Features

Unman, Wittering and Zigo (1971) continued.

Among the faces of the young “men” one will encounter such familiar faces as Michael Kitchen and Michael Cashman, striking their early blows for cinematic immortality: ironic that much of their later work (with the exception of Kitchen’s iconic turn in the original adaptation of Dennis Potter’s BRIMSTONE AND TREACLE) should have been in productions less interesting than this. Not that the film is in any way as innovative or groundbreaking as Potter’s televisual cause celebre - in fact, the casual viewer stumbling in at this point could be forgiven for thinking he’s about to watch a straight-ahead school drama. But of course we know it isn’t, hence the opening sequence - and sure enough, the bomb drops within minutes of Ebony’s first lesson when the boys inform him in the most matter-of-fact way possible that they murdered his predecessor, a Mr Pelham, in cold blood. The skilful way in which the director handles this scene is to be commended: not a hint of hammy “dun-dun-durrrr” style dramatics are applied to this revelation, which tumbles from the boys’ mouths as easily as their answering of the register, from which of course the title of the film is taken. Of the last three titular names mentioned, Zigo is, of course, absent.

From the audience’s perspective, this is where things “get juicy” and we find ourselves drawn inexorably in: of course, it could be said that anyone who seeks out such a film knows what they’re getting anyway, and is obviously a genre fan to some extent, but that doesn’t make it any less involving. This is the point at which the boys become more than just mischievous teenagers and take on a far more ominous import - Cloistermouth (Nicholas Hoye) is terrifyingly sinister in his delivery, and later on launches into a shocking display of violence (reciprocated) towards his tutor and others. Meanwhile, Terhew (Michael Cashman in his earliest role) and Bungabine (a similarly nascent Michael Kitchen) certainly seem a pairing likely to give one the jitters. The sense of mistrust and concern shown by Ebony from this point is reminiscent of the slowly developing and enveloping sense of dread felt by Sergeant Howie in THE WICKER MAN (although Hemmings’ schoolmaster is a far more reasonable, likeable and fair prospect than Edward Woodward’s pious policeman), and as is the case with Hardy’s film, we feel it with him. Many of us have found ourselves in surroundings where there appears to be nowhere to run and no-one to trust, and geographical isolation surely doesn’t help, although at least in this case Hemmings and the beleaguered Haygarth can take a country bus into the nearest town late at night (something that definitely dates the film, as the likes of Arriva or Stagecoach wouldn’t stand for such shenanigans nowadays!!) and get pissed enough to submerge their daily woes. And they’re not on an island, of course.

As the film develops, the theme on the surface appears to be Ebony’s struggle to be taken seriously by the boys, let them know who’s boss and of course gain their trust enough to be able to do his job - which is, of course, in the light of the recent revelation, nigh on impossible. Not that he believes them to begin with, nor are his increasing concerns given much credence by either his wife or headmaster (Douglas Wilmer, playing yet another part that looks as if he may have been drafted in, as was the way for most of his career, as a replacement for his friend Peter Cushing) This is one of the areas in which the structure of the plot actually lets the viewer down slightly: on the surface he appears to be little more than slightly peeved by the idea that he is teaching a gang of murderers, almost as if he sees it as merely symptomatic of prankish juvenile behaviour, and he accordingly sets out to scotch any further dalliances with a mixture of Fraulein Maria-style “firm but kindness” and kick-arse authoritarianism. But of course, if he doesn’t at least partially believe the boys’ claims (and OK, on balance, who would, given the circumstances) then why does he seem so unsettled by their every word and action? Not that his methods have the desired effect - at least not too begin with. The fact that he quite visibly loses his cool in front of his pupils, shouting 'STOP THIS' during one bout of heavy taunting, is demonstration enough of how far he has crossed over the line - or does it? What exactly does he want them to stop? Maybe he sees the even more worrying subtext lurking beneath - that maybe his wife, rather than himself, is the one in danger. After all, Mr Pelham, in the best coded language traditions of British cinema, was 'unmarried'….

However, for all these plaudits it should be pointed out that the film, whilst by no means a bad movie, is not a classic either. Despite having more originality and sublime dramatic edge, as discussed previously, than any of its counterparts, and being technically a 'better film', there are several areas in which it is found wanting. It lacks the chilling sadness of the aforementioned CHILD’S PLAY, has none of the “Hammer high camp” which infused FEAR IN THE NIGHT, and lacks, well, a Richard Burton at its centre to bring it up to the bravura levels of ABSOLUTION. Not that I think personally such a performance would befit such a film anyway - and not that I wish to contradict my earlier appraisal either - but for the purposes of entertainment, sometimes as a British horror lover one must accept that the better film isn't necessarily the one you're going to get the urge to watch at 1 in the morning after several units of nostalgia-induced alcohol (or should that be alcohol-induced nostalgia?)

What it does have, which elevates it above all the others as a complete work, and keeps it at the level of a film worthy of discussion, is a flawless cast, a sense of atmosphere and intrigue, and a genuinely unusual storyline. It constantly hints at hidden secrets, half-whispered promises of things better left unsaid, and invests all of its characters, even the absent Zigo, with back stories which build them into shapes of several dimensions. It also contains a 'bit that everybody remembers' - always a good sign, although in this case it concerns the subtle telling of a joke in a gym (intercut with the aforementioned cliff-falling) rather than anything scary, graphic or particularly unpleasant. Watch the tension between the actors in this scene build, though, and you will be soon hankering after the glory days of British cinema like the rest of us....

In any film with a cast this size there’s always going to be some difficulty fleshing out all the constituent parts into a thematic whole - but Mackenzie and Raven seem to manage with aplomb. The sex scene between Hemmings and Seymour, and the demonstration of Sylvia’s apparent social ineptitude at a dinner party, both seem to hint at an uneasiness in their marriage ala Dustin Hoffman and Susan George in the concurrent STRAW DOGS (indeed such a dinner scene also takes place in Peckinpah’s rape-revenger), and the descriptions of the boys - such as Wittering, who can apparently sing and also ‘looked adorable’ hint that he may have a secret more deadly than any other. Of course, no film set in and English boarding school during this era could exist without its small dollop of repressed homosexuality and side-order of repressed longing, and in this case the aforementioned Wittering is set up as the recipient - never in any explicit way, mind you, but with enough thinly coded hints to suggest an ambiguity between victim and perpetrator.