It might be a commonplace critically to pronounce the first film version of Graham Greene's novel to be not as good as the source- text, but in this case we would be terribly wrong.
John Boulting's film offers a dystopian world of mid-twentieth century Brighton: ostensibly set during the Thirties but applying as much to the time when the film was released. The resort's streets teem with people desperately trying to have a good time in the sunshine, sitting in deck-chairs, eating in shabby restaurants, enjoying rides in the Chamber of Horrors or eating candy-floss. Brief romances wither and flourish; older citizens find solace in the pub. No one, it seems, can think about the future; everything must be lived in the present, otherwise they might succumb to desperation.
In this kind of environment it's hardly surprising that Pinkie (Richard Attenborough) and his gang should thrive. They can offer 'protection' from the chaos - at a price, of course - and should their victims be unable to pay up, they can be readily disposed of. This was the time of the spiv and his henchpersons, who walked unmolested through the streets, carefully concealing themselves from public view and striking when and where necessary.
Harry Waxman has produced some truly memorable visual metaphors for this world. He uses a tilted camera in which the characters' faces are reflected in the mirror; on at least two occasions he has people smashing china figures on the ground. The death of Pinkie's loyal associate Spicer (Wylie Watson) is truly shocking, especially when the gang-leader throws a suitcase of the old man's clothes from an upper level down to the lower level, to rest on the inanimate corpse. Human life is that cheap for the young man.
Yet the Boultings' version of the book also focuses on another level of meaning, as it tries to explore Pinkie's psychology in terms of his religion. He continually fingers his rosary beads, reminding us of his lapsed Catholicism; this represents a source of considerable guilt, but he conceals it beneath a veneer of bravado. Attenborough is quite masterful at this; his face remains impassive throughout, his eyes staring coldly at the camera or boring into his friends' expressions as if defying them to detect a chink of emotion underneath. He believes that the only means to survive in an amoral world is to be a 'hard man.'
In line with the censorship codes of the day, Pinkie is brought to bear in the end, as he loses his sang froid and commits suicide - a final betrayal of his Catholic faith. But the Boultings have not finished yet; in a supremely unexpected moment, they have Pinkie's common-law widow (Carol Marsh) playing a gramophone record of her husband disclosing her true feelings for him. The needle sticks, and we hear only one phrase repeated over and over, so much so that it becomes meaningless - a suitable metaphor for the world Pinkie inhabited.
Owing a lot to the pragmatic techniques of British documentary film=making, with lighting and shadow effects straight from German Expressionist movies of the previous decade, BRIGHTON ROCK is a true classic of the postwar British cinema, as arresting today as it ever was.
Friday, September 16, 2016
The Shooting Party by Isobel Colegate, screenplay by Julian Bond (GB, 1985)
THE SHOOTING PARTY, based on the novel by Isabel Colegate, is one of those low-budget films that tends to be characterized as a "heritage film," offering incidental pleases to viewers who are prepared to make the effort, but perhaps not pitched at general audiences.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Alan Bridges's work is both a technical and thematic masterpiece, brilliantly making use of cinema's resources to comment on British insularity both before and after World War One.
The first few sequences pass by exceptionally quickly: few of the guests at Sir Randolph's (James Mason's) home have time to talk with one another, as they are perpetually occupied in dressing for dinner, eating food, and discussing the next day's hunting. We wonder why they seem so desperate, especially in view of their privileged lifestyle. The answer emerges gradually; they are pathologically incapable of expressing their true feelings. Lord Gilbert and Lady Aline (Edward Fox, Cheryl Campbell) are unhappily married yet stay together for the sake of form. Lord Bob (Robert Hardy) makes himself agreeable to everyone without saying anything of any value. They seem hell-bent on preserving what they perceive as the "old values" that made England great in the Victorian era without in the least understanding how worthless they have become.
