Daily Archives: Saturday, June 18, 2016

  • The Life of David Gale

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Alan Parker (2003)

    An anti-capital punishment campaigner ends up on death row.  You feel this must be based-on-a-true-story – in fact there’s no such excuse:  the florid irony is the idea of the screenwriter Charles Randolph.   David Gale (Kevin Spacey) is the former head of a philosophy department in a Texan university and a leading light in Deathwatch, a group of anti-capital punishment activists.  As he awaits execution for the killing of Constance Harraway (Laura Linney), a fellow academic and Deathwatch member, Gale agrees to tell his story, for a six-figure sum, to Bitsey Bloom (Kate Winslet), a news magazine journalist.   The film is structured around her interviews with Gale.  These introduce lengthy flashbacks to the story of how he got to the condemned cell.

    This is a lousy film from start to finish.   You know it from the opening sequences in the news magazine offices (the crude expository dialogue; the mechanical, hollow dynamism of the camera movement).  In the hysterically unimaginative climax, Bitsey gets out of her car and runs the rest of the way to the prison where Gale’s being held, clutching the evidence she believes will exonerate him (a videotape showing that Constance Harraway, who was dying of leukaemia, filmed her own suicide).   Alan Parker’s direction is characteristically overheated but he seems to be on auto-pilot – or trying to remember how he overdid things in Midnight Express and Mississippi Burning and ended up with a hit on his hands.  Parker doesn’t do much more than keep the action going:  as a stupid entertainment, David Gale is moderately entertaining.   As a politically serious film (which I imagine it wishes to be), it’s a dud.  There’s one particularly crummy device:  Parker inserts every so often a little montage of key words relating to what we’ve just seen – ‘Rape’, ‘Guilt’, ‘Doubt’ and so on flash onto the screen as if subliminally (but not subliminally enough).  The on-campus scenes have a special ludicrousness, with each member of the faculty trying to sound like Oscar Wilde.   Charles Randolph seems really to think that academics are all-round geniuses whose common sense is naturally equal to their analytical powers.  In an early exchange with Bitsey, the tyro journalist Zack (Gabriel Mann), who tags along with her to cover the story, expresses doubt about David Gale’s guilt because Constance’s death was clumsily staged and Gale has a PhD in philosophy.

    The picture is not just badly written but badly overwritten – so much so that getting through the surfeit of lines seems to sap the actors’ expressive energies.  It’s no surprise that the scenes between Zack and Bitsey are perfunctory but there’s not much going on between Gale and Bitsey either.  That could be justified, on his part anyway, by the twist in the tail of David Gale but Kevin Spacey seems to be going through the motions in other scenes too.  Although you know you’re watching a highly skilled actor, you don’t get the sense he’s fully into the role in sequences between Gale and his son, or when Gale’s having anal sex with a girl student, or when he’s weeping and raging.  Spacey never seems sufficiently passionate about the anti-capital punishment cause that Gale’s committed to (although he brings some intensity to his face in the close-ups behind the mesh of the prison cell).  Kate Winslet isn’t bad exactly but her nervy breathing and American accent are too deliberate and she’s certainly less interesting here than in any other role I’ve seen her in.  The role of Constance is pretty demeaning but Laura Linney brings it a lot of charm in the moments when she’s allowed to stop emoting angrily.  The scene between her and Spacey which precedes Gale going to bed with Constance is by far the best in the picture.  Matt Craven is nicely ambiguous as Dusty, another member of Deathwatch.

    Five minutes before the end of David Gale, I was all ready to deride Parker and Randolph for seeming to assume that an unhappy ending, however daft, must be tougher and more thoughtful than a happy one.   But the film-makers then take you by surprise – both Sally and I were baffled by the closing sequences and spent some time trying to work them out.   According to Wikipedia, this is what happens:

