Talking Pictures

Just another weblog

The Tin Drum / Die Blechtrommel, West Germany 1979

Posted by keith1942 on April 17, 2015


Gunther Grass died in the last week. A towering figure in recent world literature, his most famous work also became a famous film. I have read the novel twice: the second time to prepare for a screening of the film version [in 35mm] as part of a series at York City Screen of European Classic on Film. The other three screenings were The Lady With a Dog from Chekhov: La Bête Humaine from Emile Zola: and That Obscure Object of Desire from Pierre Louys’ The Woman and the Puppet. The Tin Drum was the fourth and final screening. On the way to York that morning I read [as usual] the Saturday Guardian: the best section being the Review. That issue opened with a long article by Salmon Rushdie on adapting literature into film: and he ended by singling out the film version of the Günther Grass novel as a fine example of this art. One could list other adaptation of the same calibre and, as I suggest below, the adaptation has limitations: still it is a great example of the craft and a worthy addition to memorials to the novelist.

Günther Grass’s book, first published in 1959, is reckoned to be the finest novel published in Germany since the end of World War II. [Both the Penguin and Vintage editions are translated by Ralph Manheim]. It is also a key work, dramatising Germany’s pre-occupation with its past, especially the period of the Third Reich: the extreme nationalism, the wars and the European Holocaust. These remain potent themes, witness the success of the recent fictional work, The Reader / Der Vorleser by Bernhard Schlink.

Grass’s story is focused on Oskar, a unique individual who stopped growing at the age of three years, and refuses to grow to adult size. He is also gifted with an unusually piercing scream, which punctuates the story of his life. And he plays with, to great effect, the instrument in the title. Oskar narrates his tale from a mental institution, where he has been committed, in the 1950s.

The narration is unusual. Oskar switches from first to third person and back again repeatedly. The book is structured around flashbacks, so the reader constantly returns to Oskar in the then present. The style of the book is far from the naturalism of Zola. The narrative is full of bizarre events, presented alongside detailed descriptions of actual places and of re-created historical actions. Oskar commences his tale in 1899 with the meeting of his grandparents: then takes us through the birth of his mother, her marriage and his own conception in 1924. Thus most of Oskar’s childhood and adulthood are passed under the shadow of the rise of Fascism and of the Third Reich.

Grass sets the novel in his hometown of Danzig. This is a potent spot in modern German history. Danzig was part of Prussia and therefore acceded to the new German Empire in 1871. After World War I and the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the creation of a Polish State dramatically moved the borders in this region. Much of Prussia was ceded to Poland. In addition East Prussia was separated from the main mass of Germany. As an important and strategic port for the area Danzig was declared a ‘Free City’ under the protection of the League of Nations, [in January 1920]. It had its own administration, currency and so on. Poland, which surrounded this small territory, had a military presence on the Westerplatte and a Polish Post Office. According to the census taken in 1934, Danzig had 383,955 inhabitants, 96 % Germans, 3 % Poles, Kashubians; 60 % Lutherans, 35 % Catholics. Predictably the separation from the ‘German fatherland’ caused outrage among German–speakers in Danzig and in Germany itself.

In the 1930s the National Socialist Party increased its representation in the city. There was also an increasing emigration from the small Jewish population. In November 1938 the city introduced the Nuremberg Race Laws. In 1939 Hitler demanded a ‘korridor’ between Germany and its province of East Prussia. In August the Danzig Gauleiter staged a coup d’etat. Then on September 1st a German warship opened fire on the Westerplatte. The invasion of Poland and the European war had commenced. The Polish Post Office became a battleground. Danzig was annexed to the Third Reich.

Early in 1945 the Red Army conquered the city which it placed under Polish administration. This was followed by large-scale migration from the city by German-speakers. After the war the port remained in Poland and became known as Gdansk. As the latter city it was to have further dynamic and influential conflicts.


Volker Schlöndorff was an appropriate person to transpose the novel to the screen. There had been several earlier attempts, which came to nought. Schlöndorff had already directed several screen adaptations from literature. His first film, which was very well received, was Der Junge Törless (Young Torless, 1966, from the novel by Robert Musil). The film was set in the turn-of-the-century German boarding school, critically examining its cruelties. [This has been a theme in a number of German films: there are parallels with Michael Haneke’s recent The White Ribbon / Das Weise Band Eine Deutsche Kindergeschichte, 2009].

Schlöndorff was equally apt because he was a member of a group which was to become the New German Cinema. Junger Deutcher Film was inaugurated in 1962 with the issuing of the Oberhausen Manifesto. This was a group of 26 writers and filmmakers who demanded freedom from industry conventions and commercial strictures. They were able to make their way at this time through government grants, support by a new Film Institute in Berlin, and with financial support by German Television. The group included [besides Schlöndorff], Edgar Reich and Jean-Marie Straub. To these were added directors like Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Werner Hertzog and Wim Wenders. The films had disparate styles but the common bond was a critical approach, both to the question of Germany’s past, and to the ‘bourgeois complacency’ of contemporary Germany. This did not always translate into success at the domestic box office, but many of the films were critical successes and fared well on the International Art Circuit.

Schlöndorff Young Torless fitted in with this critical approach, as the film could be read as a metaphorical indictment of German complicity in the crimes of Nazism. His wife, Margarethe von Trotta, who started as an actress, also took up film direction. Her Die Bleierne Zeit (The German Sisters, 1979) examined the impact of such movements as the Red Army Faction or Baader-Meinhoff Group.

The Tin Drum / Die Blechtrommel, 1979. West Germany / France.

Bioskop Films Artemis Films & Argos Films.

Director: Volker Schlöndorff. Screenplay: Jean Claude Carrière [familiar from Bunuel’s films], Volker Schlöndorff, Franz Seit, and Günter Grass [who is credited with dialogue].

Cinematography: Igor Luther. Editor: Suzanne Baron. Production Design: Nicos Perakis. Music Maurice Jarre. The film is in colour and European widescreen. Running time 142 minutes. German with English subtitles.

Cast: Mario Adorf – Alfred Matzerath. Angela Winkler – Agnes Matzerath. Katharina Thalbach – Maria Matzerath. David Bennent – Oskar Matzerath. Daniel Olbrychski – Jan Bronski. Tina Engel – Anna Koljaiczek (young). Berta Drews – Anna Koljaiczek (old). Charles Aznavour – Sigismund Markus. Roland Teubner – Joseph Koljaiczek. Tadeusz Kunikowski – Uncle Vinzenz. Andréa Ferréol – Lina Greff. Heinz Bennent – Greff. Ilse Pagé – Gretchen Scheffler. Werner Rehm – Scheffler. Käte Jaenicke – Mother Truczinski. Helmut Brasch – Old Heilandt.

The Tin Drum was one of the most financially successful German films of the 1970s. It won the 1979 Academy Award for Best Foreign Film and was jointly awarded the 1979 Palme d’Or at Cannes, along with Apocalypse Now.

Predictably the film both compresses and shortens the novel, which itself ran to 580 pages. For example, the opening sequence concerning Oskar’s grandparents leaves out quite a lot of writing and plot. Similarly, in the course of the novel certain sequences are eliminated. But many of the most powerful, like the Nazi rally in Danzig or the battle at the Polish Post Office, remain.

The film also alters the narrative voice. We still have Oskar’s commentary, but the flashback structure has been replaced with a linear form. More drastically, the film ends in 1945 as Oskar and his family joined the evacuation of the German-speaking citizens. This leaves out Part Three of the novel, about 150 pages. The written story carries on until 1954 and contains ironic developments in Oskar life, which comment obliquely on post-war Germany.

Another important change stems from the casting. Oskar is played by the 12 year old David Bennent, [brilliantly]. However, in the novel Grass insistently tells the reader that Oskar develops: though he remains in a child size body.

The film did suffer some attempted censorship in the USA. This was mainly due to objections to the explicit sex scenes, and [I suspect] the outrage was exacerbated by the child-like central protagonist.


About his preference for screen adaptations Schlöndorff has said:

“A great part of my experience in life is reading. A filmmaker translates an experience into cinema. And I consider it legitimate to translate my reading experience into film to try to recall what moved me.”

And regarding the narrative stance of the film:

“It will not always work to stay in Oskar’s skin. Just as he speaks sometimes in the first person and sometimes, alienatingly child-like, in the third, so must the film narrative at times be quite subjective and at times show his shock from outside.”

[Quoted in Nazi-Retro Film How German Narrative Cinema Remembers the Past by Robert C. Reimer and Carol J. Reimer, 1992].


Re-watching these films and listening to the discussion caused me to think again about the films and the categories of ‘film adaptation’ suggested by Geoffrey Wagner. Transposition – Commentary – Analogy. These categories were used each week as an analytical tool in relating the individual films to a more general ‘Literature on Film approach’.

Transposition, ‘in which a novel is given directly on the screen with a minimum of apparent interference.’

Commentary, ‘where an original is taken and with purposively or inadvertently altered in some respect … when there has been a different intention on the part of the filmmaker, rather than infidelity or outright violence.’

Analogy, ‘which must represent a fairly considerable departure for the sake of making another work of art.’


Lady with the Dog / Dama s Sobachkoi, 19159 – The stultifying social atmosphere in Chekhov’s writings is a symptom of the decadent Tsarist Society. Perhaps there is a subtle reading to be made of the film’s relevance to 1960s Russia. It was then part of a moribund Soviet Union, which had lost the revolutionary political and cultural impulse of earlier Bolshevik periods. One can imagine apparatchiks aping the ennui of Dimitry’s acquaintances.

La Bête Humaine, 1938 – Zola’s novel provides a scathing critique of the political culture of 1860s France. This is most notable in the final careering train with its troops off to the Franco-Prussian war; [none of the three versions that I have seen actually uses Zola’s amazing descriptive and symbolic conclusion]. That was a war that caused the political establishment to collapse. This is clearly a strand in the Renoir adaptation, but it is less overt than in the novel. In the following year, in 1939, Renoir’s La Regle du Jeu [The Rules of the Game] does provide a quite ruthless demolition of ruling class values.

So both the above films could be seen as using the novel’s narrative to provide a commentary on their own times.

That Obscure Object of Desire / Cet Obscur Objet du Désir 1977  – Louy’s novel seems to satirise C19th bourgeois sexual mores, through the stereotypes of Spanish machismo. These were popular stereotypes in literature. Bunuel’s adaptation retains that satire, but crosses it with themes of social and political violence, social ritual, voyeurism and tourism. Thus the film appears to draw analogies between the novel and contemporary society, but also between social, political and cultural contradictions. Thus I find the film much more subversive than the original book, [and two earlier film versions – a silent ‘porn’ version from 192 and the famous 1939 adaptation with Marlene Dietrich, The Devil is a Woman]. Also, whilst the film’s staging bears the recognisable signs of the 1970s, thematically it seems to me a powerful parable for the new C21st.

To a degree Renoir’s film version is an analogy. Undoubtedly, Buñuel’s work falls under analogy: in his case for the sake of art and of turning art upside down.

The Tin Drum – Before the discussion I remarked on how revisiting the book and novel had sharpened my sense of how the film curtails the narrative of the novel. It seems that Schlöndorff closes down Grass’s critique to a focus on the Third Reich and Nazism. This possibly makes the film more pointed, but it produces a slightly restricted ‘commentary’. The emphasis is on Germany’s ‘past’: an approach that ties in with the New German Cinema approach. The film is very much ‘adaptation’, for which Rushdie rightly praises it. The ‘commentary’ aspect relates to the ‘commentary’ in Grass’ novel, but in a restricted manner.

So the major problem with the film’s adaptation is that Grass critique of the post-Third Reich Germany is largely missing. This is a crucial theme across Grass’s work, culminating in his unfashionable opposition to the form taken for reunification. Moreover, Grass, especially in later works, addresses the problems of the ‘Soviet Liberation’ and the issue of the DDR. But in its treatment of the fascist period the film remains one of the most biting and powerful dissections of that period of German history. I still find The Tin Drum more politically powerful than recent parallel films like The Reader (2008) or The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (2008).

I have recently seen the film adaptation of The Book Thief, a novel that I enjoyed immensely and which seems to be influence by Grass’s use of fantasy alongside realism. This later film just emphasises the quality of the Schlondorf film. If, as Rushdie argues, The Tin Drum is a great example of how to translate literature to film then The Book Thief is a text book example of how not to do so.

After the screenings, as at every session, we had a 20 to 25 minute questions and comments by the audience, composed of about 65 people. The final comment was by a young women who had attended all the screening and who usually had something interesting to say. I thanked everyone and said I hoped they had enjoyed the film and the morning. She sharply questioned my use of the word ‘enjoy’ and remarked on the grimness of the film. She was, of course, quite right. But I think she also agreed that enjoyment is only one aspect of cinema: there are other equally rewarding responses, and The Tin Drum feeds into a number of these.

