The Great Ealing Film Challenge 6: The Cruel Sea (1953)

Kenneth Tynan famously described Ealing producer Michael Balcon as being interested in films about ‘men at work, men engrossed in a crisis, men who communicate with their women mainly by post-card.’ (quoted in Barr, 77): however cynical, it is a description that is particularly apt for The Cruel Sea, which is two hours of naval officers acting professional or learning how to be professional.

The Cruel Sea is Ealing’s (arguably triumphant) return to the genre that helped define much of their early 1940s work – a war film about courage under fire, camaraderie and national spirit. Its depiction of naval warfare is reliant on some of the documentary-inspired elements that fuelled Ealing films such as San Demetrio London (1943) and non-Ealing projects like The Way Ahead (1944), expertly mixing actual battle footage, location shooting on a decommissioned ship, and some impressive model work. To this is added a note of world-weary commentary on the futility of war and its effect on men and their relationships – largely with the ships they sail on, actual women coming in a distant second.

But the reason for that ‘arguably triumphant’ note above is that the film, despite its canonical and popular status (the version I watched was the recent Blu-Ray release, one of the first Ealing films to get that technological make-over), never really gets beyond solid and reliable, with the occasional flash of creative and thematic interest. I can't imagine, for example, revisiting this the way I might Fiddlers Three. That may be because I have, over the years, seen my share of war films where British officers are strong and resilient, in love with the service and respectful of their fellow men, and willing to give their all to the war effort – this one ticks all those boxes, but it can feel desultory at times.

For those who haven’t seen it, a brief recap: Captain Ericson (Jack Hawkins) takes command of a corvette-class ship, the Compass Rose. Given largely untrained men such as Lockhart (Donald Sinden), Ferraby (John Stratton) and Morrell (Denholm Elliot), he has to mould them into professional naval officers fit to fight the German U-boats who keep attacking British convoys. The film tracks the officers and crew through the war.

In one sense then, this follows the pattern of British wartime films like Millions Like Us (1943) and The Way Ahead, with a group of people from different backgrounds brought together who, through personal bickering and wartime adversity, find a way to work together for the common good. But this film isn’t really interested in the wartime myth of a classless British war machine where working, middle and upper class could mingle and fight together; The Cruel Sea’s heroes are solidly middle class – Ericson comes from commercial shipping, Lockhart was a journalist, Ferraby a banker – and their stories take precedence over the lower ranks. When the Compass Rose is sunk by a torpedo, the film shows a mass of sailors jumping overboard, but it is the fate of 1^st Lieutenant Lockhart and Captain Ericson that it is concerned about.

[You wouldn’t have to dig far to posit a queer reading of this film around Lockhart and Ericson, as their relationship far outweighs anything between Lockhart and his Wren girlfriend (Virginia McKenna) or Ericson’s never-seen wife. Yet as the film states, this is largely about men and their machines – the concern and stress that plays over their faces when the ship lies dead in the water, their shared grief when she sinks, makes that clear]

Hawkins is the more interesting of the two main actors, largely because Sinden (although good) has the thankless task of playing the uncertain learner to Hawkins’ gruffer, complex captain. Hawkins gets to play a maudlin drunk, a stern professional, a man of action, and a man haunted by his actions. He also gets the meatier dramatic scenes: having to decide whether to sacrifice survivors in the water in order to destroy a U-Boat with depth charges, listening to the screams of men dying in the engine room when the Compass Rose in torpedoed, stubbornly insisting that the Saltash Castle continue to hunt for a second U-boat when all signs point to its destruction (and when even Lockhart begins to question him). Hawkins is also given leave to perform most of this through close-ups rather than dialogue: the more frenetic pace of editing during the depth charge sequence continually cutting back to his anguish as he makes the decision to sacrifice a small number of men for the greater good of stopping a U-boat. Focused on his eyes and face, the film gives away nothing until he barks the order to fire. It is as vicious in its way as Went the Day Well? was, and does more to show the morality of wartime than any of the film’s speeches on war’s dehumanising nature. Equally, later on, as Ericson boards his new command, he ‘hears’ the screams of the dead men from the sinking of the Compass Rose – and Hawkins gives a brief hint at the real man hidden inside the stern captain’s figure.

