A Tragedy of Ridiculous Men: Historical Commentary on Tony Richardson's The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968)

When I first saw Tony Richardson's The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) I found it curious and frustrating. Its mixture of social satire and antiwar polemic didn't sit well with me, though I admired things about it: the meticulous period detail, Trevor Howard's performance, John Addison's music, and of course Richard Williams' animation. It's steadily grown on me, however: I've revisited the film three times and enjoy it more with each viewing. While certainly flawed, its virtues grow more apparent over time.

As I'm highly suggestible, Charge provided a springboard into researching the Crimean War. I first read Cecil Woodham-Smith's The Reason Why (1953), the film's primary source, which led to other popular histories and then first-hand accounts. As a collage of gallantry, imperial rivalry and military incompetence the Crimea rivals the First World War, in drama if not scope. Certainly its effects were more far-reaching than generally recognized: not only in medical and military reforms but the unification of Italy, Prussia eclipsing Austria as Central Europe's power broker and increased Turkish nationalism. Even as my appreciation of Richardson's film grew, research presented another question: how accurate is The Charge of the Light Brigade?

This article examines The Charge of the Light Brigade through an historical and thematic lens. I will lean on The Reason Why except where the film deviates from it. As with my Lawrence of Arabia pieces, I'll balance historical critique with understanding the needs for dramatic compression. Accuracy isn't an end of itself, but it's worth examining why filmmakers alter history for dramatic purposes. Especially a movie like Charge that prides itself on supposed authenticity.

The Filmmaker, the Playwright and the Angry Young Man: Tony Richardson, Charles Wood and John Osborne

Tony Richardson (left) and John Osborne.

A lifelong outsider, Tony Richardson fought his way up the entertainment ladder through stage, TV and finally film. He won several Oscars for Tom Jones (1963), but made his mark with subversive "kitchen sink" dramas: Look Back in Anger (1958), A Taste of Honey (1961) and The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner (1962). Along with Anger playwright John Osborne, Richardson founded Woodfall Studios in 1958. A signatory of Lindsay Anderson's Free Cinema manifesto, Richardson rejected formalization for a more true-life style: "As filmmakers we believe that no film can be too personal... Perfection is not an aim" (Richardson 95).

Richardson thought The Reason Why "a brilliant piece of historical writing" (231) and spent years developing the project. Along with Osborne, Richardson began researching Charge in the mid-'60s, scouting locations in Turkey and negotiating with Turkish officials and English diplomats. While in preproduction, Richardson discovered that actor Laurence Harvey owned the rights to Woodham-Smith's book, forcing Woodfall to tread carefully.

To avoid legal complications, Richardson encouraged Osborne to avoid Woodham-Smith, drawing on Alexander Kinglake's Invasion of the Crimea (1863-1887) instead. However, Harvey's company sued Woodfall on the grounds that Osborne disregarded these instructions; Richardson admits the writer "had helped himself liberally to stylistic phrases and descriptions in The Reason Why" (232). Osborne subsequently fell out with Richardson, attacking the director's "use and misuse [of] the talents of others... with mocking vampire contempt" (Heilpern 347). Connelly informs us that Richardson mostly discarded Osborne's script.

Richardson now turned to Charles Wood. Wood wrote several several plays, including Cockade, H. and Prisoner and Escort, which drew on his military background (serving, appropriately, in Lord Lucan's 17th/21st Lancers) to satirize British society. He collaborated with Richard Lester on Swinging Sixties touchstones Help! and The Knack and How to Get It (both 1965), along with the antiwar satire How I Won the War (1967). After Woodfall settled with Harvey, Wood openly utilized The Reason Why; Woodham-Smith receives a credit in the film. Wood says his script shows "everything I felt about the British Empire, the British army, England under Queen Victoria and the first of the modern wars" (Connelly 25).

One couldn't assemble a better team for a caustic satire. The son of a Jewish chemist, Richardson resented "that virus of the British - class" (37) for making his parents "tool, skimp, sacrifice so that their son would have the opportunities they never had" (45) and delaying his entry into theater and film. Working class Osborne was the original "Angry Young Man," his plays showcasing the disillusionment of postwar Britons, while Wood ridiculed English society through subversive comedy. It's hardly surprising that they produced a movie that "charges us to question authority" (Cahir & Cahir 165).

Sweating the Small Stuff

Bingham's Dandies cut tight to a shadow.

It's obvious that Richardson, Osborne and Wood took great pains researching their subject. Over the movie's four year gestation, Richardson enlisted experts Andrew and John Mollo to research the Crimean era. They compiled their research into a book, Uniforms and Equipment of the Light Brigade (1968). Cinematographer David Watkin based his aesthetics on Scottish painter David Octavius Hill (Richardson 238); Vanessa Redgrave noted that women only wore period-appropriate makeup (158). For a director who claimed that "perfection is not an aim," he thoroughly replicated 1850s style and appearance.

Most evident are the costumes. Richardson effusively praised both the Mollos and production designer Lila de Nobili, a veteran of Luchino Visconti's epics, for their meticulous attention to detail. Though they clashed with Richardson over aesthetic decisions, the result is quite impressive. Cardigan's 11th Hussars became notorious for what The Times called "the brevity of their [gold-laced] jackets... the incredible tightness of their cherry-colored pants" (Woodham-Smith 62). However, Richardson inaccurately attired the entire Light Brigade in these britches. Historically the 15th and 17th Lancers sported dark blue trousers; only the Heavy Brigade appears correctly attired in a brief appearance.

Then there's the dialogue. Wood stressed the importance of language: "Once you find a language for the characters to speak... the rest seems to follow"; he even remained on-set helping actors master the dialect (Connelly 39-40). At one point, Cardigan and Lucan exchange arcane insults: Cardigan calls Lucan a stew stick and a poltroon (coward); Lucan replies that Cardigan is a bum roll (ladies' underwear). Wood showcases the cavalry's laughably affected lisps, with Captains Duberly and Featherstonehaugh, along with Riding Master Mogg, pronouncing r's as w's ("Gwey, sneaky coluh!") like Elmer Fudd (Woodham-Smith 140). Astonishingly this was a point of pride, distinguishing cavalry from the phonetically proper infantry.

Wood also incorporates dialogue from Woodham-Smith's account. Hence Fanny Duberly's comments on the 11th's uniforms paraphrasing The Times extract above; Cardigan saying that Lucan wasn't "fit to command an escort," though Lucan said it about Cardigan (Woodham-Smith 57); Lord Raglan wanting to keep his cavalry "in a bandbox" (176); and Cardigan muttering "here goes the last of the Brudenells" right before the Charge (237). Notably, the fateful exchange between Nolan, Cardigan and Lucan draws from Woodham-Smith's account almost verbatim (233-237).

Richard Williams: Rendering an Era

Victorian self-image.

Richard Williams' animated sequences provide Charge its most unique aspect. Williams, creator of Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, The Thief and the Cobbler and The Pink Panther's title sequence, spent nearly two years preparing his animation with a small crew and Richardson's close supervision. Williams' initial brief was to illustrate scenes too expensive for the filmmakers (namely the Army's sea voyage to Russia); however, they quickly grew integral to the film. They're a key facet of Charge, providing historical context while highlighting the story's satire.

Punch cartoon ca. 1854. Source

Williams' engravings pointedly undercut and satirize High Victorian jingoism. Images of England's industrial might contrast with children slaving in coal mines; a British lion dons a bobby's cap as war erupts between Russia and Turkey; Victoria lifts up her skirt to unleash the Royal Navy. Williams grows most extreme celebrating the fall of Sevastopol: a lion, French cockerel and Turkey dance on a tightrope; Victoria and Albert dance an angelic ballet while scarfing on St. Basil's Cathedral; a lion with bayonet teeth munches the Tsar's head. Then a cannon shot brings reality crashing back.

Williams draws heavily on contemporary Victorian art. The most obvious influence is Punch magazine, whose cartoons critiqued English politics and culture. Williams borrows specific images from Punch: the Russian bear menacing a fez-sporting Turkey; a sword-bearing Liberty, accompanied by an English lion, defending "Right Against Wrong." These segments illustrate Britain's sense of superiority as the 19th Century's economic and cultural center, and role as "the world's policeman."