Taken from the notes prepared for the York screening. Quotes by Grass in Nazi-Retro Film How German Narrative Cinema Remembers the Past by Robert C. Reimer and Carol J. Reimer, 1992. Adaptive categories in Geoffrey Wagner, The Novel and the Cinema, 1975.

Posted in German film, History on film, Literature on Film | Leave a Comment »

Vĕra Chytilová

Posted by keith1942 on April 11, 2015


Chytilová was one of the important filmmakers in the Czech New Wave and one of the outstanding women filmmakers in Europe at that time: fortunately less of a rarity now than then. Her most famous film is Daisies (Sedmikrásky. 1966). The film is a collage of colour, editing and avant-garde techniques: it follows the adventures of two young women. The film appears anarchic and Chytilová ’s work is often described as ‘Dadaist’. Certainly this was the most radical of the films to emerge in 1960s Czechoslovakia: the authorities tried to prevent its release. It subverted the prevailing cultural and gender politics, though Chytilová resisted the label of ‘feminist’. The film was screened at an earlier Leeds International Film Festival: unfortunately this used a DVD rather than film or DCP, and one of the screenings had a live musical accompaniment! But Chytilová ’s use of sound is equally important as her play with images.

So it was a pleasure when the Hyde Park Picture House screened two of her earlier student films, courtesy of the Czech Centre London and the Czech National Film Archive. The films have been restored from the original camera negatives by the Imagine Ritrovato in Bologna; fast becoming the foremost European laboratory for the production of such work. The result looked and sounded good and the two films [both from 1962] were an absorbing but also entertaining 85 minutes.

The first film was A Bagful of Fleas (Pytel blech). This was set among a group of young women working in a cotton-spinning factory and housed together in a women’s dormitory. The film opens with the arrival of a new worker [‘fresher} Eva. And she is the narrative voice of the film, whilst the focus is a young and unruly worker, Jana. The film takes in the highly organised ‘socialist’ culture and working environment. There is a disciplinary meeting involving not just manager and foremen, but other workers. The title of the film comes from a disparaging comment by an older man, some sort of supervisor, on the group of girls. We see the girls at work, in their leisure and with their interests in popular song and [predictably] men.

What gives the films its distinctive quality is the form and style. Much of the film has that fresh, observational use of the camera, which was one of the hallmarks of the Czech New Wave. But the film also has a mainly subjective viewpoint. We see characters and events from Eva’s point-of-view: her voice provides an intermittent commentary on the soundtrack and sequences are often shown through a subjective camera. In fact, only at the end of the film do we see Eva herself. One can see here already some of the tropes and motifs that were to appear in Chytilová ‘s mature films.

This cinematic approach was even more apparent in Ceiling (Strop). This film follows approximately 24 hours in the life of a medical student also working as a model, Martha. We see her modelling and on the cat walk: at mealtimes and with friends, and at parties. The film in some ways parallels Agnes Varda’s very fine Cleo From 5 to 7 (Cléo de 5 À 7, 1961). However, the Czech film differs in two important respects: Cleo, and the audience, learn of the problem that preoccupies her throughout the film right at the outset: whilst with Martha it is over halfway through the film that we learn of her pre-occupation. In addition Cleo encounters a sympathetic young soldier: all of the man in Ceiling struck me as unsympathetic.

The style with both films is also very different. Ceiling uses the elliptical editing that was also apparent in A Bagful of Fleas and which is the hallmark of Chytilová ‘s later films. Whilst Ceiling still has an observational feel there is a greater use of camera and sound techniques which typify avant-garde film. There is a restless camera, jump cuts and a range of angles and distances. The sound ranges through the diegetic and non-diegetic, both with noise and music. And some of the film has a strongly subjective feel and some a more distant presentation. Some critics have made comparisons with the films of Michelangelo Antonioni: what I was most reminded of was L’Eclisse, which itself only came out in 1962. And there is an impressive night-time scene as Martha wanders the urban spaces, which reminded me forcibly of Claude Chabrol’s Les Bonnes Femmes  (1960). This is not necessarily a question of a direct influence. There are common stylistic and thematic tropes across the European New Waves, as they responded to often common and dominant cinematic conventions and common cultural restrictions.

Dina Iordanova (2003) suggests that the Czech New Wave, whilst often quite divergent, did share certain common traits;

The specific manifestations of the Czechoslovak New Wave style can be reduced to an idiosyncratic combination of several characteristics. These include the interest in contemporary topics (often tackled with documentary authenticity), the subtle humour (often bordering on the absurd), the use of avant-garde and editing techniques (often deployed with astonishing persistence) and the attention to psychological detail (often better revealed in the exploration of interactions within a group rather stand in studies of individual protagonists).

Of course, Iordanova is writing about more than style here, but much of her description can be seen in these two films by Chytilová. The one point to emphasise is that A Bagful of Fleas is very much about group interaction whilst Ceiling is a study of an individual protagonist.

Someone remarked after the screening that it was ‘worth turning out on a Sunday to see these films’. Absolutely. If you missed them, well the Hyde Park is screening one of Chytilová ‘s major features, Fruits of Paradise (Ovoce stromu rajských jíme,  ) on April 30th. Possibly her most avant-garde work, the film uses an extraordinary mix of unconventional imagery and sound: whilst the ‘plot’ offers a symbolic treatment of gender issues.

Posted in East European Film, Films by women | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

The Tales of Hoffman, UK

Posted by keith1942 on April 4, 2015

Hoffman title

This was a Michael Powell and Emeric Production. It is an adaptation of the opera by Jacques Offenbach and was filmed in Technicolor and includes both operatic and ballet sequences. Both in terms of the Production team and the casting the film followed on from the success of one of the finest Powell and Pressburger collaborations, The Red Shoes (1948). The original opera was based on stories written by E. T. A. Hoffman who is also the key protagonist in the drama. The opera consists of a prologue, three acts and an epilogue. Offenbach died before completing the work and this was done by Ernest Guiraud. His contribution included recitatives, which are not always used: Offenbach preferring speech to recitative. The opera was first performed in Paris in 1881 and has remained a popular favourite: especially the bacarolle from Act 3.

Hoffman was part of the German Gothic literary movement, writing in the transition from the C18th to C19th. Michael Powell himself noted that he used techniques from German expressionism, which he had encountered first hand in the early part of his career. He writes extensively about the production in the second volume of his autobiography ‘Million Dollar Movie’ (1992).

This opera was one of several suggestions for film adaptations made by Sir Thomas Beecham. He was heavily involved in the production. At an early stage he played through the entire opera score for Michael and Emeric who busily made notes and decisions about their inclusion and treatment in the film. There are minor changes for the film, which does use recitative: the most significant change is that Act 2 and Act 3 are reversed so the film ends with Antonia, a more tragic event.

Beecham conducted the performance of the opera that provides the soundtrack and which was used in the filming for the ‘playback mode’. He also selected two singers who were part of the onscreen cast, though most of the players had their singing dubbed. And he appeared conducting the The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in the final frames of the film. The final frame has ‘The End’ followed by a stamped ‘Made in England’ – a nice touch for the premiere in New York, USA.

Hoffman observed by Lindorf

Hoffman observed by Lindorf

The prologue is set in a Nuremberg beer-cellar where we met Hoffman and his friend Niklaus: we also encounter another character Lindorf and learn of a lover figure Stella. Hoffman recounts three love affairs to a group of students: each love affair occupies one act and involves in sequence Olympia, Giuletta and Antonia. The final epilogue returns to the beer-cellar and Hoffman and his friend. A conflict which has underlain the actions and stories of the opera now come to ahead and resolution.

One of Offenbach’s intentions was that all the women should be performed by the same singer. And he also wanted the four ‘villains’ sung by the same male singer. The film follows the latter option but not the former. This is partly that the film makes greater use of ballet, with Michael and Emeric wanting to repeat their success with The Red Shoes.

The film is a sumptuous treat. The settings of the opera provide splendid opportunities for the Production Designer Hein Heckroth and his colleagues. The sets are beautifully constructed, decorated and coloured. The cinematography by Christopher Challis, who had worked on earlier films with Jack Cardiff, is very fine and at times reminiscent of the work of the great Technicolor master. [There is though one oddly inverted shot in this version?] The film is obviously a studio production, mainly shot at Shepperton. And it uses quite a few technical tricks for effect. Pressburger, who was always, quite rightly, credited as co-director with Powell, devised one of these, a lovely transition from Act 1 to Act 2.

Moira Shearer as Olympia

Moira Shearer as Olympia

Moira Shearer dances the main ballet presentation, in Act I with Olympia and she does this with great skill and elan. The embodiment of trickery and deception right through the film is Robert Helpmann, and who performs his own singing. Another performer who appears in all the three acts or stories is Leonide Massine. He, along with Ludmilla Tchérina appeared in The Red Shoes. In Act 2 of this film Tcherina plays Giuletta. The supportering dancers for both acts are also very well done.

The central problem in the film is the two actual opera singers: as I mentioned both were selected by Beecham. Whilst he was clearly an important and influential member of the production I don’t think he had a great cinematic sense. The character of Hoffman is sung and performed by Robert Rounseville. He is extremely wooden, lacking either intensity or mobility. Powell makes light of this in the book, but Rounseville does dampen what in many cases should be vital and passionate scenes. The other singer is Ann Ayars who performs Antonia in Act 3. I am afraid she is rather similar to Rounseville in her performance style. Alongside Hoffman is his friend Niklaus played by Pamela Brown. She was normally a fine actress and was also a redhead – a predilection of Powell. But she is as lacking in passion as Rounseville. She may have restrained he performance because of his: but there is also a strong homosexual strand in the relationship, which may also have been a factor.

The music, of course, is very fine. I am not that skilled in opera and I have never seen The Tales of Hoffman. But I was not that struck with the singing: especially of Rounseville and Ayars. In fact the most compelling singing for me were two duets: one from Act 2 and one from Act 3 and both including Owen Brannigan.

So the best aspects of this film are the visual and the ballet. And the bfi having bought out a DCP have made a good transfer from 35mm. Note though the opening logo is in 1.85:1 whilst the actual film is in 1.37:1. This may explain whilst the screening I attended did not have the masking set in.

Ludmilla Tchérina as Giuletta

Ludmilla Tchérina as Giuletta

I have seen The Tales of Hoffman in the past. I always thought that it was a less than successful follow-up to The Red Shoes and lacked that film’s intense drama. I still think that the latter film is definitely superior, both in performance and in drama. However, this time I felt that the two central performances I mention were the major problem, I think a more intense centre would improve the film immeasurably.

Posted in British films, Film Directors | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Once Upon a Time in Anatolia / Bir zamanlar Anadolu’da, Turkey 2011.

Posted by keith1942 on March 21, 2015


This is the film that has most impressed me in this new century of cinema. I saw it three times during its UK release. The third occasion was at the Hyde Park Picture House in Leeds. One of the volunteers there, Rachel, grades films from 1 to 10. She explained that a ‘10’ is a film she needs/wants to see twice. I told her this was my third viewing of this film: she reckoned that would make it an 11. After the screening I saw her again in the foyer and we both praised the sequence which includes an apple rolling down a slope into a stream. It is that sequence that I want to discuss in more detail.

First to contexualise the film. It is directed by Nuri Bilge Ceylan, already well known in ‘art film’ circles for earlier films like Climates (Iklimler, 2006) and Three Monkeys (Uc maymum. 2008). The film was scripted by Ercan Kesal, Ebru Ceylan [married to the director] and Nuri Bilge Ceylan. An outstanding feature of the film is the luminous cinematography by Göhkan Tiryaki: and there is an excellent sound track edited by Thomas Robert and fine art direction by Dilek Yapkuőz Ayaztuna.

The setting is the Steppes in Central Anatolia; part of ‘Turkey in Asia’. The film commences at evening, continues overnight and through the next morning: the setting is clearly contemporary: witness the mobile phones and computers used by characters. Bizarrely the UK distributor’s trailer suggested that the tale is a flashback to ’20 years ago’, clearly misinterpreting a line of dialogue in the film.

The film opens with Production Company credits, and then a short sequence with a shot of men through a clouded window. The camera dollies slightly and we see three men in conversation, drinking and laughing. There is a cut to an exterior long shot as one man comes out and feeds a dog: there is a roll of thunder. A passing lorry acts as a wipe and we are presented with the cast and production credits. The sound of the lorry braking carries on over the credits, followed by bird sounds, the wind, distant barking, and an animal [the dog?) shaking. Such noises are frequently heard on the soundtrack. As the film progresses we learn that the men we have just seen are Yaşar (Erol Erarslan) who apparently owns the garage, and two brothers Kenan (Firat Taniş) and Ramazan (Burhan Yildiz).

