Many Rooms Occupied by Different Concepts

Sometimes life is a string of chaotic perversity with little sense of direction or purpose. 1984's The Hotel New Hampshire is one of several Tony Richardson movies that give this impression. But while his British New Wave movies, for all their idiosyncrasies, felt like they had real insight into normal life for young people in Britain in the '50s and '60s, The Hotel New Hampshire feels altogether surreal and disconnected from reality. Not in a bad way, though it does seem less remarkable than A Taste of Honey or The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.

Beau Bridges plays a hotel owner and father of the large family that staffs it, including incestuous siblings Rob Lowe and Jodie Foster.

There are a lot of big names in this movie. Wallace Shawn invites them to leave their American hotel to run one in Germany where they meet Nastassja Kinski who always wears a bear costume because she's uncomfortable facing her humanity. However, in Germany they also meet Matthew Modine, a Communist revolutionary who happens to look exactly like the boy who instigated a gang rape of Foster's character, and is just as despicable. But she's attracted to both of them anyway.

The family has a dog named Sorrow who constantly farts. His name is used in dialogue throughout the film to give double meaning to lines; after she's raped, Foster's character says she wants to sleep with Sorrow. She doesn't know yet that her younger brother, played by Seth Green in his first role, has had the euthanised Sorrow stuffed. Which symbolises . . . I sure don't know what.

The movie moves along quickly and mostly the family is shown laughing and bickering through tragedy and good fortune and various bizarre incidents. Overall, I was struck by a kind of tenacious flippancy. I guess that's one way to get through life.

The Hotel New Hampshire is available on Amazon Prime.

What to Do with Jones

What's a bastard to do when cast out upon the world? If it's the title character of 1963's Tom Jones, mostly life is going to involve buxom women and brawling. A mostly faithful adaptation of Henry Fielding's 1749 novel, director Tony Richardson imports some of the energy and postmodernism of the contemporaneous New Wave "kitchen sink" films in Britain to create a new kind of period comedy--its fresh and naturalistic energy enabling it to succeed more in spite of than because of its fourth-wall breaking moments. A lot of credit is due to the incredible cast, particularly Albert Finney in the title role.

The young man who'd credibly evoked working class fury in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is just as credible here as a fun-loving, devil-may-care gentleman who takes his succession of troubles a little more in stride than the character in Fielding's novel but most of the same plot points remain in tact: A country squire called Allworthy (George Devine) finds an infant in his bed one evening, apparently the cast off of one of the servants, and decides to raise the boy as his own. Tom Jones grows into an amiable young man who likes to sport with Molly (Diane Cilento), the daughter of a neighbour's servant (Wilfrid Lawson). A subtle rivalry develops between Jones and Allworthy's legitimate nephew, Blifil, played by David Warner in his first of a very long line of villainous roles.

I say subtle because it's primarily all on Blifil's side--Tom hardly seems to notice his cousin's ire, especially after Tom meets the lovely Sophie (Susannah York). Eventually, Blifil's machinations lead to misunderstandings and Allworthy feels compelled to banish the foundling lad, and so begins a series of comedic adventures for Tom. At this point the film elides much of what occurs in the novel and there's less of a sense of Tom's desperation, particularly after he loses the small amount of money Allworthy had given him:

The world, as Milton phrases it, lay all before him; and Jones, no more than Adam, had any man to whom he might resort for comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance were the acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and he had no reason to expect any countenance from them, as that gentleman had withdrawn his favour from him. Men of great and good characters should indeed be very cautious how they discard their dependents; for the consequence to the unhappy sufferer is being discarded by all others.

One of the most brilliant aspects of the book is how it uses its ingenious plot (one of the best ever contrived, according to Samuel Taylor Coleridge) to show how integral reputation is to a young person's success. I find this a refreshingly common aspect of 18th century writing as it seems as true to-day as it was then but nowadays writers seem more reluctant to discuss the issue. Possibly because writing any story about the importance of influential acquaintance to the advancement of a career might inevitably reflect on such actual acquaintances of the writer.

The idea of Tom being base born is important in the movie as it is in the book, as is the remarkable flexibility in specimens of the upperclass in countenancing society with bastards depending on the bastard's wealth and position. But more focus is placed on the liveliness of Tom's adventures, emphasised by rapid cuts, camera movements, and manic close-ups. The middle section of the novel contains a lovely tour of country inns evocative of Falstaff's Boar's Head but with an illuminating focus on how, even without money, Tom can get by for having the appearance of a gentleman. Fielding also gives a good sense of how reputation is communicated and influential in country public houses, particularly through the indiscreet gossiping of Tom's servant, Partridge.

