Monthly Archives: May 2020

  • The Blue Lamp

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Basil Dearden (1950)

    The Blue Lamp became an almost comical curiosity of British cinema – a means to the end of an extraordinary screen resurrection.  Halfway through Basil Dearden’s film, its central character, PC George Dixon (Jack Warner), is shot and killed in the line of duty.  Although the first name on the writing credits is T E B Clarke, the ‘original treatment’ is by Jan Read and Ted Willis (Alexander Mackendrick also gets an ‘additional dialogue’ credit):  Willis was the prime mover behind the BBC television drama series Dixon of Dock Green, in which George Dixon enjoyed an afterlife of twenty-one years (from 1955 to 1976).  At the time of its release, however, The Blue Lamp was a big deal in its own right, in this country anyway.  An Ealing Studios production, it was the year’s top British picture at the box office, and won the equivalent of the BAFTA for Best British Film of 1950.

    This isn’t surprising.  The Blue Lamp, as well as entertaining, makes clear from the start its serious-minded, socially responsible point of view.  The opening titles include thanks to the Metropolitan Police for help in the making of the film, which is dedicated to them and to their colleagues in other police forces.  This leads into a voiceover suggestive of public information films of the era, deploring the current crime wave, especially the increasing numbers of offending ‘youths’ and ‘delinquents’.  Even after a couple of these, Tom Riley (Dirk Bogarde) and his sidekick Spud (Patric Doonan), have appeared on screen, the voiceover isn’t done.  It explains that such loose-cannon novices are despised and shunned by seasoned career criminals – and makes superfluous the visual illustration that follows:  in a seedy billiard hall, Riley and Spud approach a well-dodgy older man who looks askance at them, then away.  After this, the voiceover stops and doesn’t return, even at the very end of the film – the closing shot, simple and eloquent, is of the title illumination above a police station.  But those solemnly instructive tones have done their job in setting out The Blue Lamp’s stall.

    The second main character is PC Andy Mitchell (Jimmy Hanley), who has recently completed police cadet training.  The vastly experienced George Dixon, twenty-five years on the beat in Paddington, takes Andy under his wing.  The young policeman moves in with George and his wife Em (Gladys Henson), as their lodger.  When George proposes this to her, Em is doubtful.  It’s not long since the Dixons lost their own son (and, it seems, only child), presumably in World War II – he would now have been just the age that Andy is.  Once she meets her husband’s amiable colleague, Em instantly changes her mind.  He becomes, though this isn’t explicitly stressed, a surrogate son to her.  One other matter on which the Dixons aren’t at first agreed is George’s impending retirement.  Em thinks he’s earned the rest; George is keen to carry on another five years, and gets his way – or is on the point of doing so when he dies.  The timeframe of the story is short – it’s not suggested that he loses his life as a direct result of postponing his departure from the force.  Even so, the description of the Dixons’ happy marriage is enough to give a sense that a new phase of it, peaceful old age in each other’s company, was tantalisingly close.

    What’s more, the honourable example and death of the older man are crucial to the education, professional and moral, of the younger.  Nearly forty years later, this durable formula was still driving a police picture like Dennis Hopper’s Colors.  Despite their large cultural difference, both films use a similar, light-hearted opening and closing device to suggest continuity – the passing of a baton from one generation to the next – within the police force.  At the start of The Blue Lamp, George Dixon directs a passer-by, who asks the way to Paddington Station; at the end, Andy Mitchell does the same.  In Colors, Robert Duvall’s ill-fated LAPD veteran, like Dixon on the verge of retirement, tells a joke to his rookie sidekick, played by Sean Penn.  In the film’s last scene, Penn’s character, who’s matured a lot thanks to Duvall’s example, tells the same joke to his new junior partner.

