropriate because the occupation of Von Aschenbach is altered from a writer in Thomas Mann’s 1912 novella, to a composer. Such a change also suits the medium of sound film. Von Achenbach’s musical background affords opportunities for music to be present within the diegesis. The flashback to the failure of Von Aschenbach’s concert includes music. We also see Von Achenbach’s responses to others playing music. Tadzio briefly picks out a few notes, badly, on the piano at the hotel. This does not seem to dampen Von Aschenbach’s desire. But he appears to be more judgmental about local musicians who are playing several instruments to try and inject some jollity into the cholera-stricken district.

The film’s European Edwardian-era setting as a backdrop for Von Aschenbach’s suffering was also commented on. This is undoubtedly connected to the date and location of the original setting of Mann’s, novella. But we thought that Death in Venice’s title, as well as its depiction of disease, foreshadowed the upcoming first world war which would decimate Europe. Tadzio’s family also reminded us of the Russian royals the Romanovs who were killed following the Russian Revolution which began in 1917. Much of this was connected to the film’s mise en scene. The hotel is large and ornately furnished, denoting its expensive nature. The people who can afford to stay there are generally of the upper classes – such as Tadzio’s family. The clothing worn by Tadzio’s family, especially the exquisite dresses, also suggest wealth. Tadzio’s sailor suit costume reminded us of some of the photographs of the Romanovs. His costume therefore effectively reflects the time period in which the film is set, and his status as a member of the upper class. It also significantly emphasises his youth in comparison to Von Aschenbach. (We thought that Tadzio’s hair style reproduced the 1970s of the film’s era of production, however!) We also briefly mentioned other films set in Italy’s iconic landscape, such as Don’t Look (1973, Nicolas Roeg) and A Room with a View (1985, Merchant and Ivory).

Since we have been screening several Bogarde films, we compared the melodrama in Death in Venice to other Bogarde films we’ve discussed. The suffering of Von Aschenbach raised thoughts about Esther Waters (1948, Ian Dalrymple), especially William Latch’s death-bed scene. We thought that the beautifully lit last moments of Bogarde’s character recalled similar deaths of heroines in film melodramas (https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2018/10/06/summary-of-discussion-on-esther-waters/) The fact that some aspects of chase were involved in Death in Venice reminded us of our discussion of Hunted (1952, Charles Crichton), which depicts killer Chris Lloyd’s attempt to escape pursuing police (https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2018/10/18/summary-of-discussion-on-hunted/).

 

Like Hunted, Victim (1961, Basil Dearden) combined suffering with mystery, violence, and chase. Death in Venice has significant differences from the UK-set Victim which had a crusading agenda tied to its time. Von Aschenbach’s desire for a young boy is of course not the same as the gay theme of Victim, and he is a more tragic character than Melville Farr in Victim. In Victim, Farr lost a close friend and was a closeted homosexual who the film suggested would continue to live with his wife in what might be seen as a compromise at a time when gay sex was illegal. Von Aschenbach’s sexual desire for a child places him further on the outskirts of society. His wish to be desirable to Tadzio means that Von Aschenbach undergoes a makeover. At the start of the film, Von Aschenbach visibly recoils from an older man whose hair looks suspiciously colourful and who is acting in a jaunty manner. After he becomes increasingly ill with cholera, Von Aschenbach visits a barber. The barber not only dyes Von Aschenbach’s hair to remove the grey but applies heavy make-up to his face. This sad visual demonstration that Von Achenbach is trying to recapture his youth is made even more poignant when he collapses sobbing in the street after losing sight of Tadzio. With his hair dye and make-up running, Von Aschenbach is a pitiful figure.

 

Bogarde did not exclusively portray provocative characters like Von Aschenbach after Victim. For example, in 1963 prior to playing the sinister titular character in Joseph Losey’s The Servant, Bogarde starred in I Could Go on Singing (Ronald Neame – see blog post here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2019/01/15/summary-of-discussion-on-i-could-go-on-singing/ ) as well as the last Doctor film, Doctor in Distress (Ralph Thomas). The move to comedy was even briefly seen in Bogarde’s work with Losey, as he appeared in the spy parody Modesty Blaise (1966) before the pair returned to more serious fare with Accident (1967). Bogarde’s work with other European directors included Visconti. Just before Death in Venice, Bogarde starred as a man with links to the Nazi party in Visconti’s The Damned (1969).

 

Bogarde’s more controversial roles – especially in The Damned and Death in Venice – seem to occur in films which in some way foreground artifice. The makeover scene in Death in Venice emphasises that while Von Aschenbach is trying to present himself in a certain way to Tadzio, as an actor, Bogarde, is also casting himself in a certain light. The hair dye and make-up in fact cover the greying hair and subtler make-up Bogarde is already sporting as Von Aschenbach. We also considered the Bogarde’s star image – the way his ‘real self’ appears to us. We primarily thought about this in relation to the changing of the novella’s character from a novelist (and perhaps a stand in for Thomas Mann) to another type of artist – a composer. Classical music could still have been heavily used in film whose main character was a novelist, so the change perhaps has further significance. Bogarde’s main writing career occurred well after Death in Venice’s 1971 release. His first memoir, Snakes and Ladders, appeared in 1978, with his first novel, A Gentle Occupation, following two years later. Bogarde had, however, previously written articles for magazines (perhaps most notably a series of 5 for Woman magazine in 1961). The fact that he writes essay and poems is even mentioned in coverage about Death in Venice from the time. In Gordon Gow’s interview with Bogarde in Films and Filming, he self-deprecatingly comments that he doubts anyone will want to publish him (May 1971, p. 49): https://dirkbogarde.co.uk/magazine/films-and-filming-may-1971/ Although it was unlikely to have happened, it would have been unfortunate if audiences mistakenly conflated the character of Von Aschenbach with the ‘real’ Bogarde.

Such a view is of course retrospective, and heavily Bogarde-centric. Other magazine coverage from the time instead emphasised the similarity of Von Aschenbach to composer Gustav Mahler. Gordon Gow’s review of Death in Venice comments that Von Aschenbach’s hairstyling and spectacles make him resemble Mahler (Films and Filming, May 1971, p. 87). Furthermore, Gow claims that the director Visconti thought Mann’s novella was responding to Mahler’s 1911 death. By changing Von Aschenbach to a composer, Visconti believed he was able to draw out Mann’s original intent. A similar opinion is expressed in Philip Strick’s review in the Spring issue of Sight and Sound (pp. 103-4): https://dirkbogarde.co.uk/magazine/sight-and-sound-spring-1971/. Analysis of contemporary publicity and promotion therefore reveals that rather than distancing Von Aschenbach from Bogarde, changing him to a composer made him closer to Mahler.

If you’re interested in reading more about Dirk Bogarde’s screen and star images, I’ve written several posts about the British Film Institute’s (BFI’s) collection of magazines bequeathed to them by his estate. You can find these on the NoRMMA blog: http://www.normmanetwork.com/tag/dirk-bogarde/

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp761@kent.ac.uk and let me know that you’d like me to add your thoughts to the melodrama blog.

Summary of Discussion on A Tale of Two Cities

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Our discussion about the film included: consideration of its melodramatic elements; its relation to Charles Dickens and other film adaptations of Dickens’ novels; its placing in Dirk Bogarde’s filmography and screen and star images.

It was noted that a certain suspension of belief was necessary when faced with the twists, turns and coincidences of the plot as well as the suffering, sacrifice, hidden secrets and lost memories of the characters. The film opens with the carriage in which banker Jarvis Lorry (Cecil Parker), lawyer Sydney Carton and Basard (Donald Pleasance) being stopped dramatically. This is not the high-jacking the occupants and the audience initially fear, and instead the enigmatic message ‘recalled to life’ is delivered to Lorry. We discover that this relates to the news that Frenchman Doctor Alexandre Manette (Stephen Murray) has been rediscovered, after spending 18 years in the French Bastille prison. The reunion of Doctor Manette with his daughter Lucie (Dorothy Tutin) is prefigured by her expressing extreme emotion and this is furthered when the pair meets since it is clear that her father has lost his memory as well as his wits. With Lucie’s help, Doctor Manette is soon on the road to recovery, but the entrance of two men into the story – attractive Frenchman Charles Darnay (Paul Guers) and handsome English lawyer Sydney Carton (Dirk Bogarde) soon complicates Lucie’s life. After Lucie briefly mistakes Carton for Darnay, the former, now of course in love with Lucie, soon coincidentally helps to represent his love rival in an English court. Darnay is facing trumped up charges of treason which have been instigated by his cousin the Marquis St Evremonde (Christopher Lee) and Basard. Carton succeeds in achieving Darnay’s acquittal by pointing out his own and Darnay’s resemblance to one another in order to undermine a witness’ testimony.

The situation in Paris is also eventful. The Marquis St Evremonde stands in for the entire aristocracy who are so despised by the ‘common’ French people. His family has previously traumatised Madame Defarge (Rosalie Crutchley), the wife of Manette’s servant (Duncan Lamont), by killing her siblings and parents. The Marquis St Evremonde continues this awful behaviour by sexually abusing his female servants and callously dismissing the peasant Gaspard’s grief as his young son is killed under the wheels of St Evremonde’s carriage. Gaspard exacts his revenge by stabbing the cruel aristocrat to death, and the French revolution is soon fully in flow and the and the Bastille violently breached.

Following the Marquis St Evremonde’s death Darnay (now married to Lucie, though keeping his family identity secret) travels to Paris, only to be caught up in the anti-aristocratic feeling. He is put on trial again, this time as an enemy of the French people. Tense scenes see him acquitted after Lucie, her father, and Carton travel to Paris to speak on his behalf. This is then overturned by the understandably vengeful Madame Defarge denouncing Darnay with evidence found in Manette’s old cell. Darnay is sentenced to the guillotine and the now-pregnant Lucie faces danger as the baby she is carrying means continuation of the despised St Evremonde line. Carton steps in when he recognises the Marquis St Evremonde’s former partner-in-crime Basard who is now a jailer at the Bastille. (Basard has, somewhat incredibly, earlier escaped justice in England by faking his own death.) The doubling of Carton and Darnay which has first been seen in Lucie’s misidentification and put to use by Carton in defending Darnay in court comes to the fore once more. Carton arrives at the Bastille, apparently drunk, to visit Darnay. He overpowers Darnay and takes his place, having persuaded Basard to accompany the now insensible Darnay out of the building into the care of Darnay’s wife, father-in-law and Lucie’s faithful companion the elderly  Miss Pross (Athene Seyler). The seemingly drunken Darnay is mistaken for Carton as he travels with his family to the check-point, since Carton had previously discussed his own love of French wine with the guards on his journey into the country. Finally, in perhaps the most famous instance of self-sacrifice in English literature, Carton takes Darnay’s place at the guillotine.

