Film review

  • A double tour

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Claude Chabrol (1959)

    A double tour[1] is noteworthy as Claude Chabrol’s first colour feature and first thriller.  It’s more impressive as the former than as the latter.  Set mostly in the countryside outside Aix-en-Provence, the film was shot by Henri Decaë whose lighting and colouration are ravishing, especially the fields of poppies.  Chabrol’s almost gleeful misanthropy is in full bloom too.

    Wealthy vineyard owner Henri Marcoux (Jacques Dacqmine) is having an affair with the much younger Léda (Antonella Lualdi), a designer who lives alone in the house next to the Marcoux mansion and grounds.  Henri’s wife Thérèse (Madeleine Robinson) is no more accepting of her husband’s adultery for being well aware of it.  The couple have two adult (the adjective ‘grown-up’ seems wrong) children – Richard (André Jocelyn) and Elisabeth (Jeanne Valérie).  One Sunday morning (the action takes place in the course of this single day), Thérèse, her son and daughter return home from mass.  Shortly afterwards, Henri comes back from a drive with Léda.  He could hardly be more blatant about his liaison:  Thérèse sees Henri’s lingering embrace of his mistress and reproaches him.

    Léda isn’t the sole cause of Thérèse’s permanent bad mood.  When Henri returns home, she’s already engaged in a dispute with Elisabeth’s fiancé Laszlo Kovacs (Jean-Paul Belmondo), of whom Thérèse strongly disapproves.  The blithely louche Laszlo, in contrast to his prospective mother-in-law, is evidently enjoying the argument they’re having, as well as sympathetic to Henri’s infidelity.  Anything that annoys the resentful, proper Thérèse appeals to Laszlo.  He even makes the effort to unravel her knitting while he awaits the family’s return from church.

    Although the bare feet of a motionless body are visible during the opening titles of A double tour, the killing in the story doesn’t occur until nearly an hour into this ninety-four-minute film.  While that needn’t detract from its effectiveness as a thriller, it is symptomatic of Chabrol’s approach.  His priority is skewering the values and behaviour of the affluent bourgeoisie; the suspense plot is relatively minor.  In the opening-credits sequence, the camera pans across a room full of curious objects (the corpse’s feet appear in the background).  As a result, once we’ve seen inside Léda’s home we have a pretty good idea she’ll be the murder victim.  By the time news of her death arrives, the identity of the culprit is clear too.

    The first we see of Richard Marcoux, he’s looking through a keyhole – watching the Marcoux’s maid Julie (Bernadette Lafont) in her room, in a state of undress.  In the scenes that follow, Chabrol quickly builds a portrait of Richard as a peculiarly warped Oedipal type.  For most of the film, he continues to wear the suit and tie he put on for mass.  He spends a lot of time in his own room, where he plays, or even mimes conducting, classical music.  Mozart and Berlioz’s Romeo and Juliet (Richard’s special favourite) are emblems of culture that Chabrol uses for almost comically melodramatic effect, and as a stick (or baton) with which to beat the runtish heir to the family fortune.  In the extended flashback that eventually describes the murder the main interest comes from wondering how short, unprepossessing Richard will be able to overpower imposing Léda.  It’s not entirely credible that he does so.  In the climax to the story, it’s even harder to believe he puts up a good fight before he’s subdued by Laszlo, his physical and spiritual polar opposite.

    Chabrol can’t be said to have failed to make an involving whodunit – making one clearly wasn’t what he set out to do.  But his often derisive treatment of the dramatis personae means he also denudes A double tour as a psychological thriller.  It’s not just that Richard is the only credible candidate to be the killer; it’s obvious too soon what his hang-ups are.  Nor is it the case that Chabrol reserves his mockery for the moneyed characters.  In the prologue to the main action, Julie parades around in her bra and pants for so long that she’s a tedious exhibitionist.  Her audience includes a gawping gardener (Raymond Pélissier) and the milkman (Mario David) who’ll be suspected of Léda’s murder until Richard finally decides to own up.  In the film’s closing, God’s-eye-view shot, he heads towards the victim’s home to put the investigating police inspector (André Dino) in the picture.  The word ‘investigating’ is pushing it:  the inspector interviews Thérèse but, as far as we see, no other member of the Marcoux household.  As he goes to talk with Thérèse, he walks straight past Richard.  I wasn’t sure if this was a satirical touch (Richard is such a wimp he’s bound to be ignored) or a piece of carelessness on Chabrol’s part.

