Remembering Peter O'Toole

"He was the most extraordinary man I ever knew."

It's been five days since my favorite actor died. I'm still speechless, really. How can you measure a man who achieved so much, left such a lasting impression?

What follows is my stab at appreciating Peter O'Toole's life and work - detailed but not comprehensive, admiring but not uncritical. Ordinarily I'd try a more creative or succinct approach, but such thoughts desert me. At any rate, an actor with such a rich and varied career deserves it more than most.

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Peter O'Toole was born in 1932 to an Irish bookmaker and nurse mother. Surviving youthful poverty, Catholic school and Royal Navy service, he dabbled in journalism before drifting into theater. In 1953 he graduated from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, Albert Finney and Alan Bates among his classmates. It was "the most remarkable class the academy ever had, though... we were all considered dotty," O'Toole said. Another peer was Welsh actress Sian Phillips, whom O'Toole married in 1959.

In early roles, O'Toole mixed Shakespeare and Shaw with modern characters like Jimmy Porter in John Osborne's Look Back in Anger (1957) and Bammo in Willis Hall's The Long, the Short and the Tall (1959). Kenneth Tynan, arbiter of English theater, proclaimed O'Toole a budding star: "To convey violence beneath banter, and a soured, embarrassed goodness beneath both, is not the simplest task for a young player, yet Mr. O’Toole achieved it without sweating a drop.” Others compared to him to Laurence Olivier. Playing Hamlet at the Old Vic in 1958, aged just 26, reinforced the comparison.

O'Toole reached an early pinnacle in 1960 when Peter Hall invited him to the Royal Shakespeare Company. During that time, O'Toole played Pertruchio in The Taming of the Shrew opposite Peggy Ashcroft, Thersites in Troilus and Cressida and Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. O'Toole won rave notices for the last role, making Shylock not a monstrous caricature but “a human being of stature driven to breaking point by the inhumanity of others." Perhaps inevitably, O'Toole became drawn to the cinema.

O'Toole with Peggy Ashcroft in The Taming of the Shrew.

O'Toole's film career began, abortively, with a screen test for Suddenly Last Summer. O'Toole engaged in insouciant improvisation throughout, infuriating producer Sam Spiegel. He started with minor roles in unremarkable films like Kidnapped and The Savage Innocents. In 1960 he appeared in John Guillermin's The Day They Robbed the Bank of England, playing an affable English soldier opposite Aldo Ray's Irish bank robber. O'Toole's easy, off-hand charm caught David Lean's attention.

Then preparing Lawrence of Arabia, Lean needed an actor to play T.E. Lawrence after Marlon Brando and Albert Finney declined the role. Lean saw Robbed and, after speaking with Katharine Hepburn, approached O'Toole. After a hastily-arranged screen test, Lean reportedly exclaimed "The boy is Lawrence!" Sam Spiegel, remembering his past encounter with O'Toole, told Lean "he's no good." But lacking alternatives, Spiegel bought O'Toole out of his RSC contract and a film star was born.

O'Toole spent two nightmarish years filming Lawrence. O'Toole had to film in the deserts of Jordan, Spain and Morocco, learn to ride a camel and tolerate Lean's demanding direction.  He struggled to control his drinking: Alec Guinness recounted that O'Toole became drunk in Seville and threw a drink in the face of a local dignitary. Filming a battle scene, he fell off his camel and was nearly trampled to death. "By the time Lawrence wrapped," Robert Sellers writes, O'Toole "received third degree burns, sprained both ankles, torn ligaments... dislocated his spine, broken his thumb, sprained his neck and been concussed twice."

O'Toole was also daunted working opposite so many seasoned actors. Years later, he likened the experience to "a bull fight...every few minutes they opened the trap and out popped another bull: [Jack] Hawkins...[Claude] Rains...[Alec] Guinness...[Jose] Ferrer...[Anthony] Quinn...[Arthur] Kennedy...[Anthony] Quayle." He nonetheless bonded with Omar Sharif, whom he nicknamed "Fred" on the grounds that "no one in the world is called Omar Sharif." The two spent off-hours partying in Beirut, forging a lifelong friendship.