Here's a character who I wish had a much bigger role in the film, particularly as he's played by Jack MacGowran whose deadpan, easy going delivery perfectly suits the character. This is one of those master/servant relationships I was talking about a couple days ago, a particularly potent example of how it was hardwired into cultural behaviour since Partridge becomes Tom's servant when Tom is penniless, though Partridge doesn't take up with Jones for form's sake alone. Partridge also has a history with Allworthy.

In fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the relation he had heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to himself that Mr Allworthy should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed him to be) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned. He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that Jones, of whom he had often from his correspondents heard the wildest character, had in reality run away from his father. It came into his head, therefore, that if he could prevail with the young gentleman to return back to his father, he should by that means render a service to Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former anger; nay, indeed, he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that Allworthy had sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this suspicion indeed he well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that excellent man to the foundling child; from his great severity to Partridge, who, knowing himself to be innocent, could not conceive that any other should think him guilty; lastly, from the allowance which he had privately received long after the annuity had been publickly taken from him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or rather by way of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I believe, for men to ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when they can possibly impute them to any other motive.

But a real affection does develop between Partridge and Jones. You see only a little of it in the movie but Finney and MacGowran have some nice chemistry.

Another thing I was sorry to see diminished in the film is the role of Tom and Blifil's tutors, Thwackum (Peter Bull) and Square (John Moffatt), though, in the interest of keeping the film at around two hours, this is a reasonable thing to trim. Thwackum and Square represent two philosophical forces prevalent in the 18th century, with Thwackum representing tough, Protestant discipline and Square representing new, Atheistic philosophy. Fielding uses the two characters to parody both positions in rendering the two as being almost equally hypocritical and lacking in insight, their arguments often amounting to semantic disagreements entirely useless to Tom's upbringing.

But though [Square] had, as we have said, formed his morals on the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great way; indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the least attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character.

This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary, maintained that the human mind, since the fall, was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their discourses on morality never to mention the word goodness. The favourite phrase of the former, was the natural beauty of virtue; that of the latter, was the divine power of grace. The former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters by authority; but in doing this, he always used the scriptures and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the comment is of equal authority with the text.

Although Square is the butt of many jokes in the book, I sense, if Fielding had to choose, he'd probably be more on Square's side than Thwackum's. Interestingly, Thwackum is far more developed in the film than Square who comes off as just a quieter version of Thwackum. A few moments of Thwackum shouting about the supremacy of the Church of England establish him in the film as a ridiculous blowhard, and it's not hard to guess where Richardson's opinion lay.

One of the more essential aspects of the book absent from the film is Sophia's struggle to reconcile her love for Jones with the fact that he's constantly sleeping with other women. Sophia in the film is certainly jealous when she learns Jones has been sleeping with Molly and later with Mrs. Waters (Joyce Redman), a woman Jones rescues on the road from a villainous soldier played by Julian Glover (in his first role).

The scene of Sophia leaving the Upton inn upon learning Jones was in bed with Waters omits Jones learning of her discovery and bitterly lamenting it. Also omitted is a curious dialogue between Sophia's travelling companion, Mrs. Fitzpatrick (Rosaline Knight), and herself in which Fitzpatrick talks about loving her husband in spite of the dalliances she knew about. Surprisingly, the film version also changes a moment where Sophia's prejudice regarding the Irish is challenged.

Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity you from my soul!——But what could you expect? Why, why, would you marry an Irishman?”

“Upon my word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is unjust. There are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any among the English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me, rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”

In the film version, Mrs. Fitzpatrick simply exclaims that she should never have married an Irishman. So much for 1960s progressivism. The film also lacks a remarkable observation by Square that Muslims and Jews are just as capable of honourable behaviour as Christians.

Finney is certainly terrific in the role of Jones, notwithstanding a few moments where he looks directly in the camera, and the lively energy Richardson infuses into the film is always engaging. Tom Jones is available on The Criterion Channel.