It is with moments such as the first depth charges, or the torpedo attack, that the film feels alive – editing, performance, and soundtrack pull together with common purpose. The sound editor deserves special mention for the film’s use of sound effects: at certain points, scenes are scored almost entirely by the noise of the sonar blips; when the Compass Rose lies dead in the water for essential repairs, the slightest noise is amplified (a pencil rolls across a table; a dropped glass, the engineers hammering) and gives the scene added tension. (this scene also benefits from a brief moment of tension-releasing humour at the end, where one officer tells the chief engineer that there were U –boats popping up to complain about the noise)

However, the strength of such sequences reveals one of the problems of the film: because of its episodic narrative (the film is based on a book, so may feature the highlights of that original story), the film only really comes alive (in that way) three or four times: around major sequences involving a U-boat hunt, the ship being targeted, or a new mission. In between, there are activities on ship and, more often towards the end of the film, scenes in civilian life where small dramas play out around the romantic relationships. Yet these are never as convincing, or as compelling as the drama around them, and the balance between the two is never met.

Yet these scenes remain fascinating in another way because it is the only time we see any female characters – even if they are sketchy, half-formed characters whose job is to appear, look pretty, then wait around until the next lull between action sequences. Virginia McKenna gets the most to do, convincing Sinden’s character that it is better to have something to lose than to have nothing to look forward to (she also complains that women don’t get to have the same professional relationships as men in wartime: a brief comment that is never pursued), but apart from that, the women are place-holders: Morrell’s glamorous actress wife (played by Moira Lister) who is having an affair behind his back (a brief but noticeable dig at glamour and media over hardship and the professions), Tallow’s sister (reliable wife material, but killed in an air raid), and Ferraby’s wife June who (if memory serves) has one line, at a party onboard ship.

Given the vocal and often dominant women in the other Ealing films watched to date, the absence of stronger female characters in the home front narrative (or, at least, minor characters who are more interestingly drawn) is particularly noticeable here. Given one of those characters is played by Moira Lister, who was so impressive in A Run for Your Money, it points out the vagaries of roles for women in the time period but also, possibly, across Ealing films more generally. As this blog continues, I imagine more of those comparisons and recurrences will occur.

Thematically, the film also makes a few veiled comments about men and technology in war, specially around the use of sonar and radar. Initially, these technologies are doubted (at one point, the ship receives a message that there may be 11 U-boats in the area, but the sonar cannot spot any), but the battle and the U-boat search becomes increasingly reliant on such technology. However, the final U-boat is only caught because of Ericson’s ‘hunch’ that the submarine is still out there – something confirmed by sonar, but only made possible by human intuition. Technology remains an uncertain tool, never entirely positive.

The film ends as it began, with a series of episodic events around another U-boat hunt and Lockhart and Ericson comparing notes on the last six years. But as 'The End' appeared on screen, and although I could see the elements of this film that have given it a classic status, I couldn't help wishing for the more focused and spontaneous Ealing of Fiddlers Three or The Love Lottery than this solid but largely forgettable film.

The Great Ealing Film Challenge: 5: The Love Lottery

There were many things I expected when I started watching The Love Lottery. But comparing the film to the James Bond series wasn't really one of them. Okay, I know the Niven connection is there, but there are strong narrative and design elements in this film that call to mind the heyday of the Bond series (i.e. the Connery years). As this is an Ealing comedy (and an under-rated one, in my view) no-one is planning world domination from inside a volcano. Instead, they're planning world domination from inside an ornate Italian villa, and nothing can stop them... not even David Niven.