By any measure, O'Toole's is a remarkable performance - especially for a young, relatively untried actor. As conceived by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, Lawrence is a multifaceted character mixing contradictory images and impulses: boyish insouciance and cynicism, megalomania and tortured introspection, wild flamboyance and insular brooding. One slight misstep could render him schizophrenic or incomprehensible. O'Toole shows an uncanny mastery of the part, hitting all the right notes.

For Lawrence's first scene in Arab costume, Lean advised O'Toole to improvise his reaction. O'Toole drew his dagger, pondering his reflection in its blade. This small moment reveals so much about Lawrence's character: his vanity, conscious role-playing, childish disbelief that he's become a real-life G.A. Henty hero. Lean echoed this moment in the final massacre scene, as Lawrence ponders the now-blood-soaked blade, horrified at what he's become. It's a small but telling moment that registers almost subliminally. 

O'Toole's genius registers in a hundred similar moments. His boyish glee as the Arabs depart for Aqaba. The quavering tone of voice as he describes how he "enjoyed" executing Gassim. His mincing, effeminate walk when approaching British officers in Jerusalem. His orgasmic trembling as Lawrence ponders unleashing the final massacre. His vacant glare through the final scenes, watching his allies dissolve into chaos. True, Bolt wrote great dialogue, Lean and his technicians crafted visual cues of Lawrence's dissolution. But all that would make no difference if O'Toole was less than perfect.

O'Toole won critical acclaim, his first Oscar nomination (losing to Gregory Peck for To Kill a Mockingbird) and became an overnight superstar. He also gained his reputation as an intellectual hellraiser, witty, sexy, smart as a whip but rowdy and uncontrollable. He turned up drunk for television interviews, and was arrested in New York with Sharif and comedian Lenny Bruce. This proved a curtain raiser for a career of hell-raising, O'Toole matching drinks with Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Oliver Reed and others.

Becket (1963) showed Lawrence wasn't a fluke. O'Toole had originally been asked to star in Jean Anouilh's play onstage, but backed out due to Lawrence. Peter Glenville gave the newly minted a star chance to play Henry II onscreen. O'Toole admitted he was much more comfortable here, acting alongside his friend Richard Burton, wife Sian Phillips and mentors Donald Wolfit and Felix Aylmer. Easy work compared to Lawrence's endurance test, and more fun too.

Becket is not only a "stagier" movie (as a play adaptation, how could it not be?) but a stagier performance by O'Toole. He indulges in rampant scenery-chewing, with little of Lawrence's tortured introspection. This isn't a criticism, as Henry is an outsized character requiring a theatrical performance. O'Toole's fun to watch as a childish king giddy in his absolute power, but Burton gets the more complex part - and gives the more satisfying performance.

If Lawrence and Becket established O'Toole as a formidable actor, What's New Pussycat (1965) and How to Steal a Million (1966) gave him a more audience-friendly pop image. He's no longer a distant historical personage but a hip, swinging sex symbol. I'm especially fond of Million, a cheerful, witty caper pairing O'Toole with the adorable Audrey Hepburn. Neither marks O'Toole's best work, but as breezy star vehicles they hold up well.

O'Toole returned regularly to the stage. In 1963 he played Hamlet again, directed by Laurence Olivier at the National Theatre. O'Toole found the part overwhelming: "If you want to know what it's like to be lonely... try playing Hamlet." Reviews were split between critics who found him brilliant ("A magnificent prince." - R.B. Marriott) and execrable ("The Prince's blondness and his curiously comic trousers are disconcerting." - The Times). A production of Bertolt Brecht's Baal proved an unmitigated disaster. O'Toole had a happier experience in Irish theater, performing successfully in Man and Superman, Juno and the Paycock and Waiting for Godot.

Not every O'Toole role from this period is a gem. Lord Jim (1965) is an unfocused mess, with O'Toole's intense but rudderless performance playing a major role in its dissolution. (It doesn't help that, as Pauline Kael observed, "he already played Lord Jim when he did Lawrence of Arabia.") He fares better in the bloated The Night of the Generals (1967), investing a murderous SS General with palpable menace. His cameos in The Bible (1966) and Casino Royale (1967) accrue him little credit. And The Great Catherine (1968) is known, if at all, for turning up in My Favorite Year.

