The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) is a seminal work in British film history. Produced at the height of World War II, the fact that Blimp got made at all is quite a marvel given its lavishly expensive production, criticism of the military and sympathetic German character. Despite some minor narrative faults, Blimp is a wonderful film that gives a marvelously complex analysis of military and friendship.

Clive Candy (Roger Livesey) is an ambitious young officer who earns a VC fighting the Boers in South Africa. Travelling to Berlin to respond to anti-British propaganda, he provokes an international incident and is forced to fight a duel with German officer Theo Kreschmar-Schuldorf (Anton Walbrook), whom he befriends. The two continue a friendship on-and-off for forty years, through both World Wars and personal tragedy on both sides. Clive has hard luck at romance, losing foxy governess Edith (Deborah Kerr) to Theo and Nurse Barbara (Kerr again) to illness, and finds his sense of chivalry and belief in “civilized” warfare severely tested by reality.

Colonel Blimp is a remarkable production. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger craft a truly beautiful film that presages their work on The Red Shoes and other efforts, with marvelous Technicolor photography by Georges Périnal, and some of the most impressive set design ever. From the bustling Berlin pub to the forebodingly sparse gymnasium, every scene is beautifully realized. John Seabournes’s impressive use of montage – Candy’s hunting trophies, scrap books and newspapers all used to denote passage of time – is equally striking. For such an expensive, expansive film to have been made in wartime Britain is a true marvel – let alone its actual content.

Blimp is both reverent of and mocking towards the British military. Candy’s idealized view of war as a gentleman’s game is constantly undermined: he turns a blind eye to British atrocities in South Africa, and as he denounces German war crimes, a subordinate (Reginald Tate) is giving German prisoners rather rough treatment in the next room. The ridiculous military rituals, with German and British officers arguing over who should enter a room first, and Allan Grey’s score segueing from military marches to swing music, add a satirical edge, making war petty and ridiculous, for all its noble attire.

The movie has no battle scenes, depicting war in metaphorical terms: the duel between Candy and Theo, two men who’ve never met, sacrificing themselves for national pride; both men come away scarred but perversely become best friends. The war games that bookend the film, with an ambitious Lieutenant (James McKechnie) breaking the rules and winning a complete victory (“War begins at midnight!”) belie the notion of chivalrous warfare: in an era of poison gas, tanks and Nazis, not even good guys can avoid nasty, uncivil tactics.

To the film’s credit, Candy is not played as a fool: his values are anachronistic, but he has the virtue of being honest. The notion of “civilized war” may be ridiculous, but as Blimp shows, men earnestly believe it. Powell and Pressburger walk a tightrope, trying to show that while Candy is wrong, his heart is in the right place. The result is a wonderfully realized protagonist, flawed but loveable, and by the end, an embodiment of everything good about the British Army.

Powell’s depiction of sympathetic Nazis in 49th Parallel (1941) raised some eyebrows, but Colonel Blimp caused apoplexy in Winston Churchill for its sympathetic German character. Theo is not only a gentleman, he steals Clive’s girl and gets the pointed anti-Nazi speeches. His character is extremely well-rounded, and beautifully drawn, a man who embraces and then abandons nationalism, who abandons notions of honor and chivalry much sooner than Candy: it’s easier for a defeated man to learn the lessons of war than the victor.

At a time when studios were churning out films of noble Allied fighters exterminating Nazi rats (cf. Hangmen Also Die!), it was extremely ballsy for the Archers to feature a flawed, somewhat clownish British protagonist and a well-rounded, sympathetic German character remaining life-long friends. We are fortunate that the film survived censorship: it truly is a treasure, and its message is even more poignant considering the backdrop against which it was produced.

I might criticize the film’s narrative construction: the movie is long (163 minutes), episodic and there’s little flow or direction to the story, flaws it shares with The Red Shoes. On the other hand, everything else is so perfectly realized, and the characters are so likeable and interesting – the last can’t be said of Red Shoes – that it’s hard to criticize Powell and Pressburger for lingering in spots.

Roger Livesey is marvelous as Candy, giving a sensitive, well-rounded performance: the eager young adjutant, the chivalrous WWI man and the doddering old man all of a piece. Assisted by some truly astonishing make-up, Livesley is nothing short of brilliant. Anton Walbrook is no less impressive, playing Theo in his wonderfully understated manner. A radiant Deborah Kerr gives a marvelous triple performance: through different hairstyles, use of make-up and accents, she creates three subtly yet completely different characters.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp is a truly great film. It’s not Powell and Pressburger’s best work, but it is one of the most interesting examinations of warfare, chivalry and friendship ever put on film. And for that, the Archers deserve a twenty-one gun salute.