For those that haven't seen the film - and I counted myself among that number until the weekend - The Love Lottery is a satirical 1950s look at media celebrity and the fanaticism of fan cultures. In it, David Niven (as Rex Allerton) becomes the prize in a worldwide 'love' lottery run by a sinister gambling organisation. Before watching it, my only knowledge of the film was Charles Barr's dismissal of it as 'a second stillborn comedy about the media' (Barr 1980, 192) but this is a sharp, and often funny, diatribe on celebrity culture, and media manipulation, that feels even more relevant today than it likely did in the 1950s. Now, I'll be the first to admit it doesn't fit neatly into the popular understanding of Ealing Studios - there is little in the way of cosy community, individual effort, 'projecting Britain' or documentary realism here. In its place the film adds capitalism gone mad, global domination, and our inability to fight against it. And some great visual gags.

I admit I'm a little biased - I've already published one article on Ealing's colour films (on their 1948 costume drama Saraband for Dead Lovers), and have another one planned that will deal with films such as The Love Lottery. I'm a believer in looking at such overlooked elements of Ealing's output and maybe challenging some of the assumptions around the studio. However, I've had disappointments with Ealing's colour films before - at some point soon, I will revisit Touch and Go, not a great contribution to the Ealing canon, colour or otherwise - so there are never any guarantees.

While on the topic of colour aesthetics, the film (although the print is a little weary) looks great, and features some stunning Technicolor cinematography that, if restored, could rival some of Powell & Pressburger's colour work. That comparison may seem unlikely - the Archers and Ealing don't seem like traditional bedfellows - but The Love Lottery boasts a great balance of fantastic and realistic imagery. Utilising the full scope of the Technicolor palette, these flights of fancy bloom on screen through a series of dream sequences. The male dreams are frequently about female fan violence against his person (the film opens with Rex Allerton - Niven - literally ripped apart by passionate fans at a film premiere) while the female dreams feature more classic fantasies of romantic dining and dancing, though again in a dreamlike world of blue and green hues.

While pretty pictures and compositions are a perfectly good reason to enjoy this film, the comedy / satire offers enjoyment at the narrative and thematic level. As Barr identifies, the theme is fandom, particularly female fandom around Hollywood stars. However, it would be wrong to dismiss this as simply a male attack on hysterical femininity - it is also a pointed commentary on how media corporations (notably film, television, magazines and advertising) develop, stoke, target and commercialise female fan worship. It is, at its heart, an attack on commercialisation and capitalism.

The satire is often broad, but blackly comic - that opening image of Allerton being ripped apart by fans, for example - and that tone balances out the more slapstick moments. For those moments where the characterisation doesn't convince (Allerton's initial - and sudden - announcement that he will auction himself off feels too cavalier) there are others (Allerton's ego punctured by the fact he is constantly playing second fiddle to the studio's real star, Fang the Wonder-Dog; Niven's subtle performance of malaise as Allerton derides the carbon-copy Don Juan roles he is stuck in) that deepen the broader narrative developments.

As for that Bond reference? Well, it is another of the ways that the film feels prescient: the sinister International Syndicate of Computation (the villains of the piece, who run the public lottery to 'win' Allerton) feels like a blueprint for SMERSH or SPECTRE from the Bond series, down to a Ken Adams-esque splendid meeting room, where the boss (Herbert Lom) is dwarfed by a huge map of the world. He rules over representatives from Hungary, China and elsewhere - a suggestion of eastern bloc attempting to achieve dominance over the capitalist west?

The film's focus on computation and mechanisation also links it to larger cultural anxieties over technology and its potentially dehumanising effect on society. Most often seen in works of science fiction (which, despite Fiddlers Three and The Man in the White Suit, was never Ealing's forte), this romantic comedy also develops similar ideas: particularly around the character of Jane Dumois (Anne Vernon), an ICS mathematical genius who can work out gambling odds faster than a computer.

