Ill Met By Moonlight

After their daring experimental films of the late '40s (Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes), Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger hit a rough patch. The Elusive Pimpernel and Gone to Earth (both 1950) flopped; Tales of Hoffman (1951) wowed critics but didn't achieve success. The Archers turned to more conventional fare with Pursuit of the Graf Spee (1956). That naval epic proved a commercial success, despite being one of their weaker collaborations. Their final pairing proves much better-realized.

Ill Met By Moonlight (1957) recounts a daring World War II mission, the 1944 kidnapping of German General Heinrich Kreipe on Crete. It's a typically English story, gentleman adventurers pulling off an impossible caper a la G.A. Henty or Rudyard Kipling. But Powell & Pressburger keeps things grounded in reality, however unlikely the tale.

SOE operative Patrick Leigh Fermor (Dirk Bogarde) lives undercover in Crete during Nazi occupation. Fermor receives orders to kidnap General Kreipe (Marius Goring), the island's military governor, and spirit him away to Cairo. With a small British team and some Greek partisans, Leigh Fermor kidnaps the General while bamboozling his subordinates. As the commandos make their way to the coast, however, the Germans are only a step behind.

Ill Met By Moonlight is too outlandish to be invented. The real Major Leigh Fermor just died in 2011; besides soldiering he was an acclaimed travel writer. He and his mates playact an adventure against beautiful Cretan settings, switching costumes and calling audibles when the Germans make an unexpected move. During their mission, Leigh Fermor and Moss pose for a photograph in captured German uniforms; this very "Hollywood" moment really happened. Even faced with capture they're unflappably good-humored. Gunga Din's heroes would improve of such cheeky insouciance.

Those expecting thrill-a-minute action might find Moonlight disappointing. It features only two onscreen deaths; the big action scene occurs entirely off screen. Instead it's a tense cat and mouse game. The biggest set piece shows Leigh Fermor bluffing his way through 22 German checkpoints. Kreipie proves a resourceful foe, leaving medals behind and giving a telltale coin to an inquisitive Greek boy (Demetri Andreas). There's also tension with the Greek partisans, overly eager to cut Kreipe's throat. Success is by no means a foregone conclusion.

Powell & Pressburger's restrained approach redounds to their credit, especially given later iterations of commando drama. The Guns of Navarone (1961) plays like Moonlight on steroids, packing its Cretan spy mission with explosive action scenes, ridiculous plot twists and nigh invincible heroes. Emeric Pressburger himself wrote Operation Crossbow (1965) which transforms Britain's V2 sabotage program into James Bond fantasy. By contrast, Moonlight features ordinary Englishmen and Greeks achieving amazing things through pluck.

Dirk Bogarde cuts a dashing figure, all boyish toughness and devil-may-care humor. David Oxley makes a pleasant foil. Marius Goring (A Matter of Life and Death) makes a crafty adversary, struggling to outwit his captors. Michael Gough (Batman), Cyril Cusack (The Day of the Jackal), Wolfe Morris and Paul Stassino handle key supporting roles. Christopher Lee and David McCallum have early career bits.

Ill Met by Moonlight makes a fine final bow for the Archers. Not their most artistically accomplished work, it's nonetheless an enjoyable adventure film.

The Small Back Room

Fresh off their Technicolor marvel The Red Shoes, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger flawlessly shift to black-and-white drama. The Small Back Room (1949) is an intense character study showing the effects of war on ordinary individuals. 

Sammy Rice (David Farrar) is part of a British research team in World War II. His boss Professor Mair (Milton Rosmer) designs a defective anti-tank gun, but Rice is more concerned with German anti-personnel bombs killing civilians throughout Britain. With his aide Captain Stewart (Michael Gough) Rice tries to learn about these explosives, but his superiors hamstring his work. His relationship with girlfriend Susan (Kathleen Byron) suffers as Rice spirals into alcoholism and drug addiction, caused in part by a missing foot. Rice faces his final challenge when more explosives turn up at Chesil Beach.

Aside from the conventional epic The Battle of the River Plate, the Archers eschewed flag-waving and battlefield heroics in their war movies. They're always more concerned with its effects on people, turning friends into enemies, separating lovers and sublimating individuals to ideology. But it can also forge camaraderie, tolerance and national pride. This humanism engendered a series of warmhearted classics: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale, and their masterpiece A Matter of Life and Death.

