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.

Ned Kelly (1970)

Tony Richardson made many odd flicks in his spotty career, none stranger than this misbegotten Aussie Western. A vehicle for Rolling Stone Mick Jagger, Ned Kelly (1970) buries the quasi-mythical bushranger beneath artsy pretension and incoherence. The 2003 Heath Ledger vehicle is The Wild Bunch by comparison.

Australian rancher Ned Kelly (Mick Jagger) gets arrested for a crime he doesn't commit. After a complicated series of events, Ned, his brother Dan (Allen Bickford) and their followers gun down two police officers, leading to a nationwide manhunt. Ned becomes a national folk hero, giving the finger to the authorities and building his reputation as an Aussie Robin Hood.

Ned Kelly mixes the worst traits of '70s Westerns (episodic plotlessness, griminess for griminess's sake) with those of art movies (general incoherence, anti-establishment posturing). Richardson goes for docudrama grittiness but the stiff staging and lazy photography undermines the effect. Aside from the sepia-toned opening and awkward armor-plated showdown, Kelly's only style is dreariness. It's a collection of incongruous episodes sloppily assembled: the assorted shootouts and booze-ups lack any context or internal drive. Waylon Jennings collaborates with Shel Silverstein (!!!) on the country soundtrack; next I hope to uncover a Jesse James flick scored by Johnny Cash and Richard Scarry.

Mick Jagger made a few stabs at acting but never really caught on, Nicolas Roeg's Performance (1968) notwithstanding. Jagger tries to sublimate his rock rebel persona, but only succeeds in being thoroughly dull, with a laughable Irish accent to boot. To be fair to Mick, he's not helped by Ian Jones' terrible screenplay, which never develops Ned beyond a Robin Hood cipher. The other cast members are served even worse.

What else to say? Ned Kelly bites hard. That makes four dreadful flicks in a row. Here's hoping I find something worthwhile to watch soon; even Groggy can't run on vitriol alone.

A Delicate Balance

There are some things Groggy doesn't get, and Edward Albee is among them. Granted, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) is watchable due to Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor's chemistry and especially Mike Nichols' expressive direction. But Tony Richardson's A Delicate Balance (1973) manages to be unpleasant drama and cinematically dull.

Aged New England couple Agnes (Katharine Hepburn) and Tobias (Paul Scofield) live in torment beneath their seemingly ideal marriage. Agnes' layabout sister Claire (Kate Reid) sits around drinking and flinging insults. Their oft-divorced daughter Julia (Lee Remick) stops by for a visit, as do friends Edna (Betsy Blair) and Harry (Joseph Cotten). In fact every horrible human on Earth flocks to their hovel, causing no end of collective misery. Understandably, Agnes and Tobias reach the point where they can't stand it any longer.

A Delicate Balance is a production of the American Theater Company, who produced several low budget but high prestige stage adaptations through the '60s and '70s (see Galileo). Fortunately this means big stars, name directors and acclaimed material, but also economical presentation. Richardson directed stage plays himself, and did a creditable job bringing Look Back in Anger to the screen, but here seems content to point the camera and roll film. This static approach is deadly in any movie, especially a talky play adaptation.

That leaves the play. Albee's work has one hurdle I can't overcome: the characters start out horrible and remain that way throughout the play. Agnes and Tobias are at daggers-drawn from line one, Claire belches drunken rants from the sidelines and other misanthropes eventually join them, in an unrelieved atmosphere of psychic rot. All these interactions highlight what a sorry bunch of losers we're stuck with for 132 minutes. What drama comes from that? There's no plot or character development driving things, no catharsis achieved, only misanthropy posited as insight.

I realize such simplistic criticism makes me sound like a pleb. Groggy has considerable tolerance for theatrical misanthropy, be it August Strindberg, John Osborne or even Neil LaBute, and can find value even in something like Germany Year Zero. But Balance has little to offer beyond acerbity. We're clued into the protagonists' fractious back stories (Julia's disastrous marriages, Claire's struggle with alcoholism) but they register largely as informed traits, hammered home by dialogue rather than events onscreen. The play only shows its protagonists as hideous gargoyles decaying in their misery, no hint of even exterior charm or contentment. The idea they could ever have  felt enough emotion to regret their current lassitude rings false.

Katharine Hepburn's shrill, harping qualities are only enhanced by Albee's dialogue. Kate Reid gives a performance so hammy the Quran forbids watching her. Paul Scofield retreats into brooding reserve, coming off much better in comparison. Lee Remick (Anatomy of a Murder) also acquits herself well. Joseph Cotten and Betsy Blair (Marty) are mere patsies to the protagonists' self-destruction.

Ordinarily I enjoy tearing bad movies apart, but I get no relish knocking down A Delicate Balance. This review will probably ruffle some feathers; the play it's based on won a Pulitzer, for God's sake. So be it; you can't "get" everything. Spending two hours with horrible people isn't Groggy's idea of fun.