For all this interest in computers, gambling and evil international syndicates, the film's central concern rings true today -  why do people treat those with a degree of celebrity in a different way? And what does this constant publicity do to the people who are "stars"? Aside from Rex, the main character who achieves fame is the winner of the 'love' lottery, Sally (Peggy Cummins): yet after one public occasion, where she is confronted by a mob of celebrity-hungry fans who tear at her dress and hair, she is ready to return to a 'normal' life. Rex is also shown as constantly hounded by fans, resorting to (unconvincing) disguises and secret routes into hotels to lead anything resembling a 'normal' life (although, given this normal life includes a manservant, Jennings, it is hard to feel 'too' sorry for him). Rex also has to live with the knowledge that his star image has restricted his life and career choices - a British talent agent tells him no one will accept him in "ordinary clothes" again after all these years as a dashing screen adventurer. (again, a note that remains relevant today)

Yet for all its interest in this topic, however, the narrative wants its satire and its cake too: Rex gains a wife who rejects his screen persona, but still retains his stardom (the aforementioned 'brain', Jane, who - and this is one of the film's worrying contentions - loses her mathematical abilities by falling in love?!); while Sally returns to her solid, reliable Scottish boyfriend (Gordon Jackson, doing good work in another, largely thankless, small Ealing role). The 'star' continues to be famous; Peggy's celebrity lasts for around 15 minutes: in some sense, normalcy is restored.

Interesting, and timeless, though its musing on celebrity is - and given the narrative seems down on the whole concept throughout - the film's theme is skewed by its coda, where Herbert Lom (head of ICS), having succeeded in making a fortune with the Allerton lottery, recognises Humphrey Bogart leaning on a railing on London's South Bank. The film, obviously in awe of this authentic Holywood star deigning to appear in the closing scene, ends up as much as fawning fan as any of the rabid examples it has populated its narrative with.

Overall, this is a bit of a gem. Its sexual politics are very 1950s, but its colour compositions and its attempt to engage with debates over celebrity culture, mean this has been unfairly overlooked.

The Great Ealing Film Challenge: 4: Fiddlers Three (1944)

Now, this one is a real curio - a British romantic comedy science-fiction / fantasy musical. Starring one of Ealing's early comedy 'stars' - Tommy Trinder (probably most famous these days for the 1944 Champagne Charlie) - this is a fun but lightweight time travel film with two sailors and a Wren sent back to Nero's Rome during a thunderstorm on Midsummer Night at Stonehenge.

It's a shame I saw this too late to include it in my new book (Science Fiction Film: A Critical Introduction) because it does play with most of the standard time travel conventions (most of which existed before there was anything that could be described as a 'science fiction' genre): the time travellers survive by offering prophecies of the future (here, about Nero fiddling while Rome burns - a concept that this Nero rather approves of), they inadvertently cause famous events to occur (because of Trinder, Nero accidentally chops the arms off the Venus des Milos statue), and comparisons are made between 'now' and 'then' (Nero scolds his wife for using up too much milk for her bath, says they can't have an expensive funeral during wartime). In this sense, comic fantasy might be a more appropriate term than 'science fiction,' if only because of the obvious debt the film owes Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889).

The film is constantly playful, even if doesn't offer the most successful blend of comedy and musical. The songs are solid but forgettable - the stand-out probably by Poppaea (Frances Day), whose 'Caeser's Wife' is a list of her conquests of famous Roman emperors - but one of Trinder's better numbers offers nice time travel lyrics comparing Rome to London ('There's a Hippodrome in Leicester Square, and a Circus in Piccadilly'). There are also flashes of postmodern fourth-wall-breaking: a Roman tailor, nonplussed when Lydia (Diana Decker) and 'the Professor' (Sonnie Hale) announce they are from the 20th Century, notes that they (Rome) had Eddie Cantor visit a few years earlier (in the 1933 Cantor film Roman Sandals, Cantor's character falls asleep and wakes up in Roman times).