Perhaps surprisingly, given the amount of plot to rattle though and the revelations of various characters to be uncovered, there is a notable variety of rhythm in the film. Generally, the more staid and slower scenes are set in London, with those in Paris more rapidly paced. Time is also found for Dickensian comic relief provided by the lower-class English characters, especially Miss Pross and Jerry Cruncher (Alfie Bass). We also noted a hierarchy since the lower-class English characters are in the main depicted as better than the lower-class French characters. This is most obviously expressed when proud Briton Miss Pross (in her first, and she hopes only, visit abroad) is pitched against embittered French revolutionary Madame Defarge: Miss Pross is victorious.

Despite the fact that the French are portrayed as unnecessarily vengeful, we commented on similarities to some scenes from Russian director Sergei Eisenstein’s films which celebrated that county’s revolution. The relation of this to rhythm of A Tale of Two Cities’ editing was noted, especially its occasional use of montage (with the drumming revolutionaries centre stage) as well as its employment of unexpected camera angles. We also remarked upon the symbolism of peacocks. These birds are seen strutting around on St Evremonde’s lawn to demonstrate the Marquis’ arrogance and sense of entitlement. This brought to mind the way revolutionary leader Alexander Kerensky’s importance was punctured by comparing him to a mechanical version of the bird in in Eisenstein’s October: Ten Days That Shook the World (1927). Interestingly, the film was apparently popular with Russian audiences according to its director Ralph Thomas (Brian McFarlane, An Autobiography of British Cinema, 1997, p. 559). He attributed this to the non-commercial decision to film in black and white rather than colour, though it is also perhaps helped by the revolutionary subject matter, notwithstanding its negative portrayal of those involved.

The film interestingly does not open with the novel’s famous narration ‘it was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ but dives straight into the action of the possibly hijacked coach. Unlike other British films of Dickens’ work – such as Henry Edwards’ Scrooge (1935) and David Lean’s Great Expectations (1946) and Oliver Twist (1948) – A Tale of Two Cities (1958) does not start with a shot of the novel. It consequently pushes Dickens somewhat into the background. This is especially noticeable when it is compared to Jack Conway’s 1935 Hollywood interpretation A Tale of Two Cities starring Ronald Colman. This not only starts with the page of the book pictured on screen but voices the famous opening lines. Perhaps then, the 1958 film points to changes in whether, and how, films claimed fidelity to their source texts.

The adding of Carton to the opening of the 1958 adaptation strains credibility in terms of coincidence but allows star Bogarde to appear earlier in the narrative. The film also diverges from Dickens’ novel with a rather disjunctive flashback as Lorry explains to Lucie her father’s history. Scenes depicting members of St Evremonde’s family abusing those of the lower classes explains the motivations of those rising up against the aristocracy, especially Madame Defarge. For much of the film some of us even forgot that we were watching a Dickens adaptation, our memories only being jolted by Dickens’ characteristic inclusion of unusual names – such as Mr Cruncher. Like Dickens’ Barnaby Rudge (1841) (set in England during the religious Gordon riots of 1780) A Tale of Two Cities is an historical novel. The society being criticised is therefore not the one that was contemporaneous to Dickens. This shows onscreen as the film’s events and costumes set it decades ahead of most of his works. While the Bogarde version distances itself from Dickens by not including the famous opening lines, changing when Carton enters the narrative and inserting a flashback early on, it does include the novel’s famous closing lines. We found the ending when Bogarde voices Carton’s thoughts ‘it is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known’ profoundly moving. This was aided by Bogarde’s performance and his interaction with Marie Gabelle (Marie Versini) erstwhile maid of the St Evremondes who realises the sacrifice Carton is making, and with whom he shares his final moments.

Since the film does diverge from Dickens it is helpful to briefly consider the writer who adapted it for the screen. T.E.B. Clarke was a writer better known for his Ealing comedies including Passport to Pimlico (1949) and The Lavender Hill Mob (1951). He also wrote dramas, notably The Blue Lamp (1950) – a semi documentary style film in which Bogarde starred as a young villain. While initially his comedy background makes Clarke seem an unusual choice, he was nonetheless connected to Bogarde. Indeed, Bogarde later praised Clarke’s adaption of Dickens’ novel as ‘excellent’ and capturing the ‘essence’ of Dickens’ original (McFarlane, 1997, p. 69), though production designer Carmen Dillon was less complementary, describing it as not being Clarke’s ‘cup of tea’ (p. 178).

It is useful to comment on where A Tale of Two Cities sits in Bogarde’s filmography. It was released three years after the last Bogarde film we screened, Cast a Dark Shadow (1955), in which he played a wife killer with no redeeming features. In A Tale of Two Cities, Bogarde’s Carton is to start with a little unsympathetic, though his drunkenness is self-destructive rather than harmful to others, and he has charm despite his occasional moroseness. Carton finds purpose by sacrificing himself for the woman he loves, and this in turn saves him.

 

These two sides of Carton’s character are not as divergent as some of Bogarde’s earlier roles in films we have screened – most notably in Esther Waters (1948) and Hunted (1952). But it contrasts to the less complex roles Bogarde played after Cast a Dark Shadow – The Spanish Gardener (1956), Ill Met by Moonlight (1957), Campbell’s Kingdom (1957) and, most significantly, the third in the popular series of Doctor films: Doctor at Large (1957). The films in this series were helmed by A Tale of Two Cities director Ralph Thomas. In case audiences at the time were concerned that this would simply transplant Simon Sparrow to revolutionary Paris, Bogarde apparently commented on this according to British fan magazine Picturegoer. He states that this was why he was keen for Thomas to direct – he would be able to recognise any appearance of his Doctor character and this could then be removed (31st August, 1957, p. 10).

There is, unsurprisingly, a difference between the film’s reception in popular fan magazines and film periodicals. Picturegoer’s review places Bogarde centrally. It considers it his most original performance since he started paying Simon Sparrow, and questioning whether another Dickens adaptation of the novel was necessary (1st of March 1958). Fellow British fan magazine Picture Show’s premiere also mentions Bogarde, though it is more respectful of Dickens and his relevance (8th of February 1958). The March issue of film periodical Films and Filming’s review by Rupert Butler deals with Dickens the most. It praises Jack Conway’s 1935 version and provides more comparison of the source text and the 1958 adaptation than is present in the fan magazines (p. 25). Significantly, the periodical criticises the film for its lack of melodrama: it regrets that Miss Pross’ vanquishing of Madame Defarge (which it describes as ‘one of the most ridiculously splendid bits of Dickens melodrama’) occurs offscreen.  The periodical’s understanding of melodrama is further articulated as it complains that the film has a ‘desire to understate the action, to avoid even the slightest risk of excess.’.

None of this material touches on the doubling aspect or the relationship between Carton and Darnay. This is, however, key to John Style’s chapter “Dirk Bogarde’s Sidney Carton—More Faithful to the Character than Dickens Himself?” in Books in Motion, Adaptation, Intertextuality, Authorship (2005): 69-86. Style reads the performance of Bogarde as a queer one (p. 69), commenting that he employs the ‘queenish gestures of a diva’ (p. 79). While Style usefully contrasts Bogarde’s performance to that of the ‘wooden’ Guers (p. 72), this use of gendered terms and those relating to sexuality are subjective. This is especially evident in Style’s close analysis of the ‘mirror’ scene in novel and film (pp. 80-81) focuses on its homosexual overtones. It is understandable that these were not commented on at the time, but we thought they were little present in the film text too.

It is perhaps valuable to acknowledge that these aspects appeared more clearly in Bogarde’s later films, and after information about his star image (the revelations of his personal life) came to light. The doubling aspect of A Tale of Two Cities is seen to greater effect in Libel. In our discussion of Libel, we considered that the doubling which saw Bogarde play two roles and how this connected to ideas of homosexuality. (See the discussion and the brief consideration of doubling in A Tale of Two Cities here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2018/11/21/summary-of-discussion-on-libel/) Homosexual elements were even more pushed to the fore in Basil Dean’s Victim (1961) which was the first British film to use the term ‘homosexual’. (By happy coincidence, we’ll be screening Victim next time!)

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know that you’d like me to add your thoughts to the blog.

 

Summary of Discussion on Cast a Dark Shadow

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Our discussion on the film covered: its melodramatic aspects and the horror genre; related matters of the gothic: the house and the film’s women in peril; Margaret Lockwood’s screen image; Dirk Bogarde’s screen image; Bogarde’s wider role in the film’s production.

We began by considering Cast a Dark Shadow’s relationship to melodrama, a label it was assigned in some contemporary reviews. It is the only genre mentioned in British fan magazine Picture Show’s brief review (8th October 1955, p. 10). Picturegoer magazine provided more detail, assessing that the film had ‘little mystery, some suspense, but plenty of spirited melodrama’ (17th September 1955, p. 21). We agreed that the fact that Teddy Bare’s (Dirk Bogarde’s) villainy was evident from almost the outset meant that mystery and suspense were subjugated to melodrama. This melodrama mostly takes the form of changing rhythm: less exciting scenes are punctuated by moments of action. Confounding expectations of horror also occurs.  The film opens with a piercing scream from, and a look of terror on the face of, Molly Bare (Mona Washbourne). This is soon revealed to be in response to a ghost train ride, rather than a real terror threat, and is followed by Molly and Teddy’s quiet discussion in a quaint seaside tea room.

We noticed that the film did not rely on coincidence to the same extent as many melodramas we’ve screened. In fact, melodrama was supplied in the realistic and psychologically well-motivated relationships between the characters. Our consideration of characters led us to contrast Teddy (the irredeemable villain) to his wives, and other women, in the film (his potential victims).  Viewing these women as women in peril connects it to the Gothic – a matter the melodrama research group has an interest in (see the blog’s gothic tag: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/tag/gothic/ ).

This was supported by another key theme of the Gothic – the old dark house – being present. Much of the action takes place in the Bares’ large isolated house. This is perhaps unsurprising as the film is Janet Green’s adaptation her own stage play which ran in London from 1952-1953. The filming adds other important details. The house’s location is visually connected to peril by a sign noting the ‘dangerous’ hill which foreshadows the film’s later action. Furthermore, Bare’s first wife, Molly, is killed by her husband in this house, and he makes use of a domestic appliance (a gas fire) to this end. The cinematography of this scene is particularly atmospheric.  Molly is pictured drunkenly dozing in a chair in the foreground of the shot while Teddy enters through the patio doors in the shadowy background.

