Wednesday, 18 December 2013




One of the enduring images in my mind when I think of Lawrence of Arabia, is Lawrence's long return journey through the desert to rescue Gasim, his servant. The brilliant cinematography of this scene was replicated in Omar Sharif's wandering through Siberia to return to Yuriatin, in the other David Lean movie, Doctor Zhivago (Omar Sharif, of course, starred in both the films). The bare desert, however, lives in my mind through its striking contrast with Lawrence's brilliant blue eyes. I do not know if the real T. E. Lawrence had such blue eyes, but the actor's eyes, and his myriad emotions of hope, pride, despair, exhaustion, as he traverses the desert is mesmerizing. I'm aware that to talk about the 1962 film while talking about Peter O'Toole is a cliche, so I'll quickly pay tribute to those blue eyes set against Audrey Hepburn's startled face in a quashed cupboard in How to Steal A Million. . . .

Requiescat in pace blue-eyed Peter O'Toole. 

Thursday, 31 October 2013

An Englishman Abroad (1983)

At the end of Cambridge Spies (2003), when Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean are deported to the USSR, Burgess looks at the white cliffs of Dover from his ship for the last time and passionately insists that Maclean doesn't miss this last glimpse of their homeland. I always found that scene very compelling. Yes, I am aware what the Cambridge Four did, and I do agree that they deserved their punishment, but I have always found the concept of living in exile extremely difficult to come to terms with. In the year 1958, the Australian actress Coral Browne accompanied the Royal Shakespeare Company to Moscow for a performance of Hamlet. Ms Browne played the role of Gertrude, and it was in that trip that she accidentally met Guy Burgess. Burgess, whose betrayal was the subject of extreme criticism, press curiosity (to put it mildly), and gossip, was living a banished life of disappointment in Moscow. An Englishman Abroad is about this chance meeting.

Timed at sixty one minutes, this television film was stupendous: both in the performances, and in the production. If Tom Hollander had given a critical performance of the young debauched Burgess in Cambridge and at the Foreign Office for the 2003 BBC series, the great Alan Bates preceded him by twenty years and performed to perfection the role of the disgraced spy in his later years. Coral Browne stars as herself, and apparently, most of the dialogues in the film are what had been really exchanged between her and Burgess.

Alan Bennett and John Schlesinger came together for the making of this film: the former writing the script, and the latter directing it, and nowhere can the genius of these two stars be more apparent, than in this production venture. The events took place during the highest glory of the communist regime (in the late fifties), but it was shot in the mid-eighties, when Communism had failed, and the Western Bloc had emerged quite victorious in the Cold War. Hence the irony in the dialogues, and the portrayal of Moscow is very bitter. Ms Browne's room has a hidden speaker in the chandelier, and Moscow apparently has no soap anywhere. Spying was so rampant, it looked like an epidemic, and the ordinary people of Moscow are portrayed in so poor a light that they appear quite a caricature of textbook Communists written by some Western Bloc elite. In the midst of this cold, lifeless graveyard of deception and want, swaggers Guy Burgess. His swagger is tragic because of the way he keeps a brave front and tries not to reveal that he is disappointed. The scene where Alan Bates eats his meagre lunch of raw tomatoes with raw garlic with relish while a surprised Coral Browne looks on, is tragic in its proportions. As a viewer I was grappling to fathom the depths of despair or staggering courage of Burgess, and found companionship in Ms Browne's tears at the realisation that Burgess continually played the music of John Buchanan to find solace in his exile. Later when he asks her if she knew him, with the acerbity that is typical of Coral Browne, she answers, "I suppose so. We nearly got married."



And yet all that swagger, all the putting of the brave fronts amounts to nothing in the scenes at the church, when listening to the choir, Alan Bates/Guy Burgess has tears rolling down his cheek. When he leaves Ms Browne outside the gates, he only tells her not to report back home that he is unhappy, for he really isn't. The comrades may have their weak points: the tailoring, the cuisine, or the absence of soap, but the USSR isn't a bad place after all. He did what he did because that felt right to him at that time.