The cast are strong, but there are few stand-outs: Trinder is charming and a good lead, but perhaps not best served by this script; Hale is a decent straight man, but Decker is a strange inclusion: playing a Wren but obviously American, was she on loan to Ealing at the time? Day is also American, but the character of Poppaea is described as a 'glamour girl' by Hale early on, and the film plays up to this - her hair and make-up are more 1930s Hollywood than ancient Rome, and her overt sexuality seems a direct continuation of that characterisation. Nero (Francis L Sullivan) is never as conniving, jealous or villainous as the script demands although, as noted, his childish glee on recognising his potential behaviour while Rome burns is well-played.

Much of the comedy appears like an early draft of Carry On Cleo - there is a slave auction, male cross-dressing, slapstick antics around a milk bath, servants more intelligent than their masters, and terrible puns both visual (the Roman tailor has a stone sign with a scissor motif on it) and verbal (one of the attractions at Nero's orgy is 'Lisa, the strip-teaser, from Pisa'). Like the Carry On series, the script also revolves around the promise or allure of sex - not a topic that Ealing Studios was ever that comfortable with - and which is diffused here through Trinder and Hale dressing in woman's clothes wherever possible, or the tamest Roman orgy scene in cinema history. As the film's strongest sexual figure, Poppaea's attempted seduction of Trinder points out the irony of his supposed ladies man persona - he's reluctant to get his toga off, and ends up hiding inside a vase when Nero appears.

The film is notable in other ways - the set design is impressive, with Ealing's studios being transformed into various spacious Roman sets; there is (again) solid use of back projection (most notable in the final scene, when Trinder is dangling over a lion pit); and it gives a whole musical sequence over to black character Nora (Elisabeth Welch, an American singer whose career included several British productions), although visual aspects of 'Drums of My Heart' do also pander to particular African native stereotypes.

Like many time travel films, however, the narrative reaches a curious (and unsatisfying) conclusion. Given the fantasy elements of their transport back to the past - lightning striking a druid's altar at Stonehenge at Midsummer causes them to go back to Stonehenge in ancient Britain - their return to the future is caused... by lightning striking a metal spear in a lion pit in Rome which sends them back to Stonehenge in 1944, with their old navy uniforms on. The change in location and costume seems to suggest the old 'it was all a dream' option, but their memories of Rome are fresh and accurate - the lightning has, apparently, sent them back to the moment they went back in time (the complexity of temporal mechanics in time travel narratives obviously not the main aim here).

The most curious element, however, is that - after running away from Stonehenge to avoid the lightning strike - the film itself offers a visual metaphor for time travel. The film literally rewinds the original footage, so that all three (in reverse) hop back onto the bike, ride (in reverse) down the country lane, and end up back on the main road - at which point the film moves forward again, and they head off, avoiding the route to Stonehenge completely. It is a small note, and it was no doubt a cost saving measure, but using the reversal of film stock to suggest the effects of time travel links the film to the earliest 'trick' films and to later bigger budget science fiction movies.

The Great Ealing Film Challenge 3: A Run for Your Money

With the less than auspicious poster tagline (visible on the left) 'A Spree with a harp and a harpy,' this is one of Ealing Studios' lesser known comedies, a light farce that relies too heavily on awkward stereotypes and thinly drawn characters, and never feels coherent or convincing.

When two naive Welsh miner brothers win a competition (for coal shovelling, no less), they leave their small mining town for a trip to the bright lights of London, to collect their £200 prize and see the England-Wales rugby game. Hi-jinks, naturally, ensue, but they are largely predictable and not surreal or different enough to raise this film above the crowd. There's plenty of mileage in a good fish-out-of-water narrative, but this squanders a strong cast (including an energetic lead in Dai Jones, played by Donald Houston, and strong support from Moira Lister and Ealing stalwart Alec Guinness) in a tale of Welsh cliche, con artists and inconclusive running around.

