Reeling Backward: "Ryan's Daughter" (1970)

A lot of people were very upset about "Ryan's Daughter" when it came out, though feelings toward the romantic epic have warmed considerably with time.

Director David Lean was so hurt by harsh criticism of the film -- including some from the people who worked on it -- that he vowed never to make another. (He would, but only one more, "A Passage to India," 14 years later.)

Robert Mitchum said working with Lean was "like constructing the Taj Mahal with toothpicks." Others had already declined the role, including Pete O’Toole, and Mitchum nearly did so too, telling Lean he was contemplating suicide as an alternative. (Later, he would call Lean one of the best directors he ever worked with.)

Leon McKern lost his glass eye and nearly drowned while braving the crashing waves for a scene, and grumbled about the stretches of downtime on Lean's famously long, meticulous shoots.

How obsessed was Lean with getting a shot just right? He reportedly waited for an entire year for a sufficiently violent storm to film one of the most memorable scenes, when an entire Irish village turns out to help Irish Republican Brotherhood rebels retrieve weapons that have been dropped from a German ship for them.

Probably the person with the best case for complaining, though, is co-star Christopher Jones, playing the physically and spiritually mangled British soldier who falls for the Irish schoolteacher’s wife. “Ryan’s Daughter” effectively marked the end of his acting career.

Jones was already struggling with the death of ex-lover Sharon Tate in the Manson murders, and he repeatedly clashed with Lean on the set. Jones and star Sarah Miles detested each other to the extent that Lean struggled to shoot their love scenes together.

After Jones refused to film the famous forest tryst, Mitchum and Miles conspired to lace his morning cereal with a hallucinogenic, possibly with Lean’s consent, rendering him virtually catatonic and pliable. (No "allegedly" qualifier necessary; Miles herself confessed the deed in her autobiography.) Unaware of the drugging, Jones thought he was having a nervous breakdown, and crashed his car afterward.

As the final insult, Lean thought Jones’ line readings were too flat, and had his entire vocal performance redubbed by Julian Holloway. Jones didn’t even find out until he saw the movie. The vicious reviews made a point of singling him out -- "An actor could hardly express less without playing a corpse," wrote Roger Ebert -- and Jones gave up acting at age 29, spending the rest of his life as an artist and beach bum.

(Not counting a brief 1986 role.)

The only person who came out of the experience relative well was Miles, who broke out of a parade of rather obscure screen and stage roles to earn an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress. She was helped by a bit of nepotism in that her husband, Robert Bolt, wrote the screenplay and pitched it to Lean with Miles in mind for the lead.

Bolt originally wanted to do a film version of “Madame Bovary,” but acquiesced to Lean’s request to change the setting and story dynamics. He chose 1916 Ireland in the days of the Easter Uprising, in the remote fictional seaside village of Kirrary on the Dingle Peninsula, where the movie was shot. (Though some of the beach scenes were filmed in South Africa.)

The town set was razed at the end of the production, but the ruins of the schoolhouse remain to this day and are a stopping point for tourists.

As you expect from a Lean film, the cinematography by Freddie Young and a lush musical score by Maurice Jarre, both constant collaborators, combine to give us a sense of immense space, and the tiny human contretemps happening as one small part of that vast environment. Young would win an Oscar for his work, beating out “Patton,” amongst others.

Whatever else you want to say about “Ryan’s Daughter,” it is a ravishingly beautiful movie to gaze upon.

Rosy Ryan (Miles), daughter of the local publican/pub owner, Tom Ryan (McKern), pines for her former schoolteacher, Charles Shaughnessy (Mitchum), a middle-aged widower. He resists her overtures, citing their age difference and lack of compatibility. She's a frisky Irish pony, and he's a dour dabbler in botany, collecting gorgeous native flowers just so he can press them into books no one will ever see.

But they marry anyway, and she is soon bored by a quiet life of little passion.

The local priest, Father Hugh Collins (a terrific Trevor Howard), tries to offer her counsel and comfort, to no avail. He’s up to his ears every day trying to keep his little flock of a couple hundred or so from straying too far into sinfulness beyond a little excessive drinking and carousing. He also protects Michael (John Mills), the resident village halfwit, from the taunts and abuse of the poor, plain folk.

Evin Crowley stands out as Moureen Cassidy, the brazen young woman leading the motley Greek chorus.

There’s a tiny British military outpost nearby, just over the hill from the schoolhouse. Insults are tossed but there’s little threat of real violence. But when a new commander is installed, war hero Maj. Randolph Doryan (Jones), things quickly sour – especially after he’s found to be carrying on an affair with Rosy.