Based on Nigel Balchin's novel, The Small Back Room is a much darker film. P&P's show of international cooperation becomes a running gag, with pubs and offices crawling with foreign servicemen. The Germans become an "ungentlemanly" foe killing children with trick bombs, while the War Office is staffed with idiots like the Minister (Robert Morley) who's baffled by a calculator. The Archers show commendable versatility, adopting darker tones without losing their human touch.


Room works best as a character study. Rice proves a tormented protagonist, mentally and physically scarred, drug-addicted and unable to utilize his talents. His unconventional methods annoy his superiors, while his demons alienate Susan. He can't sublimate himself to the war effort, chafing at bureaucratic idiocy and taking losses personally. There's always a government phone call to intrude on his private life, whether interrupting a liaison with Susan or rousing him from a drinking session. He's forced to prove himself by defusing a bomb of the sort that killed his colleague.


Powell & Pressburger also savage wartime bureaucracy. Soldiers must make way for bureaucrats and scientists, represented by glad-handing R.B. Waring (Jack Hawkins), who treats war like a sales pitch. This lot views prestige and money preferable to results, scoffing at Rice's disagreeable "figures" about their cannon. These scenes play as comedy, which makes their deadly consequences more jarring: Rice's tin foot, the one-eyed Colonel Holland (Leslie Banks), a young soldier (Bryan Forbes) maimed by a booby trap. War is best won by dismissing these self-promoting amateurs.

Powell & Pressburger film in oppressive black and white without sacrificing style. Most striking is a surreal drug trip, with Rice tormented by ticking clocks and giant whiskey bottles. Christopher Challis's photography is merciless. The outdoors are constantly associated with violence, from the artillery trial at Stonehenge to bomb-defusing trips to the countryside. Yet interiors are either claustrophobic (Rice's office and apartment) or abrasive, like the nightclub where Rice and Susan bicker or (more humorously) the ministerial meeting drowned out by jackhammers.

David Farrar (Black Narcissus) gives a wonderful turn, blending mental anguish with quiet determination. Kathleen Byron makes a pleasant impression, far removed from her mania in Narcissus. Jack Hawkins is riotously funny playing against type. Robert Morley (Major Barbara) cameos as the minister. Cyril Cusack (The Day of the Jackal), Michael Gough (Batman), Sid James (The Lavender Hill Mob) and Bryan Forbes (The League of Gentlemen) feature in early roles.

The Small Back Room is another Archers bulls-eye. Darker and more restrained than their usual collaborations, it's just as powerful.

Cupid's Archers: I Know Where I'm Going!/A Matter of Life and Death

Forgive the groan-worthy pun, but when I first I thought of reviewing romances this February, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger immediately came to mind. The Archers always provide a unique experience, from their sumptuous visuals to their charming characters and eloquent worldview. Today we'll look at two of their most romantic movies.

I Know Where I'm Going! (1945)



I've seen I Know Where I'm Going! twice now, and must conclude it's not my cup of tea. The film has a fanatical following, but I can't get too worked up over a routine romcom with creative imagery. (Okay, there *is* Wendy Hiller...)

Ever since childhood, Joan Webster (Wendy Hiller) has desired success and wealth. Now she's engaged to Sir Robert Berringer, an elderly millionaire with a private estate in the Scottish Hebrides. On her way north, Joan gets stranded by a storm and encounters a group of colorful locals. Not least of them is Torquill (Roger Livesey), a dashing naval officer who soon grows fond of Joan. Will Joan see the error of her thinking and discover true love?

I Know Where I'm Going! gets off to a clever start, with P&P indulging in some of their most clever imagery. Early scenes include one inventive bit after the next: an amusing credits sequence of Joan's childhood (with letter magnets and chalkboards listing crew members), a top hat double-exposed onto a piping steam engine, a dream sequence with a toy train slinking through tartan-patterned landscapes. A later scene with a curraugh caught in a maelstrom rivals Ryan's Daughter's storm sequence in intensity and excitement.

Unfortunately, Going! is otherwise familiar territory. The plot is fairly standard - the recent Amy Adams vehicle Leap Year borrowed it wholesale - and P&P don't do much with it. There's a lot of Scottish atmosphere to absorb, but local color only generates so much interest. The "eccentric" characters Joan encounters aren't half as interesting as your average Archers film and the leads have little chemistry, putting a crimp in the romance. As nice as it is to look at, Going! ends up a lightweight experience.