O'Toole capped a busy decade with two further Oscar nominations. Goodbye Mr. Chips (1969) is his least deserving nomination: O'Toole does well in an uncharacteristically reserved performance, but the movie itself is overlong and dull. That leaves Anthony Harvey's The Lion in Winter (1968).

O'Toole often cited Lion as his favorite film. It gave him a chance to work opposite Katharine Hepburn, a friend since his theater days. The chance to reprise Henry II, older and wearier if not necessarily wiser, was an added incentive. Even if he hadn't played Henry previously, it's a role that unquestionably plays to his strengths. He's larger-than-life yet thoughtful, a great man forced to confront his unglamorous legacy.

I don't share the general enthusiasm for Lion, despite several viewings and reading the play. James Goldman's overripe dialogue eventually overwhelms the story. For every clever witticism, there's a gilded clunker of a line ("You're a stinker and you stink!") or annoying anachronism ("It's 1183 and we're barbarians!") After a well-crafted first hour, the show descends into convoluted chaos, events piling up rather than building on each other, characters losing drive or motivation.

O'Toole is unquestionably the best thing about Lion. He retains a pretense of virility with swordplay and womanizing, but it's evident that Henry's running on will and reputation. O'Toole excels showing the King's haughty exterior; he's grown smart (or cynical) enough to outwit most everybody, intimidating through reputation alone. But Henry deflates over the story, increasingly feeble in his denunciations, tormented by Eleanor's proclamations of infidelity and constant filial backstabbing. His ultimate failure is that, for all he's achieved, England will either fall to an unfit ruler or dissolve into chaos at his death. No wonder he and Eleanor want to live forever.

And so we leave Peter O'Toole at the pinnacle of his career: four Oscar nominations in eight years, an impressive filmography and respectable body of stage work. Parts Two and Three are already mostly written, for those with the patience to endure a series of posts.

Continue to Parts Two and Three

Roland Emmerich Presents: Anonymous Patriot Lawrence of Arabia's Independence Day After Tomorrow's Godzilla Stargate

I was rather reticent towards Werner Herzog's upcoming biopic of Gertrude Bell, in which Robert Pattinson has been cast at T.E. Lawrence. Eventually though I got over it because a) it's Werner Herzog, give him a pass, b) Lawrence will be a supporting character, not the star, and c) hey, maybe Pattinson can be decent playing a non-Edward Cullen role. Also, life's too short.

Today, I read that Roland Emmerich - the brilliant auteur behind Independence Day, The Patriot and Anonymous - is planning to produce a miniseries about Lawrence. Michael Korda, author of Hero: The Life and Legend of Lawrence of Arabia, is tapped as an historical consultant for what good that does.

Given the level of historiography present in The Patriot (aka all Brits are child-murdering Nazis) and Anonymous (Shakespeare's plays were written by an incestuous nobleman, Elizabeth I had a son with her other son), it's not imprudent to suggest this Lawrence project will follow the same route. Expect the "real story" behind Lawrence, namely that he was murdered by an MI6-Nazi conspiracy because he impregnated the Duchess of York, hence making him father of England's present Queen! And Seven Pillars of Wisdom was really written by Hannen Swaffer. While they're at it, maybe Emmerich can use Desmond Stewart's trashy biography as a source!

In other words, I expect it to be about as accurate as Lawrence's appearance on Deadliest Warrior:

Time permitting I'll finally get around to my annual blockbuster review. Don't go browsing other blogs now.

Lawrence of Arabia: The Balcony Scene, Redux

2012 has been the year of Lawrence of Arabia. This blog's favorite movie celebrated its 50th anniversary with a theatrical release, a beautifully-remastered Blu Ray, an homage in Prometheus, and assorted other goodies. All year I've been geeking out like a Tolkien fan waiting for The Hobbit, be it blogging interminably, re-reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom or, honest to God, making a Lawrence t-shirt. Thank my friends and family effusively for not throwing me out a plate glass window.