It is also revealed that the house was the reason Molly and Teddy first met. He worked for the estate agent who came to value the house, and indeed the house the only item Molly left him in her first will. Teddy also acts as his own letting agent. He uses the house as a reason for the woman he has lined up to be the next Mrs Bare, Freda (Margaret Lockwood), to visit. When Molly’s sister Dora arrives, incognito as Charlotte Young (Kay Walsh), Teddy takes it upon himself to show her local houses she may be interested in buying.  The extended scene of Teddy being confronted by ‘Charlotte’ also occurs in the house. ‘Charlotte’ realises that counter-intuitively she is safer in the house: because of what happened to her sister, Teddy would find it very difficult to explain away another dead woman in his house.

A direct reference to Bluebeard’s chamber reinforces the film’s gothic connections. Freda (Margaret Lockwood) persuades the housemaid Emmie (Kathleen Harrison) to give her access to Molly’s bedroom which has been kept locked since her death. As she enters the room, Freda says it’s a ‘regular Bluebeard’s chamber’, and quips that if Teddy had ‘any more wives I’d have had to sleep in the bathroom’. This points to Freda as surprisingly well-informed about the gothic for a gothic heroine. We also noted that there was no real reason for Teddy to keep Molly’s bedroom locked; unlike the original Bluebeard he was not hiding his late wife’s body there. This led us to ponder whether it was through guilt or regret. Teddy seemed fond of Molly, but the fact that he still blamed her for misleading him about her will – for thinking the change would benefit Dora and not him – suggests that the room is perhaps sealed precisely so that connection to the gothic Bluebeard tale can be remarked upon.

It is significant, however, that Freda does not suspect her husband of killing his first wife or of plotting to kill her. This is unusual when compared to most gothic film narratives. For example, in both versions of Gaslight (1940, UK, Thorold Dickinson and 1944, US, George Cukor) as well as Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940) and Suspicion (1941) the heroine increasingly comes to suspect her husband. Cast a Dark Shadow diverges from Rebecca and Suspicion since Teddy’s murderous intentions are clear to the audience from nearly the beginning.

It is also worth considering the age-gap couples of the older Maxim and the young second Mrs de Winter in Rebecca and Teddy and Molly in Cast a Dark Shadow. Teddy is by many years Molly’s junior, and at first we thought that perhaps he was her doting son or nephew. As often happens with older husbands in gothic films, Molly takes on a teaching role in regard to the younger Teddy.  Teddy’s speech and lack of social graces are corrected by his wife. ‘‘Ome’ should be ‘home’, Teddy should not speak with his mouth full or lounge on the sofa with his feet up, and he ought to get up when a visitor departs. Furthermore, in contrast to other gothic narratives, it is Molly’s resistance rather than her acquiescence that causes her to be killed. Teddy is unaware that Molly made a will after their marriage. He therefore mistakenly believes that the new will she insists on drawing up cuts him out in favour of her sister, Dora.

Teddy’s second wife, Freda, even more so than Molly, is not the unsuspecting innocent heroine of most gothic narratives. Not only has she worked (as a barmaid) but she has sexual experience: she has been married and widowed. Freda’s prompt quashing of Teddy’s suggestion of separate bedrooms (‘I didn’t marry you for companionship’) reinforces this. Teddy himself describes her as ‘vulgar’ in one of the several conversations he holds with his late wife. (His speaking to Molly’s empty chair, and her role as teacher/mother to Teddy reminded us of Psycho (1960, Alfred Hitchcock) – both Teddy and Norman Bates are unhinged killers.)

Freda has a firm grip on the reason for men’s interest in her: in the past they have cared more about her ‘moneybags’ than the ‘old bag’. She also wishes to keep a firm grip on her finances as she insists that she and Teddy are equal in terms of partnership – they must match each other ‘pound for pound’. Freda fails to check Molly’s will deposited at Somerset House, however, and is subsequently pestered by Teddy to invest in a business deal. This scene takes place next to a quarry with a prominent ‘danger’ sign. Teddy has ostensibly encouraged Freda to climb over the safety fence in order to pick flowers. In addition to the location, Freda seems further to be in peril as he raises his hand to her when she refuses to go along with his plan. She threatens that ‘I’ll hit you back’, and the authority with which Lockwood invests the line makes Teddy, and the audience, believe her.

Freda is therefore aware of Teddy’s faults. As well as witnessing his threatening behaviour, she was unsurprised much earlier on when she learned that he had tricked Emmie working for him for free by ‘paying’ her with the £200 legacy Molly left her. Later, when complaining about ‘Charlotte’ and Teddy’s closeness, Freda says she would support Teddy in fleecing her. In some ways they are kindred spirits: she also married above her class, to a publican, and gives the impression of having cared little for her husband. (While Teddy does profess to have cared for Molly, he still killed her.) Nonetheless, Freda disbelieves ‘Charlotte’s’ accusation against Teddy, insisting that: ‘he’s a bad boy but he’s not that bad’. Freda’s blinkered attitude is perhaps explained by her earlier response to Teddy’s admission that he has no money: rather than railing against him she tells him ‘So help me I love you’.  This is reinforced by Freda’s acknowledgment at the film’s close that this was ‘the one time I let my heart rule my head’.

Emmie and ‘Charlotte’ are also women in peril. Of all the women in the film, Emmie is the most vulnerable to Teddy’s manipulation. Teddy is well aware of the type of woman he can target. When Teddy tells ‘Charlotte’ that he knew she was not keen on him, he explains that ‘I know who I appeal to and who I don’t’. He says that Freda was susceptible as they belong to the same class, and Molly because of her advanced age. Emmie qualifies on both counts. She is shown to occupy a lower class than even the ‘vulgar’ Freda. When they are introduced, Emmie seems unsure of how to address Freda, advising her to ‘come this way, lady’. Furthermore, as an employee, she is dependent on the Bares for the roof over her head. When Teddy learns he has not been left money in Molly’s will he tells Emmie she will have to find another home. Her reply ‘but this is my home’ touchingly underlines her helpless situation.

Teddy proceeds to further outline Emmie’s difficulties: she is too old to find another job. Despite her advanced age, Emmie has a childlike innocence.  Both Molly and Teddy when asking her to leave the room, or to get on with a job she has been given, tell her to ‘toddle’.  She is not only easily manipulated by Teddy in terms of her legacy, but is persuaded by him to tell Freda of his and Molly’s previous happiness – to give the recent widow hope.  Both Freda and Molly’s lawyer Phillip Mortimer (Robert Flemyng) comment on the fact that Emmie seems ‘simple’. Emmie’s trusting nature means that she is a risk to Teddy since while she is loyal to him, she may give away information without realising it. She has already guilelessly praised Teddy in Phillip’s presence for helping her to practice the evidence she later gave at Molly’s inquest.  Indeed, Phillip says that he hopes he will get the truth about Teddy’s guilt through Emmie since she has lived in the Bares’ house throughout. In turn this places Emmie at risk from Teddy.

In fact, it is another woman who causes for the truth to be revealed. Towards the end of the film ‘Charlotte’ unwittingly places herself in danger when she visits what she thinks is the Bares’ empty house in her quest for evidence. She enters the shadowy hall as the clock strikes. This invokes a sense that ‘Charlotte’ has come to mete out justice and it is a time of reckoning for Teddy. She is certainly a determined woman. When Teddy reveals that he knows ‘Charlotte’s’ true identity (partly because she was familiar with the house’s layout and idiosyncrasies), and admits to murdering her sister, her concern is for Freda. She stands up to Teddy, refusing to leave, and only departing when Freda returns and asks her to go.  ‘Charlotte’ even risks her life again, coming back to the house to make sure others know of his guilt. From here, ‘Charlotte’ witnesses Teddy’s escape and hears him crash her car: his tampering with her brakes has backfired.

We also briefly considered the film in relation to Margaret Lockwood’s screen image. Her appearances in Gainsborough melodramas in the 1940s (such as the aristocratic and adventurous Barbara in Leslie Arliss’ 1945 film The Wicked Lady) helped to ensure her status as a top box office draw during the decade. (You can see a summary of our discussion on The Wicked Lady here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2014/02/03/summary-of-discussion-on-the-wicked-lady/) Lockwood’s 1950s films were less successful, as Cast a Dark Shadow director Lewis Gilbert commented in later years (Brian McFarlane, Gilbert Interview, An Autobiography of British Cinema, 1997, p. 221). Lockwood is still afforded a star entrance in Cast a Dark Shadow, however. She enters the film about a third of the way in, sweeping down the stairs at the tearoom in which Teddy is lying in wait. Post-production publicity downplayed Lockwood’s involvement though.  Bogarde later noted that he was initially placed under Lockwood in the film’s billing, until it was realised that ‘her name had killed it’ (McFarlane, Bogarde Interview, p. 70). Gilbert echoes these sentiments, noting that the attachment of Lockwood’s name was ‘counter-productive’ (McFarlane, Gilbert Interview, p. 221). Both Bogarde and Gilbert opined it a shame that Lockwood’s ‘great’ performance was not appreciated by audiences (McFarlane, Bogarde Interview, p. 70, Gilbert Interview, p. 221). Lockwood did not appear in another feature film for over twenty years, though she stated in a 1973 interview that she was ‘glad’ to have played the role. (McFarlane, p. 374, quoting from Eric Braun ‘The Indestructibles’, Films and Filming, September 1973, p. 38.) This is supported by the fact that the next year Lockwood repeated her role in a now-believed lost TV version, co-starring Derek Farr the originator of the role of Teddy on stage.

Due to our Bogarde-focus we also discussed Bogarde’s role in the film – both on and off.  As noted in previous blog posts on the films we have screened, Bogarde’s character in Cast a Dark Shadow is repulsive and also coded as of the working classes (https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2018/11/21/summary-of-discussion-on-libel/_) Chronologically the film can be placed between previously screened films Hunted (1952, Charles Crichton) and Libel (1959, Anthony Asquith). Both of these films afforded Bogarde the opportunity to be simultaneously villainous and vulnerable. Cast a Dark Shadow in fact returns him to his smaller earlier role as a low-class criminal who kills George Dixon (of Dock Green fame) in The Blue Lamp (1950, Basil Dearden).

The film should also be placed in the context of Bogarde’s other films released in 1955. Simba (Brian Desmond Hurst) was an adventure story, and Doctor at Sea (Ralph Thomas) the second in a comedy series. The latter is an especially important part of Bogarde’s screen image which the melodrama research group has had little chance to explore. The significance of the series to Bogarde’s screen image at the time is implied by a letter from a member of the public published in the 24th September 1955 issue of UK fan magazine Picturegoer. Miss E Smyth asked ‘Can’t Dirk Bogarde have a really dramatic role to prove himself an actor as well as a much-admired star?’ (p. 30). While we cannot be sure this was from a real person, it comments on an awareness of Bogarde’s increasingly frequent appearances in comedies and ties kudos for acting to dramatic performances. Picturegoer’s response is also instructive: ‘But picturegoers used to complain that Bogarde had too many dramatic, hunted-by-police roles…’  Cast a Dark Shadow therefore supplies a useful contrast to both comedies (the Doctor series) and man-on-the run films like Hunted.