Wendy Hiller is a superb actress who shines even in weak films (Major Barbara), and this is no exception. She makes Joan strong-willed and ambitious without seeming abrasive, her later conversion a rewarding event. In contrast, the usually-charming Roger Livesey (The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp) is a colorless dud. A sultry Pamela Brown (Becket) gets some nice scenes, but Finlay Currie (Billy Liar) and John Laurie (Hobson's Choice) are reduced to bit parts.

A Matter of Life and Death (1946)


"Any resemblance to any other world known or unknown is purely coincidental."

In contrast, A Matter of Life and Death (1946) (aka Stairway to Heaven) is utterly charming. A cleverly-constructed romantic fantasy, it's the Archers' most outlandish film - and one of their best.

RAF Pilot Peter (David Niven), his plane going down in flames, has a heartfelt final conversation with American radio operator June (Kim Hunter) before crashing. Peter somehow survives, but starts having visions of Conductor 71 (Marius Goring), a French aristocrat claiming to be an emissary of Heaven. Peter protests he can't go to Heaven, having fallen in love with June. June takes Peter to Dr. Reeves (Roger Livesey), who's convinced Peter's suffering from arachnoiditis, a chronic brain disorder. While Reeves tries to arrange a delicate operation, in Heaven Peter must appear before God's high court, with the first American killed at Lexington (Raymond Massey) serving as prosecutor.

The Archers often engaged in "magic realism" and fantastic imagery (The Red Shoes being the outstanding example) but A Matter of Life and Death outdoes them all. The film opens with a Kubrickian starscape overlayed with sardonic narration, setting the tone immediately. The contrast between a vibrant, colorful Earth and monochrome black-and-white heaven is a brilliant conceit: "We're starved for Technicolor up there!" cries the Conductor. Matter provides breathtaking imagery throughout, climaxing in an extraordinary dissolve from Peter's eye to the Milky Way to a heavenly courtroom. But P&P always couple the imagery with playful self-effacement; no need to take this stuff too seriously.

Matter is interesting on other levels, too. The filmmakers took care to match Peter's condition with a real ailment and so the reality of events remains ambiguous. Certainly Dr. Reeves' explanation has all the bases covered, but we see a vision of Heaven before Peter's "death." The two worlds are fluid and interact in the trial scenes; sharp-eyed viewers will notice that God (Abraham Sofaer) is also the brain surgeon! Most films would opt for a clear explanation, but Matter allows multiple interpretations.

Finally, Matter continues A Canterbury Tale's preoccupation with Anglo-American amity. P&P explore the cultural divide several ways: the romance itself, a soldiers' production of Midsummer Night's Dream ("Oberon is not a gangster!"), and most literally in the courtroom scenes. Wartime Brittons had not unreasonable resentments against American GIs, but Matter argues the two peoples have no sensible reason not to get along. With its intercultural romance and a Heaven populated by all races, Matter ultimately strikes a warm, humanist note.

David Niven and Kim Hunter make a wonderful couple. Niven is stellar as usual, mixing acerbic wisecracks with unalloyed charm and bemused befuddlement. Hunter (Planet of the Apes) plays a beautifully-drawn character: she's a proactive, intelligent woman fiercely drawn to her man. They have such great chemistry that one forgets how little screen time they actually share.



The supporting cast brims with veterans of other Archers films: Roger Livesey, Marius Goring, Raymond Massey (49th Parallel), Kathleen Byron (Black Narcissus). All do fine work, but the standout is Goring, whose hysterically foppish Conductor steals every scene. Robert Coote (Gunga Din) is Peter's co-pilot, Abraham Sofaer (Pandora and the Flying Dutchman) plays God and Richard Attenborough has a walk-on early in the film.

Up next: Marty (1955).

Black Narcissus

Like all of The Archers's ventures, Black Narcissus (1947) is a beautiful, fascinating film. This Powell and Pressburger effort has its faults - like all of their work, it's a bit slack in the narrative department - but it's a gobsmacking technical achievement with a genuinely disturbing and absorbing atmosphere.

