What do you get when you take one gay man’s autobiographical reminiscences of his time in the Forces, mixed with biting political comment, slapstick comedy, bloody violence, tragedy, high camp, and peppered with some wonderful song and dance pastiches?

You could get a bloody mess, that’s for certain. But thankfully, Michael Blakemore’s big-screen adaptation of Peter Nichols’ (probably best known for A Day in the Death of Joe Egg) now-legendary revue is anything but. Somehow managing to combine elements of all the above into a cohesive whole without losing focus, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for one to witness a humorous exchange about stolen cars followed by the sobering sight of a disgraced ex-policeman beating his partner with a stick, or a vaudeville stand-up act curtailed by a savage act of machine-gun violence. Then again, I suppose, such are the realities of war- even when, as in this case, the protagonists still largely believe themselves to be living in a time of relative peace.

Nichols’ character manifests itself onscreen in the form of the decidedly heterosexual but undoubtedly naïve and inexperienced Private Steven Flowers (Patrick Pearson) newly arrived at transit camp in Malaya to join a theatrical regiment of the Army, Song And Dance Unit South East Asia, in 1948. Fresh faced and sporting a broad West Country accent, the general inference is that he’s probably never been outside the UK before, let alone to war, and in no way is he prepared for what awaits him- namely an environment which the sinister Sergeant Reg Drummond (Michael Elphick) describes as “the Queens’ own, the Middle Sex regiment”

Here, with the guidance of so-called “Captain” Terri Dennis (Dennis Quilley) a kindly and outrageously gay female impersonator who addresses all men by the female equivalent of their name, even our Lord (“Jessica Christ”) and describes his rank as “of no service in particular, but at the service of you all”, and with a little help from foul-mouthed, bisexual Brummie Corporal Len Bonnie (Joe Melia) he will become accustomed to the lifestyle of the garrison theatre, entertaining the troops nightly with a variety of wonderfully acute tributes ranging from Anne Shelton/Vera Lynn (“All The Little Things We Used To Do”) through Marlene Deitrich (“DankeSchon”) – both featuring Quilley in incredible drag- to Fred and Ginger (“Better Far Than Sitting This Life Out”) where Perason himself gets the chance to shine, accompanied by Drummond’s former paramour, Anglo-Indian temptress Lieutenant Sylvia Morgan (Nicola Pagett) These musical numbers, composed by Nichols and Dennis King (with the exception of “Black Velvet”, a genuine bawdy barrack anthem my own father recalls singing during the Indonesian Emergency in the 1960s), showcase one of Privates’ major strengths: even if the rest of the picture were dreadful, they are so brilliantly executed that you’d still come away humming them. Luckily, the rest is not dreadful- in fact, the complete opposite, with new, commendable levels of excellence coming to light on each repeated viewing.

Cinematically we’re never in any danger of witnessing great technical artistry at work, save for some skilfully executed jungle tracking shots and painstakingly accurate lighting, but such things are not the point of this kind of “movie”- which is not so much a movie as a document, a slice of life. What we thus have, thanks to Nichols’ excellent adaptation of his own screenplay, is a combination of sparkling, witty dialogue, strong characterization, adept interplay, often multi-layered (witness, for instance, the slapstick comedy backstage between three cast members during Quilley’s Shelton routine) and, for a film so steeped in (and based upon) the traditions of “theatricality”, admirable restraint. It would be so easy, for example, for straight actors like Quilley, Melia and David Bamber (in the role of the troupe’s other openly gay character, Sergeant Charlie Bishop) to play their parts as one-dimensional caricatures, but each is so multi-dimensional, layered, textured and full of warmth and humanity that this is never the case.

True, Bishop is a confirmed wimp, a fragile flower who faints when commanding officer Major Giles Flack (John Cleese, excelling in a role that calls for some Pythonesque touches but is essentially his first foray into “proper” acting), a man so set in the old ways of British life that he fails to even realize what alternative sexualities are, let alone that his unit is populated by them, informs him of the months’ worth of intense combative training that awaits: a subsequent montage shows him unable to climb a wall, cross a river on a log beam, crawl under barbed wire without becoming caught, or even march in unison with his oppos, thus placing him firmly in the stereotypical “big girl’s blouse” category. Yet under his lily-livered exterior dwells a man with a complex religious background, a skilled medical training, a wicked sense of humour and an innate kindness of spirit. None of the above should go together on the surface, but of course, in everyday life, such seemingly disparate elements are exactly what create people. Likewise, his relationship with Melia seems unlikely on the surface, but the two love each other in a way that, maybe surprisingly given the film’s late 1940s setting, is not only accepted but encouraged, and is therefore both progressive and touching.

Being in a “theatre of war” of course, any relationships within SADUSEA, be they gay, straight (Pearson and Pagett’s romance soon turns sour when he becomes suspicious of her true intentions, and, having been promoted to Sergeant-Major by Cleese, is encouraged to snub her) bi or otherwise inclined, are, if not doomed, then invested with a certain amount of prevailing tragedy. Initially ebullient, optimistic and cheerful Cockney conscript Sergeant Kevin Cartwright (Bruce Payne) returns from his tour (both of duty and of theatres) minus his genitalia, Quilley ends up hobbling around on crutches, and the woefully inept if well-meaning Eric Young-Love (Simon Jones) loses an eye, yet none of this would have happened had it not been for the nefarious clandestine activities of Elphick and Captain Sholto Savery (John Standing) both secretly paying off their gambling debts by selling ammo to the Chinese Communist enemy. Pretending they are clueless as to this “bewildering series of losses”, they, with the full approval of Cleese (who believes that World War 3 has started, and it is God’s, and therefore Britain’s, mission to avert it), devise a scheme by which ammo can be delivered to troops on the frontline in jungle territories (and therefore ambushed and raided) in the concert party’s tour bus, the shows acting as a cover- the only problem being that no-one has been kind enough to tell the theatricals or their accompanying Gurkhas that they’re effectively being sent out as decoy cannon fodder.