Anyway... Last Friday I received Lawrence's 50th Anniversary Collector's Edition Blu-Ray. This gargantuan set comes with a three-disc Blu-Ray, along with an 88 page making of book (lots of nice pictures), a remastered copy of the original soundtrack (cool, but I prefer the City of Prague Philharmonic's re-recording) and a 70mm film frame. Mine is a shot of Lawrence just before the Tafas Massacre - as good a frame as any.

Among the goodies, of course, is the newly-restored balcony scene. I've dissected this piece at length here, judging solely by its transcript. Having now actually seen it, I'll offer further commentary.

The scene runs about five minutes in length. It starts with Allenby informing Lawrence "there's blood on your back" and continues until "the best of them won't come for money." Thus we see not only extended footage, but alternate editing and presentation of the sequence.

The editing differences proved jarring. This version dissolves from Allenby's "tell me what happened" to Lawrence and Allenby chatting on the balcony. After the added footage it cuts to Bentley and Dryden's brief argument, then back into Allenby saying "Not many people have a destiny" - thus, even later than in the existing film. Besides which, the early dissolve jars with the hard cut later. It's a sloppy, irritating juxtaposition.

Then there's the dubbing. Charles Gray sounds absolutely nothing like Jack Hawkins. I know Gray dubbed Hawkins in films after the latter lost his voice to cancer, but doing that for a whole film is different. Having bits of Hawkins dialogue book-ending the new footage makes an already drastic difference insurmountable. On this basis alone it's easy to see why Robert Harris and Co. didn't reinstate this sequence in '89, and why it was good to leave it as an extra.

Don't believe me? Here's a short 40 second clip via Youtube:

Adrian Turner suggests this scene was originally cut because David Lean couldn't fit it into the narrative. This is borne out, I think, by the editing style. It just will not do to have the dissolve and then, much later, a hard cut. This makes the time elapse unclear and throws off the pacing. Did Lawrence tell Allenby the whole story of his Deraa defilement? How long was Dryden hanging around Allenby's office before exiting? This is unusually sloppy work from Lean, himself an ex-editor, but attests to the scene's problems.

Why view the scene? It's one of the few times Allenby lets down his guard and shows himself a human being. Jack Hawkins lost this and at least two other scenes in earlier cuts of Lawrence, which must have rankled. It provides Lawrence more pointed motivation for his final change of heart. It shows more clearly the paternal relationship between the two men - Lawrence eager for a father figure, Allenby exploiting that weakness. And as expected from Robert Bolt, it contains elegant dialogue.

But this points up its problems, too. It's primarily a character scene, interesting but not strictly functional. While not overly long, at its specific place in the film - Lawrence's last attempt to opt out of his "destiny" - it slows things down considerably. In other words, it's that most unfortunate thing: a beautiful superfluity.

So my curiosity is satisfied yet disappointed. I'm glad I've seen this scene, yet it wasn't all I'd hoped it would be. Oh well, unreasonable expectations and all that.

Exit 2012! I'll have my best and worst movies post up a few days late, but rest assured it's coming. Here's to another year of fabulous blogging. Happy 2013 everyone!

Savant/Lawrence

"I'm not an accountant, thank God. Have we $65 for the Blu-Ray, Dryden?"

Glenn Erickson (aka DVD Savant) reviews the upcoming Blu-Ray release(s) of Lawrence of Arabia here. Only six days away in the US!

For a complete run-down of special features, check out the Amazon page. Too bad it's sixty-five frigging dollars! At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I hope to somehow see the seduction scene, be it through Youtube, Netflix or other means.

The past few days have been busy: work, America re-electing a president, I somehow contracted shingles. Not much time for movies. Speaking of Jack Hawkins, I'll try and review of The Cruel Sea soon.

The Miracle is Accomplished: Seeing Lawrence of Arabia in Theaters

What do you mean "no outside snacks"?

I first saw Lawrence of Arabia on a small television, on AMC in pan-scan and with commercials. It didn't make much impression on me. Sometime in 2005 I revisited it on DVD and fell in love. For me, it encapsulates everything cinema can accomplish: great acting, cerebral writing, a fascinating hero, exciting action scenes, breathtaking music and of course, incomparable photography. I must have seen it at least a dozen times since: on video, television, even split up over three nights mini-series style. Yet until Thursday I hadn't viewed Lawrence in its true format: the big screen.

