If you are yet to enter the competition at Flickering Myth to win a copy of Ealing Studios production The Halfway House on Digital Versatile Disc, I do suggest that you hurry up and get a move on. This is a film worth seeing for three very good reasons. Pay attention ladies and gentlemen and I shall outline them for you.
Firstly The Halfway House is a fragment of history, a slice of our country’s past, and an especially engaging and vivid one too. For those of you enjoying the developments in three dimensional cinematic viewing or perhaps partial to the high definition of your colour television sets, it might be rather off putting that this is a film presented in mere black and white. I readily admit that I am not an avid viewer of black and white pictures myself.
I can assure you though that the lack of variation in colour is more than made up for by numerous other qualities. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that it added to the charm of the film. In any case, this is top notch black and white, because The Halfway House has been digitally restored to a wonderful standard, so that it is, to all intents and purposes, as good as a modern day release.
This film was originally released in 1944 and judging by references to the date during the plot, filmed in 1943. It is therefore significantly influenced by the context of the ongoing Second World War in Europe. A number of the characters have lost friends, colleagues and relatives during the conflict. Others are affected in other ways.
The Halfway House is somewhat inaccurately and crudely labelled as a horror but in reality it is an interesting infusion of ghost story, fable and propaganda. The propaganda element is particularly fascinating and marks the film out as a genuine historical artefact. It is not overdone to affect the level of satisfaction for a modern audience, but certainly during the conclusion an Irishman’s change of allegiance from neutrality to supporting the Allies is noticeably underlined.
The second principal reason you should see The Halfway House is the impressive and rounded characterisation, forming part of a touching and timeless narrative. Whilst the historical background to the plot is crucial to setting it apart from modern releases, the quality and nature of the storytelling is also no longer replicated by studios today.
The first half of the film introduces a wide range of characters across Britain (showcasing unusual scope and variety of outdoor locations for Ealing Studios), each with their own problems, from terminal illness to divorce and criminality. The second half then brings all of these characters together at The Halfway House, a Welsh inn that may or may not have been destroyed by fire. The kindly and wise owners of the inn, who speak almost poetically at points, help the guests to help each other. Gradually they all gain perspective on their issues and worries by taking time out from the everyday grind. Such an intricately woven moral is still just as relevant today.
The Halfway House is superbly acted, even by modern day standards. It has a marvellous script that seems to transfer something from the original play by Denis Ogden. Primarily that something is dialogue which allows characters to breathe and grow convincingly, as they would on stage. Somehow The Halfway House is full of excellently fleshed out characters, despite the ensemble cast.
The third key reason for seeing The Halfway House is that it is tremendously amusing. Part of that humour arises inadvertently from the old fashioned and outdated formal register of the dialogue, which I have tried unsuccessfully to mirror regularly throughout this review. In certain situations the tone and accent of 1940s British speech, along with that persistent formality, is unavoidably hilarious.
However most of the comedic moments are intentional, with a mixture of fabulous and average one liners on show, alongside character humour enabled by their believability. One moment in the opening segment, in which we meet a dodgy dealing crook, is amusing due to role reversal; our criminal dismisses an employee for NOT having a criminal record and lying about it. This is also an example of one of many moments where the war has turned things upside down.
As if those three major reasons alone weren’t enough to at least have a go at the competition, there are also too many minor points of interest to mention. Director Basil Dearden has been underrated for years, only to be steadily recognised more and more recently as a groundbreaking filmmaker, with films like Victim starring Dirk Bogarde challenging taboos long before that was easy to get away with and just an arty saying. His direction here is simple for the most part, with the exception of one smartly edited action sequence which could fit into a modern film, but effective and professional. It’s remarkable enough they were making films as entertaining as this with the war raging on.
Good luck in the competition! But basically make sure you see The Halfway House when it’s released on the 20th of June. It’s an unseen and unappreciated classic of British cinema.
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Tagged 1944, 1961, accent, acting, adaptation, amusing, apparition, archive, Basil, BFI, blitz, Bogarde, bomb, British, cast, cinema, convincing, Daily, Dearden, Denis, Derek, Dirk, DVD, Ealing, ensemble, fable, film, Flesh, formal, funny, gay, ghost, grind, Halfway, High, hilarious, history, horror, house, inn, irish, kindly, landlord, locations, London, moral, neutral, Ogden, Ogid, outdoor, perspective, play, propaganda, raid, register, Review, script, slice, story, studios, taboo, The, thoughts, time out, underrated, victim, war, welsh
Ok so I’ve started writing this with just minutes to go until the dawn of day 3, and things are yet to get into full swing. In fact they’ve barely begun. I’ve entitled this post “Day 2” but Day 1 was non-existent in terms of reading. Day 2 has been little better.
I’m hoping that at some unknown juncture there will come a turning point. Something will simply click and I shall start to bulldozer my objectives in an all out, joyous and unstoppable blitz. In the past I’ve tended to tackle projects with this rather unsustainable method; gradually formulate ideas and then unleash them in a single brief frenzy. There is of course the possibility of very total and publicised failure.