This taken into account, it is easy to divide the film into two distinct halves – the first based more on openly comedic traits, but halted by the alleged deaths of Standing and Elphick on a “hush hush mission”, the second of a much darker nature as the troupe progress away from the roar of the greasepaint and the joy of large theatres towards a succession of hospitals, NAFI huts, mess halls and sparsely attended makeshift camps where, even under the watchful aegis of Cleese, danger edges ever closer- although some wonderful moments of mirth still arise from such circumstances, mainly from Quilley (referring to the Camp On Malam as “Tampon Cotex” when disillusioned at another badly attended performance, or asking a local Gurkha who “does his hair”) and Jones, who is prone to threatening anyone with a “bunch of fives” when they question his rampant heterosexuality or call him “Erica”, but is later revealed to be a virgin whose fiancée has left him for his best mate.

This clearly visible shift in the film’s content, almost directly halfway in, has invited its fair share of unkind comment, particularly from a certain kind of critic (or fan) who like their “cinema”, such as they perceive it, to remain static in emotion throughout, and seem to have great difficulty understanding anything that moves with the free flow and uncertain nature of human experience. Accusations of “over-theatricality” which have also been levelled are similarly irrelevant- it is, after all, a film of a play about a military theatre unit, and onstage is divided into two quite distinct acts with differing atmospheres. But, as I suggested earlier, perhaps the true joy of Privates On Parade is to be found in repeated viewings, where textural depths, hidden subplots and previously oblique references not only reveal, but explain, themselves in greater detail. And yes, as has been pointed out, it is very similar, in theme if not content, to the fondly-remembered sitcom It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, in which Windsor Davies played, like Cleese, an ostensibly intelligent yet clueless CO guiding a vulnerable platoon of camp entertainers through the rigours of battle- but again, this is a pointless comparison when you remember that both productions are based on the real lives of their writers, and most playwrights of the 1960s and 70s had begun their careers in the Services: indeed, Nichols’ own regimental ENSA section also featured such colourful alumni as Kenneth Williams and Stanley Baker. What differed, one supposes, were the postings, and thus the experiences engendered.

The end result, for those lucky enough to see it (despite being produced by George Harrison’s Handmade Films, who seemed to be keeping British cinema alive single-handed in the 80s, its theatrical run was small, its televisual screenings infrequent, and its DVD release undeservedly obscure) is a strikingly accurate display of a whole range of human emotion, as felt by people whose lives had already been torn apart by (depending on their age) either one or two wars, and found themselves trapped not only in an inhospitable, Government-fudged hinterland between battle and peace, but also on the cusp of two very different eras, with the stiff upper lips of the 40s soon to give way to the gyrating hips of the 50s. It was an uncertain world then, and an even more uncertain one now: hence, every confusion, strife, sadness, joy, happiness, thrill, exultation and ice-cold fear felt by the members of SADUSEA is shared by you the viewer, and while the ending may be deemed unsatisfactory by some insofar as that it leaves several ends untied, well, without wishing to repeat myself, that’s real life, isn’t it?

Privates On Parade may be a musical, but only in terms of, like Cabaret before it, having some songs in it, which all occur in environments where such activities would be expected (theatres, clubs, rehearsal rooms) . Reality isn’t a song and dance, even if that’s what you do for a living. Nor is it a comedy, even if you get to see Cleese pull some fantastic faces, slip in the odd silly voice here (“velly solly, no more clicket arrowed”) and there and, perhaps inevitably, indulge himself in a funny walk. But, with the inclusion of such elements in our lives, via the medium of cinema, television, radio, music or indeed live theatre, we get through, and when some resonance is felt, however abstract, the power is irresistible- which is why, after a succession of acts that fall squarely flat, even a whole platoon of non-English speaking Gurkhas find themselves enraptured by Bamber and Melia’s bittersweet Flanagan And Allen homage “Home Sweet Home”, and they’re not the only ones either. And, if Melia’s assertion that “you can come in here as a concert fucking pianist and end up shovelling shit” is an accurate synonym for our day to day existence, then 100 minutes spent every now and then in the company of SADUSEA may render your own personal wars and battles just that little bit easier to face.

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The comedy troupe, who last appeared together 14 years ago, are being lined up to provide voices for an animated sci-fi film, Absolutely Anything.

The star told entertainment industry newspaper Variety that former Python pals John Cleese, Terry Gilliam and Michael Palin were signed up. And he is hoping Eric Idle will also take part.

“It’s not a Monty Python picture, but it certainly has that sensibility,” he told the paper.

An animated film based on the memoirs of late Python Graham Chapman is to feature the team minus Idle and is expected to be released later this year.

In Jones’s new film, the team would play a group of aliens. It will also feature Robin Williams as a talking dog.

The Pythons made three celebrated films together – Monty Python And The Holy Grail, Life Of Brian and The Meaning of Life.

Jones last year collaborated on an opera at the Royal Opera House in London.

Copyright © 2012 The Press Association.

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The unpredictable English actor earned raves for the intensity he brought to his roles, but his erratic behavior scared off many film and theater producers.

He is best known for his wild-eyed portrayal of Merlin in John Boorman’s 1981 film “Excalibur.” Other roles of note include a Tony-winning role in John Osborne’s “Inadmissible Evidence” and a highly acclaimed title role performance in “Hamlet” for director Tony Richardson.

Williamson also played Sherlock Holmes in Herbert Ross’ “The Seven-Percent-Solution” (1976) and Little John in Richard Lester’s “Robin and Marian” (1976).

Williamson came of age in the 1960s, when a group of mostly working class group of English actors like Peter O’Toole and Albert Finney ushered in a new and more rough-hewn style of acting. This style was at odds with the more florid performances of actors such as Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud.

Indeed Osborne, author of the signature kitchen-sink drama “Look Back in Anger,” hailed Williamson as the best of that crop, calling him “the greatest actor since Marlon Brando.”

Yet he never achieved the international stardom of Finney, O’Toole, Alan Bates and others. Part of the reason was that his boozing and off-stage carousing often spilled over into his work, leading to on-stage tantrums and blow-ups.