Both Alan Bates and Coral Browne won BAFTAs for their performance, and I cannot remember another instance when it was more deserved. I have seen the dapper Alan Bates in films from the late sixties and early seventies (The Go-Between, Far From the Madding Crowd, Women in Love) mostly as passionate characters with a certain je ne sais quoi about the fluidity of their gender. His performance of the openly homosexual Guy Burgess in '83 brings a finality in the fluidity that his earlier characters have sought. Coral Browne's scenes in London, where she goes hunting for Burgess's suit, shoes, and night-suits are a gem.

Perhaps the film is slightly dubious in its sentiments. In the undercurrent of resounding pity for the spy who now has to live in cold Russia for betraying his country -- the rich, civilised, well-tailored, and well-fed England -- one feels sorry for the disgraced spy before being recalled to the horrors of his crime. Perhaps that was indeed the intention: to show that no trespass, however grave, is beyond the twilight zone of justification and transgression, beyond discipline and punish. 

Sunday, 23 June 2013

Carry On . . . Up the Khyber (1968)

Carry On . . . Up the Khyber is the sixteenth of the thirty-one Carry On films produced between 1958 and 1992. This was my first, and I didn't know what to expect. I did know, however, that this was a long-standing British comic sequence, coming next only to James Bond in the sheer number of titles produced. Thematically the Carry On films hark back to the tradition of English music halls and seaside postcards from the turn of the century. This affinity to these particular forms of popular culture makes this series a sterling example of 'high burlesque' and 'low comedy': Carry On . . . Up the Khyber solely relies on the crude and the obvious to evoke laughter; it includes situation comedies, farces, and is generally slapstick. Neither of these genres of comedy are my particular favourites, and sufficeth to say that the film's dependence on the crude and the physical doesn't go down well with me. Yet do not get me wrong: I am a big fan of 'Allo 'Allo despite the inappropriate jokes and the double entendres. A text needs some thing more other than slapstick humour to sustain the plot. Carry On . . . Up the Khyber, I'm afraid, lacks that extra bit glaringly.



The actions of the film revolves around the Third Foot and Mouth Regiment (or The Devils in Skirts), stationed in the province of Khalabar, near the Khyber Pass, and their claims that like true Scotsmen, they do not wear anything under their kilts. Apparently their fearsome reputation depends solely on this pretext, and hence when Private Widdle faints on being politely accosted by Bungdit Din, the chief of the warlike Burpa tribe, and the latter discovers him to be wearing woolen underwear, the fearsome reputation of The Devils in Skirts is under stake. Sir Sidney Ruff-Diamond is the Governor of British India of the province, and the lapse is brought to his notice by the British captain Keen. A quick inspection of the regiment reveals that in fact, all the 'Devils' do indeed wear underwear beneath their kilts. While this inspection parade is going on, Lady Ruff-Diamond takes a photograph of the underwear display, hoping to lure the Khasi of Khalabar, the antagonist of her husband to bed with this trumpcard. With this delicious piece of evidence in hand, the Khasi can break the myth of the fearsome 'Devils', muster a ferocious army of Afghans, storm the Pass, and reclaim India from the British rule. However, this cannot be done until he sleeps with Lady Ruff-Diamond whom, incidentally he doesn't find at all attractive. You get the drift . . .

Incidentally, the Khasi's daughter, Princess Jelhi, who's in love with Captain Keen, informs him of the Lady's elopement, and the rest of the plot involves ridiculous disguises of British soldiers to retrieve the evidence, a farcical orgy with the concubines of Bungdit Din, extremely crude jokes, and a lot of running. Jelhi finds enough time and chance to warn Lady Ruff-Diamond of her stupidity, and her father's plan to execute her. The Lady quickly sees what a fool she's been, and with the British soldiers, run to the safety of the British regiment.

Meanwhile the Governor receives and entertains (in numerical order) the fifty-one wives of the Khasi, who have come to him to "right the wrong" that the Khasi and the Lady have supposedly committed against him. Near the Pass, the Afgans have already advanced and pillaged the British armoury, rendering the latter unable to put up a proper fight. By this time, I had lost track of the story and all sense in watching it.