Doryan is a complete wreck, shell-shocked and despondent. He wears the Victoria Cross for some vague heroics, and drags his right leg like a totem of the wounds inside. He even has a vertical scar near the corner of his eye that makes him look like he’s weeping. He’s treated with a slight sense of awe, but the man has nothing but the tatters of his soul.

The coupling with Rosy is sudden, almost violent, and inexplicable. He has a flashback to his war experiences while sitting alone in Ryan's bar, where Rosy is tending while her dad's away. Cradling the crumpled man in her arms, they kiss fiercely, which revives him instantly. Without exchanging names, they agree to meet again to consummate their passion.

Things go from there. Charles suspects right away, but receives her assurance that she'd never betray him. They carry out the affair more or less in the open, meeting for horse rides and walks, then sneaking off to ruined towers, beach caves or that idyllic forest to have sex.

There's one memorable scene where Charles' suspicions are aroused while taking his students on a field trip along the beach, and he spies footprints that he surmises belong to Rosy and the major. (His scraping walk is the telltale heart.) Lean intercuts Charles' imaginings with the couple playing out his dark fantasy -- when Rosy's footprints turn barefoot, he beholds Doryan tenderly removing her shoes for her.

Eventually, the cuckold and his betrayers are merged onto the same screen; Charles even slides behind a rock to conceal his spying.

He tracks them to a cave, and we expect a violent scene of discovery will follow. Instead, Charles turns away from that forbidding knowledge.

Rather, it is Michael who unwittingly gives them away. Sneaking into the cave -- possibly with the same suspicions as Charles -- he discovers Doryan's Victoria Cross in the sand. He pins it to his own chest and parades about town in a military uniform he makes out of junk, and the villagers put two and two together.

Mills would win a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his portrayal of Michael, in a wordless performance of pantomime, yearning emotions and a mouthful of horrid teeth. He is desperately in love with Rosy, something that is apparent to everyone, though they try to pass off his pleading behavior toward her as characteristic of his quirks. She, in turn, is alternately mean and tender toward him, clearly embarrassed by the attention.

At Rosy and Charles' wedding, all the men push through the crowd to give the bride a kiss (on the cheek), but when Michael presents himself for the honor, everyone bursts into laughter and Rosy is humiliated. He finally gets that kiss in the end, though.

The role as written by Bolt seems rather antiquated now, not to mention insensitive toward the mentally and physically challenged. In addition to his simple-mindedness, Michael drags one leg around in a clear mirror of Doryan's. Both are wounded souls pierced by the arrows of outrageous fortune, who have little left to give. Their affection for Rosy is their one redeeming quality.

The storytelling moves along with the re-arrival of Barry Foster as Tim O'Leary, a famous Irish rebel who has decided to start a beach head of revolt on this quiet stretch of shore. He turns to Tom Ryan, the local publican -- a sort of small-town office dating back to medieval times -- for help in rounding up some good lads to help.

What nobody knows is that Ryan is secretly on the payroll of the British. You'd think somebody would be curious about his (relative) wealth in the poor fishing town, wearing smart suits and even buying an expensive mare for Rosy to ride. Faced with going turncoat against his people or being exposed by the English, he chooses to have it both ways -- with dire consequences for the village, and the tragic love triangle in particular.

Admittedly, there's not a lot of story for a film stretching past 3½ hours, including musical interludes at the beginning, middle and end. Much of the criticism of "Ryan's Daughter" upon its initial release focused on its indolent plotting. Ebert again: "Lean's characters, well written and well acted, are finally dwarfed by his excessive scale."

Some movies require the right moment and mood to be truly enjoyed. By today's standards, "Ryan's Daughter" is rather slow-paced and self-obsessed, stretching out shots that could be three seconds into 30.

But I just think that's part and parcel of the David Lean aesthetic. The man just didn't do small pictures. So even an intimate portrait of an Irish lass on the wrong side of love is churned up into a maelstrom of rent emotions and deeper meaning.

Whatever devastation it wrought on the lives of those who made it, it's a storm worth witnessing.

Reeling Backward: "Hobson's Choice" (1954)

A Hobson's Choice refers to a false choice, in which the chooser appears to exercise free will but in actuality is trapped in a situation beyond their control. It originates from a 16th-century stable owner who required his customers to choose the horse in the stall nearest to the door, or none at all, in order to prevent his best mounts from overuse.

A shorter, punchier description of a Hobson's Choice would be: "Take it or leave it."