Twitter Sonnet #1271

A candy shell conducts a choc'late pill.
Compartments flood with flavour crystal blades.
Confection corps ascend the sugar hill.
Platoons of pastries clog the cakey glades.
Evolving raisins drained the seedless grapes.
Contained bananas branched to yellow limbs.
As all the meals were stored on dinner tapes.
As baking worlds involve the furthest rims.
In Skittles bags the weather flukes await.
A timely pudding burbled up a hand.
I mean, a minute hand or hour mate.
As gears and cogs descend in sugar sand.
A can of choc'late flew in kitchen gloom.
A spiral chip design enhanced the room.

Thin Walls and Torment in Denmark

There is an interior, psychological quality to Hamlet that often inspires minimalist productions such as Tony Richardson's 1969 film adaptation. Like Laurence Olivier's adaptation, Richardson's features darkly lit backgrounds and minimalist sets, though Richardson employs more detailed period decor and some really pretty, effectively used tapestries. But a sense of minimalism is emphasised by the incredible number of close-up shots on actors' faces; it feels like the whole movie is close-ups. It is sometimes dizzying but the performances by Nicol Williamson, Anthony Hopkins, Roger Livesey, and Marianne Faithfull happily justify the visual scrutiny.

Actually Marianne Faithfull isn't a terribly good Ophelia--I found myself wondering if her eyebrows were paralysed. They never, ever move. But she's really sexy; for some reason she delivers all her lines like a seductress, even in her final scene when she's becoming unglued. The Wikipedia entry says Richardson focuses on the sexual aspects of the play, "to the point of strongly implying an incestuous relationship between Laertes and Ophelia," an impression I didn't get at all but Richardson does introduce Ophelia in her scene with Laertes with a wonderfully sexual low angle shot of her reclining while he leans over her.

But one of the things I really liked about this version is that the bedroom scene between Hamlet (Williamson) and Gertrude doesn't come across as sexual at all despite the fact that the actress who plays Gertrude, Judy Parfitt, was only two years older than Williamson. The idea that Hamlet wants to have sex with his mother is about as tediously commonplace as productions of Shakespeare where everyone dresses as Nazis. I really liked Williamson in this scene; he becomes plaintive and childlike and you get the sense of how much his pain is informed by the loss of his family not only through the death of his father but through treachery of his mother.

It's hard to say if I would appreciate Nicol Williamson quite so much if I hadn't grown up watching him over and over again in Excalibur but I love all his peculiar intonations and surprising emotional shifts. Anthony Hopkins was an interesting choice for Claudius--he was a year younger than Williamson but already capable of an excellently naturalistic delivery. I especially loved how he delivered the line telling Gertrude not to drink from the cup at the end--he says it just as he's turning from looking at something else and spots her putting the cup to her lips. So you hear the surprise in his voice that prompts him to show his hand abruptly but there's enough cunning in it, Hopkins' tone drawing back, that it doesn't come to more than the ambiguous, "Gertrude, do not drink," Richardson omitting the aside, "It is the poison'd cup: it is too late."

I was very pleasantly surprised to see Roger Livesey in two roles as the lead player and the grave digger. Like Charleton Heston in the Kenneth Branagh film, it seems like there's a tradition of casting the lead player with an established star from a previous generation and Livesey's refined bombast made him perfect. And it was just cool seeing Merlin doing a scene with Clive Candy from The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. This version of Hamlet is available on Amazon Prime, a really nice HD edition.

Close Shadows and Inmates

Is it selfish to be angry all the time? What if anger is the only sensible response to a ridiculous and dying world? 1959's Look Back in Anger, based on John Osborne's play, doesn't spend much time explicitly talking about the past but one scene where one of the story's more mild mannered characters vaguely observes "Something's gone wrong somewhere, hasn't it?" seems to point to a fundamental decline in the state of things. I couldn't help thinking of the origin story put forth in episode eight of the new Twin Peaks--like the Beats in the U.S., a culture that seems very much to've influenced the world depicted in Look Back in Anger, there's a sense of something having gone wrong with the fundamental fabric of human society for which everyone is paying a price on a deeply personal level. The film resolves a little too cleanly for my taste, something that later "Angry Young Man" films seem to improve upon, and some of the supporting characters could've used more fleshing out, but this beautifully photographed film centres on one fascinating character played by Richard Burton.