The story proper opens in a long shot at night on a lonely road as dusk deepens: the landscape is hilly with long valleys. The headlights of cars appear travelling along the road. These night-time scenes are beautifully lit and photographed. Night-time driving and thunderstorms are two tropes that appeared in earlier Ceylan films. The cars, two saloons and a jeep, pull up at a spot with a stone fountain and a solitary tree. We will visit several sites with these features over the next hour: the first three lie above the roadway. The cars contain ‘Mr’ Prosecutor Nusret (Taner Birsel) and his driver Tevfik (Uğur Arslannoğlu), Abidin, the court recorder (Şafak Karali) and Hayrettin (Fevzi Müftüoğlu) and Ethem (Turgay Kürkçü), two ‘diggers’; the second car contains the Commissar/Chief Naci (Yilmaz Erdoğan) and his assistants, the driver Arab Ali (Ahmet Müntaz Taylan) and Izzet (Murat Kiliç) together with Doctor Cemal (Muhammet Uzuner) and Kenan, now a suspect in a murder case. The jeep contains a Sergeant Őnder (Emre Şen) of the Gendarmes together with a subordinate Mehmet (Hamam Scrubber) and Ramazan, also a suspect. The convoy is trying to identify the spot where the murdered man [Yaşar] is buried, but Kenan is vague about the whereabouts apart from the presence of a fountain and a tree.

The first stop is not the right place. The convoy drives on and we hear a conversation among the police about ‘Buffalo Yoghurt ‘. They reach a second possible site. On this occasion the diggers are called to check a ploughed field alongside the fountain, but this is not the sport either. At this point we are starting to get close-ups of the different characters and a sense of their identities.

The convoy travels on and Naci receives a call on his mobile phone from his wife, she is just an inaudible voice in the background. There is also a brief stop, as the Prosecutor Nusret has to take a piss: the police joke about this.

At the third site, whilst Naci questions Kenan about whether this is the place, Doctor Cemal walks up the hill to take a piss. He stops by a small rock outcrop; thunder and lightning have now started up. And a flash illuminates a sculptured head in the rock. Back at the cars the convoy travels on.

Then a new site which falls away below the road. The Gendarme’s jeep is manoeuvred to illuminate the area. Naci sets off downhill with Kenan. Meanwhile there is a conversation alongside the car between the Cemal and Arab Ali. However, on second viewing I realised from the camera angles that part of this is not a conversation: it is two interior monologues, first by Ali and then by the Cemal, though all of it could be in the mind of the Cemal, who is privileged in close-ups. It is here that we get the line from Arab of ‘Once Upon a Time in Anatolia’, however, he is suggesting that the doctor will look back at these events in the future. This technique of rendering exchanges ambiguous is one that recurs in the film.

The convoy sets off again and we arrive at another site, also down below the road. Here, 35 minutes into the film, is the sequence on which I wish to focus.


Nusret intervenes between Naci and Kenan.

Nusret intervenes between Naci and Kenan.

It opens with an establishing shot lasting about 30 seconds, as the cars’ headlights follow a road into hills: behind the sky is full of dark clouds. They are approaching a bend in the road at a fold in the hillside. There is a cut to a camera angle at the bend. The cars arrive, stop and the occupants get out. Naci checks with Kenan, then points “It could be there”. Naci sets off with Izzet and Kenan, first calling for the gendarmes to turn the jeeps’ headlight on the spot. They head downhill into a culvert with a stream: Naci gets his foot wet, to his annoyance. They walk up the slope on the other side where there are a number of trees. Naci calls the diggers to follow. The camera makes two small pans to follow their progress. Two minutes into the shot Nusret moves into the left foreground. The camera cuts to a mid-shot and we see the Cemal standing nearby. There follow a series of mid-shots, in shot/reverse shot, as a conversation gets underway. Nusret asks, ‘Got any children. Doctor?”. Cemal responds that he has none and that he was divorced two years earlier. [We also later learn that Cemal has moved from the city to this rural area]. Nusret responds ‘Good thing” and goes on to muse pessimistically about life and his work, ”there’s no sense in it.” Then he starts to recount a story: “There was this woman. A friend’s wife. One day… she said that she’d die on a specific date five months later. [after the end of a pregnancy] And sure enough … when that day arrived … she drooped dead.”  “for no reason at all.” The camera dollies behind Cemal round a tree to a new angle with both men in the frame; there is silence. There follows a shot of tree tops, a reverse shot of the two men illuminated from below by the headlights, and then a high angle shot of Nusret through branches, followed by a low angle shot of the moon through branches.

We hear the voice of the Sergeant, “Mr Prosecutor.” A new mid-shot of all three men runs for nearly two minutes as the Sergeant offers both men a biscuit and then asks Nusret about responsibilities in the case. He leaves. There follow more shot/reverse shots of Cemal and Nusret, as the former asks if any doctors ascertained the cause of the woman’s death.

They are interrupted again, this time by a fracas involving Naci and Kenan, in a new long shot of the other side of the stream. Naci, exasperated by the seemingly fruitless searches, turns on Kenan. In three shot/reverse shots Nusret crosses the stream to intervene, watched by the rest of the party. Nusret separates Naci from Kenan and takes him aside; the camera pans with them. Nusret tries to reason with Naci about controlling his anger. After a minute, with the dialogue continuing on the sound track, we get shots of Ali standing by a tree, Cemal watching across the stream, and Kenan looking back, [possibly at the doctor]. A further shot shows Ali shaking the branches of the tree and apples falling to the ground. A sequence shot, running about a minute, follows one apple as it rolls down the slope, into the stream, rolls then bobs down the stream till it reaches an obstruction and rests with other fallen apples, [presumably shot with a Steadicam]. Meanwhile the dialogue between Nusret and Naci continues on the soundtrack and includes the comment, “Is this how we’ll get into the EU?”

The apples.

The apples.

The camera returns to Nusret and Naci in long shot, running for nearly three minutes, including a pan back to the others gathering under a tree. Nusret decides they should have a break. Tevfik suggests the village of Cecili: Ali is not keen, [it transpires his wife comes from that village}. Nusret decides to go there anyway and tells Tevfik to phone the Mukhtar [mayor].

A short ellipsis and we see Izzet in mid-shot bathing Kenan’s face at the fountain. In a series of mid-shots we see Naci drying his socks, Cemal inspecting Kenan face where Naci hit him; Kenan asking ‘Doctor’ for a cigarette: Cemal getting a cigarette from Ali for Kenan; Naci objecting, ‘first you have to earn it’, and then this group getting into their car. The final shot has Kenan seated as Cemal gets in the back seat and saying quietly “Thank you.”

There is a lap dissolve to a frontal shot of the car’s headlights as they drive to the village.

We are now 52 minutes into the film. The sequence uses light and shadow, the main lighting source being the headlights of the jeep and other cars. We have the regular tendency in Ceylan films to use long shots and especially long takes. The whole sequence has a luminous palette. The soundtrack is naturalistic and we hear wind, a solitary birdcall, the water running, and the engines of the cars at times. In terms of themes as the narrative progresses Nusret’s story returns and there are increasing parallels between characters. This is a long and complex sequence, the cinematography, the lighting and the sounds all contribute to a sense of the place and the time, but also, in a way that is difficult to describe in words, add to our sense of the characters. Certainly the visuals includes comments on and metaphors for the characters, their thoughts and actions. The apple rolling down in the stream is an object driven by several external forces, including gravity: this seems an apt metaphor for the characters in the story.


Cemal observes Cemille.

Cemal observes Cemille.

The convoy arrives at the village of Cecili where they are greeted by the Mukhtar [Ercan Kesal). A meal is provided whilst the Mukhtar puts to the prosecutor that the village needs to “Build a nice morgue with a body washing room.” There is a power cut and the lights go out. Lamps and drinks are bought in by the Mukhtar’s daughter Cemille. She serves them silently whilst the men admire her beauty. Cemal and Kenan are especially struck by her, as if she has conjured up a memory. After she serves Kenan she appears to serve a second man – Yaşar! Is this Kenan’s imagining: he exclaims ‘aren’t you dead?”. Then Naci and Izzet take Kenan outside and into a barn. Here he confesses another aspect of the crime to them. Meanwhile Nusret continues with his tale to the Doctor, who asks ‘was there an autopsy’. Naci appears and tells the Nusret what he has heard from Kenan, information that complicates the murder and the investigation. There is another visual symbol as moth circles an exterior lamp and is consumed in the flame.

The search now continues. With early morning they arrive at another site, on a relatively flat plateau, with a fountain and a nearby tree. This is a field of stubble, harsh in the early morning light. And here they find the body, slightly uncovered by a stray black dog. Nusret dictates a report to Abidin, which he types onto a laptop. Then the body is wrapped in a blanket and placed in a car boot. Ali surreptitiously adds melons that he has picked up in the field. During this episode Ramazan has made a confession, but Kenan tells him to be quiet.

Early morning.

Early morning.

The party now returns to the town. When they reach the hospital a hostile crowd is waiting. Insults are hurled at Kenan, a boy throw a stone that hits him on the forehead. We learn that the boy, Adem (Fatih Ereli), is the son of Yaşar’s widow Gűlnaz Toprak (Nihan Okutueu). The prisoners are led away.

The doctor goes to the hospital. In his room he looks at some photographs of a young woman, then of young men: possibly including himself at an earlier age. Naci arrives in his office and the doctor writes a prescription for his sick son. Cemal leaves the hospital: after a Turkish bath and a coffee he returns for an autopsy. First we see him in his office with Nusret, who returns to the subject of the woman who died and asks the Cemal what could have caused the woman’s death. Cemal asks again if there was an autopsy: he suggests there may be an explanation. Like the earlier conversation with Ali it is unclear whether this is an actual scene or is in the mind of the doctor.

The identification of the corpse by the wife follows. She is given the belongings of the deceased. Nusret leaves for an important meeting in Ankara. Cemal and his medical technician Sakir (Kubilay Tunçer) then conduct the autopsy. During this examination another facet of the murder emerges. Cemal makes a decision, a decision which is a response to the different situations of the characters that he [and we] have learned in the course of events. The film ends as Cemal looks out through a window, observing the widow and her son returning home past a children’s’ playground in a long shot and long take. Intercut is a close-up of Cemal with a speck of the victims blood on his cheek. The sound of the children playing continues over the end credits.

What seem to me to be the fine qualities of this film flow both from the components parts [e.g. the excellence of the cinematography and sound) but also from the overall effect. The film is downbeat but there are also many moment of humour. There is the conversation on yoghurt; jokes about Nusret frequent stops to relieve himself; and recurring comments that he looks a little like Clark Gable. During the meal in the village Ali is ragged about his pretensions. The film is a rather sorry tale of human foibles, but it also seems a complex comment on the larger society of Turkey in the C21th. The characters cover a range of classes in that society: a member of the governing elite, administrators and bureaucrats, the professional, a petit-bourgeois and ordinary working men. The characterisation by the actors is completely convincing; it is the expressions of Cemal, Kenan and Nusret that receive particular attention. It is the men who speak and act throughout the film. However, the issue of gender emerges forcibly in the very silence of the women. [Intriguing parallels with The Silences of the Palace, Tunisia 1994]. We encounter five women in the film: Naci’s wife only heard inaudibly on the end of a mobile phone: the unnamed female protagonist in Nusret’s story; the Mukhtar’s daughter in the village: the unnamed young woman in Cemal’s photographs: and the murdered man’s widow, who speaks at the identification, once with a solitary ‘yes’, otherwise with several nods and ‘uhum’.

An intriguing comment about women in rural Anatolia argues that whilst women suffered under patriarchy in traditional society, modernisation, which includes rights for women, has led to political institutions that are predominately ‘male domains’. This film seems to offer a poetic comment on this condition.

It offers more of course. I found that my understanding of the main characters changed and developed over the film, but that also developed when I returned to watch the film again. Like most good art there is not a simple set of values posited by the film. But the complexities of the characters relationships and experiences illuminates their condition and their decisions and actions. Cemal, the doctor, is clearly the key character; but it also seems to me that the film draws parallels between him and Kenan and also between Kenan and Nusret. It is a long film [158 minutes] and spends much time on small and often seemingly insignificant details: such as Ali’s surreptitious fruit gathering. But these small details feed into the illumination of character. The use of the wide screen means that, even in mid-shots, one is aware of the setting and of sets and props, which also feed in to our awareness.