I've spent a lot of time analyzing the film lately, so let's not waste time doing that. This post will be mostly personal, with some discussion of its technical presentation. After all, you don't see your favorite movie in theaters every day.

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I was ecstatic, to say the least, to hear Lawrence would get a one-day theatrical release. As early as August I started making plans. Any theaters within ten hours' drive showing it? Yes, the AMC Loews at the Homestead Waterfront! Now can I get off work in time to see it? Should I bring friends? Would a meteor strike Pittsburgh that day?

I convinced three friends to join me, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I purchased our tickets a month ahead of time. I managed to convince my employer to let me leave work two hours early. I even printed an event t-shirt from Cafe Press. Needless to say, it was a big deal.

October 4th was an immaculate day: sunny, low 70s, fall foliage dotting the landscape. I arrived with my friend Greta at the Waterfront around 6:00. There we met Pittsburgh denizens Joe and Dan for a quick supper. Inevitably, we argued about politics for awhile while scarfing down Bar Louie boneless wings. Unfortunately, supper caused us to be a mite late and we settled for left row seats. The theater was surprisingly full, the audience divided about even between older viewers and 20-30 year olds.

Fandango treated us to several "special features." First an interminable featurette by Martin Scorsese, which managed to blow every big shot, memorable line and plot point in about ten minutes. Even having seen Lawrence many times I resented it. Then some vintage newsreels and a short Omar Sharif introduction. Then the Overture came crashing down and the film began.

First, the restorers did a fine job. Projected in 4K digital, Lawrence really shined. Almost every shot was clear, colors and details jumping off the screen. I appreciated many details I'd missed before. The first helicopter shot of the Arab army on the move, barely making out the camels' tiny legs. Lawrence appearing as a black pinprick when returning with Gassim. The richly ornamented walls, with Roman statuary and Grecian wall murals, in Allenby's Jerusalem HQ. A mounted Arab riding into the town hall amidst the chaos. Anthony Quinn's unfortunate nose. These observations incomparably enriched my experience.

Details are one thing: the overall experience another. I've always enjoyed the desert photography aesthetically, for its beautiful composition. Seeing it in theaters though was a revelation. Lean's mis-en-scene of impassible sand flats, vast craggy canyons looming overhead, and ever present sun prove powerfully immersive. My jaw dropped on the Wadi Rumm reveal: the blaring music, the mammoth red cliffs and the endless expanse of tents. Needless to say the battles were amazing, especially the charge through Aqaba.

A few gripes, some probably the theater's fault. In a few scenes, the frame seemed either cropped or compressed. The soundtrack sounded dim in spots (though not during action scenes, thankfully). In a few scenes (but not many), there was some fuzziness in background details. The day-for-night scenes also seemed over-corrected. Some of the awkward edits and splicing from the '89 restoration remain, especially Bentley's introduction. These were very minor blips though in an otherwise impressive showing.

Watching Lawrence with an audience was something else. I've always watched this movie alone, or with my dad on one occasion. Lawrence invokes feelings of near-religious contemplation, interrupted by bathroom breaks. My general reaction is one of awe and amazement, being bowled over by beautiful photography and brilliant acting.

An audience, on the other hand, wants to be entertained. Initially I was concerned as my fellow viewers laughed and as my friends talked next to me. As the movie went on though, I realized everyone else was engaging with it as they would The Avengers or The Dark Knight. Groggy got the hint: lighten up and enjoy the show.

Certainly the audience enjoyed it. They laughed at all the right moments: Lawrence's sparring with General Murray, Auda's reaction to Lawrence flouncing in his robes, even some of Farraj and Daud's antics. Some scenes did inspire the expected awe, especially Ali's entrance at the well. From their reactions (and chatter during intermission), one could tell they liked Lawrence, were immersed in the desert and enjoying the adventure.

As the second half got darker the audience shifted accordingly. The Deraa scene stood out in this regard. Its plot importance (and Jose Ferrer's marvelous acting) aside, it's not the scene that comes to mind when I remember Lawrence. Yet for the whole five minutes you could hear a pin drop. I can't remember experiencing such palpable tension from any scene in a theater. There were audible expressions of shock and disgust during the massacre, especially Lawrence gazing at his blood-soaked dagger. One really registered the ending mixture of tragedy and emptiness, too.