The "Hunting Party" of the title refers to a three-day shooting festival, where the aristocrats indulge in hunting just for the sake of it, loyally supported by Sir Randolph's band of servants. No questions its morality, save for lifelong pacifist Cornelius Cardew (John Gielgud). Director Bridges slows the action down quite significantly here, allowing viewers to acknowledge the regular - and uncomfortable - series of gunshots accompanied by tight pans of the birds falling dead. The parallels between such sequences and the forthcoming conflict in World War I are obvious; only in the future it will be human beings rather than birds who will perish.
The action attains a human dimension when we discover that the little boy Osbert (Nicholas Pietrek) is desperate to save his pet duck from the carnage. As he wanders desperately about the dawn- misted landscape before the hunt is about to start, we realize just how destructive humanity can be as they disrupt the balance of nature for their selfish pleasures.
Although Bridges does not exempt his characters from criticism, he manages to introduce a Chekhovian element into the film's latter stages. While no one can ever contemplate a future different from the past, the aristocrats are in a sense victims of circumstance, lacking both the power and self-awareness to change their lives. This element is emphasized in a highly poignant moment as Sir Randolph vainly tries to offer succor to one of his servants (Gordon Jackson), who has been accidentally shot, but finds himself emotionally incapable of doing so, and bursts into tears quietly.
Released only three years after the Falklands Island invasion of 1982, widely celebrated at the time as a great victory for British pride, THE SHOOTING PARTY offers a chillingly downbeat interpretation of jingoist attitudes that prove more destructive than beneficial.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Alan Bridges's work is both a technical and thematic masterpiece, brilliantly making use of cinema's resources to comment on British insularity both before and after World War One.
The first few sequences pass by exceptionally quickly: few of the guests at Sir Randolph's (James Mason's) home have time to talk with one another, as they are perpetually occupied in dressing for dinner, eating food, and discussing the next day's hunting. We wonder why they seem so desperate, especially in view of their privileged lifestyle. The answer emerges gradually; they are pathologically incapable of expressing their true feelings. Lord Gilbert and Lady Aline (Edward Fox, Cheryl Campbell) are unhappily married yet stay together for the sake of form. Lord Bob (Robert Hardy) makes himself agreeable to everyone without saying anything of any value. They seem hell-bent on preserving what they perceive as the "old values" that made England great in the Victorian era without in the least understanding how worthless they have become.
The "Hunting Party" of the title refers to a three-day shooting festival, where the aristocrats indulge in hunting just for the sake of it, loyally supported by Sir Randolph's band of servants. No questions its morality, save for lifelong pacifist Cornelius Cardew (John Gielgud). Director Bridges slows the action down quite significantly here, allowing viewers to acknowledge the regular - and uncomfortable - series of gunshots accompanied by tight pans of the birds falling dead. The parallels between such sequences and the forthcoming conflict in World War I are obvious; only in the future it will be human beings rather than birds who will perish.
The action attains a human dimension when we discover that the little boy Osbert (Nicholas Pietrek) is desperate to save his pet duck from the carnage. As he wanders desperately about the dawn- misted landscape before the hunt is about to start, we realize just how destructive humanity can be as they disrupt the balance of nature for their selfish pleasures.
Although Bridges does not exempt his characters from criticism, he manages to introduce a Chekhovian element into the film's latter stages. While no one can ever contemplate a future different from the past, the aristocrats are in a sense victims of circumstance, lacking both the power and self-awareness to change their lives. This element is emphasized in a highly poignant moment as Sir Randolph vainly tries to offer succor to one of his servants (Gordon Jackson), who has been accidentally shot, but finds himself emotionally incapable of doing so, and bursts into tears quietly.
Released only three years after the Falklands Island invasion of 1982, widely celebrated at the time as a great victory for British pride, THE SHOOTING PARTY offers a chillingly downbeat interpretation of jingoist attitudes that prove more destructive than beneficial.
The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 3: THE PAST IS A WOUND IN MY HEART (1970)
First a film, then a hit pop song, then the subject of a remake for Turkish television, MAZI KALBIMDE YARADIR (THE PAST IS A WOUND IN MY HEART) is a prime subject for filming.