In interviews Nuri Bilge Ceylan has spoken of his admiration of Anton Chekhov. In my early viewing of this film I was reminded in particular of his play The Seagull. There are parallels between the film and the play both in the relationships of characters and in the tragic events that play out. However, there are also parallels with another play by Chekhov, Uncle Vanya: including the character of the doctor. The final sense of Chekhov’s plays finds echoes in the final sequences of this film by Ceylan. At the end of Uncle Vanya Sonia has a long speech, which opens:

“Well, what can we do? We must go on living! … We shall go on living, Uncle Vania. We shall live through a long, long succession of days and tedious evenings. We shall patiently suffer the trials which Fate imposes on us; we shall work for others, now, and in our old age, and we shall have no rest.” (Translated by Elisaveta Fen). The speech ends on a more optimistic note, something that is there tentatively in the last moments of Once Upon a Time in Anatolia. The speech also suggests parallels with Ceylan’s other films, in particular with his more recent Winter Sleep (Kis uykusu, 2014). Probably as fine a film which I need and want to see again.

The status of the temporality in the film is somewhat ambiguous. A film fan I know queried the opening shot of the main film, which he suggested implied knowledge of the story to come. This interested me. The film can be seen as a playing out of Ceylan’s recollections or exposition of the story. In this case the opening shot would fit with his point-of-view. So whilst contemporary one could read the film as flashback, another aspect of its complexity.

Th film is in colour and CinemaScope [2.39:1] with a Dolby Digital soundtrack. Whilst it originated on 35mm. in the UK it was only available on DCP. The UK release has English subtitles, used for the quotation in this article.

The author’s original review of the film can be found at http://thirdcinema.wordpress.conm: the Blog also has a review of The Silences of the Palace.

Note, this was originally written as an article for Media Education Journal for a regular shot on sequence analysis’s, but the editors found the sequence in question to long for the article’s function, presumably the A Level Film Studies.


Posted in Turkish film | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Regeneration, UK 1997

Posted by keith1942 on March 19, 2015

Regen 1

I revisited this recently as part of the W.W.I: Through the Lens series at the Hyde Park Picture House. The film was screened in an old but visually good quality print. The soundtrack was occasionally muffled from wear and tear, but overall it was a great experience. The Hyde Park obtained the print with some assistance from Rafford Films, the original Production Company: at a time when projection and programming seems to be a dying art in cinema it is good to see an exhibitor giving this care and attention to a film. And it is a film that deserves such treatment. As you might expect in an UK period drama the acting and characterisations are excellent. Adrian Scot has provided a fine adaptation of the novel by Pat Barker: I have not read the book but I suspect that Harris has also changed the emphasis somewhat. The cinematography by Glen MacPherson is very fine, and together with Production Designer Andy Harris he has created really convincing images of the World War I frontline. The editing appears seamless, but it has certain unexpected cuts, which are sharply implemented. There is a lot of music, as you might expect, by Mychael Danna, but it works well and is in keeping with the treatment.  Director Gillies MacKinnon has done an excellent job of bringing the contributions of this team together. The film is a co-production between the UK [including Scottish agencies] and Canada: it would seem that the story has some connection with North America.

In an intelligent piece of programming the main feature was proceeded by some film footage from World War I. This was a video copy of footage shot at two hospitals treating mental disorders in troops afflicted by the trench warfare. The film was provided by the Welcome Trust Library and I would think it never received public exhibition at the time, late 1917 and 1918. The film presented a series of soldiers who suffered from some sort of neuroses bought on by the horrors of the warfare. The film concentrated on showing the success of the hospital treatments: some of the recoveries from severe physical disabilities bought on by trauma were remarkable. There was less coverage of the treatment, which seemed to consist of physiotherapy and hypnotic suggestion. The Picture House staff selected the Third Symphony of Henryk Górecki as an accompaniment: this worked very well.

This archive material fitted very well with the prime focus in Regeneration, the treatment of officers suffering mental traumas after service in the frontline. Reviews of the film on release picked up on the depiction of the relationship between two famous World War I poets, Siegfried Sassoon (James Wilby) and Wilfred Owen (Stuart Bunce), in the film. But the prime focus is Doctor William Rivers (Jonathan Pryce) and his relationship with his patients, especially Sassoon. There are two other key characters, Billy Prior (Johnny Lee Miller) and Burns (Rupert Proctor). Burns, like Owen, is not really developed as a character. Prior is an officer, but working class, which sets him apart from most of the staff and other inmates at the rehabilitation hospital.

Rivers is a sympathetic carer and listener. One sequence shows him visiting a specialist in London, a Dr Yealland, whose brutal treatment of traumatised soldiers provides a striking contrast with those of Rivers. Rivers listens to their harrowing memories, and together with the audience learns of the horrors of the experiences of war. These confessions also take their toll of Rivers himself.


Much of the film is set in the relative quiet of the hospital and its grounds. But the memories and dreams of the characters enable us to see and hear the brutal and violent warfare. These flashbacks and dreams both illustrate the traumas of the different patients, but also provide motifs relating to the well-known poetry of Sassoon, and even more so, of Owen. A recurring dream sequence is set in some sort of tunnel near the front-line – clearly referencing one of Open’s most famous poems.

The use of colour [or lack of it] provides a striking contrast to the hospital. But another contrast using colour is also drawn between Rivers’ office where the patients recount their experiences, and the laboratory of Dr Yealland. The film appears at first as a fairly typical example of British ‘realist’ cinema. But the use of colour, of counterpoint in the editing, and the relationship between the film’s present, the flashbacks and the dreams, produces a rather more ambiguous sense of reality and subjectivity.

There are also several sequences away from the hospitals and the front-line. The most important of these depicts a relationship between Prior and a ‘munitioneer’ [a worker in a munitions factory), Sarah (Tanya Allen). Their relationship includes two scenes of sexual encounters. One provides a moment of rare tenderness late in the film: the other uses a flamboyant overhead shot as a moment of contrast. However, I did feel that this emphasis on heterosexual sex offered a distraction from the unexplored homoerotic and homosexual aspects of the story. It appears that these, and a bi-sexual aspect, are much more explicit in the original novel.

The film does explore the contrasts of class through Prior and the conflicts between youth and age and between mavericks and the military establishment. The film also offers an underlying sense of irony. Whilst Rivers’ methods are contrasted with those of Yealland, in the end both fulfil the same function, sending men back to the front-line and death.


Posted in British films, Literature on Film, UK filmmakers, War movies | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Red Riding, Channel 4, 2009.

Posted by keith1942 on March 2, 2015

Red Riding

This trilogy was produced by Channel 4 and transmitted at least twice in the 2009. I wrote this response at the time. I was immediately struck with the way that the films crossed over with serial killer films and how their gloomy style replicated the dark, dystopian world so common in serial killer films and in the film noir genre. The article contains detailed plot information for all three films.


It is best first to make a clear distinction between the labyrinth and the maze. The former is a network of tunnels, chambers, or paths, either natural or man-made. The latter is a complex network of paths or passages, especially one with high hedges in a garden, designed to puzzle those walking through it. Commonly I think mazes refer to external networks, labyrinths to internal and usually subterranean networks.

The most famous labyrinth, which has acquired mythic status, was that designed by Daedulus for King Minos of Crete. The myth tells of a monster begatted by the union of Minos’ wife, Pasiphae, and a sacred bull. The half-human, half-bull offspring, the Minotaur, was imprisoned in the labyrinth. Meanwhile Minos’ son Androgeos was slain by the Athenians. Minos won the war that this provoked and then compelled the city to send seven young men and seven maidens to Crete every nine years, where they were fed to the Minotaur. Theseus, son of the Athenian king, killed the Minotaur by successfully penetrating the labyrinth with the help of Minos’ daughter Ariadne.

Expressionist and noir films

Labyrinths have become potent motifs and signifiers in cinema. They usually bring their dark associations with them, providing settings for danger, violence, murder and a frightening monster. One early example would be the German expressionist horror, Nosferatu [1922]. This is one of the earliest vampire films, and the castle of Count Orlok [Dracula] presents a dark, gloomy setting, where corridors and staircases lead peril and horror. Suitably, the coffin in which the vampire Count rests is to be found below ground, in a cellar. This early example has set the tone for many of the subsequent genre films, with heroes and heroines descending into darkness and a ‘fate worse than death’.

Expressionism was a major influence on the Hollywood film noir cycle, where labyrinthine plots took the protagonists and the audience into a dark and dangerous world of chaos. A classic example made in the UK, The Third Man (1949), has a potent labyrinth. The film’s villain Harry Lime (Orson Welles) is finally hunted down in the sewers of the city of Vienna. The protagonist, Holly Martin (Joseph Cotton), tracks him down, through a series of tunnels, dark and running with the waste of the city. Their final confrontation is an apt reversal of their earlier meeting in the film, where Harry and Holly surveyed the world from the height of a Ferris Wheel.

Monster movies, whether terrestrial or alien, frequently contain a labyrinth. In Them (1954) giant radioactive ants move out of their anthill networks. By the climax of the film they are being hunted down in the storm drains of Los Angeles. The final peril is the destruction of a new Queen deep in the network.

More recently we have seen the development of the serial killer cycle, whose combination of film noir style with a psychotic killer provides the most frightening modern monster. An early example, (1930) has the child killer hunted down in an apartment store. The searchers [other criminals] comb the whole set of rooms and corridors before tracking him down in a dark storeroom. In Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) Lila Crane searches the old house at the motel, and finally discovers the monster in the basement. Clause Chabrol’s Le Boucher (1969) features a labyrinth cave with drawings by the pre-historic Cro-Magnon man: the film develops this as an association to Popaul, the butcher and killer of the title. In Silence of the Lambs (1990) Clarissa Starling has to visit Hannibal Lector. She finds him in a cell deep inside the prison, at the end of a dark, dirty basement corridor. And when she finally tracks down the actual killer he also hides in a dark and subterranean network.

Many of these serial killers/monsters hark back to the earliest example on Crete. Sexual aberrations are common. The killers devour the young and innocent. Most commonly the hunter/investigator is male and a female helper occurs on occasions. And the idea of punishment for usurping authority frequently reappears. Se7en [1995] is a classic example of the genre that presents this last aspect. John Doe resides in a lair that is all in black. And he recites the ‘sins’ for which his victims suffer, working through the seven most grievous. At the climax of the film he kills the innocent wife and unborn child of detective Mills, and fuels wrath!

Yorkshire Noir

This long-running motif has returned powerfully to the screen in Channel 4’s adaptation of the Dave Peace quartet of novels, Red Riding. The novels mix recorded events with fictionalised characters and crimes over a period of nine years. [In fact only three of the novels were dramatised; a friend who has read the quartet found the plot of the second, 1977, indecipherable]. The three stories in C4’s Red Riding offer a world of chaos, where crime and corruption are rife and where innocence is sacrificed. They do this by appropriating many of the techniques of modern US film and television noir. David Peace, in an online profile, listed Dante as a major influence. And Dante’s Inferno is a key reference in Se7en, another work singled out by Peace.


The films utilise dark gloomy lighting, dramatic and restless camera work, and muddy soundtracks, with dialogue that is frequently difficult to follow. And they rely on plotting which constructs a narrative labyrinth for the viewers, shot through with ambiguities, puzzles, teasers and unexplained events or motivations. There was one scriptwriter for all three films, Tony Grisoni, though each feature had a different director. A common narrative is maintained by the settings and by recurring characters who re-appear as the dramas move from one period to another. And most notably the narrative only offers an overall though tentative meaning at the conclusion of the third feature.

Red Riding adds another myth to that of the labyrinth and the monster: a fetish with swans. This ties into the myth of the swan maiden, found in a variety of forms. A hero sees a flock of swans, and finds they are really a group of beautiful women bathing. He steals one of the dresses on the shore, and that maiden is unable to fly away. The hunter marries her, but at some point his wife finds her original feathery dress and reverts to a swan and flies away.

Red Riding I

In the Year of Our Lord 1974 opens the trilogy. The majority of the film appears to be an extended flashback by journalist Eddie Dunford (Andrew Garfield). In full noir fashion the film opens with shots of a young girl with wings followed by that of Dunford holding a gun. The plot then fills in the events leading up to a shooting, though in an extremely fragmentary fashion. Eddie is following a story of child molestation and murder near Leeds. In the course of the film he becomes the lover of the mother, Paula (Rebecca Hall), of a missing young girl, Jeanette Garland. He meets property magnate John Dawson (Sean Bean). Paula lives on the Fitzwilliam Estate; Dawson has his own estate nearby. The settings are mainly south west of Leeds from Morley to Castleford, Wakefield and the above run-down estate near Pontefract. The latter becomes familiar, as do the six cooling towers visible en route from the road.