Richard Williams' interpretation.

Mark Connelly notes that several sequences resemble John Tenniel's illustrations for the novels of Charles Dickens (41). This is most evident in the "war fever" segment; grotesque caricatures of politicians and officials as snaggle-toothed demons, gnawing chicken and screaming for "WAR!" This sequence demolishes England's moral pretensions. The defense of "Poor little turkey" is imperial gamesmanship; Britain and France prop up the Ottoman Empire to secure their respective empires from Russian encroachment. (The initiating "churchwarden's quarrel" [Royle 15] in the Holy Land, where Catholic and Orthodox monks clashed over the key to the Church of the Nativity, seems irrelevant.)

Here it's worth mentioning John Addison's score. For live action the music is either romantic (Nolan's soulful clarinet theme), funereal (Nolan and Co. surveying the Alma battlefield) or angry (discordant trumpets over the pre-Balaclava arguments). Over the animations, however, Addison becomes positively bombastic: blaring trumpets, lively woodwinds, snatches of Rule Britannia and La Marseillaise, a chorus proclaiming "The rule of British pride and strength." For the Crimean voyage, Addison even borrows a cue from his score for The Cockleshell Heroes (1955), a much more conventional war movie. His scoring provides another layer of satire.

As we've seen, Richardson, Wood and Williams get most of the details correct. In its look, feel and syntax, Charge rings true. Whether it's more broadly truthful, of course, is another matter.

Class Warfare: Indian Officers Versus the Purchase System

Upper class twits.

Not surprisingly, Charge's major themes concern class differences within Victorian England in general, and the military in particular. Early scenes contrast the ornate lifestyle of British officers with their poor, illiterate recruits, though Richardson abandons this angle later on. Everpresent is the clash between high-bred Lords Cardigan and Lucan and their ostensibly low-born subordinates. The filmmakers direct their opprobrium to the prejudice against officers with Indian service, and the purchase system.

Richardson captures the prejudiced, anti-intellectual attitudes of the British Army. Cardigan sniffs at Nolan as "some damned novelist!" and refers to him and Morris as "Indian devils." Observing a flogging, Mogg tells Nolan that an army founded on ideals and professionalism instead of discipline would be "Hun-Christian!" Lord Raglan sums things up later in a blackly comic speech: "It will be a sad day when England's armies are officered by men who know too well what they're doing. Smacks of murder!"

These sentiments are broadly true. Prejudice against "Indian" officers was pervasive in the British Army, a curious phenomenon given Wellington's service in India. It's undeniably true that aristocrats abused the purchase system: with no prior experience, Cardigan bought his lieutenant colonelcy of the 15th Hussars for £35,000 (Woodham-Smith 35)! These facts certainly suit Richardson's satirical intentions. Even so, it's undeniable Charge greatly simplifies these issues.

Generals in waiting.

Our modern, democratic society loathes the purchase system on principle, the embodiment of privilege overriding merit. Yet according to Woodham-Smith, "the purchase system expressed a principle which is one of the foundations of the British Constitution... No sentiment is more firmly rooted in the English national character than a hatred of militarism" (28). After Napoleon's coup d'etat and Prussia's powerful Junker class, fear of a standing army was hardly ridiculous. It's noteworthy that the system produced fine generals like Clive and Wellington, and in the Crimea James Scarlett and Sir Colin Campbell. Not to mention Nolan, who bought his lieutenant's commission in 1841.

All the same, the system's shortcomings were self-evident. Merit and money didn't often coincide, with many aristocrats seeing peacetime service as a platform for easy prestige. After the Crimean debacle, public outcry spelled purchase's demise. During the late 1860s Lord Cardwell enforced a sweeping series of military reforms, including abolition of the purchase system. Their leading proponent was Sir Garnet Wolseley, a Crimean veteran who opined "almost all our officers...were absolutely unfit for the positions they had secured through family and political interest" (Woodham-Smith 141).

We also can't assume the experience of Indian officers made them fitter for command. Britain's imperial armies occasionally encountered organized, well-armed foes, as in the Anglo-Sikh Wars of the 1840s. More often they were brushfire wars against Pathan brigands and African tribes, a far cry from fighting Russia. Alan Clark's influential World War I history The Donkeys (1962) ridiculed Haig, French and others for thinking experience fighting Boers and Pathans translated to competence fighting against Germany. If we accept Connelly's argument that Charge's filmmakers drew from Clark (18), this seems like Richardson and Wood having their cake and eating it.

Captain Nolan: Ambivalent Hero

Nolan embarks on his toughest mission: converting Vanessa Redgrave to Toryism.

Embodying these themes is Captain Louis Nolan, Charge's protagonist. Biographer David Buttery characterized Nolan as the "Messenger of Death," delivering Lord Raglan's fateful order that initiated the Charge. His exact role in the Charge, especially the circumstances of his death, remains controversial: Mark Adkin even accuses Nolan of deliberately sending Cardigan down the wrong valley! Richardson engages in considerable dramatic license to make him heroic.

Nolan was undoubtedly an extraordinary man. Son of a Scottish diplomat, he was educated abroad, serving in the Austrian cavalry before transferring to India. His books The Training of Cavalry Remount Horses (1852) and Cavalry: Its History and Tactics (1853) became standard works; he also designed a new cavalry saddle. Adkin claims Nolan "invited criticism by many who felt him to be conceited, rash and intolerant," (33), while M.M. Gilchrist argues this accusation came from jealous peers. He nonetheless impressed Quartermaster General Richard Airey; at the outbreak of war he sent Nolan to procure cavalry horses in Syria. He became Airey's aide-de-camp, playing a key role on Raglan's staff, until selected to deliver Raglan's "fourth order" on October 25th.

"You are drinking beer, sir! Porter beer!"

Film Nolan possesses many of the historical figure's traits. He's an expert horseman, even quoting a passage from Cavalry: "Horses are taught not by harshness but gentleness" (Nolan 167). Richardson accurately shows his friendships with journalist William Howard Russell and Captain William Morris of the 17th Lancers; however, his affair with Morris's wife is invention. He's shown being recommended to Raglan by Airey. Certainly his hauteur and contempt for hidebound, conservative army officers rings true, specific circumstances aside.

But Nolan also embodies the various officers who crossed Cardigan over the years. Among them: Augustus Wathen, whose feud with Cardigan led to the latter's dismissal from the 15th Lancers (Woodham-Smith 41-49); John Reynolds, protagonist of the "black bottle" affair depicted in the film (63-66); and Harvey Tuckett, with whom Cardigan fought a duel over a critical public letter (82-85). Nolan never served in the 11th Hussars and barely knew Cardigan; it was Lucan who earned most of his contempt. Additionally, while Richardson/Wood imply Nolan saw action in India this isn't the case; it was true of Captain Morris, who fought in the Anglo-Sikh War (Adkin 31).

It's acceptable for Wood to create a composite character, summing up decades of Cardigan rivalries and the
Army's broader systemic failures. Dramatically, strict accuracy would diffuse the conflict amongst a half-dozen officers with marginal screen time; concentrating on Nolan makes sense. All the same, such license distorts Nolan's character significantly. His brusque, insubordinate attitude at Balaclava is more understandable, even sympathetic, after being subjected to years of abuse by Cardigan.

Richardson and Wood don't elide Nolan's less flattering aspects. He's shown to be more eager for war than the senior officers, calling it "the stuff we've all been waiting for." His affair with Clarissa, wife of Captain Morris, undermines any claims to moral superiority. Nolan is very much an anti-hero, but still Charge's most sympathetic character. He's a smart, skilled, but arrogant man pushed over the edge by his superiors and ultimately sacrificed to their folly.

Rogue's Gallery: Lords Cardigan, Lucan and Raglan

The story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now.