Anyway, Captain Keene and his mates arrive with the ladies, and after being reprimanded by his wife on discovering his escapades during her absence, the Governor decides not to do anything about the Afghan invasion, rather to host a Black Tie dinner. As the walls collapse, the British continue to eat, laugh, and be merry. Once the party ends, Sir Sidney casually tells Captain Keene to do the needful, and the remaining Regiment stand in one long line in front of the Afghans and do some flashing, and voila, the battle is won!

Thus Carry On . . . Up The Khyber exhausts all the possible crude forms of comedy. Yet as a high burlesque, it satirises the Kiplingesque movies of the British Raj throughout the preceding decades, those which looked at the Empire with nostalgia, and portrayed with painful details life in the Empire. This satirical element, is in fact a predominant streak of the Carry On films. The budget of the films was indeed very low, as could be made out from the frames of Carry On . . . Up The Khyber. Nevertheless, satire or not, I could be spared the agony of this Carry On film. Never again, yet another.

Saturday, 25 May 2013

Rebecca (1940)

May 22nd was Sir Laurence Olivier's (or rather, what would have been his) 106th birthday. To commemorate it in my own way, I decided to watch his 1940 film, Rebecca. Adapted from Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel, Rebecca was Alfred Hitchcock's first movie after he migrated to the United States, and it was made under David O. Selznick's contract. Yes, technically this film would be out of the scope of this blog. But when the director is British, the main actors of the film are British, and the screenplay is based on a British author's book, why not tag it along with British cinema?



Laurence Olivier is Maxim de Winter, the husband of Rebecca, and the owner of Manderley. The film begins with the eponymous first lines from the book: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again", juxtaposed with splendid images of rickety wrought iron gates, massive grounds, and a ruined mansion. It is often agreed that no one makes psychological thrillers better than Hitchcock, and Rebecca is his ideal playground -- the memories of the gracious, beautiful, and popular former wife wrecks havoc on the clumsy new wife, the astute husband, the servants, and the house. Joan Fontaine is of course brilliant as the new Mrs. de Winter. Coming from an extremely humble background, and always aware that she doesn't deserve the splendid new changes into her life, the new Mrs. de Winter suffers from extreme insecurity. The lingering presence of the former wife and mistress of Manderley, symbolised by the letter 'R' in every available piece of cloth, paper, or negligee, coupled with the extremely cold reception of her by the house-keeper Mrs. Danvers, makes it even more difficult for her to believe that she is truly the new mistress. Joan Fontaine perfectly articulates the lost look about her eyes; and being considerably younger to Maxim, she has a look of innocence, which is much appreciated by her husband. She believes that Maxim is still distraught by the death of his former wife, and she tries her best to match up to the former's standards. However, she often fails. Her attempt to parade in an expensive dress is unappreciated by Maxim, and she is hoodwinked by Mrs. Danvers into wearing the same dress for the costume ball as worn by Rebecca the previous year. Naturally this doesn't go down well with Maxim. In the end, when she learns of Maxim's loathing for Rebecca, and the truth of the latter's death, she gains clarity. This, however -- as mourned by Maxim -- also extinguishes the lost look and innocence about her eyes.



George Sanders, of course, keeps up his panache for playing the cad (case in point: The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, 1947). As is his wont, he marches into the screen halfway through the film; he is suave and subtly villainous in his portrayal of Rebecca's lover, Jack Favell, and with equal flamboyance hints at resorting to blackmail to achieve his ends. Hitchcock deviates significantly from the book in his depiction of Mrs. Danvers. Judith Anderson is younger than the supposed age of Mrs. Danvers in the book, and in suppressing her previous history, Hitchcock deliberately adds a sense of mystery to the character. Her attachment to the former mistress nearly verges on the obsessive-romantic, and is especially evident in the scene when she nearly makes Mrs. de Winter jump to her death from Rebecca's window. For the entire film she is cold, ruthless, confident, and calculating. One can only have praises for such a chilling performance. 