    ‘In a frenzy, Bloom tries to present the [videotape] evidence to stop the execution. Unfortunately, she doesn’t reach the courthouse in time and Gale dies an innocent man. The tape is released after his death, resulting in a media and political uproar over the execution of an innocent.  … In an epilogue, Dusty delivers the interview fee from the magazine to Gale’s wife in Spain, along with a postcard from Berlin [the girl student he had sex with] apologizing for the false rape accusation. His ex-wife looks distraught, knowing Gale told the truth and that she effectively stole their child away from him.  … A differently edited videotape is delivered to Bloom much later, labeled “Off the Record.” This one shows Dusty confirming Harraway’s death and then stepping aside to allow Gale, also present, to caress her one last time. It is in this way Gale leaves his print on Harraway’s plastic bag. … Bitsey realizes she has been royally had by Gale and indeed his entire entourage of ‘associates’. Was the intended message delivered? Was Gale secretly wishing to be pardoned at the last moment? Or did Dusty finally get the revenge he appeared to have wanted from the start?’

    Who knows?   One further question.  When David Gale looks into the camera at the end of the ‘Off the Record’ version of the tape, Kevin Spacey’s expression suggests that he knows he’s looking at Bitsey Bloom and making her realise she’s ‘been royally had’.  Is Gale clairvoyant?

    20 April 2010

  • The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (1943)

    Powell and Pressburger’s film is famous for several reasons, not least the attempts to stop it being made at all.   The BFI used as a programme note a piece that Richard Combs wrote for Monthly Film Bulletin in 1985 and which, not unexpectedly, deprecates the attitude of government agencies and of Churchill in particular towards the picture.   There’s no suggestion in Combs’s article that censorship during wartime might be justifiable, no attempt to grapple with the argument which may  have been made in the early 1940s that constraining artistic freedom of expression in the short term in Britain could help to secure its longer-term future.  Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger were asking for trouble with the title they chose for the picture.  Colonel Blimp is the name of a 1930s cartoon-strip character, which David Low originally drew for the Evening Standard – a character described in Wikipedia as ‘pompous, irascible, jingoistic and stereotypically British’.  This must have been a main (and I don’t think an unreasonable) cause of the Churchill government’s opposition to the prospect of The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp.  The Blimp label is misleading, however.  The film is complex and by no means politically narrow-minded although it is extraordinary that it was made when it was.  As you watch, you need to keep reminding yourself that it was released during rather than in the aftermath of World War II.

    Powell and Pressburger dramatise the life and career of Clive Candy through the Boer War (as a lieutenant), World War I (as a brigadier-general) and World War II (when he’s a retired general, in the Home Guard).  Clive’s continuing counterpart – his rival in love, his military foe and friend – is the German Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff.  While he’s on leave from the Boer War in Berlin, they fight a duel after Clive inadvertently insults the Imperial German army.  At the end of the Great War, Clive tracks Theo down to a prisoner of war camp.  At the start of the Second World War, Theo is an immigrant in Britain, widowed and separated from his family in Germany after his children have become Nazis.  Clive Candy is lampooned not because he represents ‘traditional English’ values as such but because, Powell and Pressburger suggest, these values are dangerously unrealistic for the purposes of modern warfare – specifically for the purposes of fighting the Germans in the current conflict.  As Theo notes at one point, ‘There’ll be no return match’.  Yet the lampoon is almost eclipsed by the Archers’ ambivalence:  Powell and Pressburger, although they came from very different backgrounds, were both too steeped in, fascinated by, and affectionate about, Englishness to be single-minded in their portrait of Clive.   They also have trenchant things to say about what they present as the German psyche.  Candy’s wife Barbara talks about (pre-Nazi) German soldiers ‘listening to Mendelssohn and Schubert in their butchers’ uniforms’.   Theo is a dinner guest at Clive’s London home shortly after being released from prisoner of war camp.   He admits later to Clive to the excitement that he felt listening to the dinner party conversation, realising the implications of the British men round the table seeing the 1914-18 hostilities as a game that’s now over – no hard feelings.