Few would criticize Richardson's treatment of Lord Cardigan. Cardigan's egomania, exacting personality and martinet treatment are well-documented. As outlined above, the black bottle affair, arresting Reynolds for serving moselle in the officer's mess, was only one abuse amongst many. "Difference of opinion, even of the mildest kind, had a frightening effect on him" (Woodham-Smith 22), Cardigan subjecting his officers to strict discipline and humiliation. Even so, Cardigan's troopers reputedly admired him as the "Murat of the British Army" (David 364), a facet ignored by the film.

Richardson makes Cardigan his primary antagonist, the embodiment of aristocratic privilege against the young, reasonable Nolan. He routinely embarrasses his officers, forcing the green Codrington to eat lettuce and calling Mogg a "monkey" - and these are his toadies. Cardigan insults Nolan in the mess and enlists an unwilling Sergeant Major to spy on him. Every Sunday he pays soldiers to salute him on the street, stroking his ego and inflating his public image. While campaigning he plays the role of "gentleman adventurer"; forcing his men to pitch and repitch tents symmetrically, he spends evenings drinking on his private yacht with the porcine Squire De Burgh. Nothing shakes his sense of entitlement: not reprimands by Lord Raglan, not being booed at a theater, not the destruction of his Brigade.

Lord Lucan's portrayal is comparably one-dimensional. He's merely a foil for Cardigan, accentuating Cardigan's nastiness and providing another portrait of aristocratic idiocy. The movie omits Lucan's complicated back story: his forcible evictions of Irish tenants (Woodham-Smith 118-120), which earned him hatred in Ireland and criticism at home (123), and his service with the Russian army during the Russo-Turkish War of 1828 (34-35). But Richardson correctly shows his fractious relationship with Cardigan, stemming from Lucan's unhappy marriage to Cardigan's sister. Lord Raglan was so eager to keep them apart that he detached Cardigan to quasi-independent command. Not only did this exacerbate the feuding brother-in-laws, it opened a rift between Lucan and Raglan (194).

Lord Raglan, fighting the last war.

The filmmakers tread problematic waters with Raglan, the British commander-in-chief. Richardson depicts him as a senile old man still fighting the Napoleonic Wars: he'd lost an arm at Waterloo and spent years as the Duke of Wellington's secretary. He refers to the Russians as "the French" and literally dwells in Wellington's shadow after a statue's parked outside his office. Raglan is a comic figure, babbling to Fanny Duberly about "pretty things" like babies and table linen or awaking, terrified, at French cavalry appearing outside his office. Yet the humor takes on a dark tinge as this absentmindedness contributes to the Charge.

Raglan's performance in the Crimea remains controversial. Woodham-Smith's portrait anticipates the film: Raglan is well-meaning and amiable, but completely out of his depth leading an army: "Without the military trappings... one would never have guessed him to be a soldier" (156). Raglan mistaking the Russians for the French is well-documented, though perhaps not so malign as the film suggests (Woodham-Smith 162; Hibbert 277). Raglan's undeniable mistakes were trying to avoid Cardigan and Lucan's feud rather than resolve it, and his unclear orders to Lucan at Balaclava.

Other historians take a more sympathetic view. Christopher Hibbert admits Raglan's tactical mistakes but emphasizes his courage and generous nature which ensured a smooth relationship with his French and Turkish allies (who, notably, are all but ignored in Charge). Hibbert argues the press and government leaders scapegoated Raglan for higher-level administrative failings: "Members of the Government were determined that they... should not play the part" (228). Modern writers also differ in their assessments (cf. Adkin 240-241; Royle 398-400). Viewers must decide whether the film's Raglan is a fair representation.

The Curious Case of Mrs. Duberly

The Duberlys observe the Charge.

Most egregious, however, is the depiction of Frances "Fanny" Duberly, wife of Paymaster Henry Duberly of the 8th Hussars. Mrs. Duberly accompanied her husband on campaign, charming and browbeating Raglan and Cardigan for a front row seat. Her Journal Kept During the Russian War provides a valuable first-hand account of the conflict, describing how "the supporters of [England's] arms... be Liberty and Death" (Duberly 164). She was both admired and scorned; her books (later including an account of the Indian Mutiny) sold well, yet Queen Victoria forbade Duberly from dedicating her book to the Queen. Duberly was a woman who ventured into danger and spoke her mind, two things antithetical to Victorian values.

No one reading Duberly's journal, or E.E.P. Tisdall's Mrs. Duberly's Campaigns (1963), can avoid being impressed by this intelligent, fiercely determined woman. It's puzzling that Charge portrays her as a fatuous ninny, obsessed with war and sex. From her introduction Fanny ponders bedding Cardigan, drooling over his "beautiful head" and "looking like I want to be ridden by him." Richardson suggests that Duberly's promiscuity stems partially from social advancement, with his husband pushing Fanny on Cardigan. This culminates in Cardigan crudely seducing Fanny, a bawdy bedroom farce recalling Richardson's Tom Jones. This scene highlights Victorian hypocrisy, contrasting public virtue and private randiness (Cahir & Cahir 167).

Rumpy pumpy.

Rumormongers did romantically connect Fanny with Lord Cardigan. The Duberlys were frequent dinner guests of Lord Cardigan during the campaign, with Fanny's familiar conduct towards the general subject of much comment (David 422). Yet in private correspondence, she told sister Selina that "I detest him" (Tisdall 56), viewing the cavalier with mixed pity and contempt. Flattering Cardigan's ego was necessary to gain access to the front: for his part, Cardigan enjoyed flirting with a pretty woman in a war zone. Their relationship went no further.

If Richardson and Wood merely hoped to highlight Cardigan's debauchery, there were historical alternatives. For one, in 1843 Cardigan had an extramarital affair with Fanny Paget, sister-in-law of Lord George Paget of the 15th Hussars (Woodham-Smith 95-96; David 257-262). This liaison, which inevitably boiled over into public scandal, would have served Richardson's attack on aristocratic licentiousness without distorting the historical record. Even conflating George with his brother would be no more egregious than Nolan standing in for Reynolds et al.

Professor Connelly suggests that screenwriter Wood may have wanted to deflate Fanny Duberly's unblemished reputation. For him and Richardson, a war so ludicrous as the Crimea could produce no genuine heroes. This puckish conceit, in keeping with Wood's antiwar, antimilitary preoccupations, explains as well as anything the decision to misrepresent such a remarkable personage.

Balaclava: The Main Event 

Into the Valley of Death.

With the stage set, on to the film's main event: the Battle of Balaclava (October 25th, 1854). Fittingly, Charge's climax epitomizes the mix of authenicity with dramatic license. We'll not impute motive to any deviations when practical reasons can account; we can, however, consider their effect.

The scene opens with Lucan and his staff spotting "two flags" on the road to Balaclava. Lucan asks a subordinate if he's sure the flags mean a Russian advance - and is answered immediately by cannon fire! This remarkable moment is documented in Lord George Paget's memoirs, and recounted by Woodham-Smith (213). The shelling rouses Cardigan from slumber on his yacht, helped hurriedly into uniform by Squire De Burgh and Fanny Duberly, who first gives Cardigan a lusty kiss. The former is accurate; the latter, again, is not.

Any more questions, My Lord?

Richardson next shows Russian troops quickly overrunning the British redoubts defending Balaclava. This distorts what really happened: the redoubts were defended by Turkish troops rather than British, who offered stiff resistance but fell to overwhelming numbers (Woodham-Smith 214-215). This alteration may have been a sop to the Turkish military, who contributed 3,500 extras to the production. The comic scene of Sir George Brown refusing to deploy his Infantry Division until he's finished breakfast really happened, though with George Cathcart instead of Brown (Hibbert 133).

More notable is the absence of Balacava's second- and third-most famous events: the "Thin Red Line," where Colin Campbell's 93rd Highlanders repulsed the Russian cavalry, and the Charge of James Scarlett's Heavy Brigade, routing a far superior enemy force. In the latter, Cardigan ignored a discretionary order by Lucan to counterattack the fleeing Russians. Many historians think that if Cardigan had advanced, the Russians would have been routed and the battle won (Woodham-Smith 227-228; Hibbert 140).