Look Back in Anger

An early entry in the British "kitchen sink" genre, Look Back in Anger (1959) is a challenge. Tony Richardson's adaptation of John Osborne's play is very unpleasant - deliberately so yes, but no better for it. Richard Burton's remarkable performance makes it easier to swallow.

Jimmy Porter (Richard Burton) epitomizes the "angry young man." Well-educated but working class, Porter sells candy at a market, moonlighting as a jazz musician. He's abusive to everyone, especially his roommate Cliff (Gary Raymond) and passive wife Alison (Mary Ure). Alison becomes pregnant, which in combination with the death of his mother (Edith Evans) pushes him over the edge. Alison's actress friend Helena (Claire Bloom) comes to live with them, and she falls for Jimmy just as Alison prepares to move out.

Look Back in Anger is fairly typical of this genre, mixing gritty direction with a downbeat view of '50s Britain. Jimmy can't get satisfaction out of life; despite his education he's stuck in a menial job and takes out his frustration on everyone. In a way he's shown as no better or worse than anyone else: others make an easy target of Indian Kapoor (S.P. Kapoor) for "stealing" their business. Richardson and Osborne ascribe no specific blame for Jimmy's plight, though a slimy inspector (Donald Pleasance) makes his job hell. He's merely the product of a society rotting inside out.

All this works up to a point, but Anger occasionally grows tiresome. Jimmy is such a fierce protagonist that his co-stars seem false or contrived. With no one willing to fight back, Jimmy's harangues start to lose their dramatic impact. For all the misanthropy, the plot is awfully conventional: we know Jimmy and Helena will hit it off the moment they trade blows, and the ending just cheats. Richardson's later Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner is much better realized, especially the brilliantly pointed finale.

Richard Burton had a checkered career, from the highs of Becket to excretia like Exorcist II. Often stiff and overblown, Burton is absolutely perfect here, full of passion and naturalism often lacking. He makes Jimmy completely warped and bitter, giving him a human core and roguish charm that don't ease his animal nastiness. It's easily Burton's best screen work.

Claire Bloom's headstrong Helena makes a perfect mismatch for Jimmy's misanthropy. On the other hand, Mary Ure (Where Eagles Dare) is such a doormat she quickly forfeits our sympathy. Gary Raymond's (El Cid) Cliff similarly comes off as a sucker for putting up with Jimmy. Donald Pleasance (Halloween) has an early supporting turn and Nigel Davenport (A Man for All Seasons) gets a walk-on.

Look Back in Anger isn't for all tastes, and even my patience was tried at times. Still, Burton keeps it mostly on an even keel.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner

Tony Richardson's The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner (1962) is a strikingly subversive film. It made an instant star of Tom Courtenay, and gives perhaps the purest example of the "Angry Young Man" film of the late '50s/early '60s.

Colin Smith (Tom Courtenay) is a twentysomething Britton who winds up at Ruxton Towers, a rigid reform school. Flashbacks reveal Colin's squalid home life: a fractious relationship with his a materialistic mother (Avis Bunnage), an aimless and a petty crime land him in prison. Colin initially butts heads with the school's powers-that-be, but his sporting skills catch the attention of the Governor (Michael Redgrave), who wants him to run in a long-distance with a public school - promising Colin advancement and special treatment if he wins.

British literature, theatre and film of the late '50s were obsessed with the idea of the "Angry Young Man." Applied to playwrights like John Osborne and Harold Pinter, the movement represented the alienated, anti-social, embittered and politically left post-war generation of Brits. Left high-and-dry by Britain's victory in the Second World War, hemmed in by the ever-present class structure and with few prospects of advancement, their rebellion took on a much angrier form than America's "juvenile delinquents."

Based on Alan Sillitoe's short story, Long-Distance Runner is perhaps the most interesting cinematic example. Colin is a wonderfully drawn character, shaped by a hardscrabble home life, but completely lacking in personal ambition or discernable talent, his rebellion is at first formless and undirected. The adults we meet are decidedly negative: the sports-obsessed governor, his well-meaning assistant (Alec McCowen), Colin's mom and a surly detective (Dervis Ward) are a nasty assortment of authority figures, either ineffectual, selfish or cruel. Colin's potential advancement comes at the expense of his fellow students, with former star Stacy (Philip Martin) brushed aside and driven to a breakdown. The ending is the biggest "fuck you" imaginable: Colin would rather ruin his life than let the Governor feel pride in his accomplishment. You don't know whether to cheer Colin's courage or feel depressed at his fate.

Tony Richardson's direction is sublime. Richardson's later "big films" Tom Jones and The Charge of the Light Brigade are better-known today, but he's no less showy or effective here. The film adopts a grungy cinema-verite look, but Richardson provides some extremely striking sequences: the cafeteria riot, the very-modern montage of boys singing a hymn while one of their number is arrested and beaten, and Colin's final flashback. John Addison adds a wonderfully low-key, melancholy score.