Among Williamson’s more colorful antics: He hit producer David Merrick during a performance of “Inadmissible Evidence”; stormed off the stage and announced his retirement during a performance of “Hamlet”; and he hit his “I Hate Hamlet” co-star Evan Handler with a sword, creating a tabloid frenzy.

The latter was hilariously documented by Paul Rudnick in a 2007 piece for the New Yorker entitled “I Hit Hamlet.” Rudnick said that Williamson was brilliant when sober, but as soon as he began drinking, he threw the entire production into chaos.

“After the final performance, I had no intention of talking to Nicol,” Rudnick writes. “I was still too angry. As I was heading upstairs, to bid farewell to the more lucid actors, the door to Nicol’s dressing room swung open. He stood there, a soused, lunatic, fifty-two-year-old Hamlet. We stared at each other. Nicol finally spoke, and his tone was both kind and accusing. He said, ‘You knew this was going to happen.’ And then he smiled and shut the door.”

Source: Reuters (Brent Lang)

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Woman in a Dressing Gown

J. Lee Thompson, who directed, had a string of “kitchen sink” dramas in the fifties, which broadly coincided with similar developments in the theatre, notably John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger which premiered at the Royal Court in 1956. These included The Yellow Balloon (1953), The Weak and the Wicked (1954) and 1956′s Yield to the Night which starred Diana Dors as a murderer awaiting death by hanging, and generally agreed to be based on the real life story of Ruth Ellis. Thompson later went on to enjoy success in Hollywood, but this clutch of films is interesting in the way in which they feature female characters prominently.

The basic storyline of Woman in a Dressing Gown is as old as the hills: a long married couple, woman confined to the home whilst the man is out in the world, glamorous young female work colleague; and the inevitable happens. “Jimbo” Preston (Anthony Quayle), Amy’s husband, falls for the young and available Georgie Harlow (Sylvia Sims) with whom he shares an office at the timber merchants where they both work. We can surely guess how this will all end.

From the start of the film, which pans in from a view of London strangely bereft of cars to the newish post-war council estate where the Prestons live with their teenage son Brian (Anthony Ray), we are quickly acquainted with the chaos which engulfs Amy and those in her wake. Dressed in the eponymous dressing gown, she flits from one thing to another; rescuing burnt toast, misplacing the tea caddy, and serving up an overdone and shrivelled fried egg. Stacks of unironed clothes are piled everywhere, whilst the radio blares out dance music at a volume which makes it difficult for anyone in the flat to think clearly, let alone converse.

Amy is, however, a trier and we are under no illusion that her motives are anything other than well intentioned. She bustles into the bedroom with a tray on which her less than appetising breakfast is balanced precariously, only to find that Jim is already up and about. He and Brian meet in the bathroom, and a close and loving relationship is evident between father and son. When she presses Jimbo as to why he is up and about so early on a Sunday, he reminds her that he has to work “again” as a consignment of timber is due in which requires checking. Amy hasn’t listened to him. Amy’s constant stream of chatter makes it difficult for her to listen to anyone. Jim mitigates her evident disappointment that they will be unable to go out together; something to which she had been looking forward – with a promise that they will go to the pub that evening and that she should have her “best bib and tucker” on for the occasion.

Jim, we soon discover, is most definitely not headed for work but to the basement flat of his lover Georgie, where he spends an idyllic Sunday and even manages to carve the roast dinner between bouts of lovemaking during which both parties remain fully clothed. The symbolism of domestic settings in Woman in a Dressing Gown is powerful: Georgie’s flat is neat, ordered quiet and uncluttered compared to the chaos of Jim’s family home. The imagery, however, has a darker side. The basement setting of Georgie’s flat mirrors the subterfuge and hidden nature of their relationship, whilst his own flat is above ground in a block. When Jimbo leaves home in the morning it is in bright sunshine; whilst he and Georgie are engaged in their furtive assignation, the rain buckets down outside, as it does frequently when they are together. Before leaving to return home, Jim is told in no uncertain terms by Georgie that he must tell his wife about their relationship, that he must leave her for him. Jim’s dilemma is that, besotted as he is with Georgie and flattered by her attention, he clearly still retains strong feelings for Amy which go beyond mere habit. However, he promises to do so.

Amy suspects nothing. In many ways she is a complete innocent. She seems vaguely aware that her frantic bustling in the house achieves nothing, but whenever challenged, jokingly or otherwise, by Jim or Brian, she laughs it off and reiterates how she has been up and busy since seven o’clock. When Jim tells her in the pub that Sunday evening that he has something important to tell her, her attention is held only for a split second before being distracted by the arrival of neighbours Hilda and Harold. Jimbo fails to tell Amy his news and incurs Georgie’s wrath the next day at work. She fails to meet up with him for lunch, and then informs him she has been offered a job elsewhere and that she is minded to take it. After work, she becomes even angrier and it is evident that we are witnessing an ongoing cycle of events: they have clearly been here before, but this time Georgie puts her foot down firmly. She and Jim are reconciled, but on the clear understanding that this is his last chance to tell Amy, although, when they repair to the pub after this confrontation, she informs Jim, or Preston as she calls him, that she would not have had the heart to take the other job and thereby leave him.

Amy has had one of her periodic, if unsuccessful, attempts to pull herself together. Ironically, the next scene finds her talking to Hilda, who is bemoaning the actions of her husband Harold, and asserting that all men are selfish. “Not Jimbo”, replies Amy. with an innocence tugs at the heartstrings of we who know better. “He may be all sorts of things, but he isn’t selfish.” So she makes a big effort, in her own terms, to have his tea ready for him when he returns home. The ubiquitous frying pan works overtime as she cooks him plaice and chips but of course it is burned: her new method of making crispy chips has made them very crispy indeed. She pours Jim a glass of beer she has bought specially but manages to overflow most of most of it in an effusion of froth. Initially Jim laughs resignedly and it is plain that he still feels a great of affection for his wife. However, the combination of the wistful Tchaikovsky music from the radio and the piles of unironed clothes tip him over the edge and he loses his cool big time.