A cynic might suggest Richardson and Wood elided these incidents because British victories would distract from their antiwar theme. In fact, Richardson filmed at least the Heavy Brigade's charge (Richardson 239; Welsh & Tibbets 35-36). Since Campbell and Scarlett received prominent introductions earlier in the film (Campbell leading his brigade at the Alma; Scarlett, hosting a ball early in the movie), we can assume Richardson intended them to have larger roles. He admits having to "junk whole scenes, subplots and sequences" (239) from his four hour rough cut; he may not have missed excising his tormentor Laurence Harvey, cast as a Heavy Brigade officer.

This still appears to show the Charge of the Heavy Brigade. Note the blue pants and metal helmets on the British cavalry, distinct from the Light Brigade's red trousers and bearskin caps.

When the Light Brigade takes center stage, Richardson stands on firmer ground. He has Raglan patronizingly explain to Fanny Duberly his intentions with the Light Brigade, an invented but credible conversation as the Duberlys did observe the Charge (Tisdall 97-100). Using Watkin's panoramic photography, Richardson takes care to show the crucial difference in vantage points; the south valley with the captured British guns is visible from Raglan's perspective but not Lucan's, who can only see the well-defended north valley. It helps that Richardson found a Turkish location topographically similar to the real Balaclava battlefield.

The arguments between Nolan, Cardigan and Lucan over Raglan's orders, as noted, follows Woodham-Smith, as does Cardigan insisting Colonel John Douglas of the 11th Hussars give "your best support" (237). Nolan did ride ahead of the Light Brigade and was hit by a shellburst, delivering an ear-splitting shriek before dying (240). Richardson again follows Woodham-Smith, showing Nolan trying to divert Cardigan into the right valley. In contrast, Adkin thinks Nolan meant to spur the Brigade onward (156-158); David Kelsey argues his intentions can't be inferred either way. By accepting Woodham-Smith's account, Richardson puts an exclamation point on his critique: the only sane man dies immediately, allowing his superiors to destroy the Light Brigade.

Competent officers to the rear!

Finally, the actual Charge. Richardson stages it mainly in close-ups of bloody hand-to-hand action, the cavalry decimated by artillery but overrunning the enemy guns until a Russian counterattack overwhelms them. It's an ugly, violent sequence that aims for harrowing chaos rather than grandiose effects. Richardson elides the Heavy Brigade supporting the Charge until artillery fire forced it back, or the simultaneous, successful French attack on the Fedioukine Hills. Again, these omissions probably come down to budget, logistics and dramatic economy.

The coda again draws on Woodham-Smith: Captain Duberly musing that the Brigade's remnants are mere "skirmishers" (252); Cardigan fuming over Nolan's impudence, then being told "You've just ridden over his body" (252); Cardigan telling his men "It was a mad harebrained trick, but no fault of mine" and declining their offer to "Go again" (253); Raglan telling Lucan "You have lost the Light Brigade" (256). Raglan, Lucan, Cardigan and Airey commence squabbling over responsibility; juxtaposed against dead soldiers and destroyed horses, their petty bickering no longer seems amusing. A grievously wounded Captain Morris watches incredulously.

This provides Charge a grim, powerful climax, destroying any vestige of military glory or conventional excitement. In real life, it's claimed that army exercises forced the recall of the Turkish troops participating in filming, accounting for Richardson's close-ups and scaled back action. Intentional or not, the cluttered, dusty and inglorious depiction of the Charge perfectly fits his view of the Crimean War as a stupid blunder from beginning to end.

Conclusion

Too late the hero.

So ends The Charge of the Light Brigade. In some regards it's remarkably well-done, admirably capturing the look and feel of Victorian England, the British military and the Crimean War. In others, it shapes characters and incidents to fit its antiwar, anti-class themes. Despite their polemical preoccupations, we can respect Tony Richardson, Charles Wood and John Osborne for trying so hard to get things right.

Works Cited

Cinematic

Cahir, Linda Costanzo and Stephen Cahir. "History Revisited: The Charge of the Light Brigade." James M. Welsh and John C. Tibbets (eds.), The Cinema of Tony Richardson: Essays and Interviews. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999. 161-175

Connelly, Mark. British Film Guides: The Charge of the Light Brigade. London: I.B. Tauris, 2003.

Heilpern, John. John Osborne: A Patriot for Us. London: Chatto & Windus, 2006.

Redgrave, Vanessa. Vanessa Redgrave: An Autobiography. London: Random House, 2004.

Richardson, Tony. The Long-Distance Runner: An Autobiography. New York: William Morrow & Company, Inc., 1993.

Welsh, James M., and John C. Tibbets. "Let's Talk Tony: Interviews With Colleagues." Welsh and Tibbets (eds.), The Cinema of Tony Richardson: Essays and Interviews. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999. 23-47

Historical

Adkin, Mark. The Charge: The Real Reason Why the Light Brigade Was Lost. London: Leo Cooper, 1997.

David, Saul. The Homicidal Earl: The Life of Lord Cardigan. London: Abacus, 1997.

Duberly, Frances. Journal Kept During the Russian War: From The Departure Of The Army From England In April 1854, To The Fall Of Sebastopol. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1856 (Second Edition).

Gilchrist, M.M. "Louis Edward Nolan." Dispatch: the Journal of the Scottish Military Historical Society. 12-15

Hibbert, Christopher. The Destruction of Lord Raglan: A Tragedy of the Crimean War, 1854-1856. Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Military Library, 1999. Originally published 1961.

Kelsey, David. "Evidence and Belief: Captain Nolan's Final Moments." The War Correspondent, Spring 2003. 70

Nolan, Louis. Cavalry: Its History and Tactics. London: Bosworth & Harrison, 1860. Originally published 1853.

Royle, Trevor. Crimea: The Great Crimean War, 1854-1856. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004.

Tisdall, E.E.P. Mrs. Duberly's Campaigns. Chicago: Rand McNally, 1963.

Woodham-Smith, Cecil. The Reason Why: The Story of the Fatal Charge of the Light Brigade. London: Penguin, 1958. Originally published 1953.

* * *

Additionally, I wish to thank Professor Mark Connelly for his assistance in preparing this article. He answered my questions about the film and his book quickly, succinctly and helpfully.

The Plays of Robert Bolt, Part II

Dueling Queens: Sarah Miles and Eileen Atkins in Vivat! Vivat Regina! (Source)

Part One here.

Robert Bolt's later works show the playwright sublimated to the screenwriter. The first, The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew, incorporates Bolt's thematic preoccupations into a children's play. Vivat! Vivat Regina grafts Brechtian stylization onto the tragedy of Mary Queen of Scots. Last is State of Revolution, a wordy, overstuffed but fascinating chronicle of the Russian Revolution.

Bolt's penchant for the grandiose remains undiminished. Each of the plays features dozens of characters, elaborate staging and sweeping events that must have been nightmarish to perform. On page the plays (mostly) read well-enough; on stage they might be excessive. Arguably, Bolt's ambition exceeds the medium.

The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew (1964)

“A very good way is to do what you should… But a bit of what you fancy, does yer good!” 

After completing Doctor Zhivago Bolt penned The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew, a delightful children’s play. Commissioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company for their 1964 Christmas season, its original production starred heavyweights John Normington, Michael Jayston, Terence Rigby, and Leo McKern. The play proved a huge success, with yearly revivals in Britain, a television adaptation by Germany’s Augsburger Puppetkiste, and a novelization published in 1995.

In a medieval Kingdom, assorted nobles celebrate their triumph over dragons with endless leisure. Do-gooder Oblong Fitz Oblong gets assigned to Baron Bolligrew, an oppressive landlord taxing his charges to death. Oblong befriends Michael, an amoral magpie who resembles a more benign Gentle Jack, and his square idealism initially proves fruitless against Boligrew and evil warlock Moloch. Things come to a head when Moloch summons an evil dragon to vanquish Oblong. Oblong must break his moral code to triumph.

Bolligrew incorporates Bolt's pet themes and stylization amidst a children's setting. His Storyteller functions like the Common Man from A Man for All Seasons: a narrator and character in the story, breaking the fourth wall with a wink and nod. Bolt's script stresses the artificiality with tinny music, cardboard animals and self-aware dialogue. It's a pleasing mix of the intellectual and playful: kids can appreciate the silliness, adults can enjoy Bolt's craftsmanship.