Turkan (Turkan Soray) is a young woman on her wedding-day looking back on a turbulent past of rivalries, lust, and heartache with a family she is never sure about, with lovers who turn out to be false while pretending to be true, of so-called female confidantes out to exploit her, and of perpetually seeking for security despite everything that happens to her.
Her struggles are chronicles in a series of highly dramatic sequences - of love, hate, beating, family conflict, private observations behind curtains (recalling Polonius in HAMLET), public sequences in seedy bars or hotel rooms, and domestic moments taking place in the main living-space.
Director Osman F. Seden, a master at this kind of filmmaking, tells the story of a community under threat, not just from self-interest, but from the desire to maintain past certainties - such as the continuation of the family through marriage - while trying to secure social and material advancement. The struggle is not an easy one; often it seems that people are prepared to sacrifice their loved ones' integrity for the sake of a fast buck. The only character who remains morally pure is Turkan herself - despite her apparently frailties, she is a strong-willed personality who is more than able to stand up for herself, even if she never resorts to physical or mental violence.
While defiantly set in the present of early Seventies Istanbul, MAZI KALBIMDE YARADIR looks back to a mythical past of romance and sentiment, the kind of lasting values that not only bring audiences closer to the action on screen, but evoke worlds that can be easily identified. There is a certain kind of optimism about this film that is particularly endearing, and guaranteed to appeal to Yesilcam's fans; despite all that life might throw at you, if you keep your integrity, then you might be able to find some form of happiness, however transient. This quality makes the film attractive to watch.
Turkan (Turkan Soray) is a young woman on her wedding-day looking back on a turbulent past of rivalries, lust, and heartache with a family she is never sure about, with lovers who turn out to be false while pretending to be true, of so-called female confidantes out to exploit her, and of perpetually seeking for security despite everything that happens to her.
Her struggles are chronicles in a series of highly dramatic sequences - of love, hate, beating, family conflict, private observations behind curtains (recalling Polonius in HAMLET), public sequences in seedy bars or hotel rooms, and domestic moments taking place in the main living-space.
Director Osman F. Seden, a master at this kind of filmmaking, tells the story of a community under threat, not just from self-interest, but from the desire to maintain past certainties - such as the continuation of the family through marriage - while trying to secure social and material advancement. The struggle is not an easy one; often it seems that people are prepared to sacrifice their loved ones' integrity for the sake of a fast buck. The only character who remains morally pure is Turkan herself - despite her apparently frailties, she is a strong-willed personality who is more than able to stand up for herself, even if she never resorts to physical or mental violence.
While defiantly set in the present of early Seventies Istanbul, MAZI KALBIMDE YARADIR looks back to a mythical past of romance and sentiment, the kind of lasting values that not only bring audiences closer to the action on screen, but evoke worlds that can be easily identified. There is a certain kind of optimism about this film that is particularly endearing, and guaranteed to appeal to Yesilcam's fans; despite all that life might throw at you, if you keep your integrity, then you might be able to find some form of happiness, however transient. This quality makes the film attractive to watch.
The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 2 - FOR HONOR (1960)
Set squarely during the period of the Republic of Turkey's rapid industrialization era of the late Fifties and early Sixties, NAMUS UGRUNA (FOR HONOR'S SAKE) tells the story of a young migrant (Esref Kolcak) trying to make an honest living as a cab-driver touring the city's flesh-pots, but remaining apparently unaffected by their charms. Apparently happily wedded to his loyal spouse (Serpil Gul), he does not take much home in pay, but he is happy with his modest lot, living in a small community on modest means.
Things take a turn for the worse, however, once he becomes involved in complicated plots of love and betrayal involving a good-time girl (Peri Han) and her rich lover (Memduh Un, later a well-known director in his own right. The scenario is set for another high- octane melodrama of passion and desire, with plenty of violence, action and incident - just the kind of brew Yesilcam cinema could provide time and again for its audiences.
What separates Osman F. Seden's black-and-white film from others within the genre is its focus on issues of intense concern at that time. In itself betrayal meant nothing; that was what women were expected to do, if they were not looked after by their spouses. It was a point of honor among all males that they should undertake this task; if they failed, they were subject to ridicule from their close friends in the Kiraathane, or coffee-house, which is precisely what happens here. This is what "honor" denotes in the film.