Dunford’s colleague and friend Barry Cannon (Anthony Flanagan) dies in a road accident. Eddie then he discovers that senior police are involved in corruption with Dawson and have ‘fitted up’ an innocent man for the child murders. One young girl found dead has been tortured and raped before murder. The torture includes sewing ‘swan’s wings’ to her. It is this connection that finally leads Dunford to realise that Dawson is the monster whose ‘private weakness’ is child molestation. Dawson’s house is designed in a swan-like outline. Barry comments (rewriting Balzac); ‘behind every great house there lies a great crime!’ And we later discover one room contains a hanging swan, (evidence of the abuse).

The dialogue has frequent references to swans and wings, though the connection to the plot is not usually clear. Later features return to this as well as references to other animals. The film also provides frequent visual set-ups that suggest labyrinths, in tunnels, corridors and alleyways. Dunford is assaulted by police in a multi-story car park.  But the clearest parallel to a labyrinth is when Dunford is taking into custody after gate-crashing Dawson’s reception. We find him in a blacked-out dungeon. When the lights go up it is grim and damp: the basement below the Police HQ. The police torture Dunford, at one point introducing a line that will become familiar: “put your hands flat on the table.” And he is later dragged down a corridor into another dark room, a morgue in which lies the body of Paula.


The trio of officer involved, Detective Superintendent Bill ‘Badger’ Molloy (Warren Clark), Sergeant Bob Craven (Sean Harris), and Police Constable Tommy Douglas (Tom Mooney) will re-appear in the subsequent dramas. In Red Riding it is these police who are also monsters. The complications of Paula’s death lead to the police stuffing a loaded gun in Dunford’s pocket and throwing him out a van with the words that re-appear again and again in the series: “This is the North, we do what we want!”  Dunford convinced that Dawson has killed Paula searches his house and see the swan. He then finds and shoots Dawson. After which, and the end of the flashback, he dies in a suicidal crash with a police car.

Red Riding II

The second drama is set in The Year of Our Lord 1980. It is the height of the Yorkshire Ripper hunt, whose 12th or 13th victim has just been discovered. The opening credits feature stills of the victims and newsreel footage from the time. The key protagonist is Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter (Paddy Considine); a senior officer from the Manchester Force charged with examining the long running, and so far, failed Ripper enquiry. He brings with him two assistants, Chief Superintendent John Nolan (Tony Pitts), and Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall (Maxine Peake).

Whilst Hunter starts to examine the Ripper investigation it gradually becomes apparent that this is not the primary focus of the film. Hunter has been here before. Five years earlier he investigated the shooting at The Karachi Club in Wakefield. This turns out to be the incident when Eddie Dunford shot John Dawson. But that was followed by further shootings, including Craven and Douglas. The investigation is premised on robbery and murder by an unknown gang: Dunford’s death listed as a road accident. Hunter’s investigation remained unfinished: one complication being a short-lived affair with Helen. The events of the past still haunt him, and feature in dreams and flashbacks. They also start to turn up in the background of the Ripper investigation.

Hunter’s liaison officer in Leeds is the now promoted Superintendent Bob Craven. And the office of Hunter and his team appears to be in the same basement as that where Dunford was tortured. The passage to the office passes the pound of the barking police dogs: summoning up tones of the mythic beasts that guarded Hades. As in the first feature we have scenes frequently set in passages and on stairs, now interiors rather than the exteriors of the earlier drama. Hunter finally receives evidence that the Karachi Club shootings were carried out by police led by ‘Badger’ Molloy. The evidence is provided by BJ (Robert Sheehan), who we saw in 1974 as a source for Dunford and his journalist friend, Barry. Hunter and BJ meet in what seems like a monster’s lair: a disused garage in Preston where BJ claims that the ’13th’ victim of the Ripper died at the hands of Craven.


Hunter is already in trouble with the police establishment. He arranges to meet John Nolan in the basement office, and after Hunter has explained the new evidence Nolan tells him that Craven ‘is out of control’. We follow Hunter down a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells to a bare basement room, where lies Craven, bloody and shot. Nolan now executes the coup de grace on Hunter: backed up by his corrupt fellow policemen. The film ends, after footage of the captured Ripper, at the grave of Hunter in a Yorkshire cemetery.

Red Riding 3

The final film opens with a flashback to 1974. At the wedding of Bill Molloy’s daughter a group of policemen gather for a tête-à-tête – there is Molloy, Maurice Jobson (David Morrisey), Bob Craven, Tommy Douglas, Dick Alderman (Shaun Dooley) and Jim Prentice (Chris Walker). In the background is Chief Constable Harold Angus (Jim Carter), who clearly is implicated in the corruption. They are joined by John Dawson. Once again the audience hear the now familiar line, ” To the North, where we do what we want.” The scene explains the conspiracy that lay behind events in the 1974.

The Year of Our Lord 1983 also returns to the central plot of 1974, missing children. We see stills of a young girl, Hazel Atkins, missing from the Morley area. As with the earlier case, that of Clare Kemplay, the investigation is lead by Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson [promoted from Detective Superintendent], assisted by Detective Inspector Alderman. Jobson receives help from a medium, Mandy Wymer (Saskia Reeves). With nice irony, at one point she instructs him and Alderman to ‘put your hands on the table’. Later she leads him to remains that may be those of Jeanette Garland.

Jobson’s central role is shared with another character from earlier features, BJ. And a new protagonist, solicitor John Piggott (Mark Addy), joins them. Jobson is haunted by memories of the earlier investigations and we see frequent flashbacks to that time. BJ also has memories of that period, as a victim. Piggott becomes involved at the request of the mother of Michael Myshkin (Daniel Mays), wrongly imprisoned for the earlier crimes. But Piggott also has memories from the past. Various characters at different times, including Myshkin, claim ‘you know, everybody knows!’

The style of the film is familiar, with a dark and drear mise en scène, disconcerting close-ups and jump cuts, and characters framed by doors, walls and passageways. We revisit haunted locations like the gypsy encampment, the run-down Fitzwilliam Estate and the disused garage in Preston. In the latter BJ unearths a shotgun: presumably a relic from the Karachi Club shooting. One flashback shows Molloy and Jobson interrogating Martin Laws (Peter Mullan), a minister seen in both 1974 and 1980. Once more a prisoner is told to ‘put your hands flat on the table’. However, Laws, whose white van was seen near the crime scenes, was given an alibi by John Dawson. It is clear that Molloy and Jobson realised that Laws and Dawson were probably guilty of the child murders. But the police corruption meant that Myshkin was ‘fitted up’ for the crimes. An enigmatic exchange between several policemen makes sense when related to the plot of the 1974: they set up Dunford to dispose of Dawson without wrecking their financial interests. The subsequent shootings were either punishments or covering up evidence: or both.

All three central characters of 1983 are caught in the past and guilt. Jobson broods over the corruption and cover-ups. His increasingly awkward questions and investigation lead to enforced early retirement. Piggott was bought up on the Fitzwilliam Estate, and his father was an ex-policeman. The father was also a member of a paedophile circle involving Laws and Dawson. A flashback offers glimpse of the abuse with the words, ‘Piggott is king today, be nice to Mr. Piggott.’ This is John Piggott’s flashback: hence his guilt. And BJ also has flashbacks with glimpses of abuse as he returns to avenge the past wrongs. The climax of the third film comes on The Fitzwilliam Estate: crosscutting between number 7, Law’s house, and an allotment on open ground above the estate.


BJ arrives at the house with his shotgun. He confronts Laws but is unable to pull the trigger. As Laws prepares to mutilate or kill BJ Jobson shoots him with another shotgun. [Also from the Karachi Club shooting?]. Meanwhile Piggott is investigating the allotment. He enters what appears to be a disused pigeon cote, full of feathers. Laws discovers Piggott and knock him down into the passage below the cote: returning to his house, [and death]. When Piggott awakens he explores the dark, subterranean labyrinth. And at the end of this Piggott find the missing girl, Hazel. As he emerges from the cellar to the waiting Jobson, shafts of light pierce the gloom, amid a ‘confetti’ of feathers. The writer, Tony Grisoni explained: “we might save one of the children. I just couldn’t have them all die. I wanted to be released from hell by the end.” (Interview in Sight & Sound, March 2009).

And indeed Piggott does carry Hazel off home on his shoulder. BJ also survives, and 1983 ends on him, ‘the one that got away’. However, as is frequently the case with film noir and serial killer films, the ending is hardly optimistic. In each of the three features a monster is slain: Dawson by Dunford: Craven by his colleagues: and Laws by Jobson. But the central monster, the focus of all the corruption and violence: whose victims outnumber the innocents saved: the Red Riding police mafia, survive or at least go unpunished. Molloy and Jobson have both retired, but others remain, including the Chief Constable Angus. This would also seem to be in keeping with the original myth: for whilst Theseus kills the Minotaur, Minos, who was ultimately responsible, survived: though he came to a nasty end later. One sub-text of Red Riding would appear to be that the Police have acquired the prerogatives of ancient royalty, both the power and the invulnerability.

David Peace’s Yorkshire

I have only read the first of the four novels from which the trilogy was adapted. I tried the second and could not follow its ‘narrative’. I then tried the final novel, but I found it very repetitious: which seems to me a common feature of Peace’s writing. The films do seem to recreate the novels fairly accurately, though they also make changes. Roy Stafford, who has worked his way through the books, thought that the female characters are more developed in the films. The books certainly use recognisable events and places from the West Riding of Yorkshire. Max Farrar, a local expert in Chapeltown, spent quite an amount of time showing the production team round places that still exist. However, in the end these are fictional characters and events set in recognisable locales.

What is interesting is how closely the novels and particularly the films adhere to the conventions of noir and serial killer movies. The labyrinths are the central and most mythic element, but there are many more. This is a world of darkness with dank interiors and bleak exteriors. The villains are ascribed believable motivations but at the same time their world reeks of what common parlance defines as ‘evil’. Moreover the chiaroscuro is not just visual – light and shadow predominate – this applies to the possible meanings, we are left with ambiguities and unresolved questions.


A friend just loaned me a Blu-Ray of the Home Box Office series True Detective (2014). I was struck by a number of overlaps between this US series and the UK trilogy: this is as likely down to recurring tropes and motifs in the serial killer genre. We have a massive and nasty set of serial killings: and there is a strong relationship to corruption in the political and police establishments. True Detective has all sorts of recognisable features and the investigation ends in a labyrinth. In relation to Red Riding I was struck by the presence of a lock-up garage, and flashback involving a young girl in a circle of abuse being led to a chair or throne. And near the end we also encounter an abused boy who has turned into a hustler.

Notes: Revolution Films produced the three Red Riding films for Channel 4. It seems Channel released the films abroad on 35mm. There was one screening of the films on 35mm in Leeds. The first film was actually shot on 16mm, the second on 35mm whilst the third used HD digital. Though filmed in anarmorphic ratio the television transmissions were somewhat hit and miss, with some broadcasts being in 1.85:1.

Originally posted on ITP World,


Posted in Television film | Tagged: , | Leave a Comment »

24 Window Frames a Second: Trains in British Films

Posted by keith1942 on February 20, 2015

Brief opening

This article aims to offer some general comments about trains in British films between 1900 and 1950, illustrated by a few key examples.

A number of authors have discussed how the Railways and Cinema are both not only key technologies and institutions of the nineteenth century, but how they also share certain characteristics. Ian Christie comments on one of the first moving images to be projected to an audience, the Lumière’s Arrival of a train. (Arrivée d’un train en gare a La Ciotat 1896).

Railways already loomed large in the common experience and folklore of the late nineteenth century. First there was the new experience of mechanical speed, both terrifying and exhilarating for those who had only known horse or wind power. Then there was literally, a new outlook on the world as it sped past the train windows. … From the carriage window to the screen was an easy transition. It’s tempting to say that sixty years of railways had prepared people to be film spectators. (Christie 1994)

Some of the earliest moving camera shots were taken from trains. ‘Phantom Rides’ were a popular early film genre, treating audiences to exotic locales in the Alps and the North American West. Closer to home British audiences could watch In the Scottish Highlands (1907) or Burnham Beeches (1909 – Fletcher 2003). An extremely popular variant was Hales Tours, where mocked up train carriages provided access to projected film scenery, a sort of reverse of the above. One of the most famous magical films by Georges Méliès, a few years after the Lumière’s pioneer actualités (actualities), is a train journey – to the stars (Voyaged travers l’impossible, 1904).

The most popular 1930s documentary from the GPO Film Unit led by John Grierson, and one of the few seen by audiences in commercial cinemas, was Night Mail (1936). There is an exciting rush as the train is

. . . Crossing the border … / Pulling up Beattock, A steady climb/ The gradient’s against her, But she’s on time.