The film also doesn't look particularly different from many low budget British films of the period (late 1940s/early 1950s): the lighting is mostly flat, only really coming to life in the early underground pit scenes, where cinematographer Douglas Slocombe uses shadows and the dark angles of the coal face and machinery to offer real depth of image. In fact, the night scenes towards the end of the film also contain more interesting composition, but don't reach the creativity of those opening images. As ever - and this is a recurring feature in all three Ealing films I've watched to date (and others I can think of) - the location work is impressive, featuring Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, Fleet Street and Twickenham. There's also some nice back projection work going on, an impressive (if largely ignored) technical side to Ealing's films.

Despite my criticism of the film overall, there are some good ingredients: the two central performances (the brothers) are solid, but the plot doesn't really have a lot for them to do. They are Welsh largely because it allows the film to throw some Welsh (and English) stereotypes around - leeks, drinking, singing etc. It's not a negative depiction - the brothers are innocent, not stupid, and they technically *win* the day - but it lacks any nuance and often feels like a lot of pointless movement without purpose. Equally, Alec Guinness isn't given much to work with as the reporter Mr. Whimple - he does what he can with Whimple's growing sense of frustration, the only sane man in the midst of mayhem (a gardening columnist asked to chase around after two Welshmen). His initial introduction suggests a more interesting laconic, callous figure, but that disappears in the face of misunderstandings and chases. He is simply a figure to be buffeted by the winds of the plot, a position summed up by his closing line, requesting a quiet police cell for the night so he can write up his story.

Continuing my focus on female performance from Train of Events, the stand-out performance here is probably Moira Lister, who brings a lightness of touch to Jo, the female con artist trying to fleece Dai. Her performance is energetic, bright, and works well opposite Houston, but is laden with one of those abrupt character decisions that is motivated by plot, and has little justification on the screen or in dialogue. This hard-as-nails schemer spends a day with Welsh innocent Dai, then suddenly decides to abandon her life of crime? That this turn isn't entirely risible is largely due to Lister's performance, particularly her transformation when trying on an outfit in an expensive dress shop and, later, in her flat with Dai (who tells her of the wonders of Wales) - Lister lets some of Jo's hard edge drop and seems to reveal a softer side... but still manages to leave the audience questioning how much was real, and how much was an act for dopey Dai.

In terms of the comedy, there are some nice visual and verbal gags: most notably when older brother Twm (Meredith Edwards) and Huw (a Welsh harpist friend he meets in London) drunkenly attempt to board a Piccadilly line tube train. At separate doors, they dart forward and back, in and out the doors, trying to spot each other and stopping the doors from closing - it runs long enough to be funny, particularly as Huw is dragging a huge harp around with him. This also leads to a strong moment of community bickering where, on the tube train, Twm asks for directions to Twickenham. The various representatives of different classes offer advice, which descends into full-blown argument about the best route (the upper class woman suggests a taxi, which is met with much venon and discussion of bus routes). Given Ealing's interest in community (seen in films such as Whisky Galore! and Passport to Pimlico - the poster for which has a cheeky cameo towards the end of the film) it might be important that this temporary London community is more about chaos and disagreement than the loving, supportive community of the Welsh village that Dai and Twm long to return to.

All in all - I haven't even mentioned the final act running around or the strange effect Twm and Huw's talent show double act has on the London audience - this is an interesting curio, but its individual parts just don't add up to anything coherent or significant.

The Great Ealing Film Challenge 2: Train of Events (1949)

It's a bit of a cliche to note the link between classic British cinema and trains: A Kiss in the Tunnel, The 39 Steps, Brief Encounter, The Titfield Thunderbolt, The Ladykillers, Murder on the Orient Express, Trainspotting (even if only vaguely)...the train (and the train movie) has been to British cinema what the car (and the road movie) was to America.

Which brings me to today's entry in the Great Ealing Film Challenge: the 1949 portmanteau Train of Events. The most obvious link to Went the Day Well? is the use, again, of a flashback structure - starting with a train crash and then winding the clock back three days to introduce a range of characters who may - or may not - be on the doomed train. This narrative conceit is, apart from a few slips, successful, because it allows the audience to guess which of these characters will end up buying a ticket, and why they're on the train in the first place.