Burton plays Jimmy, a young man who earns a meagre living from a market stall despite being a university graduate. His two flatmates are his wife, Alison (Mary Ure), and a young Welshman named Clff (Gary Raymond). Later, Alison's friend, Helena (Clarie Bloom), joins them and in one conversation between Helena and Cliff, I got the sense of the two being governors of opposing political philosophy of the state populated by Jimmy and Alison. Cliff tells Helena how hard he's worked to keep Alison and Jimmy together and Helena doesn't understand why.

Jimmy is constantly in a rage. He channels it into his trumpet playing in a local club--his admiration for the great jazz musicians of the day, seen in posters for Ella Fitzgerald and Oscar Peterson that decorate the walls of the flat, seems another page taken from the Beats. He also takes out his anger by deliberately insulting his wife and friends; in his calling Alison a "cow" constantly he displays a casual misogyny designed more to hurt people around him than to sell them on any heartfelt philosophy. He hates Helena even more, his insults suggesting he sees her as morally smug though we never learn very much about her. Presumably he feels that way about her because she's been trying to get Alison to leave him.

Jimmy also sublimates his anger into fighting for an Indian immigrant named Kapoor (S.P. Kapoor) who works in the same market. He constantly receives unfair treatment from the market inspector played by a young Donald Pleasence. Kapoor provides an clear external manifestation of the corruption of reality Jimmy perceives at all times.

There's also the influence of young misfit American films at work like The Wild One and Rebel Without a Cause and Richard Burton shows a Shakespearean actor can give the method actors a run for their money. Even when he and Cliff are messing around with a double act they've rehearsed for their own amusement one senses the constant undercurrent of resentment in Jimmy. He always seems to be picking at the people around him, as though desperate to find they, too, have the anger beneath their complacent masks.

Alison and Jimmy aren't always fighting and when they make up they tend to do a strange role play where he pretends to be a bear and she a squirrel, seemingly a reference to Ibsen's A Doll's House. Since this seems the only time the two are comfortable with each other and their relationship, one wonders if Osborne is making a point about what was lost when this game was cast aside in A Doll's House.

In the Wikipedia entry for the song, there's an uncited note that says David Bowie's "Look Back in Anger" has nothing to do with Osborne's play. If that's true, then all the resonance the lyrics have with the story must be an extraordinary coincidence. Certainly I hate Oasis' "Don't Look Back in Anger" even more now. The Bowie song has something in the fury that builds in a constant state of forced stasis and gradual decay that certainly seems to be part of the film.

Twitter Sonnet #1114

The minute hand banana peeled the watch.
A time appointed classic brass to tack.
An idle sprint suspends at needed Scotch.
Direction eased for wind and falling slack.
Spaghetti arms can hold a saucy kid.
Appointed pasta kneels before the pot.
A boiled face emerged beneath the lid.
A mind assembled dinner serves a lot.
The empty picture frame remembers glass.
A station stopped beside a moving train.
The faces of the ticket slowly pass.
An anger came to market all in vain.
A retrospective soured well and bad.
A rainy time and long the lodgers had.

Alone and Running

Emotional and physical abuse in the home combine with stifling class conditions. This makes for a thoroughly dissatisfying existence for a young man in 1962's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. Director Tony Richardson and writer Alan Stillitoe take the isolation and long term commitment of the athlete referenced in the title to make an occasionally too broad but mostly effective portrait of a misfit working class youth in early 60s Britain.

Tom Courtenay stars as Colin Smith, constantly smouldering, dealing with a mother (Avis Bunnage), constantly raging, and a recently deceased father. Most of his home life is shown in flashbacks between scenes of Smith in a juvenile detention centre where he's become a favourite of the governor (Michael Redgrave). The governor hopes Smith will bring glory to the reformatory by defeating boys from a boarding school in a foot race.

The attitude of the film is far from ambiguous thanks to an almost relentless ironic use of "Jerusalem" in the score. It's one of several elements, which also include a barrage of montages of shallow government officials and store windows crammed with enticing merchandise, that squarely put the viewer in Smith's perspective. It's not hard to see why he seems to want to rebel against the whole world.

In fact, the message of the film is so unified as to be a bit tiring. I live in a U.S. with a massive homeless problem right now, making it a little hard to sympathise with the problems inherent in a welfare state, so the more nuanced argument in a film like Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is a little more effective for me. But Courtenay gives a nicely charged performance and his character ultimately presents another effective example of disaffected 50s and 60s youth. Another rebel without a cause, the vulnerability of youth is effectively combined with the thin messaging of authorities and parents to portray the frailty and volatility of Smith's life.