All this analytical hooey overwhelms the fact that Bolligrew is a kid’s play – and an excellent one at that. Sir Oblong's upright heroism takes a beating from assorted villains, but virtue comes out on top. Wonderfully crafted and with a droll sense of humor, it treats its young audience with respect. No wonder Bolt called it “the [play] that’s given me the most pleasure.”  

Vivat! Vivat Regina! (1970)

"She will have what she desires, and it will fetch her off her throne.”

Bolt returned to Tudor England in 1970, writing Vivat! Vivat Regina! as a vehicle for his wife Sarah Miles. Performed at the Chichester Theatre Festival with Miles as Mary Stuart and Eileen Atkins as Elizabeth I, it received considerable success. An equally successful Broadway version with Atkins and Claire Bloom ran in New York the following year, earning several Tony nominations. Vivat has experienced several revivals, including a 1985 off-Broadway version with Geraldine Page as Elizabeth, and Barbara Flynn as Mary in a 1995 Mermaid Theatre production.

Despite its reception, Vivat is Bolt’s weakest history play. The saga of Mary Queen of Scots has been told many times, from Maxwell Anderson to Maria Schiller. Bolt’s depiction of the dynastic duo as “figures on a seesaw, so similar and opposite” is interesting but not especially novel: Elizabeth sacrifices love for her throne, while Mary’s carnal fulfillment destroys her grip on power. We get a recitation of familiar history, well-written but unsurprising.

Vivat’s primary interest is Bolt’s very cinematic imagery. Most effective is a form of theatrical “cross cutting” which allows the Queens to interact without actually meeting. Thus he avoids the pitfall of a fictitious Mary-Elizabeth confrontation. The stylized stage work, with an elevated pyramid standing in for the respective throne, stands halfway between Absurd sparseness and traditional pageantry. More familiar Brechtian tropes (characters addressing the audience, use of a nursery rhyme during Darnley’s assassination) are employed to mixed effect. With its trappings of Epic Theatre, Vivat is probably more effective on stage than page.

As always, Bolt provides reams of crisp dialogue and eloquent speeches. But he clutters the narrative with an excess of characters and the story frequently drags. The personal focus which worked so well in A Man for All Seasons here trivializes history into a royal cat fight; we don’t get a proper grasp of the momentous political and religious issues at stake. Vivat is ultimately readable but underwhelming.

State of Revolution (1977)

“We cannot assume that the times in which we live are not catastrophic, merely because it is we who live in them. After all, someone has to live in catastrophic times.” 

Robert Bolt spent two years researching this epic treatment of the Russian Revolution, staged by Peter Hall's National Theatre with a prestigious cast: Michael Bryant, Michael Kitchen, Terence Rigby and Brian Blessed. The production proved arduous, due in part to a labor strike by stage hands. Critics savaged the play for being pro-Communist, anti-Communist or (in Irving Wardle's words) having "nothing definite to say."

State of Revolution was another personal project. Bolt held a New Left view of Communism, dismayed by Soviet tyranny but hopeful for true revolution elsewhere. Besides CND, he joined Hugh Trevor-Roper and Ernie Roberts in visiting Maoist China in 1965. His radio play The Window depicted the '56 Hungarian Revolution, while Doctor Zhivago provided a worm's-eye view of Revolutionary Russia. Bolt's time as president of ACTT (the Association of Cinematographic and Television Technicians) disillusioned him: in the mid-'70s he moderated a bitter dispute between Trotskyist unions, bankrupt studios and Harold Wilson's Labour government.

Like Vivat and Gentle Jack, State of Revolution is just too big: 25 speaking parts, large crowd scenes and spectacle covering 15 years of Russian history. The narrative lurches from prewar Capri through World War I, both revolutions, Red Terror, the Kronstadt Rebellion and Trotsky and Stalin's rivalry. With so much going on, State bogs down in spectacle. Producing it must have been nightmarish. Without Brechtian sparseness it's a panorama, meticulously accurate but dramatically stiff.

State lacks Bolt's usual themes. Zhelnik, leader of the Kronstadt Soviet, represents the pure extremist embodied by Louis Flax in Tiger and the Horse or Strelnikov in Doctor Zhivago, a revolutionary too pure for the Revolution. Felix Dzerzhinsky's evolution from idealist to pitiless executioner depicts humanity sublimated by ideology. Captain Draganoff has shades of the Common Man, cheerily switching from the Tsarist police to the Cheka. These characters are marginal however, Bolt instead focusing on the Bolshevik inner circle.

State crosses a "Great Men" historical pageant with Marxist dialectic: "Big events aren't formed by people, people are formed by big events." Education Minister Lunacharsky lectures about "the historically determined movement of the masses" while celebrating Lenin and Stalin's individual brilliance. Bolt also explores the contradictions between the Revolution's idealism and its brutal methods. But he ultimately reflects a naive sympathy towards the Bolsheviks: if only Stalin hadn't usurped Trotsky, Russia would be a Workers' Paradise! Yeah, right.

Bolt's portrait of Lenin and Co. drives home the irony. Lenin starts a relentless fanatic but the realities of government force moderation. Trotsky threatens German ministers with the mutiny of their men; "We do seem to have won," comes the retort. The New Economic Policy, liquidation of the Kulaks and revanchist imperialism transforms the Revolution into a repressive state. Trotsky, a theoretician whose arrogance alienates everyone, feuds with Stalin, an "administrator" like A Man for All Seasons' Cromwell waiting to be useful. Bolt shows how personalities and practicality shaped the Soviet Union more than theory.

State of Revolution finally proves more challenging than entertaining. Nonetheless, its shrewd deconstruction of Marxist dogma makes it worth reading.

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State of Revolution was Bolt's final stage play. He spent the next three years working torturously on David Lean's The Bounty, the stress of which triggered a crippling stroke. After a long, painful recovery Bolt penned a few more screenplays (The Mission, Without Warning: The James Brady story) but never again returned to the stage. Perhaps the negative reaction towards State dissuaded him. Or perhaps he realized his true talents lie in cinema.

Back to movies soon!

The Plays of Robert Bolt, Part I

Part Two here.

With Lawrence of Arabia only a week away from re-release, I'm dusting off a long-mothballed post: a review of Robert Bolt's oeuvre. Bolt did his most lasting work as a screenwriter, yet he was also a prolific stage dramatist. Aside from A Man for All Seasons however, his plays are mostly forgotten.

In the early '60s, Bolt went from Mancunian schoolmaster to theatrical superstar with a trio of hits: Flowering Cherry, The Tiger and the Horse and A Man for All Seasons. Bolt's ability to analyze political issues through individual protagonists won him acclaim and popular appeal. But he was also dismissed by many: John Russell Taylor called him "a good old-fashioned playwright" like Terence Rattigan, telling conventional stories within familiar dramatic structures. Bolt's conventionality marginalized him in the era of John Osborne and Harold Pinter's "Angry Young Men," despite his flirtations with Brechtian "epic theater" in A Man for All Seasons and Gentle Jack. Even so, success brought him to David Lean and Sam Spiegel's attention, and the rest is history.

Certainly Bolt proved a gifted screenwriter. His eye for striking visuals, skilful treatment of complex themes, sharp characterizations and poetic dialogue made him ideally suited for film. Cinema allowed him a vast canvas for his preoccupations: war-torn Arabia, Revolutionary Russia, the Paraguayan jungle. By contrast, later plays like Vivat! Vivat Regina and State of Revolution suffer from excesses of characters and incident. Frith Banbury scoffed at Bolt's choice of "Sam Spiegel's yacht" over theater accolades, but one can hardly blame Bolt for focusing on a medium where he excelled.

Nonetheless, Bolt's stage work is worth remembering. His plays bristle with quotable dialogue and fascinating themes: the individual against society, the agony of conscience, the juxtaposition of personal and political, commitment versus compromise. Even when Bolt fails, he's usually interesting.