My friends certainly enjoyed the film. They were intrigued enough to pepper me with questions about the movie's accuracy and clarify Lawrence's motivations (so much as anyone could). Most of their favorite scenes came from the first half: Ali at the well, Gassim's rescue, the charge on Aqaba. Dan seemed intrigued by the military/political aspects, while Joe appreciated the desert scenery and symbolism of Lawrence's costume. Greta noted the movie's lack of romance and its thematic depth. They did however criticize its portrayal of the Bedouin.

All named Lawrence as a major factor in their enjoyment. Remarking on the last scene, Dan noted the tragedy of Lawrence's inability to join Arab culture or fulfill his dreams. Greta found Lawrence's complex and enigmatic personality the movie's most memorable aspect. I'd imagine Lawrence's fascinating protagonist accounts for its enduring popularity as much as its spectacle.

In sum, I'm happy to have finally seen Lawrence of Arabia in theaters: scratch one item off the list. Additionally I'm glad to see it has the power to move a contemporary audience, enough for them to applaud over the end credits. I overheard two college-aged girls, of all people, saying "they don't make movies like this today!" I couldn't agree more.

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That concludes this round of Lawrence-related articles. I thank my readers for indulging me the past few weeks; if you've learned something through these posts, all the better. Stay tuned for insights and reviews of other films soon.

PS: If any readers saw Lawrence on Thursday, please share your experience in the comments section!

Previous posts in this series:

• Another Lawrence: Terence Rattigan's Ross (1960) 
• Lawrence of Arabia: Seven Scenes from Seven Pillars of Wisdom
• Lawrence of Arabia: The Film as Biography 
• "Common humanity's the one thing you can't have."

Another Lawrence: Terence Rattigan's Ross (1960)

Alec Guinness as T.E. Lawrence, in Ross's original run. (Source)

Groggy hopes his readers will indulge him one final excursion into Lawrence-iana. Last weekend I discovered that the Internet Archive has Terence Rattigan's play Ross: A Dramatic Portrait (1960) available for free, legal download. I'll offer a brief history of the play and review its contents, comparing its dramatic choices and depiction of T.E. Lawrence with David Lean's film.

A Tortured Genesis

Terence Rattigan (Source)

Ross began as a film project for the Rank Organization. In 1955, producer Anatole de Grunwald commissioned Rattigan to pen a screenplay based on Basil Liddell Hart's T.E. Lawrence in Arabia and After (1934). The movie was to be shot in Iraq, ruled by the descendants of Lawrence's ally Emir Feisal, with Anthony Asquith directing and Dirk Bogarde as Lawrence. However, in July 1958 Iraqi army officers overthrew Iraq's King Feisal II and the project was scrapped.

Rattigan's interest in Lawrence stemmed from a personal connection: in 1913 his father befriended Sir Ronald Storrs, later Lawrence's chief at the Arab Bureau. Rattigan read The Mint (1955), Lawrence's Royal Air Force memoir, and wondered why such a successful man would become a "gentleman ranker." Like Lean and Robert Bolt, he thought Deraa held the answer: "It was shattering to suspect what was in the back of his tremendous will power," namely repressed homosexuality. Michael Darlow says Rattigan, himself gay, "put more of himself into Ross than he had dared in any previous play."

Thus inspired, Rattigan reworked his script for the stage. Ross debuted at the Royal Haymarket Theater in London in May 1960, with Alec Guinness as Lawrence. It received positive reviews despite Sam Spiegel's efforts to suppress it. The resulting legal controversy, along with complaints by A.W. Lawrence about its portrayal of TEL only fanned public interest. The show went on to a Broadway run the following year with John Mills replacing Guinness.

In 1961 Ross again seemed destined for the screen. Herbert Wilcox, founder of the British National Company, purchased the rights and asked Rattigan to write the screenplay. With Lawrence of Arabia already in production, Sam Spiegel threatened to sue Wilcox; nonetheless, Wilcox announced Ross would proceed starring Laurence Harvey. Various legal battles made it fall through, and Ross joined past Lawrence projects (Alexander Korda's '30s version, a proposed Powell & Pressburger epic) on the cinematic scrapheap. In 1970 Ian McKellen featured in a TV adaptation, a far cry from the proposed epic.