    The voiceover commentary sees as a main cause of the rise in crime a shortage of bobbies on the beat.  Perhaps that’s why, in combination with his personal qualities, his bosses want George Dixon to stay on but the alleged manpower shortage is contradicted by the evidence before our eyes.  The screen is swarming with uniformed police.  They’re always bumping into each other as they patrol the local streets.  Back at Paddington Green station, there’s a male voice choir of boys in blue, supervised by, since he’s a Welshman, PC Taff Hughes (Meredith Edwards).  In order to keep the plot tight, Riley and Spud are responsible for both the major crimes investigated by the local force – a theft from a jeweller’s on the Edgware Road and the armed robbery of a cinema box office, in the aftermath of which Riley shoots George.  The circumstances of these crimes do little to show how differently things would have turned out with more policemen on the beat.  The worrying implication of his fatal confrontation with Riley is that George Dixon would have had a better chance of surviving not with another copper at his side but with a firearm in his hand.

    With Riley and Spud the only baddies around, there’s not a hint that the Paddington Green police are struggling to cope with the crime wave.  The other serious lawbreaking in the film consists of a spot of (off-screen) domestic violence.  The wife-beater is Alf Lewis (Frederick Piper) but his main purpose in the story is functional:  his daughter Diana (Peggy Evans) is Tom Riley’s girlfriend; she once lent him Alf’s old raincoat, which will prove to be important incriminating evidence.  For the most part, police business consists of dealing with the odd drunk and disorderly, the occasional elderly lady whose dog has gone missing – in other words, with familiar Ealing comedy types, exasperating, harmless, supposedly amusing.  A sequence in which the robbed jeweller’s girlfriend (Dora Bryan) fails to pick out Riley on an identity parade is a rare and glaring example of comical meeting serious, without the two things fusing at all.

    T E B Clarke may have been inspired to write The Blue Lamp by his own experiences as a wartime reserve constable but his benign, essentially complacent approach to English character is antithetical to the solemn parable side of the film that its introduction heralds.  Practically everyone in London, it seems, is united in the effort to bring Riley to justice.  The climax takes place inside a dog racing stadium (presumably White City), where Mike Randall (Michael Golden), an underworld man (the same one who gave the youngsters a dirty look in the billiard hall), joins forces with the police in order to apprehend Riley.  Men like Randall seem to be relatively acceptable to Clarke.  They’re proper Englishmen – they operate according to a code of behaviour that Riley and Spud just don’t have.

    Once Riley is sighted at the dog track, hand signals from the bookmakers and tic-tac men transmit a message that the wanted man is in the 4/- ring.  There are missing mutts and greyhounds in this film but no sign of the crafty underdog winning through, even if corps d’esprit, similarly beloved by Ealing, does so.  Although he ensures the story always holds your interest, the set-up defeats not only the stern didactic object of the exercise but also, for the most part, Basil Dearden too.  He and the DP Gordon Dines make good use of West London locations but they lack the texture of their East End equivalents in Pool of London, Dearden’s and Dines’s next collaboration.  Riley’s cramped bedsit is the most expressive place in The Blue Lamp.

    I was never a fan of Jack Warner even watching Dixon of Dock Green each week as a child.  The smugness I find off-putting hovers about him here too but Warner is a notably relaxed actor, and convincing in details ranging from George’s jubilant reaction to throwing the winning dart in a pub match with his mates to his unspoken sadness as his wife talks about their late son.  Warner was a popular film actor when The Blue Lamp was made; even if killing off his character midway through didn’t have the impact of Janet Leigh’s removal from Psycho a decade later, it must have come as a shock to audiences – not least because George seems to be recovering from his injuries before taking a sudden turn for the worse.

    As Em, Gladys Henson has a bigger role than she often had.  She plays it well yet I found her less moving than in Dance Hall, another Ealing picture of 1950, where Henson’s character is dealing with a much lesser crisis.  George takes great pride in the flowers he grows in the Dixons’ back garden.  Em has just picked a bunch to take to him in hospital when Andy and a senior officer (William Mervyn) arrive at her home with the bad news.  Em receives it and moves automatically towards an empty vase on the sideboard – ‘I’d better put these in water’.  It’s a stiff-upper-lip moment so predetermined to be touching that it falls short.  Gladys Henson is more strongly and ambiguously affecting when Andy assures her the police will catch George’s killer.  ‘Yes, I expect you will’, she replies.