“Either finish the damned ironing or put it away,” he rails, adding that just once it would be nice to come back to a tidy home. It seems that this is the only way that Jim can tell Amy that he wants a divorce, and eventually he does. Once the words are out a bizarre kind of calm descends upon the flat. We begin to view Amy is a new light: she exhibits a kind of self-knowledge, an awareness of her faults and sloppiness that has been there all along. She guesses with whom Jimbo is having an affair. She muses on how one reads about this kind of thing without ever guessing it could happen to you. Yet in the midst of this self-knowledge, there remains an equal amount of naivety; whilst fully aware of the situation, she immediately begins to chatter and to come up with simplistic solutions and assertions. “It’ll all be all right, I know it will.” Once again, the undone ironing and the domestic clutter becomes a metaphor for the failed marriage.

In the middle of their awkward discussion, Brian and his girlfriend arrive home and both parents put on a show of normality as the teenagers dance to some “really groovy” traditional jazz. For Amy, it is all too much, and she faints in the kitchen as the kettle whistles and the scene becomes blurry. Jim puts her to bed, and, before retiring himself, arranges the covers and fusses over her. In the morning, Amy awakes early and reciprocates these gestures to a sleeping Jim, before finishing the ironing, cleaning the flat, and preparing flawless bacon and eggs for the family. If only the place is clean, surely Jim will want to stay. Her desperation is plain as she follows him out of the house onto the communal landing and pleads with him loudly, desperate for reassurance. Later in the day she forms a plan and telephones Jim at work, insisting that he brings Georgie home with him that night in order that they can discuss things in a civilised fashion.

The next part of the film contains such an inevitably tragic sequence of events that is genuinely difficult to watch with dispassion. Amy plans to win Jim back. She borrows money from Brian, pawns her wedding ring, has her hair done and buys a half-bottle of whisky. The hand of fate does not take long to intervene: she leaves the off licence just as a torrential downpour drenches her. She returns home and tries on her best “special” dress, only to rip it beyond repair. Hilda comes in and persuades her all men are worthless and that they should drink the whisky themselves. Amy is quickly drunk. She still attempts to lay the table, but one of its leaves crashes to the ground along with plates and cutlery. Amy collapses. Brian arrives home and panics at the sight of his mother in this state. Jim and Georgie arrive at the same time, and he rushes to Amy’s side. Her attempts to impress Jim and Georgie have failed miserably. Jim tells her this doesn’t matter, but “It matters to me!!” Amy shouts back, finally finding her own voice.

A big showdown then occurs: Brian finds out what’s going on and snubs Georgie and is slapped by his father, before leaving the flat. Amy tells Georgie some home truths about Jim, and asks her why she couldn’t have left him alone and fallen for someone else. Georgie asserts that she had no control over her feelings. Brian tells his father “Don’t ever hit me again, Dad.” Once Amy’s voice is found, it becomes stronger. She knows that Georgie is the instigator of all this and that Jim would not have the gumption to act on his own initiative. She asserts that she has lived in his shadow too long, that she is fed up with putting him first at her own expense and that she can now function without him. She can get a job. She can exist as an independent person. To their assertion that Jim will leave on the forthcoming weekend, she retorts that he must go now. She will cope, and rejects his offers of a financial settlement. She helps him pack his suitcase although he is in such a flustered hurry to depart that he leaves it behind.

Amy watches the lovers leave through the window of the flat, before closing the curtains and shutting out the world. She and Brian are ensconced in the flat on their own. As she attempts to carry the suitcase across the room and place it outside the flat, it spills open and spews forth its contents on the floor, powerfully symbolising the detritus of their marriage. “He’ll be back for it,” she tells Brian. And he soon is. As he has asserted all along, “it would be different if Amy was a bad person.” Of course, she isn’t. Jim abandons Georgie in the street in a tearful parting and returns home to Amy. Their reconciliation is almost wordless, unspoken as they both replace Jim’s belongings in their rightful place. Brian brews a pot of tea and Jim goes through his notes for a speech he is due to deliver. Normality is restored.

This is, however, no cynical or cosy ending, nor is it a recuperative affirmation of societal norms. It is a powerful and believable tale of real people and real, repressed emotions played out in a bleak and very British landscape. The film would scarcely work in colour, for it is set in a monochrome world of torrential rain and a bleak emotional landscape. Yet the female characters are strong in a bizarre kind of way: Georgie is not presented as a harpy, but as a modern woman who expresses her feelings openly, albeit to her detriment; whilst Amy is, for all her faults, aware of whom she is and what her failings are. In the final analysis the Preston family is reunited through love, not duty. The potential for change is shown, and the eponymous dressing gown discarded. “I shall miss it,” says Jim, but I doubt if he really will.

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Story is centered on an Edinburgh police detective who manipulates everyone in his path to secure a promotion and win back his wife and daughter.

Writer/director Baird said: “Filth is filled with irreverent comedy and some extremely surreal moments, but ends with a sharp twist of poignancy. The character of Bruce Robertson has to show such a wide range that it could only take an actor as talented as James McAvoy to pull it off with the necessary charm and humanity.”

Producer Ken Marshall of Steel MIll added: “Bruce Robertson is not only a guilty pleasure, but a character edgier than all the other characters from Irvine Welsh’s works combined. With Filth we have the chance to make a bold and outrageous film that I have no doubt will be unique, darkly funny and ultimately commercial.”

Shooting is set for Scotland, primarily Glasgow, as well as locations in Sweden, Belgium and Hamburg.

Source: Variety

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For those of us who love horror, there was clearly a golden age.  1930 to 1940 was the decade of elegance in horror, the decade of Universal.  It was the decade of James Whale, the decade of Tod Browning, Boris Karloff’s intimidating sad monster and Bela Lugosi’s charismatic Dracula. Most of us also include Lon Chaney Jr.’s tortured “Wolf Man” from 1941. Universal basically created the horror film genre during this decade before it all fell apart in the 1940’s and 1950’s, devolving into self-parody in the “Abbot and Costello Meet…” films.  Don’t get me wrong, I love Abbot and Costello but seeing Lon Chaney give a sad, empathetic performance as Larry Talbot opposite these two is almost painful to watch.