Seven of Bolt's plays have been published: Flowering Cherry (1958), The Tiger and the Horse (1960), A Man for All Seasons (1960), Gentle Jack (1963), The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew (1964), Vivat! Vivat Regina (1970) and State of Revolution (1977). Of Bolt's other work, The Last of the Wine (1955) remains unpublished, while The Critic and the Heart (1957) and Brother and Sister (1966) only received limited printings. I'll recuse myself from reviewing A Man for All Seasons for a third time. All six plays examined are flawed but comprise an interesting body of work regardless.

Flowering Cherry (1958) 

“Your apples and orchards, your dreams; your one dream – it’s nothing but a lie and an excuse for lies and lies!” 

Bolt's debut The Critic and the Heart proved a minor success, but Flowering Cherry propelled him to theatrical stardom. The show ran at London’s Haymarket Theatre for over a year, starring Ralph Richardson and Celia Johnson. The play received positive reviews, with Harold Hobson particularly effusive: “Bolt looks on the withering misery, the complete self-contempt with the cold eye of a surgeon and with the … perceptiveness of a Proust.” A short Broadway run with Eric Portman and Wendy Hiller proved less successful.

The story is Arthur Miller by way of Chekhov. Insurance man Jack Cherry dreams of retiring to a cherry orchard in Somerset. He constantly threatens to quit his job, his erratic behavior driving wife Isobel batty. Things come to a head over a petty theft, with Cherry accusing his wayward son Tom, and when Cherry contemplates selling the family house. Isobel finally confronts Cherry over his self-destructive actions.

Bolt claimed to be unfamiliar with Death of a Salesman but this is hard to credit. Parallels to Miller’s magnum opus are inescapable: the husband wrapped up in delusions, the long-suffering but defensive wife, the dishonest children. Echoes of The Cherry Orchard further slather Cherry with discreditable familiarity. The most original elements are the most awkward: Cherry’s daughter Judy, a silly poker-bending stunt, and a projected cyclorama of cherry petals in the breeze. There’s a nod to the “Angry Young Man” in Tom, the disaffected Army-bound son, but otherwise this is a stolidly adult play.

Attentive readers will notice Boltian themes in embryonic form. Cherry certainly faces a question of commitment, albeit on a more personal scale than later works. A dichotomy between the “business world,” represented by the salesman Grass, and the “Natural” world represented by Cherry’s orchard, is a rough draft for Gentle Jack’s central dichotomy. But these are sublimated to the banal domestic drama.

Of course, judging any play solely by its text is problematic. A good, well-cast production might make these tired elements work: certainly Ralph Richardson and Celia Johnson could breathe life into anything. Without a production nearby however, I’m forced to judge Cherry on its literary merits, which are minimal.

The Tiger and the Horse (1960)

“I have no permissive authority over the importance of things. If they’re important to you, than to you they’re important.” 

In 1960, Bolt had the honor of two plays running simultaneously on the West End. Though written before A Man for All Seasons, The Tiger and the Horse was launched two months’ into that show’s run. It did better business at the time, because of another brilliant casting coup: Michael Redgrave in the lead and Vanessa Redgrave, in her first major stage role, as daughter Stella.

Despite its contemporary success, Tiger has faded into a theatrical footnote. For all its dated topicality and artificial plot mechanics it retains considerable power. Tiger is Bolt’s first work to fully develop his themes of self-hood and individual commitment.

Jack Dean is a professor at an unnamed Oxbridge University. A former astronomer, he's taken himself out of the "real world" by studying philosophy. He's next in line for promotion to Vice Chancellor until research fellow Louis Flax presents Dean with a petition for nuclear disarmament. Dean refuses to sign, alienating his wife Gwendoline, for whom the petition takes on incredible importance. Dean's pressed to make a choice, however, when Louis impregnates Dean's daughter Stella, and when Gwendoline loses her grip on sanity.

Tiger was an immensely personal project for Bolt. He was an active member of Bertrand Russell’s Committee of 100, which advocated nuclear disarmament. He contributed an essay to Clara Urquhart's anti-nuke book A Matter of Life (1963) and explored the issue in his play The Last of the Wine. In September 1961 Bolt was arrested for taking part in a protest in Trafalgar Square, only to be bailed out by a furious Sam Spiegel, who needed Bolt to write Lawrence of Arabia. Bolt’s failure to live up to his fictional protagonists haunted him for the rest of his life.

Tiger remains effective despite its dated central issue. Like many Bolt protagonists, Dean tries to "have it both ways," avoiding controversy at the cost of principle. Bolt effectively contrasts him with Louis, a politically committed busybody who can't tell Stella he loves her. Bolt further personalizes the drama with Gwendoline, who goes mad contemplating the horrors of nuclear war and her husband's lack of affection. The stakes aren't so far-reaching as A Man for All Seasons but serve a powerful drama; Bolt shows that even abstract issues effect everyone.

When Bolt focuses on Dean's dilemma, Tiger excels. Unfortunately, the play becomes weighed down in subplots and awkward characterization. Louis and Stella's romance initially provides comic relief, but never develops enough weight to balance the main story. Gwendoline's descent into madness seems abrupt, with her climactic action occurring offstage. In the final scenes, character development, plot mechanics and thematic concerns conveniently come to a head. Fortunately, these flaws are “outweighed by the forcefulness of [Bolt's] speeches” (Sabine Prufer), resulting in a powerful if didactic conclusion.

If Tiger is a formative work, it’s certainly an interesting one. Bolt would soon refine its themes and characterizations into his finest stage achievement.  

Gentle Jack (1963)

"A dog with its teeth in another dog’s throat is not so terrible, as a man in an office.”  

Gentle Jack’s disastrous West End run, starring Kenneth Williams, Dame Edith Evans and Michael Bryant, is legendary. Miscast stars, extraordinarily hostile audiences and merciless critics quickly buried it. Tribune Magazine’s scathing review is representative: “What could have been delightful as a fantasy takes on the tedious aspect of a charade.” The play was cancelled after 75 shows and has never been revived. Williams parlayed the experience into hysterical anecdotes, especially concerning the stuffy Dame Edith.

Jack is a fascinating failure. It's Bolt's most ambitious play, replete with striking themes and creative imagery shaped into a supernatural parable. Unfortunately Bolt botches the presentation, resulting in a melange of half-baked, garbled ideas.

Mild-mannered banker Jacko Cadence accompanies boss Violet Lazara, to Attis Abbey. Jacko’s family owned the Abbey until Violet swindled it from them; she regards Jacko with a mixture of pity and contempt. Jacko loathes the countryside and fends off the advances of local tart Penelope. Jacko gets mixed up in a local ceremony summoning the Nature spirit Jack-in-the-Green. It turns out Jack is very real, and he invests Jacko with otherworldly powers to make his presence known on Earth. But Jacko proves reluctant to abandon the “logical” world completely, infuriating Jack.

Gentle Jack takes the conflict between “Natural Man” and his professional responsibilities to its extreme. Here it’s a literal dichotomy, the forces of “Office” and “Nature” depicted as constantly warring, antithetical. Violet’s financial successes leaves her frigid and sexless. Her affection for assistant Bilbo appears chaste and she cannot transcend her professional avarice. The amoral Jack, comprising “cruelty and tenderness in equal measure,” is a fascinating creation. Execution aside, the development of this dichotomy is spot-on.

Jacko is a “natural butt” ill at ease in both universes, held in contempt by everyone. His coworkers ridicule him, the lusty Penelope taunts him, the workers at Attis Abbey resent his comparative wealth. Jacko puts his newfound power to good use, finding fulfillment in helping others. But he refuses to commit a pointless murder. Trying to straddle the fence between both worlds merely enrages both. Bolt presents another dilemma of commitment, but here “the choice Jacko is given is not a feasible one.” (Prufer)

Drawing heavily on the Theatre of the Absurd, Bolt envisions a living, almost surreal set. The drab office world collides with a vividly rendered forest, complete with foliage, falling fruits and a soundtrack of bees. From page descriptions, it would require an imaginative director to pull off. Bolt’s emphasis on visuals speaks to why he was a better screenwriter than playwright.