    Jimmy Hanley radiates genial ordinariness.  It’s a relief that he and Dearden prevent Andy Mitchell’s undergoing a melodramatic transformation into a sadder and a wiser man.  Hanley is a good, natural laugher but some of his best bits come when Andy is struck dumb or keeps his feelings in check.  Although his accompanying superior has given him the job of breaking the news of George’s death to Em, Andy, in the event, can’t bring himself to do it.  Shortly afterwards, back on the beat, he pulls in a driver for failing to stop at a pedestrian crossing.  The posh woman at the wheel of the car (Renee Gadd) has a go at him:

    ‘Haven’t you anything better to do?  One of your own men shot down in cold blood, and all you do is waste your time pestering the lives out of innocent respectable people.  I’m not surprised all these murderers get away with it.’

    Her outburst briefly injects a welcome dissonant note into proceedings; in response, Andy controls himself to tell the woman, ‘I’m just warning you this time, madam, to drive more carefully in the future’.

    It’s to the film’s great advantage that the first officer to receive and register the news of George Dixon’s death, in a phone call to the police station, is played by the reliably excellent Bernard Lee.  As a CID man, he’s quietly alert and expressive in everything he does; Robert Flemyng too is unobtrusively effective, as Lee’s second-in-command.  I can’t resist noting that an actor called Sidney Pointer, playing a police superintendent, is shockingly wooden.  Although she sometimes struggles to sound common, Peggy Evans always looks right.  Diana is attractive but there’s a coarseness to her good looks, and a kind of desperation in how she wants to make the most of them.  Evans’s voice and Diana’s hysterics both get repetitious but they make sense of the girl’s brittleness.

    Dirk Bogarde (in his late twenties at the time) and Patric Doonan (who was four years younger) both seem a tad mature for tyro hoodlums but Bogarde gives a powerful performance.  Although his physical acting with Peggy Evans is occasionally forced, he’s much more credibly from the wrong side of the tracks in The Blue Lamp than he would be a few years later in The Sleeping Tiger.  Bogarde makes Tom Riley a plausible psychopath; it’s not his fault the script has no interest in probing this and prefers to present Riley as variously despicable.  He goes to pieces when he’s face to face with George Dixon outside the cinema and in the immediate aftermath of the murder.   When he goes to the police with a story designed to put them off the scent, Riley is gormless the moment Robert Flemyng’s detective starts to turn the tables.  After witnesses fail to pick him out on ID parades, Riley saunters back into the detective’s office in cocky triumph.  I guess it’s possible a pathological personality might go through this succession of behaviours but I don’t think that’s why Riley does so.  It’s because T E B Clarke sees him as the villain of the piece (and an aberration, according to Clarke’s conception of Englishness).  Riley’s changing moods leave you impressed by a versatile actor, unconvinced by the volatile character he’s meant to be.

    11 May 2020

  • Pool of London

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Basil Dearden (1951)

    Watching The Maggie and Pool of London in quick succession was the latest reinforcement of my preference for Ealing drama to Ealing comedy.  Basil Dearden’s tense crime thriller has plenty of human substance thanks to his two main characters, whose fates come to matter.  The narrative begins on a Friday afternoon, when the merchant ship Dunbar docks in the Pool of London, and ends on the following Monday morning, when the ship departs for Rotterdam.  The intervening action focuses on two of the crew, what they get up to on shore leave and their consequent moral or emotional journeys over the course of the weekend.

    This black-and-white (and plausibly noir) film was shot on location in London.  Dearden and his cinematographer Gordon Dines provide a valuable visual record, including high-altitude panoramas, of the early post-war city.  Dines (DP on The Maggie too) creates strong contrasts between, on the one hand, the splendours of St Paul’s and the Greenwich Observatory and, on the other, the docklands[1] and grimy streets, the smoky pubs, seamy dance halls, dark alleyways.  It’s a time and place where the black market thrives so the Dunbar’s customs officer (Michael Golden) runs a tight ship in anything-to-declare checks of the disembarking crew.  Johnny Lambert (Earl Cameron) volunteers his two packets of cigarettes and is waved through.  His good mate Dan MacDonald (Bonar Colleano) has several pairs of nylons concealed about his person, which are confiscated before he steps ashore.  Once in London, he’s soon mixed up in more ambitious law-breaking.