For almost the next two decades horror, for the most part, languished, drown in an ocean of B movies, giant bug movies and low or no budget “sequels” to Universal’s great monster movies, the horror genre seemed doomed. Periodically a gem would emerge from the coal, such as the aforementioned “The Pit and the Pendulum” or “The Thing (From Another World)” with James Arness or the original “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”.

Then came a revelation. Then came salvation. Then came Hammer! Hammer films, which started releasing movies in 1934, was not originally known as a “Horror” studio.  The horror genre itself was still relatively unknown outside of German Expressionist horror such as the films of F. W. Murnau (“Nosferatu”, “Faust”) and Robert Weine (“The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari”, “The Hands of Orlac”). Instead, the studio, founded by cinema owner Enrique Carreras and vaudevillian William Hinds, half of the duo of Hammer and Smith, focused on period pieces and historical dramas such as “Henry the Eighth”, “The Private Life of Henry the Ninth” (both in 1935) and “The Mystery of the Mary Celeste” (1936).

The studio, like many of Great Britain’s movie studios, took a hiatus during World War II, releasing no films to the public between 1937 and 1945. The sons of the founders, James Carreras and Anthony Hinds, who had both joined the studio, went off to fight the Axis along with most of the rest of the young men of their generation. Even well-heeled American studios such as Disney and Warner Brothers focused most of their artistic endeavors to anti-Nazi propaganda films during this time, so a small, independent studio like Hammer had no choice but to temporarily close their doors at this time of deprivation and hardship.

When James Carreras and Anthony Hinds came home from the war, they rejoined the studio and set out to make Hammer a world-class studio. With limited resources and no stable of stars, however, Hammer was limited to short subjects and documentaries until 1947 when they released “Death in High Heels”. During the 1950’s, Hammer focused almost exclusively on cheap, easily-made “noir” films such as “The Black Widow” (1951) and “Murder by Proxy” (1954). Because of a distribution agreement with American producer Robert Lippert, many of these films featured American leads. For the 1952 film “The Last Page”, however, Hammer (unbeknownst to them at the time) made their first major step in returning elegance to the horror film when they hired director Terence Fisher.

For horror film fans, the studio’s first big step in that direction was their purchase of the rights to the BBC television “Quatermass” serial, and produced a big-screen adaptation of the first of these, which they called “The Quatermass Xperiment”. The series focused on Professor Bernard Quatermass of the British Experimental Rocket Group. Although ostensibly science fiction, the series contained enough horror elements to earn a special place in the hearts of horror fans the world over.

Quatermass also has the distinction of bringing science fiction from the realm of kiddie shows like Captain Video and into an adult realm. Despite a few earlier films like “The Day the Earth Stood Still”, it really marked the beginning of what is now called “serious” science fiction, distinguishing it from the giant bug and monster from another planet films that overtook the genre throughout the 1950’s. The film enjoyed huge success in the UK, becoming half of the highest-grossing double bill of 1955, and was so successful that it spawned two Hammer sequels, “Quatermass 2” and “Quatermass and the Pit”. The series also cemented Bernard Quatermass in the public consciousness as one of Britian’s great science fiction heroes, along with Dr. Who.

The other thing that the film did was to give the studio the much-needed influx of cash to really ramp up their production capabilities, leading to the first of the full-color “Hammer Horrors”, “The Curse of Frankenstein” in 1957. This was the first pairing of duo Peter Cushing as Victor Frankenstein and Christopher Lee as his misbegotten creature. One hitch that the studio encountered, however, was the monster’s make-up.  The iconic make-up created by Jack Pierce for Boris Karloff in the 1931 film, with the flat head and bolts in the neck, was still the property of Universal, who refused to allow Hammer to use it for their film. This led them to create their own unique look for the monster, which has become iconic in its own way.

I remember when I saw this film on television, being disappointed in the different look of the creature, until I was drawn into the story of the film, and finding myself fascinated and horrified by the small touches, such as the creature’s mismatched eyes,  that indicated his piecemeal creation. The film focuses much more on the creator rather than the creature, casting Victor Frankenstein as the true evil of the film. Deciding to give his creature a worthy brain, Frankenstein lures a distinguished professor to his home and pushing him down a staircase, killing him so that Frankenstein can use the brain. Apparently unfamiliar with the effects of trauma on the brain, however, Frankenstein doesn’t anticipate that the brain would now be irreparably damaged, causing the monster to be a single-minded creature of vengeance and terror.

Playing a mute monster, however, wasn’t Lee’s idea of a terrific career move. Apparently, on the first day of shooting, he stormed into Peter Cushing’s dressing room, shouting “I have no lines!” As the story goes, Cushing responded “You’re lucky… I’ve read the script.” But Lee gradually accepted the role that he was playing, and seeing what his acting abilities could bring to it, lines or no lines, and it is said that he would often entertain the rest of the cast by singing beautifully while in the full monster makeup. The film received a suitable “X” certification, which meant appropriate for viewing only by those over the age of 16. The critics, for the most part, found the film inappropriate for viewing by anyone; critical comments included “Depressing and degrading for anyone who loves the cinema”, “disgusting” and “horrendous”.  The writing was on the wall, however. Despite (or maybe because of) the critical reception to the film, it grossed more than ten times its production cost of£75,000 pounds.

Almost immediately, Hammer began production on the next film that would cement it as the premier horror studio for the next decade or more:  “Dracula” (1958, titled “The Horror of Dracula” in the US). The film, like “Curse of Frankenstein”, was again presented in bloody Technicolor, and reunited the team of Peter Cushing (Van Helsing) and Christopher Lee (Dracula). Like the earlier film, “The Horror of Dracula” was, at best, kissing cousins with the Bram Stoker novel. One interesting side-note on the film:  when it was originally released in 1958, it was given an “X” certificate, only appropriate for those over the age of 16, while, upon it’s re-release in Great Britain in 2007, it was given a “12A” rating, appropriate for those over the age of 12.