Unfortunately, these ideas smother under over-baked folderol. The first act sees Bolt piling on a multitude of characters that stifle development. Minor characters like the Brackets, an unhappy old couple, Gaston and Cynthia, two young but squeamish lovers and a gaggle of estate workers, serve little story function despite much attention. The effect is dramatic congestion, with each personage vying for attention through overripe monologues and witticisms. There’s too much going on and the play becomes sluggish and boring.

With Jack’s belated arrival, the play finally comes to life. Jack’s speeches about Nature’s amorality are powerfully rendered, and Jacko solving characters’ assorted problems provides sardonic mirth – more so when his solutions prove unsatisfactory. His romance with Penelope takes on an appropriately tragic edge in this context. Events build to a climax both comic and horrifying; Jack’s plea for “an animal in the House,” lapsing into nursery rhyme and Welsh dialect, strikes an appropriately perverse note.

But even here Bolt fudges things. He establishes Jack and Violet as polar opposites, representatives of Nature and the Office destined to collide. Intruding however is Morgan, a snooty mathematician presented as a “man of Logic.” This minor character squares off with Jack at the denouement, with Violet emerging not only unscathed but unchallenged. “The play confuses because it doesn’t succeed in focusing the unreasonableness,” Ronald Hayman notes.

Jack's failure sent Bolt further into the arms of Hollywood: he soon divorced his first wife, married Sarah Miles and re-joined David Lean for Doctor Zhivago. In the late ‘70s Bolt began revising the play, a project put paid by his crippling stroke. A shame, as there’s clearly a good play somewhere amidst the muddle.

* * *

I hope you've all enjoyed this slight deviation from the cinematic. My next installment will examine Bolt's final three plays. There may be movie reviews in the meantime, so stick around.


Note on Sources:

Besides Bolt’s plays themselves, my primary sources for this article are: Robert Bolt by Ronald Hayman (1969), Sabine Prufer’s The Individual at the Crossroads: The Works of Robert Bolt, Playwright, Screenwriter and Novelist (1999), and Adrian Turner’s Robert Bolt: Scenes from Two Lives (1998). All quotes and citations derive from them, including critic reviews, unless otherwise indicated.

Lawrence of Arabia: Seven Scenes from Seven Pillars of Wisdom

Is Lawrence of Arabia historically accurate?

As further preparation for Lawrence of Arabia, I spent this week re-reading T.E. Lawrence's memoir Seven Pillars of Wisdom (London: Penguin Classics edition, 2000). Whatever its strict accuracy (and one must allow for embellishment and subjectivity in memoirs), it's an engrossing read on several levels: as literature, a military chronicle, an exotic travelogue, a political analysis, a psychological self-portrait. It's easy to understand how David Lean saw potential for an exciting film. But how does the movie compare to its source material?

Rather than an excruciating line-by-line analysis (see again Jeremy Wilson), this article examines seven key scenes from Lawrence of Arabia based on their relationship to Seven Pillars. We'll view the filmmakers' choices through three general criteria: 1. How does the scene draw from Lawrence's writings? 2. Is it accurate or at least within the bounds of reasonable dramatic license? 3. What dramatic purposes do any changes serve?

1. Ali at the Well 

Perhaps Lawrence's most memorable scene is Sherif Ali's introduction at Matsurah Well: a black blob appearing on the horizon and slowly approaching, Lawrence and his guide Tafas watching in trepidation. He shoots Tafas, member of the rival Beni Salem tribe; Ali is a Harith, their blood enemy. Ali takes Lawrence's service pistol, previously gifted to Tafas. Lawrence then denounces Ali as a murderer and continues his journey to Feisal alone.

This scene draws on an incident in Seven Pillars (81-83), but the two depictions couldn't be more different. The real Sherif Ali traveled with a slave, and the two switched identities to fool Tafas. Lawrence treats the incident comically, far from the movie's deadly encounter. Lawrence also shows that Bedouin allowed common use of desert wells, even among unfriendly tribes. Here, Lean readily jettisons reality for artistic effect.

Lean introduces several thematic strands. It establishes Ali and his bipolar relationship with Lawrence. Lawrence starts as civilized man disgusted by the "savage" Ali; the two develop inversely throughout the film, reversing roles in the final act. The idea of Arabs torn "tribe against tribe," and Lawrence's efforts to unite them for a common cause, is dramatically established. Regardless of realism, the scene is both artistically impressive and dramatically important.

2. Feisal's Tent 

From his first meeting with Prince Feisal, Lawrence felt him "the leader who would bring the Arab Revolt to full glory" (92). As portrayed by Alec Guinness, Feisal embodies Arabia's glorious past and dreams of independence, with a shade of worldly cynicism. He has no illusions about British war aims and ultimately accepts an unfavorable compromise.

Lean and writer Robert Bolt draw loosely on Seven Pillars but use this encounter as a dramatic springboard. Obviously it's an important scene for Lawrence and the other characters. It's also crucial in delineating themes and plot devices that will recur throughout the film.

Lean introduces Colonel Brighton, a composite character representing military convention. Brighton emphasizes the importance of discipline, disputed by Ali (who wants modern weapons) and Feisal (who doubts its value). Lawrence immediately (and inaccurately) disagrees with Brighton and advocate a third way: guerrilla warfare. This piques Feisal's interest, allowing him to confide his fears to Lawrence that the English "hunger for Arabia."

In the subsequent "miracle" scene (drawing loosely on Lawrence's interlude at Wadi Ais), Lawrence realizes the Arabs must move north and seize Aqaba to regain the initiative. This is misleading. Contrary to Brighton's claim that the Royal Navy has "better things to do," they worked closely with the Arabs in seizing the port of Wejh (January 1917). After this, Lawrence says in Seven Pillars, "the Arab movement... had passed beyond danger of collapse" (169). Aqaba was not then a desperate gambit but a logical next step.

Dramatically, this scene places Arab and British war aims in opposition. The Arabs want complete independence; the British want to limit the uprising, in furtherance of imperial goals. Lawrence must choose one side or the other, or else be hopelessly conflicted. There's much truth to this characterization, though oddly Lean makes Lawrence ignorant of the Sykes-Picot Agreement until much later! This scene is dubious historically but provides a solid basis for further drama.

3. Gassim: Nothing is Written 

One of Lawrence's best scenes is the rescue of Gassim, an Arab tribesman lost on the road to Aqaba. This sequence, strikingly shot by Lean, closely follows Seven Pillars' description (260-264). Shortly afterwards Lawrence eschews his uniform for white robes, the Arabs accepting him as "El Aurens" - the cornerstone of his legend. Here Lean deviates from Seven Pillars: Auda abu Tayi (who in reality joined the Aqaba expedition at its onset) wonders why Lawrence risked his life for a man "not worth a camel's price" (263), while Lawrence had been wearing Arab robes long before.

Dramatically this scene serves two major purposes. First, as mentioned, it marks Lawrence's acceptance by the Arabs, especially Ali, who soon becomes an inseparable friend. Second, it highlights Lawrence's first triumph over Fate. Ignoring Arab fatalism, Lawrence proves he can overcome long odds through determination: "Nothing is written!" This minor triumph sets the stage for greater victories at Aqaba and Damascus.

Lean later provides an ironic coda when Lawrence executes Gassim for murdering a Howeitat (tellingly, with Tafas's revolver). "It was written then," intones Auda, reasserting Fate's power over Choice. It also introduces a new theme - Lawrence's enjoyment of killing. The real Lawrence executed another Arab, Hamed, for a similar crime earlier in Seven Pillars. Conflating the two events is acceptable dramatic license.

4. Meeting Allenby 

Lawrence spends a single page detailing his first encounter with General Edmund Allenby. He enthuses about his new commander, "physically large and confident" (330) and more willing to help the Revolt than his predecessor General Murray. Lawrence's admiration for Allenby, both man and military commander, is clear throughout Seven Pillars, even describing him as a father figure.