    Dan’s crucial role in a jewellery heist, which takes place on the Sunday morning, is to receive stolen gems from one of the gang, Charlie Vernon (Max Adrian), smuggle them on board when he returns to ship that night, and hand them over to new owners once the Dunbar has docked in Rotterdam.  The heist goes wrong.  A security man (Beckett Bould) is assaulted by Vernon and dies of his injuries; although it’s Sunday, the crime is instantly headline news on the radio.  After taking delivery of the gems, during a church service at Southwark Cathedral, Dan visits a girlfriend, Maisie (Moira Lister), who conceals them in a tin of brilliantine.  Dan’s name is given to the police and he becomes prime suspect.  Realising the booty is too hot for him to handle, he asks above-suspicion Johnny to take it on board the Dunbar.  Johnny is always ready to help his friend and consents.  Besides, his mind is on other things.

    Pool of London is best known for featuring the ‘first interracial relationship in a British film’ (BFI Screenline).  That phrase needs a bit of unpacking.  West Indian Johnny, planning to return imminently to his native Jamaica, passes much of Saturday and Sunday in the company of Pat (Susan Shaw), who’s English, white and works in a theatre box office.  They enjoy each other’s company in a coffee bar, sightseeing and so on, but the nearest they come to physical contact is travelling on the upper deck of a bus, which jolts and throws them very close.  Pat immediately says sorry; Johnny replies ‘That’s all right’, suggesting he’d like them to be even closer.  Pat, who puts off seeing friends to spend time with Johnny, has tickets for a Variety Bandbox show later on Sunday and invites Johnny along.  Due to set sail that evening, he regretfully declines.  Approaching the docks, he learns from a fellow crewman that the Dunbar’s departure has been delayed until the following morning because the police are on board.  Johnny jumps on a bus to Camberwell and arrives to see Pat waiting outside the theatre there.  Before she catches sight of him, her friends arrive.  She starts chatting happily with them.  Johnny turns sadly away.  This interracial relationship is hardly more than a potential one.

    Yet the race aspect of Pool of London is intelligently treated by Basil Dearden, who would go on to make a more thoroughgoing racial drama in Sapphire (1959), and by the scriptwriters, Jack Whittingham and John Eldridge.  Johnny first bumps into Pat while accompanying Dan to the variety theatre where the latter has a meeting with his prospective partners in crime.  Hanging around in the foyer, Johnny explains to Pat that he doesn’t want to buy a ticket – he’s just waiting for his friend.  She tells him that, if he likes, he can get a view of the stage from just beside the box office.  He watches the show only briefly but long enough to convey a sense of how alien it is to Johnny.  When a commissionaire (Laurence Naismith) moves him on, disparaging him in implicitly racist terms, Pat vigorously takes Johnny’s part (as, more aggressively, does Dan when he arrives to discover what’s going on).  During their subsequent time together, Pat is unfailingly nice to Johnny.  His tone with her sharpens only once, when he refutes her assertion that race ‘doesn’t matter’.  Even so, Dearden and his actors always keep you aware of how far Pat is from understanding Johnny’s experience.  Her instant reabsorption into her usual group of white friends outside the Camberwell theatre isn’t over-emphasised but is eloquent.

    The film sets up Canadian Dan, a girl-in-every-port sort self-confident in the company of both sexes, as an obvious counterpoint to Johnny.  Things change, though.  Dan gets into deep water with the jewel robbery pari passu with finding himself in a romantic relationship different from usual.  He falls out with pushy, brittle Maisie and gravitates towards demure but humorous Sally (Renée Asherson), a clerk in the Port of London Authority offices.  She starts the weekend thinking she’s in love with the reliably unreliable Harry (Leslie Phillips), another member of the Dunbar crew.   Twenty-four hours later, when the now desperate Dan tells her all, Sally is telling Dan she loves him, urging him to retrieve the gems from Johnny and to hand himself over to the investigating police detective (John Longden).  Dan eventually does just that.