Henry Horatio Hobson faces just such a choice in the 1954 movie bearing that name, though not until the very end of the story. Ostensibly the main character since he's played by cinematic giant Charles Laughton, Hobson is really just the sun around which the other, more interesting characters orbit.

As played by Laughton, Hobson is a drunk, a bully, an abusive boss and a poor father. Since this is a comedy, Laughton has a great many opportunities to play the stumblebum, tremulously pretending the results of the copious amount of alcohol he has consumed do not exist. Drunks are the most common form of actors in the world, since every inebriated thespian strives to appear not to be that which they are.

The director makes great use of Laughton's physicality, his rotund carriage and face so enveloped in multiple chins and cheeks that he appears to be always peering out from some hole, like a satisfied critter that has dug a burrow and backed itself into a haven of indulgence. Laughton's sharp, intelligent gimlet eyes, though, inform the audience that there is a brain at work behind the fat and fog.

If you'd be surprised to learn that this director is David Lean, then like me you will discover that the Brit known for his extravagant epics actually made average-sized movies at earlier times in his career. This movie is an adaptation of the play by Harold Brighouse, with a screenplay by Norman Spencer, Wynyard Browne and Lean himself.

"Hobson's Choice" ended up winning the BAFTA award for best British film. I wouldn't quite put it on that pedestal, but it is a wickedly funny and smart picture that boasts somewhat progressive views on the balance of power between women and men.

The real central character is Hobson'd eldest daughter Maggie (Brenda De Banzie), who runs his bootmaking shop and lords it over the two younger sisters (Daphne Anderson and Prunella Scales). She's much the carbon copy of her father, minus the drink and the mean-spiritedness. When she learns that her father has no intention of seeing her married because she's too valuable to his business, Maggie browbeats the simple-minded bootmaker who works in the basement, Will Mossop (John Mills), to become her groom.

Will is completely befuddled at first, acting the part of the humble employee following orders, even if they lead to the altar. Eventually, they start their own business and within a year have stolen away most of Hobson's trade, forcing him to accept a partnership with Mossop -- now tutored into a confident, savvy businessman by Maggie -- running the show.

De Banzie and Mills are terrific in their respective roles -- each received BAFTA nominations, while Laughton did not -- though they're quite long in the tooth to play youngsters. Maggie is explicitly stated as being 30 years old, and meek Will is probably even younger, while the actors portraying them were both in their mid-40s.

Mills wears an unattractive haircut with shaved sides and a prominent cowlick, which (intentionally?) resembles Adolf Hitler's odd 'do. This helps give him a boyish look, later replaced with a more grown-up one.

Lean & Co. have a great deal of fun with Hobson's drunken revelries, imbibing with the same handful of similarly-situated businessmen at the same bar every night. They trade barbs like fresh-mouthed schoolboys, but in the end Hobson seems to have the upper hand over the crew.

In one musical number, he leaves the pub so drunk he becomes fascinated with the lunar reflection in the puddles of the cobblestone street. Literally moony, he falls down a basement loading shaft and, while unhurt, facing legal and financial obligations to the proprietor. His younger daughters' suitors use this occasion to blackmail Hobson, with Maggie's assistance, into allowing them to marry, too.

I enjoyed "Hobson's Choice" and its sly take on the gender wars. It's not likely to be enshrined as a feminist totem anytime soon, since Maggie uses her new freedom in order to enter a new form of servitude with a different man. Still, her man and her station are both completely of her own choosing, and that's saying something.

Video review: "Lawrence of Arabia: 50th Anniversary Edition"

“Nothing is written,” T.E. Lawrence famously says. But almost from the moment “Lawrence of Arabia” hit theaters in 1962, it seemed destined to become one of the most iconic films ever made.

It is by most reckonings the pinnacle of the epic movie-making impulse that surged in the 1950s and ‘60s – a grand, lush drama filled with exotic foreign trappings and a history-making tale to tell. It won a slew of awards, including the Best Picture Oscar, and deserved them all.

A restoration of director David Lean’s masterpiece was released in theaters in 1989 – one of the last films distributed in a 70mm print. Now, a new digital remastering from the original film negative has been completed for the movie’s 50th anniversary. After a brief theatrical run, it debuts in two Blu-ray collections.

The story is familiar to any serious film-lover: an oddball British lieutenant (Peter O’Toole) is plucked from obscurity during World War I to act as liaison to the disparate Arabic desert tribes, and ends up forging them into a united army that helps take down the Turkish Empire. As he becomes a famous and charismatic figure, Lawrence finds his sanity crumbling as his lust for power grows.