We also noted that Bogarde’s later screen image (his role in Basil Dearden’s Victim, 1961), as well as his star image (knowledge of his personal life) influenced a specific aspect our reading of his character in Cast a Dark Shadow. When Teddy is waiting for Freda at the seaside tearoom he is reading a men’s health magazine which has a semi-naked man on its cover. Perusing such a publication might be thought to indicate a preference for men. Given Teddy’s first marriage to a woman much older than himself, his somewhat camp eyebrow-raising, and revelations later in the film about some of his earlier behaviour, we contemplated his sexuality. This is not clear-cut. Teddy’s pursuit of Freda is for business rather than pleasure, though he seems gratified when she refuses separate bedrooms and points out that she has not married him for companionship. His narcissism leaves little room for anyone other than himself.

As well as considering where Cast a Dark Shadow fits with Bogarde’s screen and star images we pondered how much he contributed to the role.  Bogarde was apparently approached by Janet Green to appear in her original play (McFarlane, Gilbert Interview, p. 221). This suggests that the character was written with Bogarde in mind for both stage and screen. He has stated that the ‘unwholesomeness’ of the character was appealed to him and made it fun (McFarlane, Bogarde Interview, p. 70) even though we might think it allowed for less nuance. Lockwood was persuaded to undertake her role by Bogarde (McFarlane, Bogarde Interview, p. 70; McFarlane, p. 374, quoting Lockwood in Braun, ‘The Indestructibles’, p. 38). This therefore reveals Bogarde’s wider influence in the production of the film, cautioning us not to assume passivity on the part of a star and to acknowledge the many people are involved in realising a director’s vision.

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know you’d like me to add your thoughts to the blog.

Summary of Discussion on The Singer Not the Song

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Our discussion on The Singer Not the Song included: comments on its melodramatic characters and plot as well as the Western genre; the film’s camp sensibility; Bogarde’s screen and star images; information on the film’s production.

As with other Dirk Bogarde films we’ve screened this term, we commented on the characters and the plot in terms of melodrama. In The Singer Not the Song, these were especially tied to certain tropes of the Western. John Mills, as the newcomer Catholic priest Michael Keogh, enters a small Mexican town dressed entirely in black – he wears a long soutane and clerical hat. While this might signal in traditional Westerns that he is the villain, his vocation and polite interaction with Mylene Demongeot’s local young woman, Locha de Cortinez, instead point to him as a heroic figure.  This is even more clearly delineated when Bogarde makes his first appearance as Anacleto Comachi. He too is clad entirely in black, but in tight leather trousers which, unlike the priests’ costume, leave very little to the imagination. There are also moments when Bogarde’s three-dimensional performance becomes less nuanced. We especially noted Anacleto calmly stroking a pure white cat, a sure-sign of villainous intent.

Anacleto calls for his associates to kill Father Keogh after the latter refuses to back down in the face of violence. The brakes on the priest’s car fail as he is being driven on treacherous mountain roads, with him and the driver only narrowly cheating death. Later on, when Father Keogh is exiting the church, he is saved from being injured by a machete by raising the heavy book he is holding. Father Keogh considers both his escapes to be miraculous and states that they were directed by God.  The mountain was moved by faith which provided a new track on which the car could run, and the book which affords him protection at the church is the bible. While Father Keogh sees these as miraculous, such incredible escapes are not all that unusual in melodrama.

Father Keogh takes these attempts on his life in his stride, perhaps because, as he tells Anacleto, everyone must face suffering – especially priests. Such suffering is often at the heart of melodrama, especially in relation to women. Indeed, the film’s main female character, Locha, is bound by her gender and her class. Because she is privileged, she is kept safe and in comfort, but she has little to do. Her lack of mobility is starkly conveyed by her wish to learn to drive in order that she has some independence. Locha’s suffering, and inability to act on her desires, is increased when she falls in love with a man she cannot have.

While Locha continues to be a one-dimensional and formulaic victim, the line between hero (Father Keogh) and villain (Anacleto) becomes increasingly blurred. The priest’s life is attempted for the third time, but Anacleto steps in to save him, at great personal cost. Anacleto’s associate, old Uncle (Laurence Naismith), has just abruptly left Anacleto to visit the priest. Anacleto soon follows, pausing only to collect a gun. In a confrontation at the priest’s house, the man who has been like a father to Anacleto accuses him of liking the priest so much he is turning against his old comrades. His view is substantiated when Anacleto shoots the old man dead to halt his attack on Father Keogh. The scene wraps up with the police chief (John Bentley) arresting Anacleto, and the criminal forced to leave town. While this vanquishing of the threat may seem to conclude the film – despite the fact it occurs just over an hour in to the narrative – at least half of its running time is left, ample space for the film to explore Anacleto’s complex motives.

Anacleto returns to the town after about a year away. He continues to wear a similar costume, though there is some variation as the sombre black is relieved by a little colour – such as his yellow waistcoat. Anacleto directly appeals to Father Keogh for forgiveness. More importantly, Anacleto asks if he can move in with the priest so that the religious man can help the man without a God understand the purpose of faith. While the priest’s horror-stricken face suggests he is not amenable to Anacleto’s request, he allows him to stay in his spare room. From this position it becomes easier for Anacleto to influence both Father Keogh and Locha. He makes Locha doubt her decision to marry Phil from Florida, a man considered suitable by her parents. Anacleto correctly intuits that Locha is in love with the man who will perform the ceremony.

While Anacleto is right to attempt to come between Locha and Phil, his motives are unclear. Furthermore, his manipulation of her becomes more obvious. There is a level of performativity as Anacleto at first pretends to believe Locha’s mother’s assumption (which she shared with Father Keogh) that Locha is besotted with Anacleto. It is credible that this may be the case. Although he is a violent murderer, he is attractive and has a certain charm – indeed he is almost gentlemanly in his politeness. There also appears to be a suggestion of a previous friendship, or perhaps more, between the pair. Earlier in the film, Anacleto and Locha meet accidentally in a shop in the town.  He says that she should be served first, and they appear to be on polite, if not quite friendly terms. Locha even reminds Anacleto that he once said that he would do anything to help her. He responds that this was said a long time ago, closing down the suggestion that changes his criminal ways.

Anacleto’s ulterior motive in asking for Father Keogh’s spiritual guidance is also revealed. Initially Anacleto argued that the priest should not be killed since this would be a tactical error, him a martyr to the cause.  Although Anacleto later agreed to two attempts on Father Keogh’s life because it appeared his intimidation was not working, he switched back to his earlier standpoint when old Uncle attacked the priest. His return to the town is therefore part of a very cunning plan to make Father Keogh doubt himself and his faith. Anacleto does not achieve this by undermining the priest’s religious beliefs (despite his questioning of the logic of these) but through Locha’s love for Father Keogh. By whisking Locha away before her wedding (which her father views as kidnap) Anacleto engineers for Locha and Father Keogh to meet at the criminals’ hideout. This leads to an awkward scene, at which Anacelto insists being present, as Locha and the priest share a forbidden kiss. Father Keogh then gives Anacleto his word that if he frees Locha, he will tell the townspeople to support Anacleto. A set-piece at the church, in front of a full congregation, including Anacleto, shows Father Keogh breaking his promise. Anacleto accuses the priest of betraying him, and indeed Father Keogh seem more tormented by this than by his illicit romance with Locha.

Unsurprisingly, what Anacleto views as Father Keogh’s treachery does not go unpunished. The film ends in a Western-style shoot out.  Although the priest does not brandish a weapon, he is caught in the cross-fire as he goes to the injured Anacleto’s aid. Father Keogh remains close to the injured man, urging him to confess his crimes. The two men become even closer physically when the priest is shot by one of Anacleto’s followers and he falls on top of the bandit, the two men lying together in death. The film has been leading up to this sexually charged, homoerotic moment due to its camp sensibility.

This is perhaps most obvious in Anacleto’s costume. His tight-fitting trousers seem especially calculated to draw attention, in a bid to display himself as a sexual being. Anacleto’s deliberate physical posturing, his precise vocal delivery and his archly-raised eyebrows at key moments also contribute to the camp mood. Exaggeration is also evident in Anacleto’s role as dangerous bandit, as well as the fact that this calls for a certain performance – the townsfolk must believe in the threat in order to be frightened of it.  Furthermore, this increases when Anacleto returns, supposedly seeking forgiveness, but in fact faking his contrition.

In relation to performativity, it is significant that Anacleto’s only moment of heterosexual romance is strictly for show. Having been informed by Father Keogh of Locha’s supposed love for him, Anacleto, Anacleto attempts to kiss her. She rebuffs him, and he admits he only tried to embrace her in order to confirm his suspicion that she loves Father Keogh.  Anacleto’s pushing together of Father Keogh and Locha is for his own purposes, rather than an endorsement of such relationships. The lack of heterosexual romance does not necessarily mean we must assume that a homosexual one is present, but the in addition to the film’s camp tone, some of the film’s dialogue supports such a reading.  Anacleto tells Locha that ‘it must be heart-breaking to be in love with a man you can’t have’ and that he ‘understands’ it.  This makes us view the film’s ending, with Anacleto and Father Keogh united in death, in a certain light.  Any passion the two men may have for one another is deemed impossible.

We also commented on the film in relation to Bogarde’s screen and star images. In between last time’s screening (Libel) and The Singer Not the Song, Bogarde appeared in two films, both in 1960:  The Angel Wore Red (Nunnally Johnson) and Song Without End (Charles Vidor; George Cukor). The former’s status as an Italian-American co-production and the latter’s as a US film extend Libel’s US/UK co-production.   Bogarde played international characters in both: a Spanish former Catholic priest and the Hungarian composer Franz Liszt.  Bogarde’s Mexican bandit therefore expands his repertoire of characters of different nationalities.  From the available contemporaneous fan magazine materials it certainly seems to be the case that The Singer Not the Song, and perhaps Bogarde, were more lauded in France than in the UK.  The British Film Institute’s Collection of Dirk Bogarde magazines includes two from this period which cover the film, and Bogarde, extensively: Cinemonde (11 April 1961) and Cine Tele Revue (15 September 1961).  (You can read more on my cataloguing of the BFI’s Dirk Bogarde collection here: www.normmanetwork.com/) This prefigures Bogarde’s European films in the late 1960s, as well as his own move to France around the same time.