An order of Anglican Nuns in Calcutta is summoned by The General (Esmond Knight), a toadying Maharajah, to establish a monestary at the Palace of Mopu, a former seraglio for the imperial harem, hoping to educate and treat his subjects. Headstrong Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr), hoping to escape an unhappy past in Ireland, heads the St. Faith mission, proving in over their heads with inadequate supplies and equipment, and a large, indifferent native population. The remote, alien location brings: the handsome, impertinent colonial agent Dean (David Farrar) gains the Sisters's attentions, not the least Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron), whose repressed longings slowly unhinge her.

Coming the year of Indian independence, Black Narcissus has some rather pointed things to say about imperialism. There are no overt atrocities but the supposed "schools and roads" benefits of colonialism are laid bare as rank hypocrisy. The Anglican "civilizing mission" is in bad faith; their benevolent posturing is belied by their condescending words and contempt for native culture: on their first day in the school, Sister Clodagh drowns out a native horn with the church bells. The villagers have to be bribed by the General to take advantage of St. Faith's services, and an ancient holy man retains an endless vigil just over the hill, an unyielding symbol of paganism. A modern viewer may sniff at the condescending portrayal of the Indians, but they are a foil to arrogant colonizers with no respect for their subjects.

On a more profound level, though, Black Narcissus focuses on individual torment. It resembles a psychological horror film, with Mopu poisoning the sisters physically (poisoned water causes skin disease) and mentally. The palace's sensual drawings presage A Passage to India's erotic statues and lemur-painted protestors: ethereal native society resisting stuffy cultural imperialism. The General's nephew (Sabu) engages in a forbidden romance with a lower-caste slave girl (Jean Simmons), a counterpoint to the celibate Englishwomen. Vivid yet elliptical flashbacks haunt Sister Clodagh, causing her sins - unbending pride and arrogance - to overcome her good intentions. Of course, her reaction is nothing compared to Ruth, who completely unspools when forced to confront her repressed sexuality.

Like all Powell and Pressburger films, though, Black Narcissus's primary interest is visual. There's Jack Cardiff's always-striking Technicolor photography, Brian Easdale's eerie score and Alfred Junge's dreamlike, confectionary interiors to savor, but this film is absolutely astonishing in its depiction of the remote mission. The movie was shot entirely in Pinewood Studios (with a few exteriors in West Sussex), with skillful use of miniatures and matte paintings representing the remote Himalayas, the forbidding, mist-swept mountains and lush countryside; only a few lingering close-ups bely its artificiality. This is exponentially more impressive given the importance of the elements to the story: the atmosphere is eerie and absorbing, and the viewer has no doubt of its authenticity. When the narrative goes slack, there's no end of pretty pictures to take in, and they're coupled with a palpable feeling of dread and disturbance.

Deborah Kerr (The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp) excells: she plays Clodagh with the right mixture of pride, rectitude and hapless confusion. Kathleen Byron makes Ruth's mental breakdown appropriately harrowing, and David Farrar (Went the Day Well?) is cynically humorous. The romantic subplot with Sabu (The Thief of Baghdad) and a brownfaced (though still breathtaking), fresh off Great Expectations Jean Simmons doesn't amount to much.

Black Narcissus is another fine effort from Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. The plot moves in fits and starts, but the strength of characterization, atmosphere and striking set-pieces make an impressive, engrossing watch.

Operation Crossbow

Another in the long string of '60s World War II commando flicks, Operation Crossbow (1965) is a middling entry in the subgenre. Working on a story by Emeric Pressburger, it shakily balances serious drama with Boy's Own adventure. The end result is entertaining enough despite some bloated passages.

Shortly before D-Day, British military intelligence gets word that Germany is working on a secret weapon to turn the tide of the war. Aerial reconassiance raises suspicions that the Germans are building rocket-propelled bombs, pilotless aircraft with seemingly infinite range, but rocket scientist Dr. Lindemann (Trevor Howard) is skeptical. Spymaster Boyd (John Mills) decides to send a trio of agents - American Curtis (George Peppard) and Brits Bradley (Jeremy Kemp) and Crenshaw (Tom Courtenay) - to infiltrate the German factory disguised as scientists and determine. They find the Germans are indeed working on a rocket system - not only the V-1 and V-2's, but the V-10, a truly monstrous weapon that could possibly reach America! As the first rockets begin reaching London, and German intelligence find out what's amiss, Curtis and Co. must act fast.

