Think of British films and what comes to mind? Class conflict, tortured
sexuality, secret love affairs, spy stories, horror, technical expertise,
good music, the occasional epic and great acting. Not to mention broad
humour and the quaint and adorable eccentricity of simple souls. But was it
always thus?
No. The first film I remember seeing was at the Picture House, Southampton, in
1937. It was called Old Mother Riley and starred Arthur Lucan done up
as a tacky northern washerwoman cohabiting with his real-life Irish wife
Kitty McShane, masquerading as his daughter. To an innocent ten-year-old all
this gender bending was a bit confusing.
And it continued to be for the next 15 years as Mum, a dyed-in-the-wool fan,
dragged me along – sometimes twice a year (they were very prolific), until
the pair divorced and stopped making the Old Mother Riley films. I endured
this knockabout comic genius in the guise of a headmistress, an MP, a
detective and a vampire, to name but a few. It was the nadir of British
cinema.
Other local talents were also squandered by super-low budgets, shoddy scripts
and indifferent directors. Artists such as Gracie Fields and George Formby,
for instance – always so much better than their material.
But, as an avid reader of Picturegoer magazine, I was well aware that
there was also some quality stuff on offer. While Mum was taking in every
American musical ever made, I’d sometimes forgo Fred and Ginger and walk
alone from my home to the Broadway cinema to see British films such as The
Private Life of Henry VIII, starring Charles Laughton. In the case of
A-certificate movies I was too youg to see, such as that wonderful sci-fi
epic Things to Come and Hitchcock’s 39 Steps, I’d accost
an adult patron with my 4d entrance fee and the piteous plea: “Please, can
you get me in?” No, there was never a nasty moment.
Then came the war and the first of David Lean’s many epics, In Which
We Serve, a stark naval drama in glorious black and white. Then came
colour and Laurence Olivier’s morale-boosting Henry V with its
inspirational score by William Walton. But Powell and Pressburger’s The
Life and Death of Colonel Blimp ran into trouble – Churchill thought it
would be bad for morale when it came out in 1943 and tried, unsuccessfully,
to have it banned.
That unique innovator Michael Powell continued to have hits with such triumphs
as Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes, A Matter of Life and Death and the
super-kinky Peeping Tom, which spelt the demise of his career – but
heralded the emergence of an ever-increasing band of kindred spirits,
including Tony Richardson (Look Back in Anger), Karel Reisz (Saturday
Night and Sunday Morning), Stanley Kubrick (A Clockwork Orange)
and Nicholas Roeg (Performance).
The steady trickle of talented directors turned into a torrent throughout the
last decades of the century, largely because of American finance. But when
the tax breaks dried up, the big companies returned to Hollywood, taking the
cream of British talent with them, from John Schlesinger, John Boorman and
Michael Apted to Anthony Minghella, Ridley Scott and Paul Greengrass.
But hold on, haven’t I forgotten something? What about the Ealing comedies or
the Carry Ons, all 30 of them? Well, what about them? You either love
’em or you hate ’em. Personally, I seem to share the humour of that
underrated director Richard Lester with his Beatles sagas and the most
joyous movie ever to be made outside of a Marx Brothers studio – A
Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, starring the irrepressible
Zero Mostel.
So what of British cinema today? Most of the big hits – such as the Harry
Potter series – are American jobs. True, we may still have that national
treasure Mike Leigh, but nowadays a high percentage of films backed by
British Film Finance go straight to video. Lately, I picked up a random
title from one of my local library’s loaded shelves. Summer Rain
looked promising, with three festival awards to its credit. My expectations
climbed even higher when a golden egg appeared on my TV screen emblazoned
with the logo “Great British Films”.
But as the titles gave way to the sound of a lavatory flushing, I began to
fear that films based on the great Carry On tradition were not dead.
This was confirmed as a curly-headed youth emerged into a scruffy bedsit.
Dressed only in undies, he proceeded to scratch his scrotum and fart loudly
until his early-morning ritual was drowned by heavy rock music. Yes, we were
about to have our noses rubbed in an unsavoury helping of yob culture.
As for the plot, well, it’s sex-starved characters chewing over a large dollop
of “hunt the sausage”. No comment. Such low-life stuff has little
international appeal; in fact, the last British pictures that had worldwide
raves were The Full Monty and Billy Elliot, films that danced
their way into the heart.
But despair not – hope is on the way with some really outstanding movies
available or advertised on the internet. Catch a sneak preview of www.deniedthemovie.com,
made by the 16-year-old Timothy Reynard. And don’t miss A Kitten
for Hitler (directed by one K Russell), now on www.comedybox.tv,
and count the days until the premiere of the groundbreaking Boudica Bites
Back around Easter on Times Online.