In addition to the international appeal of Bogarde, The Singer Not the Song builds on the ambiguity of Bogarde’s screen image since Anacleto, at least for some of the film, appears to have crossed from the bad to the good side. We’ve noticed throughout the term how Bogarde was able to be both hero and villain. The rogue Bogarde played in Esther Waters did not deliberately forsake the heroine, while in Hunted his killer-on-the-run sensitively cared for a small boy. In Libel Bogarde essayed two characters: one who attempts to kill the other, with the issue of lost memory meaning that the surviving man remains is unsure of his identity.

More specifically, The Singer Not the Song expands on Libel’s gay, but especially, camp sensibilities. The Singer Not the Song’s contemporaneous reception shows that the interpretation of it being about passion between Anacleto and Father Keogh is not just a modern reading-in. In the November 1961 issue of the UK’s Films and Filming, well-known film reviewer and commentator Raymond Durgnat says as much, though within the context of society’s reticence on the subject. While this was not necessarily a widely-held view (i.e. the opinion of most filmgoers), it is worth considering how it might relate to Bogarde’s next film, Victim. The title of Basil Dearden’s ground-breaking film about a married gay barrister (Bogarde) points to its sympathetic attitude: at a time when sex between men was criminalised in the UK, it does not view its protagonist as a perpetrator. Victim was released six months after The Singer Not the Song. It is interesting to debate whether at the time, and indeed now, we may see Roy Ward Baker’s film as continuation of the gay and camp themes of Libel, or a retrograde step (with stereotyped characters and the deaths of both men) before Victim’s sensitive handling of the matter.

It is difficult to know how much of a performance originates from an actor, and how much is already present in the script, or is prompted by the director or the editing. Additional information we can take into account is Bogarde’s relationship to The Singer Not the Song and Victim.  While Bogarde fought for the role in Victim, he only undertook the role in The Singer Not the Song under sufferance as his last film under contact with Rank.  Director/producer Roy Ward Baker was apparently also not keen on the project. Both aspects are documented in a newspaper article present in the BFI’s Dirk Bogarde collection (though not available on the official website). Matthew Sweet’s interview with Roy Ward Baker appeared in the Independent Review on the 7th of February 2003. Bogarde especially disagreed with the casting of Mills as the priest, being of the opinion that the man Locha falls for should be played by a younger actor.

Specifically, in terms of how this affected Bogarde’s performance, Bogarde himself claimed he ‘did the whole thing for camp’ (in an interview with Bogarde in Brian McFarlane’s fascinating 1997 An Autobiography of British Cinema, p. 70, reworked from his 1992 Sixty Voices: Celebrities Recall the Golden Age of British Cinema). In Derek Collett’s 2015 biography of The Singer Not the Song’s screenwriter, Nigel Balchin, he goes as far as to attribute the most visible signal of the film’s camp sensibility – Anacleto’s leather trousers – to Bogarde. In His Own Executioner, Collett details that Bogarde obtained them from a tailor in Rome.  Such production insights help us to further frame the film, and Bogarde’s screen and star images, especially in relation to camp. This is in addition to sources like Bogarde’s own memoirs, other people’s autobiographies, works on directors and films and the fantastic British Entertainment History Project. Running for more than 30 years, this includes more than 700 audio and video interviews with those working in film, television, theatre and radio:  https://historyproject.org.uk/

 

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know you’d like me to add your thoughts to the blog.

Summary of Discussion on Libel

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Discussion on Libel included: its melodramatic elements in terms of its main narrative line of imposture, the villain/victim dynamic, coincidence, the courtroom setting and the rhythm of the plot which contains multiple flashbacks, especially emotional moments, and the film’s use of music; the matter of trauma caused by war and the attempted recovery of repressed memory; doubling in the source text and adaptations;  doubling in films; the doubling of Mark and Frank – both played by Dirk Bogarde; narcissism and homosexual desire; how the fact Bogarde plays both posh Mark and lower-class Frank related to his screen and star images; scandal magazines.

Our discussion began with comments on films which had similar narratives. The plot where a man commits, or is accused of committing, identity theft recalled The Captive Heart (1946, Basil Dearden). In this, Michael Redgrave starred as a Czechoslovakian prisoner of war posing as (Redgrave’s real-life wife) Rachel Kempson’s RAF husband through letters to her. We also spoke about the French film The Return of Martin Guerre (1982, France, Daniel Vigne), with Gerard Depardieu as the titular character and Nathalie Baye as Bertrande, his wife. Although this was based on a historical case from 16th century France, Hollywood later updated and relocated it to Civil War America in Somersby (1993, Jon Amiel) starring Richard Gere and Jodie Foster.

In addition to Libel’s central melodramatic plot-line, which not only needs the audience to suspend its disbelief to some degree but also promises a revelation of the truth, we considered whether the film employed stock characters thought to be typical to melodrama. Because of the confusion over the main character’s identity, the matter was very blurred. This is well illustrated by a contemporary poster for the film which poses the question of whether Baronet Mark Loddon (Dirk Bogarde) is ‘Victim or Murderer?’ Furthermore, the next line, ‘not even his wife knew which’ points to Margaret Loddon (Olivia de Havilland) as the real victim if ‘Mark’ is in fact ‘Frank’ playing a role. The matter turns out to be even more nuanced when ‘Number 15’ (a severely injured man, and like Mark and Frank also played by Bogarde, and therefore either the ‘real’ Mark or the ‘real’ Frank) appears in court. Towards the end of the film the recovery of Mark’s previously repressed memory further complicates any view of him being wholly ‘good’ or ‘bad’.

The film’s many melodramatic twists on turns depended to a large extent on coincidences. The central one – that of two men who look nearly exactly alike (both are played by Dirk Bogarde, after all) apart from hair colour and the matter of a few missing fingers – being interned in the same prisoner of war camp – took a fair suspension of disbelief on the audience’s part. Some of the explanations for the physical changes which have occurred to the present-day (and possibly ‘fake’) Mark also stretched credence, especially since they made him resemble Frank. The turning of Mark’s hair from dark to silver (like Frank’s) could be explained by age and the trauma of war. (It was in any case helpful for distinguishing between the dark-haired Mark and the silver-haired Frank in the flashbacks.) However, the chance that Mark lost fingers during his escape which exactly matched Frank’s disability seemed slim.

Coincidence also led to the Canadian Jeffrey Buckenham (Paul Massie) seeing the live television broadcast of the present-day Mark showing Richard Dimbleby around his stately home. Buckenham states that he is only in the UK for a couple of days. His presence in a pub which happens to boast a television which is tuned into the correct channel at just the right time (especially since in the 1950s television programmes often aired just once) is, however, superseded by another coincidence. The other pub customers object to viewing the programme, and Buckenham persuades fellow customer Maisie (Millicent Martin), whom he has only just met, to let him view her television in her nearby flat. The choice of the TV medium almost seems to deliberately underline the unlikeliness of the situation. Buckenham could have been exposed to photographs of Mark in a newspaper or a newsreel, which would have relied less on the precise timing of Buckenham’s reception. Furthermore, it is in an incredible twist of fate that Buckenham is the only person to have known both Mark and Frank well – the three escaped the prisoner of war camp together.

More believable were aspects which weighed for the likelihood of the present-day Mark being an imposter.  Frank’s profession as a ‘provincial actor’, meaning that he could conceivably imitate Mark’s voice and gestures. The flashbacks show this convincingly since Buckenham remarks that he could ‘understudy’ the ‘star’ part of Mark Loddon. The prisoner of war scenes also reveal that Frank was present while Mark described some of his past, and his fiancée. Frank could therefore make use of such information.

We pondered the flashbacks a little more.  While some of these recounted the same events, such as the misdelivering of one of Mark’s letters to Frank, the details differed depending on who was giving evidence.  Buckenham’s included more of an emphasis on Frank’s violence. They are not necessarily contradictory, however, unlike the lying flashback in Alfred Hitchcock’s Stage Fright (1950) for example). In this film they add further nuance, and indeed more evidence for Buckenham’s claims Mark is an imposter.

We also discussed how coincidence played a part in action which occurred prior to the film. The fact that Mark was engaged, but not yet married, was significant. It meant that the chance of an imposter being able to fool his family, and specifically his fiancée, was more likely. This was aided by the present-day Mark’s amnesia which helpfully provides an excuse for why he cannot remember certain details of what happened before the war.

Two important courtroom revelations also relied on coincidence. A physically and, more importantly, severely mentally damaged man – known only as Number 15 – is produced in the court by the defence team. Recognisably played by Bogarde, this means that somehow Frank (or Mark!) survived the injuries sustained abroad and has at last been identified. The final coincidence which in fact clinches the fact of Mark’s innocence also occurs in the court room. He has finally remembered the medallion charm his fiancée gave to him, and more significantly recalls that it is hidden in the coat Number 15 was found wearing. Conveniently this coat has been kept, and indeed is present in court.

The fact that much of the film’s action, and the framing of flashbacks, take place in court, is significant. In this formal setting, elderly, privileged, white men in traditional robes follow procedures which have been established for centuries. Its staid atmosphere contrasts to the action in the flashbacks and the intensity of the revelations which are divulged, providing a rhythm of lows and highs. Even the brilliant British actors Robert Morley, Wilfrid Hyde-White and Richard Wattis, who are not exactly underplaying their roles as legal stalwarts, seem surprised by the level of revelation.  This was also reflected by the audible gasps of those in the public gallery, which were in turn echoed by members of the melodrama research group!

We also paid attention to moments when characters displayed extreme emotion. Mark’s struggling with his memory, and his being seemingly haunted by his own reflection, led to outbursts both at home and in court. His wife is more emotionally stable, providing Mark with solid support. But after she has denounced him in court as a fraud, the enormity of his presumed deception distresses her and she verbally attacks Mark. Following this, she leans against the hotel door, exhausted, and calls out his name.

Much of this emotion is underscored by the film’s music. We especially noted the use of a particular refrain – the whistling of the English folk song ‘Early One Morning’ – in the narrative. As well as further suggesting that Mark is an imposter (we see Frank whistling the tune in the flashbacks and it is part of what makes Buckenham suspicious of him) the lyrics of the chorus seem to reinforce Mark’s wife’s view that she has been lied to:

Oh, don’t deceive me,
Oh, never leave me,
How could you use
A poor maiden so?