Shaping the Drama

Lawrence (John Mills) meeting General Allenby (John Williams). From the 1961 Broadway production

The obvious difficulty in comparing Ross with Lawrence of Arabia is that one is a play, the other a film. Even discussing Lawrence's screenplay isn't fair, as budget allows for more characters and infinitely greater scope. Even so, we can compare the works' dramatic choices and characterization.

Rattigan bookends the play with Lawrence hiding in the RAF as "Aircraftman Ross." His insouciance irritates his superiors, who think he's mouthing off when he mentions dining with George Bernard Shaw and Lady Astor. He's nonetheless liked by his peers, whose chumminess allows Lawrence to "remember... what it was to feel like living" (42). Lieutenant Dickinson provides the dramatic catalyst, recognizing "Ross" and threatening to expose him to the newspapers.

Though overstuffed with characters, these scenes codify Ross's drama. Unlike Lean, Rattigan is less interested in Lawrence the myth than Lawrence the man. As we'll see, Ross provides a very definite picture of its protagonist. By showing Lawrence after the war, hiding yet hinting at his identity, awkwardly palling around with fellow rankers, Rattigan quickly establishes Lawrence's personality.

Rattigan provies exposition through a dream sequence. Journalist Franks gives a Lowell Thomas lecture recounting Lawrence's life in heroic fashion. Like the opening of Lean's film, various personages who've known Lawrence (Allenby, Auda abu Tayi, Ronald Storrs, Barrington) give conflicting responses about his importance and truthfulness. Rattigan's scene is more imaginative but serves the same function as Lawrence's funeral: Lawrence the legend, defined by those who knew him. This scene also provides exposition on the Arab Revolt.

Like Lawrence of Arabia, Ross depicts Lawrence's execution of an Arab murderer to avoid a blood feud. Lean and Bolt telescope two characters from Seven Pillars for potent dramatic effect, just before Aqaba. Rattigan more accurately shows the execution earlier and makes it a key character moment. Lawrence's outsider status legitimizes the execution but also serves as his entry into the Arab world. He must prove himself through violence.

Similarly, Lawrence sports Arab robes from his first scene in Arabia. In the film Lawrence only dons his costume after saving Gassim and being accepted as "El Aurens." Here, being an Arab is an integral part of his role. That said, Ronald Storrs disapproves, believing (not incorrectly) that Lawrence is enjoying himself too much. Both play and film feature Lawrence primping in his robes, relishing some "amateur theatricals."

Lawrence's initial meeting with Allenby provides another point of divergence. Lean provides a tense scene where Allenby manipulates Lawrence's vanity and desire for a confidant. In Ross, Allenby is both impressed and befuddled by Lawrence. Their chat is more amiable, even humorous: between strategy the two discuss poetry and gardening. There's no question of Lean's warped paternalism: Allenby and Lawrence here are respectful colleagues. No callow villain this Allenby, either: he's an honorable man who regrets ordering Lawrence back into the field.

Rattigan's most extreme re-interpretation concerns Deraa. He accurately depicts Lawrence's capture during a reconnaissance. But Ross shows the Turkish Bey recognizing Lawrence and ordering his defilement. He recognizes Lawrence's latent sexuality and determines to break his will. Thus Lawrence's rape is calculated villainy rather than an incidental atrocity. This invention is, to be kind, hard to swallow.

Rattigan's Lawrence

Lawrence (John Mills) plots Aqaba's capture with Auda abu Tayi (Paul Sparer).

Ross proves most effective examining Lawrence. While Lawrence of Arabia shows a mythic Lawrence, his true nature unknown even by himself, Ross provides a very down-to-earth hero. Eccentric, ambitious and tormented yes - but an identifiable person.

Rattigan views Lawrence as worshiping "a false God... the will" (32), pushing himself to great feats through determination. Lawrence achieves great things but doesn't view himself disproportionately. He strenuously argues against being sent back to the Arabs, fearing his unfitness but also disgusted by the Sykes-Picot Treaty (which Lawrence knows from the start). This is far more benign than the movie's megalomaniac who thinks he can work miracles.