Like The Guns of Navarone, Operation Crossbow isn't content to be wall-to-wall action and wraps its heroics in a decidedly serious package. The first half hour of the film is exhaustive exposition, more befitting something like The Longest Day or A Bridge Too Far, with Winston Churchill himself (Patrick Wymark) demanding the Nazis be stopped. We don't even meet the protagonists until the forty-minute mark. The seriousness pays off with some genuinely dark moments: Henshaw is betrayed and left in the lurch, while Nora (Sophia Loren), the wife of the scientist Curtis is impersonating, is dealt a shocking fate. Even our protagonists aren't safe in a refreshing change of pace. It's also nice to see the commandos forced to speak German behind enemy lines, a touch that puts something like The Dirty Dozen to shame.

Mostly though, the film's serious veneer is undercut by its imaginative, fantastic action. Crossbow was released at the height of the James Bond craze, and the movie's "infiltrate the enemy's superfortress to save the world" sensibility is very much in the vein of 007. The efforts at serious "realism" are lost in the conventional second half, and go out the window when Curtis holds off seemingly the entire Wehrmacht with an MP-40 like so many screen commandos before him. This isn't a criticism per se, but the film is a mite schizophrenic. The actions our heroes undertake may well be a sacred patriotic duty (as the coda so earnestly insists), but the movie's best-viewed as light entertainment.

Journeyman Michael Anderson does a fine job handling the film. Despite a slow pace the movie retains a sense of urgency throughout, with the danger believably multiplying as the first rockets smash into London. The script does a decent job juggling its tone and story lines, even if the exposition goes on too long; some of its big plot twists are truly surprising and well-handled. The finale (with Curtis fighting off Nazi guards while the RAF shows up) is a grandly staged set-piece, aside from some poorly-matched stock footage. Ron Goodwin's rousing score is another highlight.

George Peppard gives his usual performance: handsome but wooden. He's perfectly adequate for his square-jawed hero role, though. Jeremy Kemp (A Bridge Too Far) and Tom Courtenay (Doctor Zhivago) come off better despite marginal screen time, with Courtenay getting the film's meatiest bits. Producer's wife Sophia Loren gets first billing for an extended cameo; despite little screen time and anachronistic makeup, she does well with a tragic character.

Our leads are backed by an astonishing supporting cast. The standouts are Lilli Palmer's underground contact and Anthony Quayle's (Lawrence of Arabia) turncoat spy. The lengthy exposition is made bearable by the presence of Britain's top character talent: Trevor Howard (Ryan's Daughter), John Mills (Tunes of Glory), Maurice Denham (The Day of the Jackal), Richard Johnson (Khartoum) and Alan Cuthbertson (The Guns of Navarone) all put in appearances. The line-up of Nazis is equally formidable: Paul Henreid (Casablanca), Anton Diffring and Ferdy Mayne (both of Where Eagles Dare) are the most recognizable. Barbara Rutting has a nice part as Hannah Reitsch, a real-life German pilot (see Downfall).

Operation Crossbow is a good war flick that achieves what it sets out to do. From a film like this, you can't ask for much more, though it's best to ignore its posturing as a "serious" film.

A Canterbury Tale

Another Powell and Pressburger charmer, A Canterbury Tale (1944) is their follow-up to The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. This ode to England lacks the sharp edge of Blimp and 49th Parallel and stylization of other Archers efforts, but it's still a pleasant journey with an immensely likeable cast of characters.

In war-time England, four very different people find themselves in a small town. Alison (Sheila Sim) is a "land girl" looking for work on a farm; Sergeant Gibbs (Dennis Price) is an organist-turned-soldier on leave; Sergeant Bob Johnson (John Sweet) is a friendly American soldier who got off at the wrong train stop; Thomas Colpepper (Eric Portman) is a stuffy magistrate and amateur historian. They're thrown together when Alison is attacked by the "Glue Man," a local mischief-maker harrassing local girls. They team up to track down the identity of the Glue Man, becoming enraptured by the idyllic countryside and making their way to the ancient Cathedral at Canterbury in the process.