The theme of deception works on several levels in the film, including that of self-deception. Mark claims to have lost his memory due to the trauma of war. While some in the film think that this is a convenient way for Frank to explain any gaps in his knowledge of a life he has after all not lived, it turns out to in fact be the case. He is in fact the real Mark, though is unaware of who he is for most of the film. A flashback reveals the memory Mark has repressed. He is shown to viciously attack Frank after Frank decided to put Buckenham’s suggestion of taking over the ‘star’ part into practice. This explains his distress when seeing his own reflection in a mirror – it is a reminder of the man with his face who turned against him. It is also significantly suggestive of a fear of himself. Though Mark acts in self-defence, his sustained attack is unjustifiable. The effects of his actions are seen as Number 15 shuffles into court, physically but even more overwhelmingly mentally and emotionally damaged. This speaks to a more universal fear of what the self is capable of.

The recovery of repressed memory reminded us of when the melodrama research group screened The Awakening (2011, Nick Murphy). The Awakening is especially tied to time and place as the film’s protagonist, Florence (Rebecca Hall), unknowingly returns to her childhood home after the first world war in order for her to remember her past. (You can see a summary of the group’s  previous discussion here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2014/03/01/summary-of-discussion-on-the-awakening/).

A film which had more direct comparisons to Libel, and indeed was released more than a decade previously, is Alfred Hitchcock’s Spellbound (1945). Like Mark, the character Gregory Peck plays – Dr Anthony Edwardes – is thought to be an imposter. He is suspected by Dr Constance Petersen (Ingrid Bergman), who nonetheless does not believe his admission that he has killed the real Dr Edwardes. While in fact he is not who he claims to be, Peck’s character, like Mark, is suffering from amnesia.  Because of the profession Dr Petersen and Dr Edwardes share (they are psychoanalysts) this aspect is especially well-worked through. It is explained that he is suffering from a guilt complex. He was present there when the real Dr Edwardes accidentally fell to his death, which recalled a childhood accident in which his brother died.

We also especially focused on the relation of the doubling not just to the self, and to psychology, but to the medium of film. In relation to this, it is worth contemplating the original source text and other adaptations. Edward Wooll’s play, on which the film was based, was first staged in 1934. The 1930-1939 volume of J.P. Wearing’s incredibly helpful The London Stage: A Calendar of Productions, Performers, and Personnel (1990) contains the cast list and this suggests that the character of Frank does not appear in the original production. This is unsurprising, since the doubling would be extremely difficult to achieve on stage. It is however, possible that it took place in the novelised version Wooll wrote in 1935.

Several radio and television versions were made between 1934 and the 1970s. According to my research on the internet movie database (https://www.imdb.com/) and the BBC’s excellent genome project (https://genome.ch.bbc.co.uk/), which gives access to all the BBC’s radio and TV listings from 1923 to 2009, these productions also do not include Frank. Doubling would have been possible on radio, but certainly more impactful on screen. The fact that much TV of the time was shown live or ‘as live’ making manipulation of the image difficult, or indeed consisted of excerpts of stage plays, perhaps partially explains why the doubling remains a peculiarly cinematic phenomenon.

Such a view is supported when we consider that other instances of doubling are especially linked to film. We’ve viewed and discussed some examples in the melodrama research group. In addition to instances of doubling which are related to the split self (The Student of Prague (1913, Stella Rye), Black Swan (2010, Darren Aronofsky), The Double (2013, Richard Ayoade)) we’ve also seen stars playing dual roles: Mary Pickford in Stella Maris (1918, Marshall Neilan) and Norma Shearer in Lady of the Night (1925, Monta Bell). You can also see summaries of our discussion on Olivia de Havilland playing twins in The Dark Mirror (1946, Robert Siodmak) here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2015/01/31/summary-of-discussion-on-the-dark-mirror/. Jeremy Irons also undertook such a feat in Dead Ringers (1988, David Cronenberg), a summary of our discussion appearing here: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2015/03/26/summary-of-discussion-on-dead-ringers/.

Not only is the film audience afforded the opportunity of seeing both Mark and Frank, importantly these characters are able to see one another. There was an undercurrent of narcissism present in the relationship between the two men.  Frank admired Mark so much as his ego ideal (the self he wanted to be) that he tried to take Mark’s life – both literally and figuratively. In addition, there was the suggestion of homosexual desire. Buckenham’s defending counsel, Hubert Foxley (Hyde-White) states that Mark has kept many things from his wife. While ostensibly this refers to the accusation that Mark has stolen another man’s identity, we might also consider that this refers to other parts of his private life. Such a reading seems especially indicated by the tone of Foxley’s probing. He asks what happened between the two men when they were left alone on one occasion at the prisoner of war camp, repeating ‘and then….?’ in such a way as to imply that more has occurred.

We can connect such readings more closely to the fact that Mark and Frank were played by Bogarde. Our view of a star’s screen image is of course informed by the other roles he or she plays, including in terms of character and class, as well as any knowledge we have of a star’s ‘real’ self (star image). We noted how in Esther Waters Bogarde played a gambler of the lower classes, and while he is the cause of the heroine’s downfall his character is nuanced. Bogarde’s ability to play two extremes was seen to even greater effect in Hunted as a murderer on the run who nonetheless cares for a neglected little boy.  In the seven years between Hunted and Libel, Bogarde appeared in a variety of films, and began to be listed by the trade magazine Motion Picture Herald as a draw at the British box office.

Soon after Hunted, Bogarde played another man-on-the-run, though this time an innocent one, in Desperate Moment (1953, Compton Bennett). Other roles saw Bogarde breaking the law. In The Gentle Gunman (1952, Basil Dearden) he was a member of the IRA and in The Sleeping Tiger (1954, Joseph Losey) a man who hold a psychiatrist at gunpoint. In Cast a Dark Shadow (1955, Lewis Gilbert) Bogarde’s repulsive wife-killer is specifically coded as a member of the lower classes (despite having married into wealth). Similarly, the feckless and petty thief he portrays in Anthony Asquith’s 1958 adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s play The Doctor’s Dilemma is poor. Bogarde also played non-criminal types, in both light comedies (most notably in 3 of the Doctor series of films– 1954, 1955 and 1957 – and action or adventure narratives like Campbell’s Kingdom (1957), all directed by Ralph Thomas. Thomas was also at the helm when Bogarde starred as Sydney Carton in an adaptation of Charles Dickens’ 1859 novel A Tale of Two Cities and in the war picture The Wind Cannot Read (both 1958). Like other stars of the time, Bogarde appeared in several war films in the 1950s, beginning with Appointment in London (Philip Leacock) in 1953. In these films Bogarde mostly played members of the middle or the upper classes. His status as a star at the British box office at this time was impressive, 5th in both 1953 and 1959, and in between rose higher: 2nd (1954), 1st (1955), 3rd (1956), 1st (1957) and 2nd (1958).

Bogarde’s appearance as Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities is particularly worth singling out in comparison to Libel. The narrative turns on the uncanny physical similarity between drunken English lawyer Carton and French aristocrat Charles Darnay. Carton famously nobly sacrifices his own life for Darnay’s, substituting himself for the Frenchman at the guillotine.  While Bogarde does not play both parts in the film (Paul Guers is Darnay), this has occasionally been the case. William Farnum starred in both roles in Frank Lloyd’s 1917 silent film and Desmond Llewelyn in a 1952 television adaptation.  The two 1980 TV versions also used this device – Paul Shelley appearing as Carton and Darnay in the mini-series and Charles Sarandon doing so in the TV movie.  Libel therefore addresses the matter of the double more directly. It also problematizes the matter due to the fact neither the audience, nor Mark, is sure of Mark’s identity.

Libel also adds aspects which connect more specifically to Bogarde’s star image. John Style’s chapter “Dirk Bogarde’s Sidney Carton—More Faithful to the Character than Dickens Himself?” (from Books in Motion, Adaptation, Intertextuality, Authorship (2005)), wrote about Bogarde’s theatricality in this film in relation to camp. Libel’s references to camp are more overt. Frank is after all, an actor, and excuses his impersonation of Mark by claiming that he is practicing for the ‘camp’ concert. Many films set in prisoner of war camps show its inmates spending what might seem like an inordinate amount of time on such entertainments, including quite often female impersonation; for us though, the use of the word ‘camp’ had an obvious double meaning.

Frank has less depth than the character of Mark – Mark is after all not sure who he is – but the relation to Bogarde’s real life is intriguing. Bogarde too started as a provincial actor (in repertory at Amersham – see one of my posts on the NORMMA blog: http://www.normmanetwork.com/pre-search-dirk-bogardes-life-and-career/). It is also important to consider our reading of Libel in relation to revelations made after his death about his private life. The reading of some of the aspects in Libel as elating to homosexuality is also strengthened by Bogarde’s later screen image – especially his appearance as a gay man in Victim (1961, Basil Dearden).

We concluded our discussion by pondering the film’s own raising of the matter of scandal – it is for this reason that Mark launches the libel action against a ‘sensationalist’ newspaper. While this type of publication is distinct from the celebrity scandal magazines which especially proliferated in the 1950s, we spoke about the tricky line stars sometimes had to negotiate. Stars relied on print to sustain the public’s interest in them, but also had to be careful in case revelations about their private lives harmed their careers. We commented that in Libel the scandal was connected to class. Class runs through the film. We are introduced to Mark, by Richard Dimbleby, as a Baronet with a long family history, and a palatial stately home (in fact Longleat House). It is because of his family name that he is a prominent person – one readers may be interested to learn more about.

We also spoke about how the film commented on publicity as a particularly American phenomenon.  Although she claims she only wants to protect their son’s future, his wife is criticised by those attending the local church for the fact the libel action goes ahead – it is said that Americans love publicity. Significantly, Mark’s American wife is played by the American star de Havilland. British fan magazine Picturegoer noted that Libel continued Bogarde’s run of American sponsored films which would also be shown in the United States (29th August 1959). These included the already-made The Doctor’s Dilemma, and the upcoming The Franz Liszt Story – later renamed Song Without End (1960, Charles Vidor; George Cukor).

It was also remarked upon that it is somewhat ironic that de Havilland recently launched an unsuccessful libel action against the makers of the 2017 mini-series Feud. The TV production, about the relationship between Bette Davis (Susan Sarandon) and Joan Crawford (Jessica Lange), includes a characterisation of de Havilland (Davis’ co star and friend) by Catherine Zeta-Jones. De Havilland criticised the series for claiming she was a gossip and for its less than flattering depiction of her own relationship with her sister, fellow film star Joan Fontaine.  This shows the importance of the matter of personal reputation to stars, as well as the mingling of screen and star images.

 

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know you’d like me to add your thoughts to the blog.

Summary of Discussion on The Bat Whispers

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Our discussion of The Bat Whispers covered: its melodramatic elements, which included the Mystery, Violence, Chase of male melodrama; the film’s origins in literature, stage and cinema; consideration of the narrative’s use of stereotypes and connections to the gothic; the relationship between Cornelia Van Gorder and Lizzie Allen; the film’s style, especially its camerawork, in terms of influence; the film’s epilogue.