Lean transforms this "comic interview" into one of the film's pivotal sequences. Lasting nearly 15 minutes, it serves a myriad of functions. Bolt elucidates Aqaba's strategic importance, quoting Lawrence's arguments in Seven Pillars (cf. 281). The British officers who, just a scene before, inundated Lawrence with racial slurs now cheer him as a hero. Besides introducing Allenby and developing Brighton (who gains genuine admiration for Lawrence), it probes Lawrence's psyche at a key moment in the narrative.

Lawrence comes across as a broken, neurotic wreck. His pride in capturing Aqaba has dissipated, after losing his servant Daud to quicksand and his encounter with racist officers. Worse, Lawrence realizes his own blood lust, "enjoying" his execution of Gassim and fearing its future implications. Exhausted and afraid he desperately begs for reassignment. He has the bad luck of meeting Allenby, here not a supportive superior with "confidence... like a wall" (553) but a deceitful villain.

Where Murray dismissed Lawrence as "the kind of creature I can't stand," Allenby immediately recognizes Lawrence's military value. A guerrilla army harassing Turkish supply lines is a boon for future offensives. He also pegs Lawrence's Achilles heel: vanity. Dismissing Lawrence's concerns, he elicits complements from Brighton (officer), Dryden (civilian) and a Mr. Perkins (enlisted man), covering all bases of flattery. Then he holds a public military conference, expounding Lawrence's genius to his entire staff. Thus Allenby's defining traits: military skill and psychological perfidy.

Lean and Bolt re-introduce earlier anti-war/imperialist themes. Lawrence suspects Britain won't honor their promises, an inquiry Allenby and Dryden both dodge. The scene ends with Allenby, Brighton and Dryden deciding not to give the Arabs artillery. For now, Lawrence is satiated by vague promises of post-war freedom, and concrete promises of arms and money. His ego flushed by adulation, he returns to the desert.

5. Deraa Is The Key

Surely the most traumatic incident in Seven Pillars involves Lawrence's capture, torture and gang rape by Turkish soldiers in Deraa in November of 1917. Many historians doubt this incident actually happened, a debate beyond this blog's scope. Lean and Bolt make it a central scene in Lawrence, but distort both the background and its effects significantly.

Lawrence's reasons for entering Deraa were banal. Deraa (in present-day Syria) was an important railroad junction which Lawrence hoped to raid. While scouting in town he was arrested by the Turks and taken to a Turkish officer - supposedly Hajim Bey, the garrison commander. The officer "began to fawn on me... (offering to) make me his orderly... if I would love him" (452). Lawrence refused his advances, then was beaten and sexually assaulted by the Bey's soldiers. Lawrence escapes, and later learns that he was betrayed by Syrian nationalist Abd el-Kadr.

This incident obviously traumatized Lawrence, leaving deep physical and psychological scars. His post-war masochism likely originated with Deraa, and he remained incapable of sexual feelings afterwards. It's easy to overstate its effects, however. In Seven Pillars, Lawrence scarcely refers to the incident again. He's more distraught by a military failure, his continuing guilt over his liaison role and treachery by an Arab colleague. This is what convinced him to "beg Allenby to find me some smaller part elsewhere" (514), not trauma over Deraa.

Lean's restrained depiction of Lawrence's mistreatment is understandable. But Bolt's portrayal of Lawrence borders on ridiculous. Here, Lawrence and Ali stride into Deraa alone, Lawrence apparently thinking his mere presence will inspire a rising. Aqaba convinced him he can work "miracles," further inflamed by Allenby's flattery and subsequent successes. "Do you think I'm just anybody?" he asks Ali before embarking on his mission. This is utterly ridiculous hubris, and one of the film's weaker moments.

Bolt thought "Deraa is the key" to all of Lawrence's subsequent actions: his attempted resignation, the massacre at Tafas, his psychological collapse. In this he followed many biographers, who placed undue emphasis on Lawrence's psychosexual side. It seems altogether too convenient an explanation, if dramatically handy for a screenwriter.

6. Tafas Massacre 

Seven Pillars graphically describes the Tafas Massacre, a horrific incident during Allenby's Megiddo offensive. The Arabs brutally slaughter 2,000 Turkish soldiers, many after surrendering, in retaliation for sacking a local village. Some biographers shield Lawrence from responsibility, but Lawrence makes his own culpability explicit: "By my orders we took no prisoners" (653). Lean provides a reasonable dramatization of the event, but delivers a suspect characterization of Lawrence.

This scene brings Lawrence's neuroses to a head. Bolt offers a Freudian explanation for Tafas, Lawrence avenging his degradation at Deraa through massacre, now killing gleefully, surrounded by a bodyguard of hired killers. His descent into animal barbarism is contrasted with Ali's increasingly "civilized" behavior; the latter even echoes Lawrence's taunt from their first meeting: "Surely you know the Arabs are a barbarous people!" Lawrence ends the scene blood-soaked and mentally broken, having reached the apotheosis he'd tried to avoid.

As mentioned previously, Lean and Bolt largely draw on Anthony Nutting's biography of Lawrence. In Seven Pillars, Lawrence largely accepts the carnage as a fact of tribal warfare. The Turks after all precipitated it by murdering Arab civilians, initiating collective anger and brutal vengeance. Soon after the Bedouin captured Deraa and continued towards Damascus. The movie however treats Tafas as a hollow triumph, needless bloodshed born of one man's psychosis.

7. Damascus and the Arab Council

The worst scenes, historically-speaking, come at film's end. Lean and Bolt's version of post-war Damascus is recognizable only through a few colorful anecdotes gleaned from Seven Pillars. History is far more complex and interesting than what Lean and Bolt offer.

Lawrence describes raucous scenes in Seven Pillars, the town hall "packed with a swaying mob" (666) and arguing over Damascus's governance. The real threat, however, was neither Sherifian incompetence nor British indifference, but Abd el-Kadr: the same man who'd betrayed Lawrence at Deraa. Kadr and his brothers launched several attempted coups to undermine Feisal's authority, resulting in several skirmishes with Feisal's men. Kadr was eventually killed in November 1918 while imprisoned. The issue, therefore, was not (in Lawrence's account) tribalism but an ambitious man and his followers.

Far worse is the depiction of the Arabs as utterly incompetent. They appear as rubes baffled by machinery, allowing Damascus to catch fire (really set by Turkish troops) and Turkish wounded to die in hospital. In reality, the Arabs "quickly collected the nucleus of a staff and plunged ahead as a team" (671), creating a police force, fire brigades, mechanics and sanitation committees. The movie recounts Lawrence's encounter with an enraged British medical officer ("This is outrageous!"), focusing on its irony: after a movie of searching for his identity, Lawrence is mistaken for an Arab. What a time to highlight this!

Lawrence's narrative ends with him exiting Damascus, as does the movie. The situation left behind however is quite different. Feisal's government remained in power until 1921, when France ousted them at bayonet point. No conniver in Allied perfidy, Feisal fought the French tooth-and-nail before being placed as a contentious client on Iraq's throne. Allenby seemed genuinely to regret his role, doing his best to balance British, French and Arab interests as ordered. Neither man is fairly characterized here.

This anti-climax logically concludes the movie's anti-war themes and recurring hubris. Again, a major victory can't come without an offsetting failure, and bloodshed must amount to nothing. Perhaps we're to draw inferences about modern pan-Arabism; Nasser's United Arab Republic collapsed while the film was in production. Regardless, this scene is not only inaccurate but insulting, as this ostensibly anti-imperial film falls back on "White Man's burden" stereotypes. Here's one instance where the dramatic license proves genuinely regrettable.

Conclusion

Like all historical and literary adaptations, Lawrence of Arabia often sacrifices accuracy for artistic effect. In many cases it's justifiable or transcends the source. In several instances, however, it's highly questionable or even deleterious. Still, even the highly questionable scenes listed have some basis in Seven Pillars of Wisdom. As an adaptation, Lawrence is probably no better or worse than Hollywood's usual efforts.

Previous articles in this series:

• Lawrence of Arabia: The Film as Biography - analyzing Lawrence's portrayal of Lawrence
• "Common humanity's the one thing you can't have" - analyzing the "seduction scene"