Of the four parallel narratives (which only cross-over at the very end, fatally for two characters) my favourites remain the murderous actor and the philandering conductor. The train driver and family narrative is a bit uneventful (though Jack Warner as the father is solid as ever, and there's some not-so-subtle anti-Americanism going on in it) and the prisoner-of-war plot remains curiously one note (though with good performances and a nice downbeat denoument): but the attraction with the other stories is the strong female performances from Mary Morris and Valerie Hobson, despite being saddled with (what seem like) stereotypical roles - the philandering wife/femme fatale and the loving wife.

Although only in the film for four-five minute, Louise (Mary Morris) is the heart of that story, not least because (echoing Poe) the wicker basket containing her corpse continues to haunt her murderous actor husband, Philip (Peter Finch). Her drunken, sexual and dismissive presence mocks Philip throughout her main scene (beautifully counterpointed with the lyrics from 'their song': 'These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)' - and then her demeanour switches, as she realises the war has changed her husband, made him harsher, more dangerous...perhaps more attractive because of that. Her rekindled interest in this new side of him is ultimately punished (as, later, is he) but Morris's nuanced and memorable performance informs the rest of the film.

Valerie Hobson, by contrast, is the perfect wife in her segment - but, again, there is a nice switch in performance where she explains, over tea and scones with her husband's mistress, that the mistress is simply one in a line of conquests. A scene mirrored in many other films (including, most recently, in the BBC's The Hour), here it is a moment of comedy and regret, and reveals Hobson's control of the scene (and, in fictional terms, the marriage). It is a great comic performance, lighthearted but with a steel edge. It is a shame the film feels the need to show the husband catching the eye of another potential mistress at the end of this segment - however, Hobson remains omnipresent, in her own box at the theatre, and arguably still with a degree of control.

The film also features an early dramatised view of television: the philandering conductor caught up in a strange TV magazine feature called 'On the Mat' where he is asked to defend his musical composition about Lancelot being in love with two women. The clunky metaphor aside, the sequence is fascinating for simply showing television functioning - there is no sense (yet) of this new medium as a competitor to be dismissed or debunked.

And, finally, there is the train crash itself. A quick-fire montage of images, some of them obvious model shots, sells the concept without lingering on it, or creating it as spectacle. It is, like Went the Day Well?, more visceral than I expected - the engine and carriages are wrenched apart, we see walls buckling, fires breaking out - and it leads to an impressive piece of set design of the post-crash train wreckage, where the various story codas play out.

Alongside some great visual flourishes (great use of location filming, dimly lit back streets and train yards that wouldn't look out of place in a film noir, canted angles to convey Finch's increasing mental deterioration) there is also a strong use of sound: the train whistles and noises constnatly interrupt and punctuate scenes, and there is a brief aural flashback to Nazi Germany (loud Germanic voices and speeches) that suggests the history haunting the prisoner-of-war.

All in all, another strong entry - not as well known as Ealing's other 1940s portmanteau film Dead of Night but entertaining and enjoyable nevertheless.

The Great Ealing Film Challenge 1: Went the Day Well?

At the recent BFI Town Hall meeting, there was an audio-visual presentation about the BFI and its (valuable) contributions to British cinema. Part of this presentation featured what, with apologies to whomever put it together, might be the worst trailer I've ever seen (and I've seen more than a few!): a modern trailer advertising a re-release of this very film, Went the Day Well?

Watching the film again, I am agog that they managed to cock that trailer up quite so badly: I mean, this is a film stuffed full of good scenes, great character performances, some fun lines, and a fantastic central concept - what would a small (and quaint, naturally) English village do if undercover German troops invaded during WW2?