    In the early stages, the acting is cartoonishly emphatic – Julie flaunting herself, the verging-on-Carry-On choreography of the milkman’s reaction, sober-suited Thérèse marching disapprovingly across the grounds.  This film offers the unusual spectacle of overacting even from Jean-Paul Belmondo, albeit that the disruptive hedonist he’s playing often means to be outrageous.  This continues up to and including an episode in the centre of Aix, when Laszlo and his pal Vlado (László Szabó) get extravagantly drunk.  Still, Belmondo has sensational presence.  He’s far from the first name on the credits here but if A double tour had appeared a year later (it opened in French cinemas a few months before A bout de souffle), he’d have had top billing.  And would have deserved it:  he commands the screen.

    Madeleine Robinson expertly delivers what Chabrol surely wanted.  Thérèse, intensely dislikable at first, is hardly less repellent even when she becomes pitiable.  The most nuanced acting in the film comes from Jacques Dacqmine and Antonella Lualdi in a flashback to Henri and Léda’s last outing together.  It can’t be a coincidence that this is a rare instance of Chabrol’s showing his privileged characters – or anyone else, Laszlo and Vlado excepted – a bit of human sympathy.

    3 August 2020

    [1] This is the original French title, which translates as ‘double-turned’ or ‘double-locked’.  Chabrol’s source material was an American novel by Stanley Ellin called The Key to Nicholas Street.   In the English-speaking world, the film was released as Léda or Web of Passion, which is too naff to bear repeating.

  • The Man Who Never Was

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Ronald Neame (1956)

    The British intelligence deception of 1943 known as Operation Mincemeat has inspired several books, plays and films over the decades, most recently Ben Macintyre’s book and television documentary in 2010.  The British acquired a human corpse, supplied it with a false identity and a briefcase containing letters that suggested the Allies were planning to attack Sardinia and Greece rather than Sicily, their actual point of invasion.   The corpse, named Major William Martin, and his documents were put into the sea near the coast of Spain and floated to shore.  Major Martin fooled German intelligence into thinking his letters were genuine.  Since the turn of the millennium, Mincemeat has been a stage play and even a stage musical but Ronald Neame’s picture appears still to be the only screen dramatisation of the ruse.  Perhaps it’s time for a remake.  There’s room for a film of this amazing story better than The Man Who Never Was[1].

    It’s an odd concoction – in terms of structure, tone and the casting of some key parts.  Although Nigel Balchin’s screenplay is based on the 1953 book by Ewen Montagu, who played a major role in planning Operation Mincemeat, the security services didn’t give Montagu carte blanche in revealing operational details.  The film’s first half is, nevertheless, a military-intelligence procedural, occasionally to the point of dullness:  it doesn’t help either that the staging of parts of the procedure, such as the dressing of the cadaver, is almost laughably unrealistic.  Once the body has been recovered by a Spanish fisherman and the matter reported to the Germans, The Man Who Never Was turns into a mediocre espionage thriller.  Neame’s narrative focuses chiefly on Patrick O’Reilly, a pro-German Irish spy dispatched to London by the Nazis to investigate the veracity of Major Martin’s identity.  The dominance of this part of the plot, which is entirely fictitious, isn’t explained by the star status of the actor playing the spy:  O’Reilly proved to be Stephen Boyd’s breakthrough role.  Soon afterwards, he signed a contract with 20th Century Fox, who distributed the British-made The Man Who Never Was.  Did Fox’s involvement in the production dictate the presence of Hollywood names in the predominantly British cast?

    The choice of Clifton Webb to play Ewen Montagu (who has a cameo as an air vice-marshal, sharing the screen with his alter ego) is particularly baffling.  Webb was thrice Oscar-nominated in the 1940s but always better known as a comedy-musical actor on Broadway.  He was hardly a major cinema box-office draw by the mid-1950s.  Balchin’s script does little to flesh out the personality of Montagu, which adds to the pressure on the actor playing him to supply plausible presence.  Webb is unconvincing throughout as a hard-nosed military man.  He’d enjoyed stage success in Noel Coward plays but his clipped English accent often wobbles here, especially when Montagu gets excited (a relative term).  Webb is thoroughly uncomfortable in what is, or should be, the lead role.  You almost wonder if this is why the overeager but charismatic Stephen Boyd takes over proceedings to the extent that he does.