“Lawrence” has seen a number of video editions, but this represents its first time on Blu-ray. For comparison, I popped in my copy of the film from its 2001 DVD edition and then watched the same scenes on the new Blu-ray. The gap between the two was simply astonishing.

Of course, the image was much crisper and cleaner in the higher-resolution Blu-ray based on Sony’s 4K remastering. But what really struck me were the colors, which were dazzlingly vibrant in the new edition.
If you thought the golden sands and aching blue skies of the desert looked good before, you won’t believe how much they leap off the screen of the Blu-ray. When Lawrence first dons his white Arabic robes, it seemed like O’Toole was standing right before me.

Of course, it comes with a host of extra features – some seen before in previous editions, and some all-new. The highlight is a new graphic-in-picture track that allows the viewer to learn about the customs and rituals of the desert tribes. There is also a featurette featuring O’Toole looking back on the film, newsreel footage of its New York premiere, and more.

The 50th Anniversary Edition is available as either a two-disc version or the four-disc Gift Set. Opt for the latter, and you’ll receive several more featurettes, a never-before-seen deleted scene and conversations with Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese.

The Gift Set also comes with a handsome 88-page coffee table book, a CD of Maurice Jarre’s unforgettable musical score (including previously unreleased tracks) and an authentic 70mm film frame (newly printed and numbered).

“Lawrence of Arabia” has never looked so good.

Movie: 4 stars out of four
Extras: 4 stars

Reeling Backward: "In Which We Serve"

"In Which We Serve" starts off as an annoyingly British bit of World War II propaganda. You know the type -- lots of really fast talking, airy upper-crust accents, and stiff upper lip type of bravery.

In the first scene the H.M.S. Torrin is fatally crippled by a German dive bomber. After the captain -- played by Noel Coward, who also wrote the screenplay, co-directed, produced, wrote the musical score and, I think, personally provided all the catering -- gives the order to abandon ship, he and the other survivors give the sinking vessel three cheers.

The first half of the film is also filled with many cutaway scenes of the sailors' personal lives back home -- saying hello and goodbye to their wives, meeting soon-to-be wives, etc. They happen so rapidly that there's more smoochy time than fighting for a good long while, a when you're expecting a good ripping war movie, one feels like quoting the little kid from "The Princess Bride": "They're kissing again!"

But as the picture wore on I found myself liking it more and more. As the captain and his crew cling to a life raft awaiting rescue as German fighter planes strafe them, picking off more and more of them, they reflect on their lives aboard the Torrin, how it shaped them, and how they struggled to maintain that famously imperturbable English facade.

This was the only movie that Coward directed, reportedly at the behest of Winston Churchill himself, who was friend of the prolific playwright/composer. Coward decided he needed an able assistant to lean on, and chose a fellow named David Lean, who'd done some assistant directing and gained a reputation as a top-notch editor. Lean insisted on being listed as co-director, so "In Which We Serve" marks the first time Lean was credited as a director.

A number of young British actors have small roles in this picture, including James Donald and a very young Richard Attenborough, making his screen debut as a sailor who loses his nerve during a fight and deserts his post. Despite not receiving a screen credit, Attenborough has a considerable amount of screen time, including a great scene where the captain addresses his cowardice in front of the entire crew without naming him.

The battle scenes are a bit hammy -- there wasn't a lot of resources to put into a war picture in 1942, as one might imagine. So Coward/Lean rely upon a lot of stock footage that is only haphazardly woven together.

As I say, the second half of the film contains many very moving moments. The biggest impact is the scene in which Shorty Blake (John Mills), a low-ranking seaman, receives a letter from his wife.

She had been staying at the house of the chief petty officer when it was bombed, killing the officer's wife and mother. Blake goes up to the mess to let the chief, Hardy (Bernard Miles), know that the only members of his family were killed. His own wife was unhurt, and successfully gave birth to a baby boy. So the chief, in the midst of his own grief, congratulates the seaman for becoming a father.

What a moment -- and just one reason why I left "In Which We Serve" much more impressed than when I started.

3.5 stars

Reeling Backward: "The Bridge on the River Kwai"

When you are a film critic, the one question you dread getting in social situations is, "So what's your favorite movie?"

People are invariably disappointed when I give vague, wishy-washy answers like, "Well, I love so many!" or "It's just impossible to choose." I suspect that chefs can readily tell you their favorite dish, and sports columnists don't hesitate to name the athlete they most admire. People don't like it when those who are supposed to be experts fudge on a pretty fundamental question.