The words of W. H. Auden and the music of Benjamin Britten accentuate the filming. (In fact, there is a low budget thriller from the year before with the same title, set on the London to Aberdeen express).

How can we explain this fascination the railroad holds for the cinema? Why does the silent film seem to privilege the train – including the trolley, elevated railway and subway – over other forms of transportation, both older (the horse, the coach) and newer (the automobile, the airplane)? Some would see the cinema’s interest in the train as that of a double: the cinema finds an apt metaphor in the train, in its framed, moving image, its construction of a journey as an optical experience, the radical juxtaposition of different places, the “annihilation of space and time.” As a machine of vision and an instrument for conquering space and time, the train is a mechanical double for the cinema and for the transport of the spectator into fiction, fantasy, and dream. It is a metaphor in the Greek sense of the word: movement, the conveyance of meaning. Like film’s illusion of movement, the experience of the railroad is based on a fundamental paradox: simultaneous motion and stillness. In both cases, passengers sit still as they rush through space and time, whether physically and visually, as on the train, or merely visually, as in the cinema. The train would then be cinema’s mirror image in the sequential unfolding of a chain of essentially still images and the rapid shift of points of view that the train and cinema experiences entail. (Lynne Kirby, 1997)

This quotation suggests how trains work in films in a number of different ways. The audience view replicates to some degree that of the passenger in a carriage looking through the window. The combination of rapid motion and relaxed observation are common to both. The promise of new places and new experiences is part of the excitement of each. And while both also promise a definite end to our journey, we expect some interruptions and changes, even shocks, en route. We think we know our destination, but the lack of certainty offers a certain spice.

The Kiss in the Tunnel 1899

The Kiss in the Tunnel 1899

The parallels and connections between these two modern technologies were apparent to early filmmakers and audiences. Filmmakers were soon using trains in the emerging narrative films that were to become the staple of commercial cinema. A popular scene for early short films was The Kiss in the Tunnel (1899). Sometimes this was a risqué story, sometimes a joke with a twist when the man kissed the wrong female – in a darkened space just like the cinema. As a space for breaching or skirting taboos on sexual activity cinemas also crossed over with trains. A filmic advertising jingle ran,

Take your girlie to the movies (if you can’t make love at home). (BBC / WGBH 1995).

Trains provided the gateway to another world, often a world where the ties of normal life could be loosened. Mitchell & Kenyon’s early films show workers taking trains to the holiday resorts in Wakes Week. In Hindle Wakes (1927) the world of the Wakes holiday is signalled by the title card, “Ecstasy, Freedom” and a train journey. And it is in the holiday resorts of Blackpool, and then Llandudno, that the heroine Fanny finds sexual freedom and pleasure. A similar situation is played out in Bank Holiday, (1937). Catherine, a nurse, has an illicit holiday weekend with her boyfriend Geoffrey in Besborough (a fictional seaside resort, the actual locations were filmed in Hastings). On the train this modern, independent miss justifies the pleasures of ‘free love’.

You know my opinions. You know I think we are justified.

In fact, apparent morality intervenes and she returns to London without spending an illicit hotel night with Geoffrey. Instead she comforts a grieving (and sexually placid) widower.

The use of suspense and the expectations of shock are evident in the 1935 film The Last Journey.

“The protagonist – engineer (Bob) … experiences overwhelming psychological distress, which he attempts to resolve by running the train off the tracks. As the train heads for collision, the shots become shorter, the frame bursts with images of furious wheels intercut with the contorted face of a hysteric reflected against stroboscopic lights and signals working with a demented force of their own. The character, however, snaps before the derailment metaphor is translated into action. The locomotive slows down, and the train pulls safely into the junction.” (Laurence Kardish, 1991)

The Last Journey

The Last Journey

The crash is averted through the bravery of a consultant (Sir Wilfred) who uses hypnotism to calm the crazed engineer.

Look, along the rails – straight ahead – that’s it, watch them Bob, watch them.”

This use of the rails for medical hypnosis returns us to the viewpoint of the early Lumière film, which begins

at that point in the distance where all lines converge.” (Kardish, 1991).

Train of Events (1949) opens with the crash of a locomotive. Then the film traces the events that led to five passengers and the driver being on that train. The passengers are all escaping from something. A composer (Raymond) attempts to end an extra-marital affair with his concert pianist mistress. An ex-German POW (Richard) tries to avoid returning to Germany. His English girlfriend (Ella), who has stolen to buy his ticket to a new life in Canada, aids him. And an actor (Philip) carries the body of his murdered wife in his prop basket. The interest is held by the set of portmanteau stories and by the desire to find out which of these characters will live and which will die. In the end the crashing train becomes an instrument of justice, and Philip and Ella are the ones who die.

Lynne Kirby explores the idea that there is a facet of railways expressing certain masculinity. And in this film, as in many railway films, women suffer disproportionately. Two of the three deaths are female.

The Last Journey includes a trio of crooks and Train of Events a murderer, attempting to evade justice. Criminality and law enforcement, especially pursuit, soon became associated with trains on film. One of the earliest surviving narrative films in British Cinema, Daring Daylight Burglary (1903) culminates in a train journey. The police apprehend the thief at the end of his ride.

The films of Alfred Hitchcock, as might be expected, are rich in their use of the trains and pursuits, both by criminals and by spies. In Secret Agent (1936) the German spy, Marvin, dies in a crash, killed by the train rather than the British Agent, Ashenden. The 39 Steps (1935) has Richard Hannay on the run for a supposed murder, evading both police and enemy agents. The train provides his means of escape from pursuers. It also carries him to wild and romantic locales in Scotland. And the train enables Hitchcock to reprise an earlier film motif when Hannay kisses an attractive female, but a complete stranger, to escape detection. (Hitchcock plays another variation or homage to early film for the end of North by North West, US 1959).

Entering the tunnel, 1899.

Entering the tunnel, 1899.

In The Lady Vanishes the heroine, Iris, becomes involved in spies and intrigue on a continental express. Suffering from concussion after a suspicious blow on the head, she is assisted by kind English matron, Miss Froy. However, Miss Froy disappears and Iris, with increasing desperation, searches for the missing lady. An eccentric English musicologist Gilbert assists her. He also turns out to be a hero, climbing bravely and with agility from one compartment to another as another train thunders by. In the course of the train journey we see also kidnappings, murder, unmasking, betrayal and violent conflict. But as well as utilising the train for melodramatic events, the film also plays on the visual connections. Miss Froy is a British spy kidnapped by enemy agents. Iris and Gilbert receive two visual revelations/clues as they investigate the disappearance. One is the abducted agent’s name, seen only by Iris, traced on the carriage window. The second is an incriminating tea label, spotted by Gilbert, momentarily stuck to the restaurant widow. Both are seen fleetingly and then gone. The audience shares their visual experience in the viewing of the film as they spy these clues in the unravelling mystery.

'Froy', at the bottom of the window.

‘Froy’, at the bottom of the window.

This play with the visual affinities of film and train re-appears in a wartime melodrama, Waterloo Road (1944). Expressing similar anxieties as those found in Hollywood film noir, the hero Jim goes absent from the army because he fears his wife is being seduced by a spiv, Purvis. Prior to the dramatic climax there is a scene where the wife, Tillie, stops in front of a photographer’s window and gazes at a picture of her wedding in the display. This leads to a flashback where husband and wife board the train heading off for their honeymoon destination, and the previously barred pleasures of marriage. In contrast, the Underground in the film is clearly domesticated within the community, providing alternative communal accommodation and sleeping during the Blitz. London’s subterranean transport network provides a parallel setting in the 1928 Underground. Scenes of violence occur there but stability is represented by Bill who works on the underground and is the romantic hero opposed to Bert who works in a Power Station.

But the key film expressing this visual affinity is Brief Encounter (1945). One reason that might explain the long-lasting appeal of this 1940s classic is that it is an intensively reflexive story. It is a film about cinema. This is clear in the scene that follows the opening sequence. The film has introduced the two lovers, Laura and Alec, at the moment of their parting. This is the end of the affair and the story. There follows Laura’s train journey home. Then, sitting in her front room, lulled by the romantic chords of the Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto, Laura remembers her affair. Just as in a cinema, a projection appears before her and she, and we, enter the world of romance. It is an emotional world, signalled by the powerful musical strains, plotted as a radio broadcast. Laura is a similar position to that of the audience at the cinema, who, later in the film, watch the [fictional] feature, ‘Flames of Passion’.

In this film/flashback within the film the railway and the train are key actors. The affair begins in a station bar, sparked by the grit thrown up by a passing train. The affair continues on a weekly basis, courtesy of the local rail service when Laura makes her regular Thursday visits to the market town of Milford. Just over halfway through the film Alec and Laura openly declare their love. Then, her husband Fred calls Laura back from her dream, as he turns down the music.

Laura returns to her reverie. She remembers the train journey home after that declaration of love. On the train she fondly imagines an alternative ending to the affair, one where she and Alex romantically travel across Europe. Gazing out the train window as the evening landscape passes she has “one of those absurd fantasies just like one has when one is a girl.” As she stares “into the darkness”, she imagines “Alec and me” on a journey to romantic and exotic places. And this dream is shown projected through the carriage window as Laura dreamily stares into the night.

Laura's dream/film

Laura’s dream/film

But the love affair comes to an end; mostly, it would seem, because the lovers cannot cope with the deception and the pressure of social mores. On the last Thursday, after Alec has left, Laura contemplates throwing herself under a train. This would be a similar end to that Tolstoy’s famous heroine, Anna Karenina [filmed in the UK in 1947]. However, Laura draws back from the final act and boards the train bearing her back to comfortable married suburbia. Also, at this point in the plotting, she returns from her dream of forbidden love. If it is a dream, then for much of the film it is one induced by the lulling rhythms of the train.

The 1950s were rather an anti-climax after the 1940s. And indeed, in this period the train seems to lose some of its appeal and significance. The motor car and the aeroplane were replacing the railways’ key social role. Two of the more memorable train films of this period are exercises in nostalgia. And in both the train engine is a museum relic.

The Titfield Thunderbolt (1952) shows a group of train enthusiasts trying to resist the “closure of the oldest branch line in the world.” They set up an independent rail service, led by the vicar and the squire. At the climax, the rival Bus Company sabotages the engine the night before a crucial inspection. So the Titfield villagers raid the village museum and resuscitate the venerable old Thunderbolt locomotive. The film ends with this nineteenth century museum piece carrying the passengers seated in a redundant carriage, previously home to the local poacher. And the engine is driven by the vicar and stoked by his rail-enthusiast Bishop, clad in his scarlet bib.

Northwest Frontier also returns to the nineteenth century, as imperial warrior Captain Scott fends off the uncivilised tribal hordes to rescue the rightful, westernised prince. The escape is effected behind another museum piece engine, ‘Empress of India’, tended on this occasion by a loyal Indian, Gupta. In both films, the audience is invited to escape to the past.

The Titfield Thunderbolt

The Titfield Thunderbolt


Anna Karenina London Films 1947. Dir: Julien Duvivier, script Julien Duvivier, Jean Anouilh, Guy Morgan, from the novel by Leo Tolstoy. Cast: Vivien Leigh (Anna).

Brief Encounter, Cineguild 1945. Dir: David Lean, script Noel Coward, David Lean, Ronald Neame, Anthony Havelock­-Allan from Coward’s play Still Life. Cast: Celia Johnson (Laura), Trevor Howard (Alec), Cyril Raymond (Fred).

Bank Holiday, Gainsborough 1937. Dir: Carol Reed, script Rodney Ackland. Cast: Margaret Lockwood (Catherine), Hugh Williams (Geoffrey).

Daring Daylight Robbery, Sheffield Photographic Company, 1903. Dir: Frank Mottershaw, 258 feet.

Hindle Wakes, Gaumont-British, 1927. Dir: Maurice Elvey: from the stage play by Stanley Houghton. Estelle Brody (Fanny).

The Lady Vanishes, Gainsborough, 1938. Dir: Alfred Hitchcock; script A. R. Rawlinson. Cast: Margaret Lockwood (Iris), Michael Redgrave (Gilbert), Dame May Whitty (Miss Froy).

The Last Journey, Twickenham 1935. Dir: Bernard Vorhaus; script John Soutar and H. Fowler Mear: Julian Mitchell (Bob), Godfrey Tearle (Sir Wilfred Rhodes).

Night Mail GPO 1936. Dir. and script: Basil Wright, Harry Watt [with material by Alberto Cavalcanti uncredited].

Northwest Frontier, Rank 1959. Dir: J. Lee Thompson; script Robin Estridge, Frank Nugent, Robert Westerby from the novel by Patrick Ford. Cast: Kenneth More (Captain Scott), I. S. Johar (Gupta), Govind Raja Ross (young prince).