On the other hand, families were expected to be the bedrock of a stable society, and live comparatively modestly, shunning the fleshly delights of the big city. Director Seden makes much of the contrast between Esref's modest dwelling and the lights of the big city; in one, the citizens look out for one another and try to protect themselves; in the city, the people act hedonistically by eating, drinking, and indulging in casual affairs. The latter course inevitably leads to destruction, both moral as well as social.
Some of the sequences might seem quite violent by today's standards. They certainly are, but we have to invoke that point of honor once more; to find their spouses being unfaithful, or to have their moral character impugned were both major shortcomings to the male psyche, and sometimes the only way they could react was in the most elemental way possible. Yet Seden shows that Esref is not entirely bad - although his life is ruined by the film's end, he still vows faithfulness to his spouse, even while serving a forthcoming prison sentence. In the Yesilcam world humanity is always capable of redemption, if they understand the true values governing their society.
Technically speaking NAMUS UGRUNA is a superb example of how Yesilcam worked subliminally on the audience. The narrative jags from one sequence to another, punctuated by (plagiarized) sequences of western classical standards ranging from Stravinsky's "The Firebird," to Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique," to the Gershwin Brothers' "A Foggy Day." These are inserted quite deliberately for dramatic effect, to heighten emotion and thereby increase identification with the action; what is happening is part of real life, not cinematic fiction.
There is so much incident, action and movement in the film that we are left quite breathless by the end.
Things take a turn for the worse, however, once he becomes involved in complicated plots of love and betrayal involving a good-time girl (Peri Han) and her rich lover (Memduh Un, later a well-known director in his own right. The scenario is set for another high- octane melodrama of passion and desire, with plenty of violence, action and incident - just the kind of brew Yesilcam cinema could provide time and again for its audiences.
What separates Osman F. Seden's black-and-white film from others within the genre is its focus on issues of intense concern at that time. In itself betrayal meant nothing; that was what women were expected to do, if they were not looked after by their spouses. It was a point of honor among all males that they should undertake this task; if they failed, they were subject to ridicule from their close friends in the Kiraathane, or coffee-house, which is precisely what happens here. This is what "honor" denotes in the film.
On the other hand, families were expected to be the bedrock of a stable society, and live comparatively modestly, shunning the fleshly delights of the big city. Director Seden makes much of the contrast between Esref's modest dwelling and the lights of the big city; in one, the citizens look out for one another and try to protect themselves; in the city, the people act hedonistically by eating, drinking, and indulging in casual affairs. The latter course inevitably leads to destruction, both moral as well as social.
Some of the sequences might seem quite violent by today's standards. They certainly are, but we have to invoke that point of honor once more; to find their spouses being unfaithful, or to have their moral character impugned were both major shortcomings to the male psyche, and sometimes the only way they could react was in the most elemental way possible. Yet Seden shows that Esref is not entirely bad - although his life is ruined by the film's end, he still vows faithfulness to his spouse, even while serving a forthcoming prison sentence. In the Yesilcam world humanity is always capable of redemption, if they understand the true values governing their society.
Technically speaking NAMUS UGRUNA is a superb example of how Yesilcam worked subliminally on the audience. The narrative jags from one sequence to another, punctuated by (plagiarized) sequences of western classical standards ranging from Stravinsky's "The Firebird," to Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique," to the Gershwin Brothers' "A Foggy Day." These are inserted quite deliberately for dramatic effect, to heighten emotion and thereby increase identification with the action; what is happening is part of real life, not cinematic fiction.
There is so much incident, action and movement in the film that we are left quite breathless by the end.
The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 1: TWENTY YEARS LATER
Released later on in the illustrious career of Turkish Yesilcam star Ayhan Isik, YIRMI YIL SONRA (TWENTY YEARS LATER) has him returning to his hometown of Istanbul a broken man, his integrity intact to be sure, but lacking a job, pride, and most importantly a stable family life. He endures a series of mental struggles involving his wife, daughter, and several shady business associates; he does his best to ensure a happy future, but is eventually reduced to standing in melancholy fashion on Istanbul's Galata Bridge contemplating a life devoid of prospects.