With a hook that strong, the film doesn't disappoint. Although lumbered with a rather clumsy flashback structure, this is harsh, rarely predictable, filmmaking - and I suppose I'd better signal [spoiler warning]... the home guard are massacred in a machine gun ambush, the post-mistress is bayoneted (though not before killing one of the German soldiers with a pepper pot and an axe, and attempting to raise the alarm), the vicar is shot, and the local policeman is stabbed by the vollage's secret fifth columnist. There are a few cliches - the Germans are resolutely evil (although occasionally dim at keeping their secret), there is the requisite plucky young lad who breaks through the enemy lines to the next village - but even here, the film earns itself some narrative latitude by shooting said lad in the leg, half-drowning him in a river, and merrily knocking off his poacher friend and dog.

The film isn't showy, but its crisp black-and-white photography is solid, and the editing creates a strong pace throughout. Some great location work adds to the atmosphere being created, and these elements combine to give the final battlescenes (in the fields and the manor house gardens) a real sense of urgency.

I think what impressed me most, however, was the playful black humour running through the film's drama: the aforementioned pepper pot incident, the German plot almost uncovered through a huge bar of Viennese 'Chokolade' in the commanding officer's kit bag, the hastily scrawled secret message for help being used, unwittingly, to prop open a dodgy car window, the home guard (pre-slaughter) noting innocently (and wrongly) that they can't have heard the church bells ring twice because that would be the code for enemy paratroopers having invaded... these little moments both lighten and add to the growing tension of the film. While it is never in doubt that good (i.e. England) will prevail, the willingness of the film to bump off its supporting cast does keep you guessing longer than you might expect.

I know not all Ealing films will rise to this level, but this was a great start to the Great Ealing Film Challenge...

The Great Ealing Film Challenge

This last week, the BBC, Channel 4 and other news organisations joined in celebrations for Ealing Studio's 80th anniversary.

Which is all well and good, except Ealing Studios already celebrated a 100 YEAR anniversary back in 2002 - http://www.ealingtimes.co.uk/ealingguide/ealingstudios/ealingstudiohistory/ - to commemorate the actual founding of the studio. As Catherine Grant at Film Studies for Free (http://filmstudiesforfree.blogspot.com/) pointed out, the rather obscure anniversary that has just been celebrated was 80 years since the establishment of Ealing's sound stages in 1931.

(curious also how this 'anniversary' occurred at the same time as cinema and Blu-Ray DVD releases of several of the famous 'Ealing Comedies' - among them, The Lavender Hill Mob and Whisky Galore!)

Now, this blog has no desire to dampen such celebratory spirit - Ealing is, after all, a stalwart part of British cinema history and deserves renewed attention. So it is in that spirit that ths blog has decided to conduct its own obscure 80th anniversary celebration... and attempt to watch all of the Ealing Studios films.

Of course, there are some provisos - the list of 95 films I am working from comes from Charles Barr's Ealing Studios book, and is therefore focused entirely on the Michael Balcon years (1938-59. Given the difficulty of seeing much of the studio's output (either before 1938 or, in some cases, after), seeing all of those 95 is already something of a challenge (they're not all available on DVD ). I may also decide to throw in an occasional 'new' Ealing film (although they've been a bit quiet of late, apart from the revived St. Trinian's franchise), but the main reviews/comments will be from that initial list of 95.

The order in which I watch the films is largely going to be decided at whim, steered by the DVDs already in my collection and the vagaries of Lovefilm - the initial batch will include some of the well-known titles (commentary on Went the Day Well? and The Man in the White Suit will likely appear in the first week) and those lesser known titles that I realise I've never seen (the likes of The Love Lottery (1954), Nine Men (1943), The Feminine Touch (1954) and Train of Events (1950).

Normal blog service will continue as normal - i.e. when I see a film/TV/media related story I want to comment on, I'll still write something - but this is an experiment that is (a) related to other (off-line) Ealing work I'm doing and (b) designed to see if I can keep a more regular schedule for blog posts.

Look for the first commentary - on Went the Day Well? - later today...