We began with discussion of elements relating to the ‘male’ melodrama: Mystery, Violence and Chase. These, especially the latter, were very much to the fore in our previous screening – Hunted (1952) starring Dirk Bogarde as a man on the run. This time, the criminal was the mysterious ‘Bat’, an inventive thief intent on terrorising the country. His unknown identity forms the film’s central mystery and means that we do not have access to his motives. The matter of disguise was also raised by another character. We noted how one of the film’s lesser character’s appearance, and poor attempt at passing for someone else, reminded us of a trope of the Superhero film. Dale Van Gorder (Una Merkel), niece of the elderly and indomitable Cornelia (Grayce Hampton) who is renting a country house for the summer, is anxious to hide her fiancé Brook (William Bakewell) in plain view as a gardener. In order to make sure he goes unrecognised (he is the missing clerk from a bank which has recently been robbed) Dale slightly ruffles Brook’s hair and gives him some spectacles. This made us think of the later depictions of Superman when he is passing for reporter Clark Kent. Other mystery elements arose as the film unfolded: who is responsible for the attacks on the characters?, who stole the money from the bank?, is the missing money in the house’s ‘hidden’ room?

The film contains several instances of violence. The Bat is reported by the newspapers to be a dangerous criminal, and we see him committing some violent acts. He murders a man he is robbing near the beginning of the film’s narrative, and we presume that he is also responsible for the onscreen shooting of Dick Fleming (Hugh Huntley) as well as other incidents. He is not the only violent character though. Fleming was threatening Dale with a gun at the time he was shot; Dr Venrees (Gustav von Seyffertitz) hits Detective Anderson (Chester Morris) over the head with a telephone; the caretaker (Spencer Charters) drops an urn from a height on a visitor when he appears on the doorstep. Some of this violence is, however, undercut by the film’s often comic tone. This mostly exists in the characters, especially those coded as of the lower classes. Specifically, these are Cornelia’s maid Lizzie (Maude Eburne) and the caretaker. The former’s responses to the violence, and indeed any mild instances of terror, are always exaggerated while the latter is demonstrably fearful of all strangers.

The film’s central narrative line is the search for the Bat. But the dynamic and suspenseful chase sequences which open the film – police cars race down city streets – are replaced by comic ones in the house. The most extended of these involves the caretaker being pursued though the house by the police. As well as involving one of the film’s demonstrably ‘comic’ characters, the footage also appears to be sped up. There are also scenes during which the Bat dashes through the house, making an exit through centrally placed chute. This has a comic effect, but this is increased when it the action is repeated, with comical noises and gestures, by Lizzie. The chase sequences also effectively establish the onscreen space, giving us insight into the house’s architecture. (We noted, for example, the connecting doors between Cornelia and Lizzie’s rooms.) The house’s construction becomes especially important as the location of a ‘hidden’ room, potentially the place where the missing money is being stashed, is sought. This therefore links both the mystery and chase elements present in the film.

While these specific melodramatic elements are more connected to the ‘male’ melodrama, we also commented on the film’s use of more ‘traditional’ melodrama stereotypes. These are worth considering in relation to the film’s stage origins, and its early sound cinema production context. The film is based on the play, The Bat, written by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood in 1920. It enjoyed popularity, closing after over 800 performances in New York, and more than 300 in London. The play was also praised by leading American theatre critic Alexander Wollcott in the New York Times. It had previously been filmed, by The Bat Whispers director Roland West, as a silent in 1926. That version starred Emily Fitzroy as Cornelia, Louise Fazenda as Lizzie and Eddie Gribbon as Detective Anderson.

It is notable that both the 1926 and 1930 films draw on the play, rather than Roberts Rinehart’s original 1908 novel The Circular Staircase. This had been directed by Edward le Saint as a feature-length silent in 1915. The novel and the 1915 film notably differ to the 1920 play and subsequent film adaptations. Many of the characters’ names are altered, but more significant changes are the exclusion of Cornelia’s nephew, and the addition of the titular criminal. The latter complicates the still-present bank robbery narrative. Although these divergences are important, it is perhaps because of the earlier film, and the question of rights, that the relationship between The Circular Staircase and The Bat was denied by Roberts Rinehart. It was also able to draw more directly on the play’s commercial success.

Furthermore, we can relate some changes to the difference in media. While the novel is told from Cornelia’s point of view, and in retrospect, the play and the 1926 and 1930 films are more action-based. This helps to explain the fact that the characters are not psychologically rounded, but mostly stock types. These generally either propel the plot (commit a crime, investigate it) or provide comic relief – especially the servants. We partly related the exaggerated style of some of the acting to the genre (comic mystery melodrama) especially with the comic characters. The timing of the film, and the long history of the story are also important. The Bat Whispers appeared at the start of the sound era. Its very title announces this fact, and the Bat does indeed whisper his threats to those he wishes to intimidate. While not all previous silent film acting is of the exaggerated type, theatrical gestures and overstatement were used in earlier film. Such a claim is reinforced when we also consider the long history of the narrative (the novel was published in 1908) – even in 1930 it may well have seemed dated to audiences.

There is some nuance however. This is mostly due to the fact that the Bat’s real identity, he is posing as Detective Anderson, is unknown for most of the film and only revealed in the last few minutes. It is important that the character we might think of as the hero – top billed Chester Morris (arguably the only real ‘star’) – turns out to be the villain. This is encouraged by some of the extratextual materials, in particular a lobby card which privileges Morris and Merkel, even suggesting a romance which does not materialise. The supporting cast is present, but with smaller pictures of the elderly retainers such as Lizzie. This prompted some reflection on the relationship between stars and ageing. The conflation of the hero and villain was accompanied by a blurring as to the identity of the victim. Perhaps a legacy of its stage origin and, as outlined above, the addition of the Bat character, the film’s focus is somewhat diffuse. Those characters who are subjected to deadly violence are exclusively men, although those behaving like victims (portraying fear etc) do not necessarily split along gender lines. Instead, the division between the brave and the cowardly is along class lines since the servants Lizzie and the caretaker are the most scared. These are also elderly, though its is certainly the case that the aged Cornelia is dignified and unflappable throughout.

Despite our consideration of the mystery, violence and chase of male melodrama, we discussed the female characters, and their relationship to the gothic, at length. The old dark house in which the action takes place encourages a consideration of the film as gothic. However, the film’s diffuse focus affected the male persecutor/female persecuted dynamic of its women in peril. Significantly, all three women fulfilled the role of active investigator. Cornelia calls in a professional investigator, and Dale is anxious to prove her fiancé’s innocence, searching the house with a lit candle. Lizzie does so to a lesser extent but sets a ‘bear trap’ attached to her bed which means she will be alerted if the trap is engaged. This provides one of the film’s best comic moments as Lizzie is indeed later propelled through her bedroom window in her onesie as the Bat is caught in her trap and drags her bed towards the window. Cornelia is certainly not a suffering heroine, but Lizzie is constantly scared, and Dale is distressed when she is trapped in the hidden room.

Unlike the usual gothic heroine, these women are not menaced by a husband. Cornelia and Lizzie are unmarried and even Dale’s fiancé only plays a small role. We were especially intrigued by the relationship between Cornelia and Lizzie. While the latter dresses as a maid and is treated in some ways like a servant by Cornelia, who gives her orders, there are mentions that the servants have fled. Perhaps Lizzie is excepted from consideration as staff since she is such an old retainer. More telling however, is the way Lizzie responses to Cornelia addressing her like an idiot child. Being told by Cornelia that she doesn’t have a mind, Lizzie sharply retorts that if she had one her employer would not let her use it. She also lists some of the ‘fads’ she has remained loyal to Cornelia through: theosophy, suffragism, and, as implied by Lizzie’s tone, most appallingly of all, socialism. They bicker like a couple.

The film certainly has its stagey moments, and there are some dialogue-heavy scenes. We were, however, impressed with some of the camerawork which was possible during scenes which were less dependent on bulky sound equipment for synchronous sound recording. The opening scenes are action-filled and employ miniature vehicles convincingly. We also noted some of the swooping, bat-like, movements of the camera in relation to the miniature used to represent the house. The film’s lighting and shadow-work were praised. The revelation that ‘Detective Anderson’ is the Bat is prefigured by a change in the way his face is lit. While earlier his exaggerated and somewhat comical facial gestures are lit in a straightforward manner, after his return from his altercation with the telephone, he appears to be far more menacing. Many of the images of the Bat in silhouette reminded us of German film director’s Lotte Reiniger’s work. The uncanny turning of bat from shadows into a moving figure was also deemed effective.

We also noticed the generic nature of the buildings portrayed. Some of these especially emphasised its function – e.g. a BANK. This brought to mind comic books. Such a connection is furthered by Bob Kane (the creator of Batman) who mentioned in his autobiography the influence The Bat Whispers had on his creation of the superhero. The film’s sets and style were also compared to Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014). More straightforwardly, the film was remade in 1959 (by Crane Wilbur) and for television in various countries.

Appropriately we closed our discussion by commenting on the film’s epilogue. This has Chester Morris, in evening dress, in front of a curtain which mimics that of a theatre stage of film theatre He speaks on behalf of his ‘friend’ the Bat and asking that his identity is not divulged by members of the audience. This seems especially appropriate for a sound film, and the keeping of the secret was also referenced in advertising for the 1959 film version. Significantly in The Bat Whispers this is done through the person of the star, and the one who plays the Bat, reminding us that the Bat indeed just a role Morris has played. This doubles the melodramatic element of disguise, pointing us once more to the conventions of the genre and its suitability for the medium of film.

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know that you’d like to add your thoughts to the blog.

Summary of Discussion on Hunted

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Our discussion on Hunted touched on: genre (including melodrama and noir); the male melodrama and its reliance on mystery, violence, and chase; the main character Christopher Lloyd (Dirk Bogarde) as both villain and victim; Bogarde’s screen and star images; the relationship between Christopher and the boy Robbie (Jon Whitely) and other films with similar adult/child relationships; the way Christopher’s interaction with, or comparison to, other characters further illuminated his own personality; the film’s social commentary on the harsh realities of life in Britain post WWII.

We first noted a few moments in the film which seemed especially melodramatic in terms of heightened emotion. These included the tense moment at the film’s opening as 6-year-old Robbie (Jon Whiteley) stumbles across Christopher (Dirk Bogarde) after the latter has committed murder in a bombed out cellar; a courting couple’s discovery of the body of Christopher’s victim in the same location; Christopher’s display of emotion when he breaks into his flat and confronts his wife. Most of these were underscored by intense music.