The truth is my tastes have evolved over time. If you'd asked me the "favorite film" question when I was 14 or 15, I think I would have said "Blade Runner" without much pause. That one's still near the top of my list, although the themes of alienation and dehumanization that seem so important when you're a teen are less forceful now.

But I think I can say that however my list of favorites has shuffled over the years, "The Bridge on the River Kwai" has consistently remained very high. At this particular moment in time, I'd probably call it the film I most admire.

"Bridge" was directed by the great David Lean from a screenplay (by Michael Wilson and Carl Foreman) based on the novel by Pierre Boulle. The film was nominated for eight Academy Awards for 1957, and won seven, including Best Picture, Director, Cinematography, Editing, Musical Score and Best Actor for Alec Guinness. It also won Best Screenplay, but as Wilson and Foreman were blacklisted at the time, they received no onscreen credit. Their Oscars arrived posthumously in 1984, and their names are listed in the restored edition of the film.

It's a rousing prisoner-of-war picture, with the usual heroic Allies showing terrific resolve in the face of their dastardly captors. But I think why the film stands up for me is that it's really about self-delusion. All of the main characters are in some way compromised, a combination of good and evil tendencies. I would go so far as to argue that Col. Nicholson, the British commander of the Allied prisoners, is the real villain of the piece.

Think about it: Nicholson is prepared to have himself and all of his other officers shot dead rather than perform manual labor at the insistence of Col. Saito (Sessue Hayakawa, who was the only Oscar nominee from the film who failed to take home a statue). Later, after winning his contest of wills with Saito -- by nearly suffocating to death in a tin "hot box" -- Nicholson undertakes the task of building a railway bridge for the Japanese with such misguided enthusiasm that he becomes a collaborator with the enemy.

As the bridge approaches its deadline and it's clear they will not finish in time, Nicholson orders his officers to do manual labor -- the same principle he was willing to die over. He even cajoles the sick men to hobble away from the hospital and lend a hand, too.

In his final act, Nicholson nearly upsets a plan by British commandos to blow up the bridge right as the first train steams over it. So invested has Nicholson become in the bridge, in what it represents to his ideals, that he alerts the Japanese soldiers and even struggles with one of the commandos. The bridge demolition still goes through -- in a spectacular cinematic display, in which Lean actually destroyed a real bridge and train -- but three of the four commandos are killed, including Maj. Shears (played by William Holden), who had previously escaped from the same prison camp.

Through it all, Nicholson is convinced that he's doing the right thing. He sees the bridge construction as a way to restore order and pride to his soldiers, who have become a rabble. Later, he sees it as a symbol of defiance against the enemy, to build a better bridge than they could themselves. The film is a lesson in how a series of decisions, each of which seems sound, can add up to calamity. I think our country's involvement in Iraq is a modern example.

A few other thoughts on the film:

I must have seen it a half-dozen times before I caught on to the subtle portrayal of Saito. A proud man, he is utterly crushed when Nicholson succeeds in building the bridge that he could not. There's also a bit near the end where Saito is shown cutting off his Bushido topknot, and slipping a dagger into his uniform right before the bridge's dedication. It seems clear now that Saito intended to kill Nicholson, or himself, or possibly one and then the other. Only the complication of Nicholson spotting the demolition wiring prevents this.

Shears, the ostensible American protagonist of the film, is a fraud, liar, impersonator and suck-up. He bribes the Japanese guards for favorable treatment, treats the arrival of Nicholson with great cynicism, and seems bent on doing anything to save his own skin. He only agrees to join the commandos when faced with court-martial and imprisonment for impersonating an officer. If he's supposed to represent the Yanks, we don't come off too great.

The use of the "Colonel Bogey March" musical theme throughout the film is interesting. It's an act of defiance by the British prisoners, but also illustrative of Nicholson's delusion. During the opening scene, where they're marching into camp for the first time, the men are whistling the tune. Slowly, the musical score takes up the melody until it sounds like a grand marching band booming away. This coincides with the shift to Nicholson's perspective. Despite the sorry state of his men, many of them marching barefoot, he still views them as British soldiers, brave and true.

(The tune really was used by Allied soldiers during WWII, who came up with some vulgar lyrics, including the revamped title, "Hitler Has Only Got One Ball." The film's soldiers were to sing these lines -- which continue, "Goring has two but very small; Himmler is somewhat sim'lar, and poor Goebbels has no balls at all!" -- but producer Sam Spiegel felt they were too vulgar, so they came up with the whistling instead.)

The film ends with the British doctor, having just watched the train wreck and the deaths of Nicholson and the commandos, shouting "Madness, madness" into the jungle air. To those who think war is great, it's an apt indictment.

4 stars