Tom Courtenay gives an extraordinary performance, infusing Colin with bitterness, frustration and unfocused rebellion. Courtenay's raw characterization avoids the charm of American rebels like James Dean and Marlon Brando. Michael Redgrave (Nicholas and Alexandra) and Alec McCowan (Frenzy) make the most of thinly-sketched parts, one-dimensional but credible authority figures. Avis Bunnage (Gandhi) is perfectly hateful as Colin's mom. James Fox (A Passage to India) turns up towards the end as Colin's main competition.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner is a fine example of the New Wave of British filmmaking, starkly indicting the inequality of post-war England.

The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968)

"If they can't fornicate, they can't fight. And if they don't fight hard, I will flog their backs raw for all their fine looks!"

To date, two major films have been produced about the disastrous Charge of the Light Brigade. The first, Michael Curtiz's 1936 effort with Errol Flynn, is an escapist imperial adventure without a shred of historical accuracy. Its simple story reduces the Crimean War's messy imperial politics into personal revenge, catching the glorious spirit of Tennyson's poem in exciting style.

Tony Richardson's 1968 film is much more accurate, but equally problematic. It's certainly impressive in scope and pageantry, and its damning indictment of military idiocy remains strong. But it also suffers from a disjointed tone, unsure if it wants to be a rollicking satire or a powerful anti-war statement.

In 1854, England and France edge towards war with Russia, whose ambitions in Eastern Europe menace the Ottoman Empire. As war fever intensifies, the 11th Hussars, under ruthless Lord Cardigan (Trevor Howard), recruits criminals, derelicts and assorted scum. Idealistic Captain Louis Nolan (David Hemmings) joins the regiment, but immediately clashes with Cardigan. Cardigan tries to cashier Nolan from the army over a trivial incident, but commander Lord Raglan (John Gielgud) sides with the junior officer. The clash of egos continues through the war, where the woefully unprepared British Army bumbles through a series of engagements with crack Russian troops, culminating in the titular Charge at Balaclava.

The Charge of the Light Brigade is largely a black comedy, a Doctor Strangelove for the 1850's. Drawing on Cecil Woodham-Smith's book The Reason Why, Richardson and writer Charles Wood attack the British Army's class-dominated officer corps. This inequitable system allowed officers to purchase commissions. Designed to prevent the rise of a powerful military caste as in Germany or France, it effectively populated the Army with rich dilettantes and dullards. Forty years removed from Waterloo, the Brits were in poor shape for a major war.

Richardson's portrait is broad but effective. Cardigan embodies the pompous aristocrat to a T, amoral, egotistical, vain and none-too-bright, expecting unconditional admiration. He loathes Nolan for his Indian service and ambition, and nurses hatred for brother-in-law Lord Lucan (Harry Andrews), his division commander. The senile Raglan literally fights the last war, confusing the Russians with his French allies. Under such dismal leadership the army falls apart in the Crimea, inept tactics compounded by poor supplies and cholera. A disaster is inevitable.

Richardson provides solid direction, with near-perfect art direction and photography. The battle scenes are epic in scope, with the elite Turkish Presidential Cavalry expertly marshaled, and David Watkins' widescreen photography makes it clear how Raglan garbled his fateful order. The fighting itself is a bit underwhelming, however, Richardson going for the gritty details rather than grand scope. John Addison provides a marvelous score, mixing imperial bombast with mellow tragedy.

Special praise goes to Richard Williams' brilliant animation sequences. Based on Punch magazine's political cartoons, Williams delivers some creative imagery: an English lion pummeling a Russian bear, Great Britain collectively crying out "Poor little Turkey!", Queen Victoria and Prince Albert dancing an angelic victory waltz. These sequences are so stunning they nearly overshadow the live action.

Where Light Brigade falters is its story structure. The superfluous romance between Nolan and Clarissa (Vanessa Redgrave) is ill-judged filler. Early scenes dote on the 11th's common troopers, especially the Sergeant Major (Norman Rossington) whose refusal to spy for Cardigan ruins his career. Once we arrive in the Crimea these angles are unceremoniously dropped, much to the film's detriment.

On another level, the opening hour's brutal satire gives way to an awkward tonal dissonance in the war scenes. We laugh at Raglan's nonsensical pronouncements and Cardigan's awkward tryst with Fanny Duberly (Jill Bennett), but the battle scenes and soldiers' suffering are played deadly serious. It just doesn't add up, and Light Brigade becomes unwieldy and uneven.

Trevor Howard gives a masterful turn; blustering and chewing scenery in inimitable fashion, this is one of Howard's best performances. Harry Andrews matches him rant for rant, while John Gielgud's droll underplaying provides welcome balance. David Hemmings gives a layered performance, dashing and indignant but arrogant in his own right. Vanessa Redgrave's token role is forgettable but Jill Bennett is hysterically randy. Norman Rossington gets a rare standout role, playing his part with the right boisterous gravitas. Other roles go to Howard Marion-Crawford, Alan Dobie, Corin Redgrave and Donald Wolfit.

The Charge of the Light Brigade is a mixed bag. It's easy to laugh at the '36 version's anachronisms, but it's much more entertaining than Richardson's take. Nonetheless, its depiction of upper class arrogance and military bumbling is certainly worth watching.

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