Lee and Cushing would again be united in “The Hound of the Baskervilles” (1959), Hammer’s “The Mummy” (1959), “The Gorgon” (1964), “Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors” (1965), “She” (1965), “The Skull” (1965), “Scream and Scream Again” (1970), in separate segments of “The House That Dripped Blood” (1971), “I, Monster” (1971), “Dracula 1972” (1972), “Horror Express” (1972), “The Creeping Flesh” (1973), “The Satanic Rites of Dracula” (1973) among others, making them, perhaps the second most identifiable horror duo next to the redoubtable Abbot and Costello.  The two also bookended the “Star Wars” saga, with Cushing playing Grand Moff Tarkin in the first trilogy and Lee playing Count Dooku in the second.

Throughout the sixties, Hammer continued to lead the horror genre, with numerous sequels to their Frankenstein and Dracula, as well as created their own versions of the Mummy, the Wolfman and Mr. Hyde, and sequels to those. As the sixties became the seventies, however, and these old monsters and formulae started to lose their appeal for mass audiences, Hammer began to tighten the budgets on their films and rely more heavily on blood and, eventually, nudity for ticket sales rather than well-told stories. Ultimately, however, with more and more of the large, well-heeled studios starting to churn out horror films, Hammer could no longer compete in the market. “To the Devil… A Daughter” (1976) starring Richard Widmark as an American occult novelist trying to rescue a young girl from a group of Satanists led by excommunicated priest Father Michael (Christopher Lee) would become the last of the “Hammer Horrors”. 1979 would see the release of the final Hammer film, a comedic reinterpretation of the Alfred Hitchcock film “The Lady Vanishes” starring Elliott Gould and Cybill Shepherd.

But, like Frankenstein’s creature, Dracula, and Karis the mummy, it appears that the great studio of 1960’s horror may be “not quite dead”. After many years and many owners, the Hammer film library and name finally went to the Dutch conglomerate Cyrtle Investments, the group behind Big Brother, which finally began producing films under the Hammer banner once more.  2010 saw the release of Hammer’s first feature horror film in over 30 years with “Let Me In”, a generally well-made and well-accepted remake of the Danish vampire thriller “Let the Right One In”. With the most well-known stars in the film being Chloe Moretz and Elias Koteas, the film coasted to moderate success on the success of its superior Danish predecessor and the American popularity of vampires in seemingly all forms of media.

They followed that in 2011 with “The Resident”, starring Hilary Swank and Jeffrey Dean Morgan also found Hammer reunited with one of its great old names, one of the stars who made the studio’s name in horror to begin with: Christopher Lee in the role of August.  The film follows the old suspense stand-by plot of “landlord stalks and terrorizes pretty new tenant”.  Also in 2011 came “Wake Wood” starring Aidan Gillen and Eve Birthistle. This film, made in Ireland, marked Hammer’s return to British horror. The film focuses on a grieving couple whose daughter was killed by dogs, when an occultist (Timothy Spall) offers to perform a ritual with them that, he says, will bring their daughter back for three days. As the review on the website eatmybrains.com says, “things go badly”.

What may ultimately earn Hammer its place at the horror table in the twenty first century, however, is “The Woman in Black”, starring Harry Potter’s Daniel Radcliffe and Ciaran Hinds, due for release in the US on February 3, 2012 and in the UK a week later.  The film follows a young lawyer (Radcliffe) as he leaves London to settle the affairs of a recently deceased woman and discovers that the village is being terrorized by the ghost of a woman who was unable to save her son from drowning. The DVD/home video revolution is another thing that is helping Hammer with its comeback. The film “Wake Wood”, for instance, which had no theatrical release in the US is enjoying a moderate amount of success in the states on DVD. As a fan, I can only say “Welcome back, Hammer, to the world and to the world of horror”. Also, as a fan, I can only hope that Hammer learned its lessons from its earlier rise and fall, and won’t make the same mistakes again.  In other words, Hammer, please do not bring us “The Blood of Wake Wood”, “The Satanic Rites of Wake Wood” and “Wake Wood Must Die!”

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This cautionary tale of an innocent girl abroad caught up in London’s sleazy world of modelling was Britain’s first narrative sex film. Previously unreleased, it finally comes to DVD and Blu-ray for the first time on 20 February 2012 in a Dual Format Edition on the BFI’s celebrated Flipside label. The new, director-approved High Definition transfer is accompanied by a wealth of rare and fascinating extra features and a comprehensive booklet.

Starring the Italian actress Lucia Modugno (Il generale Della Rovere, Danger: Diabolik), and directed by Norman J Warren, Her Private Hell put Britain on the map in the realm of home-grown adult features. The storyline features beautiful but naïve Marisa who arrives from the continent for a job as a fashion model, but soon discovers she’s being groomed for a different purpose.

By the late 1960s, British producers had begun to realise the commercial potential of sex and to test the limits of what the censors would permit on screen. Producer Bachoo Sen, a distributor who imported art-house titles to the UK, set up Piccadilly Pictures with cinema-owner Richard Schulman and financed Her Private Hell. It premiered at London’s Cameo-Royal cinema on 4 January 1968 and was so popular that it ran for over a year.

The film was the debut feature for young director Norman J Warren (Satan’s Slave, Prey and Terror). Looking back at it now, 45 years on, he says: ‘Why it got so much publicity and why it was so successful was that the sex situation in this country was so naïve and innocent and you were so restricted.’

Her Private Hell features a screenplay by Glynn Christian, best known as BBC Breakfast Time’s resident chef in the 1980s, and a distinctive jazz soundtrack by renowned musician and composer John Scott.