    I’d seen Earl Cameron and Bonar Colleano in smaller roles (Cameron in Sapphire and Two Gentlemen Sharing, Colleano in The Way to the Stars and Dance Hall).  Both are a revelation in these more extensive ones.  Cameron’s stranger in a strange land is a persuasive blend of wary, wondering and vulnerable.  His angry distress is powerful when, following his last sight of Pat, Johnny gets drunk and is robbed of the wad of cash Dan passed to him with the tin of brilliantine.  Colleano is even better.   With his big, unusual facial features and bony dynamism, he has real presence; his fast, casual delivery does a lot, especially in the early stages, to give the film momentum.  As Dan heads to Southwark Cathedral, he passes a Salvation Army band and puts something in their collection.  ‘The wages of sin’, he genially explains to the pretty girl taking the collection.  ‘Been working overtime?’ she affably replies.

    Colleano is good from the start at showing how easily Dan moves from being a chancer to a criminal.  Even more impressive is how, without false histrionics, he later makes the transition from a man who acts on instinct to one forced to reflect on his actions.  Dan’s and Johnny’s final conversation is another illustration of the film’s alert handling of the racial element.  Early on the Monday morning, Dan recovers the jewels from Johnny and tells him to get back on ship.  When Johnny demurs, Dan yells, ‘Don’t you understand English?’, well aware that the insult will hurt his thin-skinned friend and drive him away, in the direction of the Dunbar.   Dan follows at some distance, to give himself up to the police who are waiting on board.  Johnny sees him approaching.  Their very last exchange is of a friendly wave to each other.  It’s a poignant moment, inevitably inflected, at this distance in time, by knowing how much or little life lay ahead for the two actors.  Bonear Colleano died in a car crash in 1958, aged thirty-four.   Earl Cameron is now in his hundred-and-third year.

    Thanks to his nationality and ethnicity, each of Colleano and Cameron fits naturally into his character.  It’s not so easy for the actresses alongside them.  Watching Pool of London made me think, not the first time, that English women in films of this era  are liable to seem more socially artificial than their male counterparts.  (This is an issue in the mostly admirable Dance Hall.)  It’s possible the middle-class actresses concerned just weren’t any good at doing working-class accents.   But it’s almost as if, at least if they were playing sizeable roles, they were encouraged – as ladies – to reassure audiences of their actual social superiority to their screen characters.  This isn’t such a problem if the character is a ‘respectable’ girl – as Pat and Sally are in Pool of London.  Susan Shaw and Renée Asherson are, respectively, adequate and emotionally expressive in these parts.  The results are bizarre, though, in the case of Moira Lister’s hellcat Maisie.  Her younger sister (Joan Dowling), a much smaller part, is convincingly Cockney.  Lister’s Maisie, although she’s certainly a bitch, seems very much from the right side of the tracks, in both demeanour and voice.  Lister’s idea of suggesting otherwise is to say ‘orff’ for ‘off’.  But, then, so do (or did) the Royal Family.

    Among the other crew members, Leslie Phillips (also still in the land of the living – he’s ninety-five now) stands out, in a comically good way, as Lothario Harry.  In a bad way, so does the tiresomely unfunny James Robertson Justice – a hyper-Caledonian engine room officer who spends the weekend alone on board ship, getting drunker and drunker.  By Sunday evening, he’s expostulating in usual Justice fashion.  The jewel thieves are standard-issue cons, with the notable exception of Max Adrian, as Charlie Vernon, a music-hall performer.  Vernon’s acrobatic abilities are useful in carrying out the robbery.  The limit to them proves eventually fatal, during an extended nighttime chase and showdown between the felons and the police.  This is one of several exciting sequences that makes good use of the London locations (and is well edited by Peter Tanner).

    The moral rightness of the finale is stressed a bit too neatly in Sally’s quiet smile of approval as she hears the news of Dan’s self-sacrifice.  Sally told him a few hours before that she’d always wait for him.  Since he’s wanted for the killing of the security man, you’d think Sally would need to be reassured at least that the police believe everything Dan has told them before she expresses satisfaction.   But this hardly undoes all the good work that Basil Dearden has done in Pool of London.  Along with The League of Gentlemen (1960), it’s the best film of his that I’ve so far seen.

    8 May 2020

    [1] The film’s IMDb entry includes interesting recollections from ‘Bill K’, who worked as an apprentice electrician on the production.

Posts navigation