Osman F. Seden's film contains familiar elements characteristic of the Yesilcam genre - a tight focus on family life both as a source of stability and a site of social pressure; an analysis of gender roles, where Isik feels that he has a responsibility to ensure the future welfare of his family yet lacks the strength to do so; and a focus on frustration, both psychological as well as societal, as he feels that he has somehow failed everyone closest to him as well as himself.
YIRMI YIL SONRA offers a snapshot of the rhythms governing daily life in early Seventies Turkey, where community values still form the backbone of social cohesion, yet are placed under almost intolerable strain by the insidious threat of capitalism, as symbolized by several sequences involving sharp-suited business people in wheeler- dealings, followed by party-scenes in seedy clubs patronized by belly-dancers catering to the mostly male clientele. Such conflicts have been a fact of life for decades now, and have only been sharpened with the advent of more outside investment.
Stylistically speaking the film contains its own conventions, of repeated intercut close-ups followed by abrupt transitions from one location to another. Narrative coherence does not necessarily apply here; what is important is that audiences should see close-ups of their favorite stars, in sequences that rehearse previous movies (there is an overt quotation from one of Isik's earliest successes KANUN NAMINA (1952)) in this film, reminding us of the continuity of his star image.
YIRMI YIL SONRA is a film for fans, who enjoy seeing their favorite actors play the same role, but it also appeals to the subliminal desire for repetition as a form of social stability, giving people the familiar feeling of security in changing times. Through such strategies director Seden encourages a feeling of community that actively contradicts the film's basic plot.
Osman F. Seden's film contains familiar elements characteristic of the Yesilcam genre - a tight focus on family life both as a source of stability and a site of social pressure; an analysis of gender roles, where Isik feels that he has a responsibility to ensure the future welfare of his family yet lacks the strength to do so; and a focus on frustration, both psychological as well as societal, as he feels that he has somehow failed everyone closest to him as well as himself.
YIRMI YIL SONRA offers a snapshot of the rhythms governing daily life in early Seventies Turkey, where community values still form the backbone of social cohesion, yet are placed under almost intolerable strain by the insidious threat of capitalism, as symbolized by several sequences involving sharp-suited business people in wheeler- dealings, followed by party-scenes in seedy clubs patronized by belly-dancers catering to the mostly male clientele. Such conflicts have been a fact of life for decades now, and have only been sharpened with the advent of more outside investment.
Stylistically speaking the film contains its own conventions, of repeated intercut close-ups followed by abrupt transitions from one location to another. Narrative coherence does not necessarily apply here; what is important is that audiences should see close-ups of their favorite stars, in sequences that rehearse previous movies (there is an overt quotation from one of Isik's earliest successes KANUN NAMINA (1952)) in this film, reminding us of the continuity of his star image.
YIRMI YIL SONRA is a film for fans, who enjoy seeing their favorite actors play the same role, but it also appeals to the subliminal desire for repetition as a form of social stability, giving people the familiar feeling of security in changing times. Through such strategies director Seden encourages a feeling of community that actively contradicts the film's basic plot.
Friday, September 9, 2016
The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, adapted by Tony Marchant, BBC One, 17-31 July 2016
As with most adaptations, a comparison with Joseph Conrad's source- text might prove insignificant: suffice to say that Tony Marchant's screenplay bears as much relationship to the novel as Charles Bennett's version for Alfred Hitchcock's SABOTAGE (1936). The plot and characters are there, but Charles McDougall's BBC production is best approached on its own terms.
From the beginning we are plunged into the familiar world of BBC Victorian London - a miasma of darkened streets, thick mud and rickety buildings illuminated with blue-gray light. The interior of Verloc'; (Toby Jones's) seedy Soho shop is illuminated by dim yellow lights that suggest that the wares on offer are not the true reason for the shop's existence. And so it proves: Verloc is a double- agent working both for the Russians and the British, as well as presiding over meetings of an anarchist group attended by the Professor (Ian Hart) and Yundt (Christopher Fairbank), among others.