Laurence Olivier answers to every reader's imagination of Maxim de Winter. He is often cold, but one cannot miss his unmistakable affection for the new Mrs. de Winter. In Monte Carlo he plays the role of a rich widower almost to perfection: rude and lingering alone. He doesn't resort to long conversations with Joan Fontaine's character, although he takes her for drives every day, and proposes marriage to her in an off-hand way. His slight for parades is very pronounced, and in his love for the new Mrs. de Winter, he is extremely anxious not to make any references to incidents that would remind him of Rebecca. He is almost as mysterious as Manderley and Rebecca, and the viewer draws any number of conclusions from his off-hand demeanor. The final revelation does come as a surprise, and so does the change that comes over Maxim. Finally able to confide in his wife the biggest secret and the heaviest of burdens from his past, Laurence Olivier now puts on an almost carefree attitude, overtly attentive to his new wife, losing his temper during the inquest, and engaging in a violent battle of words with Favell. His anxiety in the final shots of the film are almost palpable.

Despite having read the book many times, the film Rebecca is worth visiting over and over again, both for the performances of the actors, and for the deftness of the director, who perfectly conveys the fears and anxieties of a clumsy, young working girl who suddenly finds herself the mistress of a sprawling country house, inhabited in every nook and corner by the memories of the perfect former mistress.

At the very end, I cannot help but drop a line on the extreme versatility of Sir Laurence Olivier. The last time I saw him on screen before Rebecca, was as Lord Marchmain in the 1981 adaptation of Brideshead Revisited. He was in his seventies by then, but had portrayed the proud Marquis with elan, moving from vanity of an atheist English Lord living in Venice with his mistress in the first episodes, to that of resignation in the final episodes of a spent man returning home to reconcile with his past and to die in peace. I guess this is the stuff great actors are made of.

Saturday, 18 May 2013

Sherlock versus Elementary

I'm aware that the two television shows I've chosen to write about on my very second post do not match the primary aim and scope of this blog. And to add insult to serious injury, one of them is an American show. However, a few nights ago, I watched Jonny Lee Miller as George Knightley in the 2009 BBC adaptation of Emma. I was absolutely bowled over by him, and further research informed me that he was playing Sherlock Holmes in an American adaptation of the Conan Doyle character. Having been a stupendous fan of the character for sixteen years now, and the promise of watching an actor whose work I recently liked, proved too alluring for me to overlook. Hence I procured Elementary and watched the twenty four episodes in two days flat, finishing at exactly the same time as the show aired its season finale in the US. Being a fan of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss's Sherlock, I found it rather pertinent to question and compare aspects of the two series (especially Elementary, which aired three years later than its British counterpart). Hence this post.



At the very outset I think I should declare that of all the Sherlock Holmes adaptations on screen (and trust me, I've seen most of them), I find Jeremy Brett's portrayal of the detective (from 1984--1994) the most dazzling. Although I intend to devote a separate, detailed post to that one, I might at times refer to it here just to show what sheer brilliance is, and how some recent makers have missed it.

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Interestingly, in many televised versions of Sherlock Holmes, the detective has been adapted to contemporary times. Basil Rathbone fights the Nazis in his incarnation of the detective during the forties; Moffat and Gatiss expose him to 21st century London, equipping him with all the modern gadgets; while in Elementary, Sherlock Holmes has been shipped to America, and he is identified first as an addict and then as a consultant detective. In fact Sherlock Holmes's addiction is a predominant strain in Elementary, and apparently the only way through which his paths cross with (Dr.) Watson. One cannot help but wonder that since the makers of Elementary obviously wanted to make a series on an ex-junkie and his female assistant, why didn't they just go ahead and do it? Why give the name of Sherlock Holmes and Watson to its protagonists, and include numerous intertextualities, not before diluting the references and making them seem utterly pointless?

NYPD, 11th Precinct

An interesting aspect of this series that struck me was Inspector Gregson of NYPD, 11th precinct. In Conan Doyle's books, Gregson was a Scotland Yard detective, smarter than Lestrade, and hence preferred more by Sherlock. However, in The Adventure of the Red Circle, we find an American detective Mr. Leverton from the Pinkerton Agency coming to England in pursuit of a notorious American-Italian criminal. It would have been more symmetrical for the sake of intertextuality for the makers of Elementary to bring Leverton into modern day America as an NYPD detective.
Anyway, Sherlock assists the NYPD, and of course he's not paid for it, because he's only a "consultant". Interestingly enough however, the NYPD seem to need him for every case, from simple to bizarre homicides, to catching a pair of thieving prostitutes, to finding out who makes an attempt at Gregson's assistant, Detective Bell's life. The sequence of events through the 24 episodes of Elementary is so consistent that a viewer can almost trace that every case follows one another in extremely close proximity. Any one would conclude that this particular police department is incapable of solving any case on its own!