    Gloria Grahame is another matter, and a more complicated one.  She plays Lucy Sherwood, an American working in a London library.  Lucy is the flatmate of Pam (Josephine Griffin), Montagu’s assistant.  When her boss asks Pam to compose a love letter, supposedly from Major Martin’s fiancée, to include among his papers, it’s Lucy who dictates the letter:  she makes it heartfelt because she and her boyfriend Joe (William Russell), a RAF pilot, have just been separated.  When, later on, Joe is killed in action, Lucy shows genuine distress in the presence of O’Reilly, who’s got hold of information that she was Martin’s fiancée.  It’s enough to convince the Germans’ spy that Martin is genuine too.  At first, I supposed Lucy was part of the true Mincemeat story, not least because the plotting seemed unnecessarily unwieldy if she wasn’t:  if Pam were played by a stronger actress than Josephine Griffin, there’d be no need to invent Lucy.  By the end of the film, even before I learned that the O’Reilly element was fiction, I was more inclined to think Lucy’s main purpose was as a means of accommodating a high-profile American actress.

    Grahame had won her Best Supporting Actress Oscar for The Bad and the Beautiful only a couple of years before the making of The Man Who Never Was.  A few months after its release, British film audiences would have seen her as Ado Annie in Oklahoma!, her last big-time movie role.  Unlike Clifton Webb, she’s vibrant but she’s also, in her looks, movement and performing style, pure contemporary Hollywood.  The Lucy strand is the only dramatically charged element of a story that otherwise derives its potency from being based in historical fact; because this strand is so different, it feels incongruous.  Gloria Grahame belongs in a different film.  She unbalances this one.

    Ronald Neame is the antithesis of an auteur.  As usual, he gives the impression of executing scenes as a series of jobs to get through.  Even though the series of events he depicts in The Man Who Never Was is extraordinary enough to be somewhat Neame-proof, his pedestrian direction still has you noticing his reverse alchemy.   There’s no controlling vision, and not much orchestration of the acting.  You never come away from a sequence thinking how interestingly it’s been done.  The chief pleasures in the large cast come from performers distinctive enough to vivify their small roles without directorial help – Miles Malleson (as a laboratory scientist), Joan Hickson (a chatty landlady), Richard Wattis (a testy assistant in a gents’ outfitter’s).  In a quieter register, William Squire (as the commander of the submarine that carries Major Martin to his Spanish destination) and William Russell both do well.  (Russell, still going strong at the age of ninety-five, is probably the only surviving member of the cast.)  The voice of Winston Churchill is supplied by an uncredited Peter Sellers.  In the week the film was released in British cinemas the BBC broadcast a Goon Show parody of its storyline.

    The true identity of William Martin has been the subject of enduring debate.  The favoured candidate, at least in terms of recent dramatisations, is Glyndwr Michael, described by Wikipedia as ‘a homeless, alcoholic rat-catcher from Aberbargoed, Wales … who had died by self-administering a small dose of rat poison’.  (Also according to Wikipedia, ‘The [2001] play Operation Mincemeat, written by Adrian Jackson and Farhana Sheikh, … focused on Michael’s homelessness …  In 2015 the Welsh theatre company Theatr na nÓg produced “Y dyn na fu erioed” (The Man who Never Was), a musical based on the operation and Glyndwr Michael’s upbringing’.)    It’s no surprise that Neame’s film, made only a decade after the end of World War II, was keen to give its title character a nobler identity.   He’s a young Scotsman who has died of pneumonia.  There’s a rather moving interview between Montagu and the dead man’s father (Moultrie Kelsall), who gives permission for his son’s body to be used in exchange for an assurance (or the best assurance Montagu can give) that it will eventually receive Christian burial.  In the film’s closing scene, Montagu, who has been awarded the CBE, leaves his decoration on the grave of the man who never was.

    As far as I’m concerned, making the title character a Scot was fully justified.  As I watched, I kept wondering why my backlog of recordings from television includes so many Ronald Neame movies – this is the third I’ve seen recently, after Tunes of Glory and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.  But I knew why I’d recorded this one.  I’d seen it once before, I’d guess in my early teens (certainly before we had colour television:  I was expecting the film to be in black and white).  It left a strong and lasting impression thanks entirely to the Scottish voiceover which, at the very beginning and the very end, intones the lines:

    ‘Last night I dreamed a deadly dream, beyond the Isle of Skye.

    I saw a dead man win a fight, and I think that man was I.’

    The words are taken from the anonymous Old English ballad ‘The Battle of Otterburn’ (which appears in a manuscript dated around 1550 and was included in the collection of ballads anthologised by the American folklorist Francis James Child in the second half of the nineteenth century).  In adolescence, I was scared stiff by these words and The Man Who Never Was’s accompanying image of a corpse on the seashore.  I wanted to know what effect they’d have more than fifty years later.  They were still chilling.

    1 August 2020

    [1] Afternote:  But that wasn’t the film Operation Mincemeat, which appeared in 2021.  This dramatisation of the Ben McIntyre book, directed by John Madden, is wearyingly unimaginative.  It’s remarkable only because if features the last screen performance of an excellent actor, the late Paul Ritter.

     

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