Director McDougall contrasts this nether-world with the stylish bourgeois world of the embassies, where the Russian consul Vladimir (David Dawson) sits behind a desk in a bejeweled room, the very epitome of surface respectability. Through such contrasts the production makes a pointed criticism of so-called "Victorian Values," where lower- and lower-middle class tradespeople like Verloc are employed to do the upper class's dirty work for them, and cannot really resist for fear of being socially exposed.
Yet things take a much darker turn after the second episode when Verloc's plan to blow up the Royal Observatory at Greenwich goes horribly wrong, and his brother-in-law Stevie (Charlie Hamblett), an innocent young man with learning difficulties, is killed instead. We are made painfully aware of the true consequences of terrorism; it is not the perpetrators who suffer but civilians instead. Verloc tries his utmost to exonerate himself; but with metaphorical blood on his hands, he just seems like a coward unwilling (or unable) to take responsibility for his actions. He meets a violent end which seems somehow right in terms of the story's logic.
But the story has not finished yet: although the Greenwich bombing causes something of a stir in the press, as well as in Parliament, the Establishment manages to close ranks, with no one really being brought to justice for the crime. Assistant Commissioner Stone (Tom Goodman-Hill) preserves his reputation, enabling him to attend the best society parties, while Vladimir continues in his role as a Russian diplomat engaging in subversive activity. Verloc's death causes no more than a ripple of disquiet among these people; he might be gone, but there is always another double agent ready and willing to take his place, who might be equally dispensable in the future.
In the end we feel little else but a sense of frustration at an amoral world where former prisoners such as Michaelis (Tom Vaughan- Lawlor) are automatically suspected of committing further crimes, even though they have never been near the actual scene where the felony took place; and the ruling classes seem to continue the endless whirl of parties, balls, and other gatherings with little or no thought for others' suffering.
This is an angry production, one which castigates everyone with even a tenuous connection to state-sponsored terrorism for the crime of indifference, while suggesting that there is little or no solution to this problem. The cast are uniformly excellent, especially Hamblett as Stevie and Vicky McClure as Verloc's unfortunate spouse.
From the beginning we are plunged into the familiar world of BBC Victorian London - a miasma of darkened streets, thick mud and rickety buildings illuminated with blue-gray light. The interior of Verloc'; (Toby Jones's) seedy Soho shop is illuminated by dim yellow lights that suggest that the wares on offer are not the true reason for the shop's existence. And so it proves: Verloc is a double- agent working both for the Russians and the British, as well as presiding over meetings of an anarchist group attended by the Professor (Ian Hart) and Yundt (Christopher Fairbank), among others.
Director McDougall contrasts this nether-world with the stylish bourgeois world of the embassies, where the Russian consul Vladimir (David Dawson) sits behind a desk in a bejeweled room, the very epitome of surface respectability. Through such contrasts the production makes a pointed criticism of so-called "Victorian Values," where lower- and lower-middle class tradespeople like Verloc are employed to do the upper class's dirty work for them, and cannot really resist for fear of being socially exposed.
Yet things take a much darker turn after the second episode when Verloc's plan to blow up the Royal Observatory at Greenwich goes horribly wrong, and his brother-in-law Stevie (Charlie Hamblett), an innocent young man with learning difficulties, is killed instead. We are made painfully aware of the true consequences of terrorism; it is not the perpetrators who suffer but civilians instead. Verloc tries his utmost to exonerate himself; but with metaphorical blood on his hands, he just seems like a coward unwilling (or unable) to take responsibility for his actions. He meets a violent end which seems somehow right in terms of the story's logic.
But the story has not finished yet: although the Greenwich bombing causes something of a stir in the press, as well as in Parliament, the Establishment manages to close ranks, with no one really being brought to justice for the crime. Assistant Commissioner Stone (Tom Goodman-Hill) preserves his reputation, enabling him to attend the best society parties, while Vladimir continues in his role as a Russian diplomat engaging in subversive activity. Verloc's death causes no more than a ripple of disquiet among these people; he might be gone, but there is always another double agent ready and willing to take his place, who might be equally dispensable in the future.