    The film’s opening credits appear on a tapestry, created by members of the Royal College of Needlework, which anticipates what’s to come.  (The tapestry is back for the closing credits too.)  In the background is a tree, with the names of the three main actors – Roger Livesey (Clive), Anton Walbrook (Theo) and Deborah Kerr (in a trinity of roles) – embroidered across its branches.  Halfway down its trunk is a self-referential archery target.  There’s a coat of arms immediately below this.  At its foot, the motto ‘Sic Transit Gloria Candy’ spreads across the roots of the tree.   In the foreground, Candy – bearing oversized arms and with impressively plumed headgear but otherwise clad in nothing but a towel – sits bellicose on horseback.  In the sky, aeroplanes complete the richly anachronistic picture.  What’s effectively a prologue to the film proper – before it moves into extended flashback – features a Home Guard training exercise.  This is heavy-handed comedy – complete with frenetic activity, zooming camera movements and strenuously unfunny dialogue – leading up to Candy’s ‘capture’ in a Turkish bath.  I didn’t realise this was Blimp’s usual habitat in the Low cartoons:  Powell and Pressburger in effect take it as their starting point – and then take Clive Candy a very long way from that point.  As soon as the elderly man in the Turkish bath begins to fight back, the tone changes.  The film turns into something more interesting and continues to do so.

    We soon discover that the older Clive Candy’s caricatural walrus moustache conceals a scar he got from the duel with Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff forty years earlier.  Although the 1902 Berlin section is too long and some of its scenes lack rhythm, Roger Livesey, Anton Walbrook and Deborah Kerr are immediately compelling.  In this section, Kerr plays Edith Hunter, a young Englishwoman with feelings for Clive and for Theo; those feelings are reciprocated by them both but it’s the German that she marries.  The momentum of Colonel Blimp really builds from the start of the post-Great War section onwards.  Roger Livesey’s first sight of Deborah Kerr’s second incarnation, a nurse called Barbara Wynne whom Candy meets in a convent in France where he’s briefly billeted, is very powerful.    When Barbara and Clive marry, the unstressed humour between them is much more effective than the film’s attempts at jaunty comedy, which, although fortunately few and far between, continue to be its weakest bits. Clive’s dinner for his British soldiering colleagues, which Theo attends just before his return to Germany, has quite remarkable tension, especially given the cartoon treatment of most of the military men up to this point.  The excitement stirring in Theo that he later explains is unspoken but it breaks out startlingly once he’s back with fellow Germans on the boat train.  Both Walbrook and Livesey age extremely convincingly.  The make-up is good but there’s also a complete lack of strain in the actors’ progress from men in their late twenties to near septuagenarians (both were in their mid-thirties when the film was made).  The contrast between the consistency of Clive’s character and the changing attitudes of Theo is a large part of what makes the friendship between the two men fascinating.    There’s a marvellous bit when Theo visits Clive in London, when both are widowers before their time, and Clive shows Theo a portrait of Barbara (who of course resembles Edith), which is surrounded by hunting trophies.  ‘It’s a strange place to hang such a lovely picture’, remarks Theo.

    Because the film’s themes are so strong the quality of the performances may well have been underrated.  Deborah Kerr is, in all three parts, much freer than she became in what’s regarded as her heyday in the 1950s and early 1960s.  (After playing the wives of Theo and Clive, she’s the latter’s driver in the WWII part of the story.)   Her colouring is beautiful – especially in a marvellous scene in which Barbara and Clive sit at the fireside of their home in Cadogan Place.  The combination of Kerr’s golden-red hair and the cornflower blue dress she’s wearing is magical.  The intimacy of her and Livesey humming to each other is very touching.   (The cinematographer Georges Périnal paints the images vividly.)  Roger Livesey has many wonderful moments:  when the young Candy, after the duel, is swathed in bandages, Livesey plays a scene looking into the mirror with fine sympathetic wit.  There’s a great bit towards the end of the film when the elderly Candy is using his walking stick to tidy leaves on the ground.  The power of what Anton Walbrook expresses from within as Theo sits quietly at Clive Candy’s dinner table is remarkable; what Walbrook does in the sequence in which Theo is giving an account of himself at the aliens’ office is quite extraordinary.  The supporting cast is variable – Michael Powell always struggles with actors who need looking after – but Roland Culver is good, as usual, as a piece of military top brass and John Laurie is excellent as Candy’s batman Murdoch.  It’s retrospectively apt, of course, when Laurie’s Murdoch also joins the Home Guard.

    25 May 2012

Posts navigation