“A Matter Of Life & Death” (1946)
Speaking of magic: “A Matter Of Life and Death.” Initially dreamed up, like “A Canterbury Tale,” after the Ministry of Information asked Powell & Pressburger to think of a film to improve Anglo-American relations, but only shot after the end of the war, “A Matter Of Life And Death” (titled “Stairway To Heaven” in the U.S.) marks the culmination of the filmmakers’ career up to this point, blending the genre-hopping of “A Canterbury Tale,” the romance of “‘I Know Where I’m Going!’“, and the sense of cinematic magic that they’d been developing across the previous seven years. It’s also arguably their greatest achievement (and, by the by, one of this writer’s all-time favorites). After a cosmic prologue, we pick up in glorious Technicolor (the filmmakers’ first work as such; they held up filming by nine months to wait for the equipment), as British Squadron Leader Peter Carter (David Niven) is shot down over the Channel. He manages to talk with, and fall for, an American radio operator (Kim Hunter), before jumping out without a parachute. But Conductor 71, the guide meant to escort Peter to the afterlife — the Other World — got lost in the heavy fog, the first mistake in a thousand years, and Peter survives, tracking down June, and the pair falling in love. He’s not meant to be alive though, and Conductor 71 asks him to accept his death, but Peter is granted an appeal, where he has to argue his case for survival, against an American prosecutor killed in the Revolutionary War. The film might be a touch heavy-handed in its Anglo-American parallels, but that’s just about the only flaw we can find in Powell & Pressburger’s magnificent, moving, swooningly romantic, fiercely original fantasy. It’s a profound film, full to the brim with ideas about death and love and God and nationalities (it anticipates the end of Empire in a way that perhaps it wouldn’t had it been made a few months earlier) and what we’re put on earth for. But it’s also never anything less than wildly entertaining, and thrillingly cinematic, thanks to Pressburger’s witty, imaginative script, glorious lensing from Jack Cardiff, and stunning production design. If you’ve never seen a Powell & Pressburger film, this is the one to start with; we can’t see how you’d fail to fall in love. [A+]
“Black Narcissus” (1947)
The pair’s first adaptation (it’s based on a 1939 novel by Rumer Godden), “Black Narcissus” marks a serious shift for the pair. The war doesn’t figure in anywhere, for the first time, and it’s set thousands of miles away, in the mountains of the Himalayas. But perhaps more importantly, it’s very different tonally speaking; dark, murderous and highly sensual, with a cloying, thwarted eroticism pervading the film like a heavy perfume. A group of nuns are sent to an isolated spot in the Himalayas to “civilize” the local population, but instead an atmosphere of suppressed hysteria, arousal and jealousy brews until one of them goes full-on bonkers through sexual deprivation and envy, thanks to the presence of British agent Mr. Dean (David Farrar). The photography, put in service of this lurid agenda, is unforgettable — fat raindrops falling on indecently lush vegetation, Sister Ruth lasciviously applying crimson lipstick, virginal white habits billowing from room to room, painted backdrops of mountains, peach skies and cliffs that fall away to clouds beneath — every frame is a masterpiece of deliberate, controlled artistry. Here you’ll find tones and textures that, outside of Daphne du Maurier’s fever dreams, you won’t get anywhere else; watch a Sirkian melodrama on a cocktail of LSD, PCP and Hormone Replacement Therapy, and you might get close. This is the first true example of Powell’s idea of a “composed film,” one that comes closer to a piece of music than a more traditional narrative, and it marks their most experimental work up to this point in their careers. The subplot involving the romance between an Indian aristocrat (Sabu) who falls for a lower caste girl (Jean Simmons) is less compelling, not least because of the now eyebrow-raising decision to put Simmons and Esmond Knight in brownface to play Indian roles. But that aside, it’s a gripping and spectacular piece of work, and from Martin Scorsese to Wes Anderson‘s “The Darjeeling Limited” to the recent release of “Beyond The Hills,” it’s one of the duo’s most directly influential works. [A]
“The Red Shoes” (1948)
When asked, “Why do you want to dance?” the heroine of “The Red Shoes” responds, “Why do you want to live?,” a motto that rings true to any artist, and that, one suspects, reflects Powell & Pressburger’s attitude toward filmmaking. Bringing together Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale of the same name and real events (the meeting of ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev and ballerina Diana Gould), the film sees Vicky Page (Moira Shearer in her film debut) become a prima ballerina through an auspicious encounter with Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook), while falling in love with company’s young composer (Marius Goring). Vicky is forced choose between love and art with bloody and heartbreaking results. With “The Red Shoes,” the filmmakers delivered a Technicolor knockout (aided thanks to legendary cinematographer Jack Cardiff), with a magnificently dreamy ballet sequence (“The Ballet of the Red Shoes”) and visuals that are staggeringly impressive to this day. Unfortunately, the austere post-war British public was not ready for the masterpiece and the film found little initial success at home. In a lucky turn of events, the film’s limited release in New York was an astonishing one (110 weeks at the Bijou Theater) and Universal Studios gave the film wide distribution in 1951. “The Red Shoes” has gone on to be one of the highest grossing British films of all time, ranks ninth in the current BFI Top 100, and is considered one of the most beloved Powell & Pressburger films. And rightly so. [A]
“The Small Back Room” (1949)
Having fallen out with production company Rank on “The Red Shoes,” Powell & Pressburger went back into the embrace of Alexander Korda, where they’d started their collaboration, for “The Small Back Room,” a dark drama a world away from the bright, romantic optimism of their work at the end of the war. Based on a novel by Nigel Balchin, it’s a sort of WWII precursor to “The Hurt Locker,” focusing on Sammy Rice (David Farrar), a bomb disposal expert with a grudge against the world, a tin foot and a burgeoning drinking problem, who’s brought in by Captain Stuart (Michael Gough) to help work on disarming a new, deadly type of German bomb. The film was later somewhat disowned by Powell, who lamented in his autobiography that Farrar’s performance, and the film in general, were too dour and grim, but he was too harsh on himself; while it’s among the darkest of their films, it’s powerful both in its unromanticized depiction of a war that had only ended a few years ago, and in its portrait of alcoholism, indebted to, but quite distinct from Billy Wilder‘s “The Lost Weekend.” Perhaps another actor would have lent more texture to the part than Farrar, but he’s still a strong lead, and matched by excellent support by Gough and Kathleen Byron as Sammy’s girl Susan. It might be something of a curio in the Powell & Pressburger canon, but it’s well worth seeking out if you’ve missed it until now. [A-]