In the end we feel little else but a sense of frustration at an amoral world where former prisoners such as Michaelis (Tom Vaughan- Lawlor) are automatically suspected of committing further crimes, even though they have never been near the actual scene where the felony took place; and the ruling classes seem to continue the endless whirl of parties, balls, and other gatherings with little or no thought for others' suffering.
This is an angry production, one which castigates everyone with even a tenuous connection to state-sponsored terrorism for the crime of indifference, while suggesting that there is little or no solution to this problem. The cast are uniformly excellent, especially Hamblett as Stevie and Vicky McClure as Verloc's unfortunate spouse.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Life in Squares - the Lives of the Bloomsbury Group (BBC Two, 2015)
Remarkable Insight into the Life of an Epoch-Making Group of Artists
Although I did not expect it, I found LIFE IN SQUARES to be a remarkable piece of television drama, offering insights into the lives of the Bloomsbury Group that I had never previously thought of.
The title is a clever one, suggesting the bourgeois existence of the Stephen sisters Virginia and Vanessa (played by Lydia Leonard, Eve Best, Phoebe Fox, and Catherine McCormack across the three-episode structure) where they grew up in luxury, but also denoting imprisonment, both mental and emotional. David Roger's production designs, with elegant rooms heavily over-stuffed with curios of all historical periods, restrict the actors' freedom of movement; they are forced to move round chairs, or negotiate too many ornaments. When the Bloomsbury Group meet for their regular soirées, they do so in small, confined rooms, with little room to breathe.
This kind of goldfish-bowl lifestyle inevitably has a significant effect on the Group's life-choices. While dedicating themselves to ideals of artistic purity that transcend the mundane concerns of early twentieth century Britain, we wonder whether that represents nothing more than a form of futile release from conformity. This is especially summed up in Vanessa Bell's checkered career; a talented artist in her own right, she becomes so much subject to her husband Clive's (Sam Hoare/ Andrew Havill's) bidding that she ends up losing her artistic will. She embarks on a long-term relationship with Duncan Grant (James Norton/ Rupert Penry-Jones), but finds little emotional satisfaction there - despite his undying devotion to her, he remains a professed homosexual.
Virginia experiences equal pains. We know from the start that she is mentally fragile, but it seems that her sister's overbearing nature, coupled with the prevailing ideology that all wives should have children at that time, pushes her into marriage with Leonard Woolf (Al Weaver. Guy Henry), Although the two enjoy a tranquil and often fulfilling life, it is not what Virginia wants. She tries to find solace in her writing, but even that is not enough to prevent her from committing suicide at the outbreak of World War II. From this drama, we get the sense of terrible sorrow that such an innovator should have felt so hemmed in by social and mental pressures that she should take her own life.
The sisters' existence does not change, even when they sacrifice London for the country, and Vanessa's family moves into Charleston, an idealized retreat still open to general visitors. Life there becomes even more claustrophobic, especially when Duncan's boyfriend David Garnett (aka Bunny) (Ben Lloyd-Hughes/ Jack Davenport) moves in. Vanessa is often forced into the role of unwilling peacemaker; at length she ends up doing something that she felt she must do, but ends up causing her lasting mental pain and suffering.
What makes LIFE IN SQUARES such a game-changing piece is that its sympathy extends to male and female characters alike. Would-be critics like Roger Fry (Elliott Cowan) are trying to make their way in the world as they pronounce on the effect of Modernism on the post-1918 universe, but they appear to lack the conviction to do so. This is chiefly due to their environment; the hothouse world of London (and provincial) society is so insulated from from worldly affairs that it ends up feeding on itself.
Brilliantly directed by Simon Kaijser from a script by Amanda Coe, LIFE IN SQUARES offers important material for reflection on the power as well as the limitations of the imagination, and how we must remain mindful of ourselves and our well-being rather than subjecting ourselves to the often restrictive dictates of prevailing socio-economic convention.
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