Secret Agent, Gaumont-British 1936. Dir: Alfred Hitchcock; script Charles Bennett, Ian Hay, Jesse Lasky Jr, Alma Reville from the play by Campbell Dixon and the stories by Somerset Maugham. Cast: John Gielgud (Ashenden), Robert Young (Marvin).

The Kiss in the Tunnel, George Albert Smith 1899; also director. Distributed by the Warwick Trading Company. 75 feet in length.

The Titfield Thunderbolt, Ealing 1952. Dir: Charles Crichton; script T.E.B. Clarke. Cast: Stanley Holloway, George Relph, John Gregson, Naunton Wayne, Godfrey Teale.

Train of Events, Ealing Studios 1949. Dir. Sidney Cole, Charles Crichton, Basil Dearden, script Basil Dearden, T.E.B. Clarke, Angus Macphail, Ronald Millar. Cast: John Clements (Raymond), Lawrence Payne (Richard), Joan Dowling (Ella), Peter Finch (Philip).

The 39 Steps, Gaumont-British 1935. Dir: Alfred Hitchcock; script Charles Bennett, Alma Reville, Ian Hay from the novel by John Buchan. Cast: Robert Donat (Richard Hannay), Madeleine Carroll (Pamela).

Waterloo Road, Gainsborough 1944. Dir: Sidney Gilliat; script Sidney Gilliat.

Joy Shelton (Tillie), John Mills (Jim) Stewart Granger (Purvis).

Underground, British Instructional Film 1928. Dir: Anthony Asquith, also scenario. Cast: Elissa Landi as Nell, Norah Baring as Kate, Brian Aherne as Bill, Cyril McLaglen as Bert.


BBC / WGBH 1995, ‘The Great Escape’ from The People’s Century 1900 – 1999, shown on BBC Television.

The Lost World of Mitchell & Kenyon, BBC / bfi 2005. A selection from this early UK film archive which toured Regional Film Theatres.

Tony Fletcher 2003, films from the BFI Archives presented at Location! Location! Location! Landscape, place and travel in pre 1930 Cinema, The Sixth British Silent Cinema Weekend 2003, Nottingham Broadway.

Ian Christie (1994) The Lost Machine: Early Cinema and the Birth of the Modern World, bfi. The book accompanied a series of programmes shown on BBC Television. [Pages 16, 17, 18}.

Laurence Kardish (1991) in Junction and Journey Trains and Film, The Museum of Modern Art. [Pages 11 and 12.]

Lynne Kirby, (1997), Parallel Tracks The Railroad and Silent Cinema, Duke University Press. [Page 2).

This article has been developed from an illustrated talk given by the author at the Redbridge Museum in Ilford, (arranged through the BFI Associate Tutor Scheme, now defunct), to accompany ‘On the Move’, an exhibition on Transport. It was originally printed in MEJ (Media Education Journal) Issue 37, Spring 2005: thanks to the editor for agreeing to posting it here.


Posted in British films, Motifs | Leave a Comment »

Hands Across the City / Le mani sulla città , Italy 1963

Posted by keith1942 on February 6, 2015

Nottola and cronies.

Nottola and cronies.

Leeds International Film Festival retrospective of his work in 2005. We saw a 35mm print of this film, made in black and white and in the 1.85:1 ratio. As usual the Italian soundtrack was accompanied by onscreen subtitles in English.

Rosi had worked as an assistant with Luchino Visconti and one can see a strong influence by this director and by the Neo-realist movement more generally on Rosi’s films. At the same time there is a strong individual development in the form and style of his films in this period. The preceding film, Salvatore Giuliano (1961), a study of politics, the mafia and corruption in Sicily in the years at the end of World War II, was an amazing experience back in the early 1960s. It combined a documentary style, with dramatic plotting and labyrinthine plot full of ambiguities. This approach was to be mirrored in later films like The Mattei Affair / Il caso Matei (1972) and Illustrious Corpses / Cadaveri eccellenti (1975). Hands Over the City offers a rather different approach: the ending of the film presents something approaching closure and the resolution of the conflicts chartered through the film are quite apparent.

A study edited by Carlo Testa (1996) proffers the term  ‘critical realism’ for Rosi’s films. The approach developed in neo-realism can still clearly be identified, but the use of drama is modified. Rosi’s films have a critical [Marxist] approach in which the distancing [reminiscent of some of the ideas of Brecht] gives a greater emphasis to the political dynamic.

Rosi comes from the city of Naples. And the screenplay was written by Rosi together with his friend and fellow Neapolitan Rafael La Capria together with Enzo Provenzale and Enzo Forcella. The city has provided the focus for several of Rosi’s films and the South is a central issue in his entire output. The South / North divide is a central contradiction in Italian history and has pre-occupied writers and artists, including the in the formidable output of Antonio Gramsci.

The story presented in the film revolves around the political elite in Naples and the question of land. The key character is Eduardo Nottola This was Francesco’s Rosi’s third feature film and one of the films screened in the (Rod Steiger), a property developer but also a council member of the city. The film opens and closes on a development site which Nottola and his associates buy from the city for lucrative developments – ‘today’s gold’ in Nottola’s words. The corruption involved in land dealings becomes a major public issue when construction work in the poor quarter of the city causes the collapse of a Jerry-built block, with injuries and deaths.

Mani collapse

Much of the film is taken up with the manipulations and trafficking on the City Council. Here three groups jostle for power – right, centre and left. Apart from Nottola another key character is a leading left councillor De Vita (Carlo Fermariello), presented fairly sympathetically in the film. The other sympathetic councillor is Balsamo (Angelo D’Allessandro), the head of a hospital and member of the centre grouping. Less sympathetic and clearly prepared to endorse corruption and profiteering is Maglione (Guido Alberti), the leader of the right grouping and Professor De Angeli (Salvo Randone) the leader of the centre grouping.

These members of the city’s ruling class dominate the film. The ordinary working people, objects of the exploitation and oppression appear only occasionally. However the film’s treatment of these episodes is powerful. Right near the beginning of the film we see the collapse of the block of flats – the local people both run for cover and then run to attempt to rescue the injured and bring out the dead. We return to this area later when the council announces a plan to clear the area for development under the disguise of health and safety. The narrow street is filed with banners and the jeering populace. A little later the armed carabinieri back up council officials as the working class residents are forcibly moved. And then at the end of the film, in one of the bravura set pieces often found in Rosi’s film, we survey the city streets on the eve of an election. The camera moves around squares and arcades as the different political factions address, even harangue, crowds at hustings.

Working class opposition

Working class opposition

What is noticeable about the scenes in the working class area is the prominence of women. In the sequence where opposition is voiced to the council plans women dominate the mise en scène. It is they who are in the forefront of agitation whilst the men are much more muted. Rosi’s films tend to focus on worlds dominated by men: in parts a reflection of the social reality of Italy. Strong and central women characters are uncommon, though they do appear, as in his version of Carmen (1984). But they do play a prominent part in the presentation of the working class: notable also in Salvatore Giuliano. Only one woman among the elite receives much attention, Maglione’s lover (Dany Paris). However she is treated rather like a pet and expected to follow him round, and be heard only when he wishes.

The mise en scène in the film is rich in motifs. A recurring scene takes place in Nottola’s high rise offices. One wall is covered in a large-scale map of the city, reflecting his relationship to Naples. One of the later scenes takes place at night and the wide span windows present the darkened city as Nottola paces the room.

The council sequences emphasise the nature of the political traffic in the city. The council chamber is frequently the site of hurly burly argument. But such occasions are constant interrupted as the different groups move to smaller, less public rooms where deals take place. As you might expect from the title ‘hands’ are also a recurring motif.

The Council Chamber

The Council Chamber

Rosi’s film relies on a dynamic camera. The cinematographer is Gianni Di Venanzo, who worked on Rosi’s first five films. The film is full of sequence shots and at times the camera dashes towards events, at other times [as in Nottola’s office at night] it prowls round a character. The collapse of the block of flats is a bravura moment in the film. Rosi and Venanzo filmed an actual demolition, using a number of cameras to record the event. The sequence shots in the night of hustings late in the film has a similarly impressive quality.

The music by Piero Piccione is interesting. For much of the time the rhythm and tonal quality is reminiscent of films dealing with criminality. One sequence that accompanied the machinations of the councillors reminded me strongly of the compositions of Bernard Hermann.

The cast presents this world of machinations and cover-ups very effectively. Rosi himself recruited Steiger for the main part. His rather different style make shim stand out in the councillors world. He is a maverick, yet dangerously effective. Other characters like Maglione and De Angeli seem as if taken from the writings of Machiavelli. Carlo Fermariello, playing Da De Vita, was actually a real-life councillor now playing his fictional counterpart. This mixing of the professional and non-professional performers is a recurring constant in Rosi’s films. And he and his production team are able to effectively weave these styles together. So several times we switch from the murky world of the council, predominantly professional performers, to the more dynamic world of the street, predominantly non-professional performers.

Thematically the film deals with the corruption of the political class. One assumes that whilst the film is fictional Italian audiences would easily draw parallels with the actual political events in Naples and in the wider Italy. The film uses the non-de plumes of ‘right’, centre’ and ‘left’, though some reviews identify actual: parties such as the Christian Democrats. This may be clearer in the original Italian than in the English sub-titles. What is clear is that when the film depicts the church it is the dominant Catholic institution in  Italy. Religious leaders are not that prominent in the film, but they are always noticeable at points of public endorsement. Thus an opening ceremony for a development includes the blessing by a bishop or archbishop. Interestingly at one point De Angeli proudly shows off his art collection to Balsamo: these include not only two religious paintings but also an actual altarpiece installed in a side-room.

The film was successful in Italy, though reviews often took contrary positions. The article by Manuela Gieri (Hands Over the City: cinema as political indictment and social commitment: also 1996) quotes two examples:

Gian Luigi Rondi in the daily Il Tempo:

No, no no. Don’t come and tell me this is how one should make movies. This is neither cinema nor healthy polemic; it is a political speech, an electoral harangue ….

Whilst Ugo Casiraghi in L`Unita:

A wonderful film, Rosi has authored his most mature work. … It is a film essay with the clarity of a limpid and documented social study.

Of course, the responses are more to do with the political; values of the reviewers than their review of filmic qualities. But in a way that speaks to the effectiveness of the film: its project is clearly delivered. The film won The Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival that year. Like all of Rosi’s films it successfully straddles the popular and the art film – It is engrossing and at times exciting whilst also providing the viewer with stimulation and challenges.

Poet of Civic Courage The Films of Francisco Rosi, edited by Carlo Testa, Flicks Books 1996.

Posted in Italian Film, Short films | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

The Angry Silence, UK 1960

Posted by keith1942 on January 29, 2015

Angry silence

I wrote this piece to accompany a viewing for students. The focus on the film was in terms of Identification and Positioning. It was fairly clear that all of the viewers identified quite strongly with the Tom Curtis character (Richard Attenborough), who in this narrative appears to embody the message of the film – the individual against the group. Here I just wanted to note some of the ways that I felt the film attempted to ‘position’ the audience.

The film is set in a northern factory. Tom Curtis (Richard Attenborough) is a worker there. His close friend, also working at the factory, is Joe (Michael Craig): he lodges with Tom and his family. Tom is married to Anna (Pier Angeli); an Italian migrant and they have two young children. A dispute erupts at the factory and the workers, led by the shop steward, Connolly (Bernard Lee), come out on strike. However, Connolly is ‘guided’ by a visiting agitator, Travers (Alfred Burke): dialogue suggests that he is a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain, but this is never explicitly stated. During the strike some of the workers carry on working, including Tom, and become targets of abuse and violence as ‘scabs’. The film’s climax involves violence against Tom himself [the culprits include Mick played by the young Oliver Reed]..

Firstly, the narrative is centred on Tom and his family; it is their lives and emotions that we see at close quarters. The film’s structure emphasises this, while there are a lot of quite short scenes (e.g. between Connolly and the manager, Davis – Geoffrey Keen) there are a number of lengthier scenes which portray the traumas of Tom, Anna and their children.

Characterisation is also important, I think the film fairly successfully creates a picture of working class life, and the script cleverly uses moments of inarticulateness to make its points. The casting of an Italian actress as the wife allows space for more emotional scenes than is usual in British films of that period. Note the first time we meet Anna she is listening to an Italian tune on the radio. And there is the way her hair (normally up) is let down for her most dramatic scene, the confrontation with Joe.  Joe is the character who changes his mind and sides in the confrontation: the film rewards him for this.  Earlier we had seen Joe unsuccessfully trying to date Pat (Penelope Horner), a clerk in the factory office: but we see her follow him as he leaves the final union meeting.