The film’s use of real locations and its stark black and white photography were also commented on. These spoke to the film’s function as social commentary, and its film noir overtones. We discussed at length the ‘male melodrama’ Steve Neale has written about in his work on the term ‘melodrama’ in contemporaneous trade material.

We noticed that there was little of the first of the three elements considered important to the male melodrama – Mystery. The film was clear from the start that Christopher was guilty, with the audience in a far more privileged position of knowledge than the police, although it was unclear what the fate of the characters would be. Given Christopher’s crime, especially in the context of 1950s films, it seemed unlikely that he would escape unpunished.

The second of the important ingredient for male melodrama, violence, was more present – and in a few interesting ways. The most extreme of this occurred before the narrative began, taking place off screen. We do not see Christopher’s deadly attack on his rival, nor the abuse directed at Robbie by his father. The violence shown is fairly muted. Christopher is a little rough with Robbie at first – not wary of physically moving him. Christopher also strikes his faithless wife and gets into a tangle on a staircase with a policeman who is on the lookout for him at his block of flats.  Later, Christopher unceremoniously thrusts the well-meaning Mrs Sykes (Kay Walsh), who is concerned about Robbie, into a garden shed. While the fact we never see Christopher land a punch may be due to censorship or norms of the time as to what was depicted, we can also perhaps connect it to Dirk Bogarde’s screen and star images. He may have been less likely to engage in on-screen violence in comparison to other male stars of the time.

Chase (the third aspect of the male melodrama) was the most present. Indeed, this was commented on in reviews of the time in relating to melodrama. This included the observation that some of the chase (the action stretches for several days across London, the North of England, Scotland and an attempt to reach Scandinavia) was less then credible (Variety, 5th March 1952, p. 6). It is important to note that while Christopher is a man on the run with a child, they start out on the run separately – multiplying the ‘chase’ element of the film.  The chase moments when Christopher and Robbie were together were the most effective, however. After being discovered by Mrs Sykes, Christopher jumped from a railway bridge onto a moving train and Robbie followed, providing a particularly tense moment.

Unsurprisingly, much of our discussion centred on Christopher. He is both villain and victim. His villainy is established very early on (he has, after all killed a man) and it is significant that the film does not seek to overturn this assumption – for example by revealing that while Christopher may have believed he killed the man, in fact the deed was committed by another. Christopher’s actions cause him to be a victim – he is relentlessly, if somewhat incompetently, pursued by the police. We also commented on the fact that because we spend so much time with Christopher, as well as see his growing friendship with the vulnerable Robbie, he is a rounded and sympathetic character.

Christopher’s small acts of kindness are evident from near the start.  He asks a man for a cigarette but hesitates when the man generously offers him his last one. While Christopher plans to use Robbie to retrieve money from his flat and is angry with the boy when he fails, he still prioritises Robbie’s meal over his own at a café. As their relationship develops, Christopher’s thoughtfulness towards Robbie becomes more frequent. This culminates in Christopher’s final act: he turns back the boat he has stolen, and in which he and Robbie are attempting to escape to Scandinavia, when he realises that Robbie is seriously ill. The death penalty was still in force in the United Kingdom at the time and Christopher could not plead a crime of passion as a defence. He is almost certainly sacrificing his own life for Robbie’s and in so doing claiming a form of redemption.

Bogarde’s acting effectively conveys Christopher’s dilemma. The man’s concern for the child is at first just solicitous, but when Christopher realises the extent of Robbie’s illness, he becomes more deeply affected. Christopher’s decision is not one taken lightly, or quickly, since, for all its inevitability, Bogarde shows that it has been pondered. Bogarde is also afforded opportunities to play Christopher’s sensitivity at earlier moments in the film. This is perhaps most notable when in reluctantly obliging Robbie’s request for a bedtime story, he inadvertently tells the story of his failed marriage. At first this seems a fairly traditional ‘Once Upon a Time’ tale about a giant who leaves home. As the story progresses, Christopher introduces a princess who clearly is meant to represent his wife. Christopher’s story-telling register slips from third (‘he’) to first (‘I’) person and he becomes upset when he relates that the lovers have parted. Christopher’s sensitivity is therefore displayed in two significant ways: he is shown to be able to relate to a child, and to be in touch with his sadness. It is also more effective than a flashback would have been since it allows us to see how Christopher has narrativized his past so that it makes sense to him.  This is also reinforced by Robbie’s response. It is clear that the boy is disturbed that the fairy tale has turned dark so quickly and concerned about Christopher’s display of emotion.

The complexity of Christopher’s character reminded us of the nuance and ambiguity of the one he played in Esther Waters four years previously. However, fan magazine material from the time of Hunted’s production highlighted the film as the third in which he starred as a ‘fugitive from justice’  (David Marlowe, ‘Bogarde Takes to the Boats’, Picturegoer 25th August 1951, p.8). There are significant differences between the films cited in the article– The Blue Lamp (1950) and Blackmailed (1951) – and Hunted. While Bogarde plays a man of dubious character in all three, it is only the last that ends in his redemption and allows Bogarde the opportunity to display a conflicted character who is sensitive.

We can consider how the film employs Bogarde in more detail. Of course, the star still gets to display his dashing good looks, but these are at times obscured by a growth of stubble. Furthermore, in terms of the ‘real’ Bogarde, I have previously noted (in the introduction to Esther Waters: https://blogs.kent.ac.uk/melodramaresearchgroup/2018/09/27/melodrama-screening-and-discussion-1st-of-october-5-7pm-jarman-6/ ) that fan magazines discussed his sensitivity. I also commented that this was tempered by the material also mentioning Bogarde’s heroic war record. We can see these two tensions played out in his screen image in Hunted. Christopher’s kindness towards Robbie is balanced by his (pre-narrative off-screen) killing of his wife’s lover. This is reinforced by Christopher’s ‘manly’ job: he is a sailor, a profession almost exclusive to men at the time.  His sailing experience is necessary in terms of the film’s plot – it both explains the prolonged absences which have led to his wife’s infidelity and gives him the skills required to sail the trawler at the film’s end. In truth we did not think that scenes of Bogarde as a sailor would have been especially convincing – he was perhaps a bit too refined.

As implied by our focus on the behaviour Christopher displays towards Robbie in order to showcase the former’s sensitivity, the relationship between the adult man and the boy is central to the film.  As a child, Robbie judges Christopher on the way Christopher treats him (Robbie) and is understandably not as aware of what is happening as an adult would be. We discussed related films such as David Lean’s Oliver Twist (1948) and Bryan Forbes’ Whistle down the Wind (1961).  It was mentioned that Jon Whiteley’s blond-haired innocence was reminiscent of John Howard Davies in the former film, before he meets the criminal Fagin (Alec Guinness). In the later film, Kathy (Hayley Mills) is prepared to accept Alan Bates on her own terms – she mistakes the stranger for Christ. Differences between these films and Hunted were also important. Christopher and Robbie’s dependence on one another turns into mutual affection. This, and especially the images of the adult carrying the child, reminded us of the recent version of True Grit (2010, Joel and Ethan Cohen).

We also spoke about how the fact this all unfolds on screen obviates a more suspect interpretation of Christopher’s intentions. The police try to second-guess Christopher’s motives for ‘abducting’ Robbie, speculating that he will use him as a bargaining chip to ensure his own release. However, our view is more privileged. We know that Christopher has not lured Robbie away, and in fact several times tells him to leave. We also see the initial roughness Christopher displays towards Robbie (physically manhandling him) slowly turn to more domestic scenes. During their time on the run, Christopher allows Robbie to keep a woodlouse as a pet, does not admonish the boy for accidentally spilling his milk, and agrees to tell him a bedtime story. While they are chasing across the countryside, Robbie’s grumbles (‘I’m tired’, ‘my legs are sore’, I’m hungry) and Christopher’s grumpy responses have the feel of a parent’s somewhat trying day out with his child.

The only real light moments in the film occur once the pair has arrived at Christopher’s brother’s Jack’s (Julian Somers) in Scotland. After having endured several days of hunger, the pair laughs as Robbie enthusiastically tucks in to a mound of food. The scenes here also show the difference between the two brothers. While Christopher is a murderer, he nonetheless has humanity. By contrast, Jack refuses to allow even just Robbie to stay, unwilling to be ill-thought of by his neighbours.

(It is worth noting that Bogarde and Whiteley again starred together – in The Spanish Gardener (1956, Philip Leacock) when Dirk plays the titular role of a man a boy (Whitlely) turns to when neglected by his own father.)

We also briefly discussed the film’s two main female characters, although they play small roles. It is understandable that we would partly judge Christopher by his wife Magda (Elizabeth Sellars) – the woman with whom he has fallen in love and chosen to spend his life. Magda does not receive much screen time, her infidelity mostly providing the reason for Christopher’s actions. The greater focus given to the film’s other characters is even shown in her introduction. Her first appearance is obscured when she is seen from Robbie’s point of view as he hides under her and Christopher’s bed.

Although Magda admits she has been unfaithful to Christopher, she remains loyal in her own way. When Christopher breaks into the flat at night and clamps his hand over her mouth, and strikes her in anger, she soon recovers. She also does not seem to have been affected by the death of her lover. In fact, she tries to seduce Christopher. Even after she has been rejected by Christopher (he dismisses her offer of jewellery to him) she is unhelpful to the police.

Mrs Sykes (Kay Walsh), the landlady of the B & B in the North of England at which Christopher and Robbie stay, contrasts to Magda. Magda’s expensive clothes provoke comment from the sharp-eyed police as to her fidelity (it is assumed she has received money or gifts from her lover, providing Christopher with a motive for the murder) and she is wearing a glamorous nightgown when Christopher breaks into the flat. Mrs Sykes is coded as working class through her garments – she wears a floral apron to protect her clothes as she does her housework. Mrs Sykes’ concern for Robbie, and her brave defence of him (she is worried that Christopher will harm the boy) is also an antidote to Robbie’s parents, the Campbells (Jack Stewart and Jane Aird), who appear to hold a similar social status. Mrs Sykes insists that Robbie takes a bath, and this leads to the revelation of his abuse at the hands of his parents – he bears the marks of a severe lashing.

The police’s interaction with the parents is also telling. The parents insist that they are not Robbie’s ‘real’ parents since he is adopted. Through the police’s questioning it soon becomes clear that he has few toys. The fact that the police have such insight (despite their bungling pursuit of Christopher) suggests that they often come into contact with such cases of abuse. The film’s establishing of its post war setting through its lingering of bombed-out buildings implies that in post-war Britain society’s most vulnerable victims are being overlooked.

 

As ever, do log in to comment, or email me on sp458@kent.ac.uk and let me know if you’d like me to add your thoughts.