The Archers were usually weak on narrative and A Canterbury Tale is no exception. The daft plot with the "glue man" is pretty thin stuff to hang a two-hour film on; it's to Powell and Pressburger's credit that they wring so much out of it. The real pleasure is spending time with a lovely group of people: the four protagonists are an interesting group of people thrown together by war, each with different motives but finding a great deal in common. The pilgrimage to Canterbury fulfills something for all of them: Colpepper, creating an appreciation for England's greatness, Gibbs's dream to be a church organist, Alison discovering the truth about her boyfriend, Johnson finding his unit (and the truth about his girlfriend). Even when the story flags, these likeable characters keep things afloat, and it's wonderful to see everything come together.

The film espouses a kinder, gentler model of patriotism than the oft-bellicose Hollywood variety. The plot is loosely based on Chaucer but strikes a chord by tying the modern-day protagonists to ancient England: little has changed but the people (and, we might add, technology). As in Blimp, the war is unseen but ever-present, effecting all of the protagonists, who have lost husbands, fiancees, jobs and businesses to it. And yet the Englishmen and women we encounter are steadfast, friendly and determined, united in a common sacrifice and effort. The naive but charming American Bob fits in like a glove; he's a fish out of water who's eager to make friends and explore England. Surely this film's England is no more realistic than a Frank Capra/John Ford take on America, but that makes it no less appealing.

The movie lacks the stylistic flare of P&P's later works, with fairly sparse direction that is nonetheless beautiful. The countryside of Kent is wonderfully captured, and the awe-inspiring Canterbury Cathedral provides a fitting locale for the finale. The biggest technical moment is a "match cut" from medieval falcon to Spitfire, presaging a famous moment in Kubrick's 2001.

Eric Portman (49th Parallel) is fine though his character is arguably the weakest of the leads. Dennis Price (Kind Hearts and Coronets) is solid, and Sheila Sim is endearingly sweet. John Sweet, a real-life GI, is effortlessly charming and likeable; he's not a great actor but doesn't try to be.

A Canterbury Tale is a nice, endearing film that's just pleasant to watch. It's not the Archers' finest hour, but a middling Powell and Pressburger effort is better than most other films.

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.

The Red Shoes

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger team up again for The Red Shoes (1948), a delightful, rapturous film. Despite the trite story and draggy pace, it's an extraordinary piece of work, with perhaps the most beautiful Technicolor cinematography ever. You will never see a more beautiful film, and for that reason alone it's watchable.

Arrogant ballet impresario Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) commissions a new ballet, based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Red Shoes. He enlists Julian Craster (Marius Goring), an ambitious young composer, and dancer Victoria Paige (Moira Shearer) to help out. The show is a huge hit, and Victoria becomes a ballet superstar, but she is torn between her love for Julian and devotion to her career.

The Red Shoes shares a lot with The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943), not the least its ravishing appearance. Powell and Jack Cardiff create a masterpiece of photography: the Technicolor positively shines, with reds leaping off the screen in incredibly vivid contrasts, and even grays and browns takeon an impossibly beautiful hue. Complemented by Arthur Lawson's sumptuous, dream-like art direction - cramped theaters, huge mansions and hotels - the movie is impossibly beautiful.

We can add to the above virtues a fine, witty script by Powell, Pressburger and Keith Winter, vibrant costumes by Hein Heckroth, and an extraordinary score by Brian Easdale. There is not a single word to say against the film's technical qualities.

Many of Powell and Pressburger's films gleefully incorporate "magic realism" into mundane settings, but Red Shoes does it best. By far the best scene is the lengthy ballet sequence: starting out as a filmed performance, it builds into an extraordinary set-piece, with amazing choreography, shifting sets and visual sleight-of-hand (a paper man turning into a real dancer!), flaunting the story's unreality. This fifteen-minute sequence is absolutely jaw-dropping, pure cinematic fantasia, realism be damnded.

Unfortunately, The Red Shoes also shares with Colonel Blimp a deficiency in narrative. The story is fairly trite, a show-biz drama with a romantic triangle, but trite stories can be made grand. A bigger problem is the draggy pace; the film's story takes a long time to get going, and lingers a great deal afterwards, culminating in an unsatisfying, forced conclusion. Still, the gorgeous photography and dancing scenes dominate so much, that one can overlook problems in plotting.

Powell regular Anton Walbrook gives his usual solid performance, though he chews a bit of scenery in later segments. The luminous Moira Shearer gives a fine performance: her extraordinary dancing chops. Marius Goring is adequately stiff as Julian. The rest of the cast contributes nicely, mostly through their excellent dancing.