Among the extensive extras are new cast and crew interviews, original screen tests (including one with a young Udo Kier), two early shorts by Norman J Warren and the rarely-seen The Anatomy of a Pin-up (1971), a lively documentary about ‘Penthouse Pets’ and nude modelling in Britain. All extras are presented in High Definition.

Special features
Presented in both High Definition and Standard Definition
Original Her Private Hell trailer
Alternative US sequences (1967, 3 mins) uncensored footage
Screen tests (4 mins, mute): including footage of Udo Kier
Inside Her Private Hell (2011, 15 mins): cast and crew interviews
Incident (Norman J Warren, 1959/2007, 13 mins): Warren’s enigmatic first film
Fragment (Norman J Warren, 1966, 11 mins): exquisite short about a woman’s unhappiness after a failed love affair
The Anatomy of a Pin-up (David Cohen, 1971, 31 mins) modish documentary about Britain’s nude modelling industry
Illustrated 34-page booklet with new essays and contributions from Norman J Warren, Josephine Botting, David Cohen, Lynn Barber; original promotional materials and full film credits.

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This quote from John Maxwell Edmond’s epitaph appears at the beginning of Went the Day Well?, accompanying images of the peaceful, idyllic Buckinghamshire countryside as we assume the point of view of a vehicle travelling towards the small village of Bramley End. Our journey comes to a halt at the churchyard, where we are greeted by the affable figure of sexton Charles Sims (Mervyn Johns) who doffs his cap and informs us of the ancient history of the church before adding, knowingly, “but it won’t be that that’s brought you here….It’ll be these names that’s on this grave here” and the story of how German troops who came to the village because “they wanted England, these Gerry’s got, and this was the only bit they got.”

The action then jumps to Whitsun weekend, 1942, “just as quiet as it is now”, and we witness the presence of a motorised column of sappers heading towards the small village of Bramley End. At this stage we have no indication that the troops are anything other than British and, therefore, benign. “We’d have laughed if you told us we’d got a real, live German right under our very noses” says Sims, and this theme of innocent acceptance of the situation at face value is a powerful theme throughout the film. The villagers of Bramley End find it hard to accept that Germans are in their midst, despite some glaring clues, until the enemy finally give themselves away and revert to type – and then some.

That Bramley End is a backwater is clear from the fact that the villagers are genuinely shocked to see sixty soldiers appear in their midst. The troops quickly set about arranging billets for their men, with the affable C.O. Major Hammond (aka Kommandant Orlter) doing the rounds of village bobby and vicarage, cheerfully explaining that the sappers  have been given a “job of work” to do, and that they must work uninterrupted throughout the weekend. In a twist that later becomes bitterly ironic, the Vicar Reverend Ashton informs the men that there is to be a wedding the following day so the troops will not be able to use the church for Church Parade. Of course the ‘Royal Engineers’ will indeed be in the church on Sunday, and Tom and Peggy’s wedding will be postponed.

The billeting sequence serves to introduce us to the main protagonists of the film: as well as those already mentioned, we meet the other Land Girl Ivy Dawking (Thora Hird in her first major screen role), Mrs. Collins and Daisy (Patricia Hayes) from the village shop, Joe Garbett (the village bobby), Marie Lahr as Mrs. Fraser (the lady of the manor who house is dutifully stocked with evacuee children from London), and an assortment of Germans, including John Slater as a Sergeant), whose viciousness is bubbling away just beneath the surface at all times – as witnessed by the manner in which one of their number tweaks the ear of George Truscott (played brilliantly by a youthful Harry Fowler) who he discovers nosing under the covers of their equipment.

We also meet the ‘squire’ of the village, the universally respected and obeyed Oliver Wilsford (suavely played by Leslie Banks), who is quickly revealed to be that most un-English of beasts, a Quisling who has been alerted by Berlin to the imminent arrival of the Germans masquerading as Tommies and who is soon receiving his orders obsequiously from Kommandant Orlter and conning the local Home Guard commander into spilling the defence plans for the village. The ground is laid for a sequence of innocent acceptance of both the troops (initially) and Wilsford (by some, right up to the end of the film).

It is this tension between the normality of a village far removed from the front line of the war, and the fact that it has unwittingly ventured right into their midst, that makes the first half of Went the Day Well? so gripping. The absent minded Mrs. Collins leaves a telegram she is supposed to deliver to Mrs. Fraser in the village hall where the bulk of the Germans have been billeted; John Slater’s character has to accompany her back there to retrieve it, only to find it in use by the men for scoring their card game – and worse, they have filled it up with continental scribblings: a “seven with a line through the middle” and, even worse, “one of those elongated fives.”

It is Nora Ashton, spinster of the parish and daughter of the Vicar, who first spots this anomaly when the telegram is finally delivered to Mrs. Fraser’s later that evening, but she and Mrs. Collins’ suspicion is quickly pooh-poohed by Fraser. Nora is no fool, however, and her suspicions remain, to be heightened further the following day when George Truscott, once again poking his nose where he has no business, discovers a bar of chocolate which has the damning legend “Chocolade – Wien” emblazoned upon it in an aggressive, Teutonic script.

Unfortunately for the good folk of Bramley End, Nora is besotted with Oliver Wilsford, and she rushes to him with the evidence. Wilsford’s initial reaction of horror is swiftly substituted for an explanation that is less than plausible to all but the heavily infatuated: namely that Major Hammond is posing as a German to test the observatory powers of the British public, and good old Nora has passed with flying colours. However, Wilsford is worried and immediately radios to the Germans to instigate Plan B: i.e. revert to type, reveal yourself as the brutal Germans you really are and stop pretending to be nice, kind British soldiers (a role for which you were singularly unsuited).

The second half of Went the Day Well? starts with another idyllic scene of English life, which serves as an effective contrast of the brutality to follow.  We are attending a service in the 13^th Century church, conducted by Reverend Ashton, and where the village is done out in their finery to mark the wedding of Tom Sturry and Peggy Pride which is to follow. Ashton’s service is rudely interrupted by Kommandant Orlter who yells at him to be quiet and reveals himself not be Major Hammond and the “sappers” to be crack German parachutists. Reverend Hammond performs the first act of true heroism when he rings the church bell – the well known signal for German parachutists – having refused to submit to the enemies of Christianity in “this house of God.” He is shot in the back by Orlter for his pains.  We are no longer under any illusions about the ruthlessness of the enemy, a point which would have needed little reinforcing in 1942, but one which is made increasingly clear from this point on nevertheless.