The camerawork and montage is very effective for a British film, there are a lot of close-ups, always more emotive and with greater impact. The camera is also used for point-of-view shots (when we see a character or scene as a film character would see this). One noticeable one it the point-of-view shot as Joe sees Anna in their quarrel, with the camera looking down on the distraught and anguished Anna.

The mise en scène or settings reinforces the story, characters and use of camera. The use of large spaces to place the characters in a threatening and lonely situation, as for example Anna lost in the great school playground as she desperately seeks her son Brian. Or Tom in the factory, shown with a depth of field, which places him in relation to his work-mates: after the strike he is cut off by space and obstacles.

A combination of camera and setting is exemplified in the opening sequence, which accompanies the titles – the arrival of Travers The train sounds and the station are unsettling, places of passage rather than rest. As Travers crosses the station he is shown at one point behind a metal barrier, a frequent device for setting people apart. In the station car park waits Connolly, and the manner in which he flips away his cigarette and starts the car reminds me irresistibly of Hollywood gangster movies, a comment on both him and Travers.

The music is very interesting. There are only nine pieces of music spread through the film and one of those just a drum roll. Apart from the titles music signals and accompanies the key dramatic moments of the film, like the closing down of the factory. At this point a theme accompanies the little group who are working on, a theme that recurs later and is noticeable for the trumpet playing in a high register. This theme returns with other factory scenes, and when we hear it for the last time, accompanying the crane shot that gives us a bird-eye view of the final meeting, it has become a wishful, dying tone reminiscent of the Last Post.

The film also makes effective us of soundtrack, note the brief shot that signals the attack on Tom – night-time, a dog barks, running steps, a whisp of wind – cut to the next scene.

There are lots of other devices (or use of film language) in this film, many of which not only develop the story but also seem to aim at affecting the responses of the audience to the story and the characters. If, as I argue, the story carries the side in an argument, then these devices can be seen as trying to place or position the audience vis-à-vis that argument or message.

The film was produced by Beaver; a company set up by Richard Attenborough and Bryan Forbes in one of a number of attempts to develop a successful independent British production facility. Bryan Forbes produced the film that was directed by Guy Green with the story co-written by Michael Craig and Richard Gregson. The film was nominated for both an Academy Award and a BAFTA.  Critics were generally positive: Dilys Powell commented “A film made by people who care about the screen and care what they are saying on it.” Like the majority of the British critics she appeared to endorse the values embodied in the film. The early 1960s saw another of the recurring media attacks on working class militancy. In this case there was frequent publicity about people who ‘scabbed’ [worked during a strike) being disciplined, often informally – the most quoted examples were being sent to Coventry, i.e. none of the work-mates would talk to the culprit.

The British media tended, as they still do, to support the values of the capitalist class and working class actions were perceived as ‘rocking the boat’. The film certainly seems to reflect this set of values.

Black and white, 94 minutes, 1960.

Posted in British films, Movies with messages, Political film | 1 Comment »

To the Commissioners of To the Editor of Amateur Photography

Posted by keith1942 on January 22, 2015


The film in question was commissioned by the Hyde Park Picture House and the Pavilion Visual Arts Commissioning Organisation in Leeds. The film was premiered at the Hyde Park in November 2014. There have been a number of screenings since and on Saturday 10th January 2015 there was a screening followed by a discussion involving the filmmakers, the participants and audience members.

The film is a study of the first period of the Pavilion Art Project in the 1980s, using archive documents, photographs, interviews with women involved in the project at that time and filming carried out during the production. The Pavilion started out as a project around women’s photography but over the years, partly due to funding pressures, the project has changed and developed and it is now an art commissioning project. The original venue of the project was a disused one storey building in the Hyde Park, alongside the Leeds University campus. I remember it chiefly for interesting exhibitions in the 1980s, though there were also seminars and other events

The basic form of the film uses montage, which can probably be considered an avant-garde form. Re-watching it I noted more aspects and gained a clearer sense of the content. It struck me that the photographs are organised both around themes but also around tropes: the latter offering a sense of the practical work of the project. I noted that the photographs are accompanied by recorded sound whilst the archive documents [minutes, letters, leaflets, pamphlets,…) are accompanied by electronic music: the latter increases in complexity as the film develops. The interviews are separated in presentation between visual and sound: the latter plays as voice-overs alongside discrete footage. The participants discuss chosen photographs that are not necessarily seen at that point: but I realised that all of them do figure in the montages of photographs through the film. Whilst the contemporary footage seems all to be of or about the actual film production. I also noted that from the early interviews there are questions raised about the form of the production itself.

The overall form of the film seems to be a ‘work in progress’: in a sense that the film foregrounds its own construction. This is definitely a form that might be considered avant-garde or at least modernist in its approach. It also relates to the body of film that follows the use of montage as it was developed in the pioneer Soviet cinema: The Factory of Facts collective would seem to be an important influence, either directly or mediated through filmmakers who follow their practice.

This presentation was via a DCP version, slightly different from the premiere. Visually this made little difference: black and white and colour images in a 1.37:1 frame. However the soundtrack was also embedded on the digital folders, and I thought there was less variation within the auditorium than with the direct sound at the premier.

Gill Park outside an earlier commissioned event at the old Majestic Cinema.

Gill Park outside an earlier commissioned event at the old Majestic Cinema.

The discussion that followed was very full and very interesting. There was a panel of speakers at the front of the auditorium:

Gill Park the current Director of the Pavilion: Will Rose, Associate Producer of the film: Luke Fowler and Mark Fell, the filmmakers: Griselda Pollock and Diana Clark, founders member of the Pavilion: and Irene  Revell, who acted as a sort of chair. There were also couple of the participants from the film in the audience.

What follows are my notes on the discussion, which lasted for an hour and a half. So these are partial, and, of course, my interpretation is based on notes taken during the discussion.

Gill opened up explaining some of the rationale and emphasising the stance of the Pavilion, which includes addressing the problematic of images and of their reproduction.

Will talked about setting up the production, which grew out of conversations with the two filmmakers. Also he explained how the Pavilion set about raising the funding: and pointing out that the film meshed with the 30th anniversary of the Pavilion and the centenary of the Hyde Park Picture House.

Irene then moved to the two filmmakers, Mark Fell and Luke. Mark explained how they had approached the project and the three major strands in the film – photographs, archive material, interviews.

Luke explained that the archive material was important, though it was incomplete: Mark added, ‘stuff left behind’ rather than being systematically’ collected and collated, [the archive material is housed in Feminist Archive North in the Special Collections at Leeds University]. The photographs were found as a collection of negatives, with no known provenance. The selection of photos used in the film was made at different points by Mark, Luke, Will and Gill.

Irene raised the question that one contentious issue was gender. Some of the interviews question why the film was made by two men. This also led on to comments about the interviews and the use of discrete image and sound. Points made included that of the context for photographs, which can be thought of as ‘mute documents’. There was also the point of bringing in what is ‘outside the frame’ of any photograph.

It seems that the interviews all followed the same format, though they do seem rather different. Each interviewee was asked to select a single photograph from the collection. They were all given the same four questions. And the interview was recorded aurally and subsequently, with suggestions from the interviewee, they were filmed and these images accompanied the sound recording.

Mark emphasised that he and Luke were the ‘authors of the film’ and took that responsibility’. He added that authorship can ‘take many forms’. Irene asked about the title, which was partly improvised but also reflected the view of Amateur Photography as a ‘bastion of male hegemony’.


Before we heard from other panel members there were some comments/questions from members of the audience.

One young woman raised the point of the non-synchronised sound and suggested that this made ‘problematic the voice of the subject’.

Luke responded that they wanted to get away from the dominance of ‘talking heads’. He and Mark talked about filming the interviews and creating the music for the film, which was improvised.

Another woman referred to the collection of photograph in the film and expressed the view that many of them deserved to be highlighted as particular images. Luke responded that they wanted to place less emphasis on their qualities as photographic images and treat them as interesting images.

Another woman bought up the occasional appearances of the filmmakers: and Luke responded that they thought there was a problem when ’producers were presented as anonymous’. He also made the point that they were not making documentaries in the form followed by Nick Broomfield.

Points was made that the film only partially explained how the Pavilion developed/

Griselda Pollock now contributed to the discussion. She made some comments about the formal structures in documentary. One aspect, going back to John Grierson, treated film as ‘someone goes and looks at someone else’. She contrasted this with the work of one of the photographers featured in the film, Sirkka-LiisaKonttinen.  She worked for seven years in an area in Newcastle-on-Tyne, building up relationships with mothers and children involved in dance classes. Her work was not just about recording but also about ‘changing access’, and using ‘informal photography’ she also raised questions about how the recorded interviews were treated – there was a slight dispute about what editing left out from the interviewees comments.

Dinah Clarke also now contributed. She talked about her days in the initial work to develop the Pavilion project. One aspect of the context was that these were the years when the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper was taking place. Thus a place like the park ‘or moor’ was not necessarily a safe place for women. She also talked about how funding issues changed the nature of the project. The Art Council was only prepared to fund what it regarded as ‘quality photography’: ‘informal photography’ was seen as ‘community work’ rather than ‘art work’. The emphasis on exhibitions in the early years of the project resulted from this emphasis.

Griselda added some points about her personal experience. She also commented on the use of the archive material. As a historian she felt they could have made the material ‘more vivid’: there was a sense in which they were merely illustrative rather than informative.

Sue Ball, in the audience, added to these. She also raised the distinction between authorship and ownership. She pointed out that one important aspect of the project took place in the dark room: both for them professional photographers and for the users. She thought that there was this aspect of the project’s own production process which the film omitted.

As the discussion came to an end people returned to points about the filmmakers being men: to the changes that had occurred in the project since the period the film covered: and a suggestion that the matter needed to be related to different views of the Pavilion in the different generations who were involved.
Irene thanked everyone and then event came to an end, after an hour and half for discussion. This was an extensive discussion, even so there was clearly more to be said and there were individual discussion taking place in the foyer and outside the cinema.

I asked a question at one point. After a woman made the point about how the photographs were treated I asked whether the filmmakers had thought about using some of the modern technologies to produce a version that audiences or viewers could construct themselves. Mark responded that he was not interested in ‘a viewer’s narrative’. I can understand this standpoint. The filmmakers have produced a version that critiques conventional treatments, but viewers might choose to follow just those conventional approaches.

However, some of the participants in the Pavilion in the period studied felt that the film did not sufficiently reflect the role of people in constructing images and their meanings: one comment added that the film should include the users of the project, often involved in informal photography. This is a recurring contradiction between authorship in films and participation. I remember that Jean Rouch, who was partly responsible for the renewed interest in the Factory of Facts and the writings of Dziga Vertov, included in his seminal Chronicle of a Summer (Chronique d’un Eté, 1960) a sequence where the participants viewed and commented on an early cut of the film. This appears to have happened to a degree with Letter, but only with those being interviewed and their segment sin the film. It would be interesting to take this further with others of the participants in the project, including ordinary women who were users of the centre.

This is a consideration of the film and its relationship to the Pavilion rather than a specific criticism. I remain impressed by the film. Someone near the end commented that one function of the film was to ‘galvanize people to do more work’ on the Pavilion and its history. That would be good, though given the ‘privatisation’ of Universities, I think the Feminist Archive North collection is probably less accessible than in the past. Mark and Luke talked about the time and labour they had to spend on this.

Those interviewed for the film were:

Dinah Clark. Angela Kingston. Caroline Taylor. Griselda Pollock. Sirkka-LiisaKonttinen. Quinn. Rosy Martin. Sutapa Biswas. Al Garthwaite. Deborah Best. Jenifer Carter Ramson. Sue Ball. Maggie Murray.

A Pavilion film by Mark Fell & Luke Fowler
Commissioned by Hyde Park Picture House & Pavilion
Kindly supported by: Arts Council England  Leeds City Council  Leeds Inspired
Hamilton Corporate Finance  Feminist Review Trust  Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society

Camera: Margaret Salmon
Second camera: Luke Fowler
Producer: Will Rose
Music: Mark Fell, Luke Fowler
Rostrum: Jo Dunn, Leeds Animation Workshop
Grading: Ben Mullen at Serious
Sound Mix: Iain Anderson at Savalas
Music mastering: Andreas [LUPO] Lubich at Calyx
Telecine colourist: Paul Dean at Cinelab
Lab: Cinelab London
Film stock: Kodak
Pavilion: Gill Park, Anna Reid, Will Rose, Linzi Stauvers, Miriam Thorpe

Posted in Documentary, History on film | Tagged: , , | Leave a Comment »


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.