In Sherlock, the relationship between our eponymous detective and Scotland Yard is much more complex. Apart from Lestrade, the others distinctively hate him, while the former has a begrudging mix of awe, respect, and irritation for him. A Study in Pink would at once reveal that unlike NYPD, who text him right from the crime scene, their British counterpart avoid involving Sherlock as long as it's necessary. Through all the episodes of Elementary, Sherlock introduces himself as working/consulting with NYPD, which frankly I find blasphemous.

New York versus London

Any avid reader of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes would agree that Victorian London assumes a character of its own in the books. In Sherlock too, we are given a clear glimpse of his eponymous knowledge of the bylanes, alleys, and shortcuts of the city. In the last double episode of Elementary, as Sherlock cruises Irene through the underground tunnels of Camden to reveal tablets from Roman times, we are reminded again of his vast knowledge of his own city. However this series fails to capture New York at all, and that is indeed a disappointment. Sherlock's famous homeless network in Victorian London is retained in his 21st century British incarnation. However, the Sherlock Holmes who has moved to America has failed to exploit the benefits of the homeless network of New York. Although he does employ the assistance of one such miscreant in locating the whereabouts of the serial killer M, that association is purely by chance, as the boy's tacit narration to Watson would reveal.

Moriarty

My first tryst with Moriarty onscreen was with Eric Porter. He was posh; he was grey-haired; he was steely-eyed; and having read every thing about him, I knew what he was capable of. In fact that image from the 1984 series of Jeremy Brett and Eric Porter hurtling down the Reichenbach Falls had haunted me for days. However, that was nothing compared to the fright Andrew Scott gave me as Jim Moriarty in Sherlock. That is how a contemporary Moriarty should be: properly frightening. On the other hand, one must admit, that the makers of Elementary were trying something novel with the concept of evil and Moriarty when they merged Moriarty with Irene Adler. After my first bout of laughter, I was merely curious to see how they would sort this mess. They didn't make a very good job of it.

Dr. Watson

In all the adaptations of Sherlock Holmes, not even one toyed with the idea of making Dr. Watson as female. Probably knowing Sherlock Holmes's misogynist attitude, they didn't think it would be feasible to make his associate a woman. Being a feminist, I would like to applaud Elementary for this novel idea, had it not been for Lucy Liu. I'm afraid she was the only element in a rather decent series which made me physically revolt against it. As if the nightmare called Charlie's Angels  wasn't enough, we might now have to suffer through a ridiculous sexual encounter between Holmes and a female Watson in an American version in the near future. I could almost remember a Brett-esque Holmes saying (in The Adventure of the Second Stain, 1904), "Now, Watson, the female sex is your department", and then nearly a hundred and eight years later, a bunch of writers taking the words too literally.
As if this was not enough, we are subjected to the zero acting capacities of the actrice. Through each episode I have found the existence of Joan Watson so disturbing, and I have so obsessively picked on her several glaring and atrocious faults, that writing this down in a calm state of mind won't be easy. Beside the sheer brilliance of Jonny Lee Miller's Sherlock, it is indeed an insult to the faculties to watch Lucy Liu's pasty, expressionless Watson. In every fraction of a second you simultaneously experience climax and denouement, as your eyes flit from Sherlock to Watson.
Joan Watson is Sherlock's "sober companion" -- a profession about which I had no idea. Her explanation with a dead pan expression provided my answer: she is supposed to see that Sherlock doesn't have a relapse. But why does the importance of her profession keep her from showing the slightest signs of animation is something which I fail to understand. I constantly get flashbacks of Martin Freeman's incredulity on first discovering that Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock is a "consultant detective". His restrained excitement in a crime scene is palpable. The masterstroke comes with Sherlock hinting that Watson actually misses the action (he was an army doctor in Afganisthan, very much like his literary counterpart). Joan Watson, on the other hand, is not wide-eyed by Sherlock's unusual profession and capabilities. It seems as if it is her wont to walk into a gruesome crime scene every day and find an unusual specialist making exact deductions within seconds. She also doesn't bat an eyelid when she ventures to inquire about Sherlock's past. She shows no signs of ecstasy when Sherlock decided to turn her into his (heftily paid apprentice), and similarly shows no sign of distress during Sherlock's particularly darkest moments. Even if she feels anger, she can't show it. When she moves on from being an informal associate to apprentice to partner, she is often nudged by (the extremely kind) Sherlock to make deductions. Joan Watson makes it with a dead pan expression. On deducing that the drycleaners in their neighbourhood are actually smugglers, I imagined how Martin Freeman's Watson would burst into the room to declare his success to Sherlock. Lucy Liu of course, makes an extremely poor imitation of happiness at her own success.
The greatest discrepancy in the script is Sherlock's stultifying respect for Watson. I am struggling to understand if that is because of her mute presence beside him, or observations made in a flat voice not louder than a whisper, or her failing to show any animation. Since she doesn't have any other traits to her character, it must be one of these.
If it was just another mediocre American crime drama, one wouldn't really mind these glaring faults. It is simply because Jonny Lee Miller is so brilliant and so complete in his portrayal of Holmes, that Watson's extremely poor performance stands out distinctly and disturbingly in the frame. The brilliant Victoria Coren in The Guardian's Observer, gives her eloquent voice to this outrage, and I think it makes up for the ultimate read on Joan Watson.