Lawrence's puckish sense of humor and insouciance come off strongly. While Lean's Lawrence is an abrasive outsider in Cairo, Rattigan's Lawrence is well-liked by his RAF peers. This humor's present in flashbacks too, as when he bluffs a Turkish officer bribing Auda to turn Lawrence in. Ross shows an extremely likeable Lawrence, for all his faults.

Rattigan treats Lawrence's sexuality delicately. The play hints at homosexuality through his affectionate relationship with his servants Hamed and Rashed (Farraj and Daud surrogates), his love of Arab dress and his asceticism. Nonetheless, it seems latent until Deraa, when Lawrence is made violently aware of repressed feelings. Surely censorship played a role, but I imagine Rattigan's predilections prevented him from flouncy stereotyping.

Like Lean and Bolt, Rattigan shows Lawrence in decline after Deraa but approaches it differently. Rattigan shows Lawrence not "enjoying" the bloodshed unleashed at Tafas or his execution of Hamed, but simply too burned out to care. He's lost "the citadel of his integrity," he's had to execute Hamed and his superiors have betrayed the Arabs. By war's end he's thoroughly beaten, admitting himself "lost to all human feeling" (163) and eager to vanish from public life.

Some difference between Ross and Lawrence of Arabia was probably inevitable. After all, Lean's Lawrence features in a large-than-life epic. He needs to make a mark amidst gorgeous desert scenery, sweeping battle scenes and armies of extras. Hence Robert Bolt's accentuation of Lawrence's ego, sadomasochism and neuroses, his flamboyant posturing amidst tortured introspection. Striding a mere stage, Rattigan's Lawrence is more down-to-earth and approachable, yet no less compelling.

Conclusion

Lawrence with servants Rashid (Joseph Della Sorte) and Hamed (Cal Bellini).

We can only speculate how Ross would have functioned as a film. Certainly a movie would fill in the missing battle scenes, travels and spectacle the play only hints at. Leaving violent scenes like Hamed and Rashid's deaths off-stage weakens the drama considerably.

Rattigan nonethless succeeds on several levels. His Lawrence is both psychologically and biographically plausible, lacking Lean and Bolt's sensationalism. He does a better job presenting Lawrence and the Arab Revolt in its historical context. Finally, by focusing on Lawrence's post-war life he adds a fresh dimension to the drama.

Ross has two serious faults. First, its flat supporting cast. Of Lawrence's RAF colleagues only Dickinson stands out, a predictably treacherous villain. Allenby and Auda are well-drawn, but Storrs and Franks are flat and Barrington a boorish martinet. Rashed and Hamed are mostly defined by their own relationship. There's no foil like Ali, Lawrence's Arab double, or Colonel Brighton, who grows to admire Lawrence. Rattigan's Lawrence is a fascinating man surrounded by ciphers. Lean's Lawrence has far more interesting co-stars.

The Deraa scene is even more objectionable. Like Bolt, Rattigan finds it a handy explanation for Lawrence's mental decline. It's bad enough the Bey divines Lawrence's sexuality through an intelligence report. But to knowingly capture Lawrence, "destroy" him and let him go? This is a contrived plot device from a bad comic strip. I didn't buy Bane doing it to Batman in The Dark Knight Rises and it's even less acceptable in an historical drama.

Ross is a good play by a good playwright. While Rattigan hones nearer to the real Lawrence, his drama is more contrived and less powerful than the Lean/Bolt interpretation. In fairness though, Rattigan lacks 70mm photography and a cast of thousands to support his characterization.

Note on Sources

Background info on Ross comes from Kevin Brownlow's David Lean: A Biography (1996) and Piers Paul Read's Alec Guinness: The Authorized Biography (2003). Biographical info on Terence Rattigan comes from Terence Rattigan: The Man and His Work by Michael Darlow & Gillian Hodson (1979). Aside from the two sourced photos, all pictures taken from the Internet Archive upload of Ross linked above.

Previous articles in this series:

• Seven Scenes from Seven Pillars of Wisdom
• Lawrence of Arabia: The Film as Biography
• "Common humanity's the one thing you can't have"

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.

* * *
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"