The Red Shoes has its shortcomings, but its reputation as one of the most attractive films ever shot is well-deserved.

49th Parallel

If you were laboring under the illusion that Canadians are a bunch of hockey-playing, Maple Syrup-guzzling hosers who say "Eh?" a lot, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger are here to learn you different!

49th Parallel (1941) is a perfectly-constructed film, part wartime propaganda, part thriller. A few too many speeches belaboring the virtue of democracy does not hamper an otherwise brilliant movie, which works on multiple levels - and, I'd dare say, is Powell and Pressburger's best film. It sends a blunt but effective message: With Nazi spies crawling across Vancouver, the war is not an ocean way, but effects everyonet: no more isolationism for us.

German submarine U-37 is scouting off the coast of Canada after sinking a British freighter. Warships locate and sink the submarine, and the only survivors are six sailors, led by the fanatical Lieutenant Kuehnecke (Eric Portman), who were sent ashore to secure supplies. Our anti-heroes gradually dwindle in number, as they encounter a group of grizzled traders, a commune of pacfist Hutterites, and flee Mounties and vigilantes on their way to (still-neutral) America and freedom.

49th Parallel wonderfully flips audience expectations on their heads. The movie's straight-forward plot of heroic men behind enemy lines... has Nazis as protagonists. And, aside from the fanatical Lieutenant, our Nazis are human beings, their evils of ideology rather than humanity. We see the Nazis commit atrocities (leaving shipwreck survivors to drown, gunning down helpless Eskimos), but we also see them as human beings, particularly Vogel (Niall McGinness), who wants nothing more than to resume his career as a baker. It's the ideology that's bad, not the men, and only the Lieutenant who considers Mein Kampf his Bible is beyond redemption.

49th is not as openly subversive as The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943), which ran into trouble for suggesting that Englishmen and Germans can be friends, and that the English government makes mistakes in its conduct of war. But still, it's mind-boggling that the British government funded this film in WWII's darkest hour. One seriously wonders how Powell and Pressburger got away with this and Colonel Blimp without serious reprecussions.

Powell and Pressburger present a romanticized view of Canada, not unlike their portrayal of Scotland in I Know Where I'm Going! (1945), full of broad stock characters - a plucky French-Canadian trapper (Laurence Olivier), a cynical deserter (Raymond Massey), cheery Indian and Eskimo sidekicks - and gorgeous landscapes. If the film makes a few too many speeches about the virtue of democracy and the degeneracy of Nazism, it makes up for it with the power of its convictions. The best moment is when the Lieutenant's bombastic pro-Hitler speech to the Hutterites is answered by the group's leader (Anton Walbrook), comporting himself with dignity and quiet anger, explaining how German immigrants think differently than Nazi Germans. Stereotyping can be forgiven when the characters make such strong impressions.

Powell was targetting still-neutral America, and it's hard not to think that his emphasis of Canada's diversity was a nod towards the melting pot to the south. As broad of stereotypes they are, all of the Canadians we meet are decent fellows, whose straightforward friendliness baffle the strictly regimented Nazis. At the end of the film, we see two Americans customs agents sending the Lieutenant back to Canada as contraband: an amusing twist in and of itself, and a sign that we'll come into the war on the right side.

Powell's direction is wonderful, with Freddie Young capturing eyefuls of gorgeous Canadian scenery - mountains, pine forests and snow flats all strikingly captured. Pressburger provides a perfectly-constructed script: its three acts are essentially self-contained, and yet flow together perfectly, with a perfect pace that develops tension and drives the action. David Lean provides some excellent montage work, particularly in the later segments of the film, and Ralph Vaughan Williams adds a superb score.

Eric Portman (A Canterbury Tale) gives a perfect performance as the Lieutenant. He's a one-dimensional character delivered with fiery conviction, the perfect representation of hateful Nazism. Niall McGinnis (Becket) does a great job as the most tragic of Portman's men. Laurence Olivier's bizarre portrayal of a Quebecois is rather cheesy, but the other star cameos are excellent: Raymond Massey (Abe Lincoln in Illinois), Leslie Howard (Pygmalion), Finlay Currie (Great Expectations) and Anton Walbrook (Gaslight).

What more can be said? 49th Parallel is a wonderful film from top-to-bottom. And those Canadians are awesome, eh?