Sherlock Holmes

I think it would be criminal for any one to even begin to attempt to compare Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller as Sherlock Holmes. They are both such talented actors, their interpretation of the character are two works of art, and they need to be marvelled at separately.
Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock fits the classical model of the character more perfectly, interspersed with more rudeness; and his typical character traits have been intensified. That is understandable for the twentieth century.
Jonny Lee Miller's Sherlock is more human than Conan Doyle had first portrayed him to be. He is wasted of course in the mediocre cases of New York. None of the cases of Elementary are baffling enough to make one recognise the sheer ingenuity of Sherlock's faculties. He was in love with Irene Adler in London, and on her death, he descends into depression and drug addiction, and moves to America. After his decision to quit, and on going into rehab, his rich father engages the services of a sober companion for six weeks to prevent him from going into relapse. He lives in his father's slightly dilapidated and messy mansion in Brooklyn, and informs that this is one of the latter's five properties in New York City. He doesn't share a fulfilling relationship with his father, having been packed into a boarding school when he was very young, and where adjusting to a new set of rules wasn't easy. He claims that his father has never been there for him since, and has engaged Joan Watson (without ever meeting her) out of a sense of obligation towards his son who seemed to be sinking too low. He often engages prostitutes, admitting that although he doesn't care too much for women, his bodily needs require occasional addressing. He is not as misogynistic as BBC's Sherlock, and seems to have immense respect for Joan Watson. When her six week term is nearly over, Sherlock plans ways and means to make her stay. On learning that she stayed on her own accord, he offers her a weekly stipend equaling the amount his father paid her, and trains her to be an apprentice. Especially since then, he continually nudges her to make deductions at crimes scenes and of possible suspects, and makes her set on her own to follow a trail.
However, Elementary's Sherlock's obsession with justice is very baffling. He is more intent on bringing an errant into justice than for the thrill of solving a case. This I feel is a gross error of misunderstanding on the writers' part. Sherlock Holmes doesn't care for the law, he declares (in The Blue Carbuncle) that he is not here to make right the wrong by the police. But in Elementary, apart from his one-time decision to torture and murder M (because he thinks he's killed Irene), Sherlock never does any thing else without overtly involving the NYPD. On learning about Moriarty's hand in killing Irene, he promptly decides not to avenge himself, because this time he has Watson with him, and hence a reason to look forward to life and future partnership.
Another aspect of Sherlock that I missed in this series is his ingenious capacity for disguise. Although in the last few minutes of the last episode he does fake an overdose, disguise is an expertise of Sherlock where much can be explored.
When Sherlock discovers that Irene is alive, he breaks down. This would of course be unthinkable for the literary or the BBC Sherlock. But after twenty one episodes with Jonny Lee Miller, one can't feel surprised by this -- his intensity affects the viewers very deeply too.
But perhaps the most important reason why I liked Jonny Lee Miller's Sherlock is because he shows how vulnerable he is. He makes several mistakes with his deductions, goes in circles, is defeated by his intense emotions, is passionate, yet rude, grounded, ever-so-slightly vain, extremely eloquent, humourous, saucy, sarcastic (none of which is understood by Joan Watson of course), and erudite. He always furrows his brows when deeply in thought, and routinely cleans the fridge in exchange for other housekeeping duties. He talks about his cases (amusingly The Crooked Man and The Blue Carbuncle) in the drug recovery meetings to life up the grim mood; otherwise he never speaks or listens to anything in these meetings at all. He doesn't want his cranium to be stuffed with unimportant information, knowing that it's capacity is only finite.