What is equally clear from the film is that this German ruthlessness must, sometimes reluctantly, be met with equal callousness in defence of freedom and the British way of life. Each German outrage is met with a correspondingly vicious response. At this point in the war, with the horrors of Dunkirk fading from immediate consciousness and the successes of Montgomery in North Africa indicating that defeat was not an inevitability, Britons were coming round to the view that fire must be met with fire and that Total War applied to both sides.  Fortunately it never had to be proved, but there can be little doubt that the British public would have fought tooth and nail to defend their country had Germans ever landed here. So the further treachery of Wilsford, who insists on accompanying P.C. Garbett in an escape attempt, only to club him to death once they have reached the churchyard is mirrored by Sims having killed his German guard by dropping a massive metal plate on his head; the death of the Vicar is paid for when Mrs. Collins lulls her German house guest into a false sense of security by chatting with him about how she doesn’t believe all the rumours about “babies on bayonets” and apparently colludes with the immorality of his having “two fine sons” outside of wedlock, only to throw pepper in his face and club him to death with a chopper. She in turn suffers her own end by bayonet when attempting to get through to Upton on the telephone only to be ignored by the telephonist who is indulging in idle gossip with a friend.

This theme of ill-fated bad luck resonates strongly through the first phase of the villagers’ attempts to warn the outside world of their fate. Their resourcefulness is great, but appears doomed. Ivy and Peggy’s attempt to send a message via a box of eggs for the paper boy’s mother fails when he is driven off the road by Mrs. Fraser’s cousin and the eggs crushed; Mrs. Fraser’s subsequent effort to send a message with her cousin by means of a note in her pocket fails when the missive is used as a wedge for a rattling car window, and ends up being chewed beyond recognition by the dog.

In the midst of all this, the Home Guard, who have been out on manoeuvres, return to the village on their bicycles, hoping to get back in time for the wedding. Whilst on exercises in the fields, one of their number has heard the two rings of the Bramley church bell, but has been laughed at and ignored by his comrades. It is a similar kind of sequence of tragic misfortunes that is reminiscent of Thomas Hardy, and Tess of the D’Urbervilles in particular, as if fate has taken a hand and is dooming the inhabitants of Bramley End. The value of Wilsford’s treachery to the Germans is further underscored by the ambush and annihilation of the Home Guard as they approach the village – but not before one of their number manages to kill one of the enemy before he dies himself. Interestingly, the Home Guard are shown to be a normal body of fighting men who happen to be in reserved occupations, rather than the elderly, comic and risible creations which exposure to Dad’s Army has bequeathed us. A further turning point is achieved, and we are now open to the possibility of relief for the villagers and victory for decency and order – with some joyful killing of Germans along the way.

Everyone is capable of redemption in this film, unless, of course, they are a German. Bill Purvis, the poacher, is known for what he is by the entire village, and he manages to outsmart Joe Garbett, albeit with the assistance of George Truscott, who he has taken on as a kind of apprentice. George, of course, straddles the line between good and bad throughout the film, being the nosey poacher’s boy on the one hand and the cherubic altar boy on the other. George is desperate to use his new-found skills to attempt to reach Upton and help: in this he is initially thwarted by Mrs. Fraser, who tells him that the villagers need to avoid quixotic gestures and rely on morale, asking him if he knows what this is. George replies, classically, “Yeah, it’s what the wops ain’t got!” Different times….

Eventually George sneaks away anyway and tells an initially disbelieving Purvis of the horrors going on in Bramley. Purvis is eventually persuaded of the truth buy the sound of gunfire, and allows George to get away and through to Bramley by sacrificing his life: another act of everyday heroism. It appears at first as if George has fallen foul of the same laws of fate which have thwarted previous attempts to rouse the alarm, but he does get through to Upton and alerts Harry Drew the baker and C.O. of the Home Guard, earlier duped by Wilsford and Orlter. Meanwhile, a party of villagers have overpowered their guards in the church and broken free to the village and have also managed to alert the army by reaching the post office and the telephone.

Crucially, Nora Ashton has realised that Wilsford is a fifth columnist and prepares icily for her revenge. Whilst the defenders have withdrawn to the Manor and arm and prepare themselves for the upcoming ‘Battle of Bramley End’, Nora equips herself with a revolver and finishes the double-dealing squire in short order, expiating personal as well as national outrage. Mrs. Fraser dies a hero too, picking up a grenade and running from the room just before it explodes, thereby saving the lives of the children in her care. After a fierce battle, the Home Guard and regular troops regain control of the village and order is restored.

Went the Day Well? has been dismissed as crude propaganda designed to bolster morale on the Home Front, to counter national feelings of fear about the threat of German invasion of these shores. This argument leaves something to be desired: British troops had already achieved some victories in North Africa at this point, dispelling the myth of German invincibility; the dire threat of 1940 and the aftermath of Dunkirk was fading, and the Germans had by now opened up their fateful second front. If anything, it is a celebration of British resolve, courage and determination to match ruthlessness with ruthlessness. It said that Britain could win and would stop at nothing in so doing, and that was a fairly accurate assessment of what subsequently happened. And the fact that the film, made in 1942 but assuming a putative post-war victory, portrays that confidence manifestly.

Went the Day Well? succeeds as a film, not a piece of crude propaganda. It has a storyline which it makes credible on its own terms; it has a tight, well-plotted script which keeps the viewer hooked; it has great characterisation and acting; and it is shot beautifully, evoking an England that has almost disappeared but is still just about recognisable, in a similar way to Powell and Pressburger’s A Canterbury Tale. You can watch this film over and over again and not tire of it, or lose attention. That’s a pretty good measure of success.

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