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It is without dispute that in matter of content and in most of the casting, BBC's Sherlock far excels its American counterpart. However both Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller undisputedly share the vistas of excellence through their individual brilliant interpretation of the same character. It's only a pity that the latter wallows his talent in an extremely mediocre production.

I shudder to think what these two actors brought to stage together in the 2011 play Frankenstein, where they alternately played both the roles of Viktor Frankenstein and the Monster.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

The Dam Busters (1955)

When The Dam Busters opens with Michael Redgrave (as Barnes Wallis) in his sunny garden with his children, one with no prior knowledge about the historic events relating to the Dambusters from World War II, would never expect that this man was obsessed with the idea of building a bouncing bomb that would eventually destroy three major dams of Germany, thus damaging its water supply system. But that was exactly what Mr. Wallis was planning, and that was exactly what happened in history. How that happened, the major failures and the minor victories, the disapprovals and calculations that led to it, is what this film is about.

When I was watching the film for the first time, the initial shots of Redgrave's attempts and failures with the bouncing bomb made me label the film as another war propaganda film common during the war years (Listen to Britain, London Can Take It, Fires were Started, and of course Went the day Well?). But then I reminded myself that this one was made a decade after the war got over. Hence technically, the film-makers were free from their moral obligation of feeding the public's conscience with positive thoughts about the efforts of the War Office. Yet, the film (at least towards the beginning) does have that distinctive tone of the patriotic underdog trying his best to destroy the enemy with an ingenious theory. However, you suddenly realise that halfway through the film, you're desperately hoping that Mr. Wallis succeeds in his attempt to make that perfect bomb; and your heart stops beating when wing Commander Guy Gibson drops the first bomb at Möhne dam; and you cheer when it is blown into splinters. This capacity to suck the viewer into action without the viewer's actual realisation, is the mark of a great film.

After many trials and errors with the making of the bouncing bomb which would skip over water to escape torpedo nets, Mr. Wallis finally gets it right. After much trepidation, his ingenious plan is approved by the Prime Minister. The next task at hand is to put together the right bomber squad. Wing Commander Guy Gibson (Richard Todd), who has just returned from a gloriously victorious mission, is told that he would be in charge of yet another special mission, and without divulging any details to him, he is entrusted with the duty of picking a special squadron of Lancaster bombers together with the bomber command, and to fly the mission. His interview with Mr. Wallis reveals to him the exact nature of the mission, and his enthusiasm is infectious. With a group of pilots with low-altitude flight experience, they tackle the final glitch of the bomb breaking apart upon hitting the water, and they set sail for their mission.

These scenes need to be viewed on screen, as no amount of words (coupled with The Dam Busters March, the theme music from the film), can convey the thrill of Lancasters flying as low as 60 feet over water in enemy territory, surrounded by enemy, as releasing a special kind of bomb that bounces over water, hits a dam, and blows it to splinters. By the end of the mission, many pilots and their Lancasters were lost, but they were victorious anyway.


Lancasters from an interesting angle.


The busted Möhne dam.

From 9.28pm on the 16th of May 1943, 133 aircrew in 19 Lancasters took off in three waves to bomb the dams. This week marks the 70th anniversary of the Dambusters raid. What better day could I find to blog about the cinematic version of this piece of history; and what an incident to start this new blog with too.
The Imperial War Museum, London, has created these articles, links and interesting montage of pictures to commemorate the day. There you would also find certain discrepancies between the film and historical fact.