I’m determined to succeed and for once see something through to the end productively. Today in one of the few moments I did dedicate to the challenge, I grouped stacks of books I aimed to devour this month into one daunting pile. It was off-putting and the task seemed insurmountable, but it gave me something to focus on. The opening days of the challenge have been filled with life’s distractions but soon isolation I usually dread will kick in and give me time to hunker down.
Given how impossible the task is starting to seem, I decided to begin with baby steps to ease myself in. I therefore chose books that were less dense and less mountainous to climb. The sort of thing you can snatch things from. So I quickly consumed some poems from Sylvia Plath’s collection, Ariel and mulled them over looking at the sea in dazzling sunshine. Some of the imagery seemed so true and touching such as, “The window square whitens and swallows its dull stars”, but in my rushed, excitable state of mind some poems and lines left me baffled, clueless, unmoved and adrift.
I also purchased an audio book, on a shopping trip with the purpose of equipping myself for a return to playing football. I’ve never experience an audio book and was inspired by this challenge to try it. It gave me an idea for a piece on different types of reading and the future of reading. This is one of my major flaws I’m afraid. I amass ideas and things to read/watch/listen to and get bogged down with so many I do not achieve them. However hopefully this will be different. Hopefully. I have lots of ideas for other articles and thoughts and intend to carry them out. (The audiobook was last year’s booker winner, The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobsen, by the way)
I bought The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham a couple of years ago for my EPQ on science fiction in the Cold War period. I didn’t use the book in the end and never got round to reading it. At the time I was sick of science fiction after studying so much of it so intensely. But I did enjoy everything about it; the ideas, imagination, ethics, history, imagery. Everything. So I’m aiming to make Triffids my first proper read and rekindle the passion. Perhaps I’ll attempt some sci-fi of my own.
The Sartorialist by Scott Schuman is essentially a picture book, full of stylish, fashionable people. It’s not my usual sort of thing. But reading it (or watching it) is surprisingly fulfilling, enlightening and enjoyable. It’s a nice way in to my challenge; a thick book encapsulating so much of society, but one easy to consume.
I sit on my bed with The Sartorialist and Triffids, determined not to sleep until I’ve had a good go at both. I’m also about to finish a film review. I can feel the tiredness dragging at my face as the clock has just turned to midnight and signalled the start of Day 3. Will it be the day I get my act together?
Posted in Personal, Uncategorized
Tagged 2, 2010, American, Ariel, audio, blitz, book, Booker, British, challenge, daunting, day, EPQ, equip, fashion, Finkler, first, football, frenzy, genres, Howard, ideas, imagery, Jacobsen, John, journey, listen, midnight, month, Mrt'sblog, new, of, pages, Paul, personal, photographer, photos, pictures, Plath, poetry, Prize, Question, read, reading, Review, Schuman, sci-fi, Scott, sea, style, Sylvia, task, The, The Sartorialist, thick, time, Triffids, Twitter, Two, work, write, writer, writing, Wyndham
I have neglected this blog terribly. December has thus far been a totally barren month and this is not at all in the spirit of festive good will. I must rectify this. I doubt I have such a thing as a “regular reader” anymore, the friends I’m aware of that used to follow this are simply far too busy these days. But if you’re out there and by some miracle check things here often enough to have been disappointed by the lack of output, I apologise. I was away in Spain and since I have simply been lazy and slightly emotionally erratic. Here is my bumper Christmas plan to put things right:
1) Firstly I shall publish two reviews that are already available via the excellent FlickeringMyth, of an African documentary and blockbuster Iron Man 2.
2) Secondly I’ll unleash a trio of top British films I’ve watched over the last two days on my new Blu-Ray player. I have only watched them as DVDs but all three look marvellously upgraded by the technology, a pleasant surprise as I assumed it all to be a barely noticeable gimmick. Any of the films I watched would be Christmas gift worthy. (The Disappearance of Alice Creed/Fish Tank/ In The Loop)
3) Thirdly, or perhaps in between to break up the movie fest, I’ll publish one of my doodles from my recent holiday.
4) I also plan to release a political piece on the Lib Dem tuition fee saga and…
5) … a football based article about the controversial FIFA host nation decision for the 2018 and 2022 World Cups.
6) Finally I’m currently devouring Michael McIntyre’s book Life and Laughing, which has personal significance to me as well as being truly gripping and funny. I’ll jot down my thoughts on this and some books I read on holiday when I’m done here for your (whoever you might be) pleasure and amusement.
Right that’s it. I’ll get on with it and try not to get bogged down with friends and the snow.
Posted in Personal, Uncategorized
Tagged 2018, 2022, article, blitz, blog, books, Christmas, FIFA, film, Fish Tank, football, greetings, holiday, In The Loop, Life and Laughing, McIntyre, movie, music, neglect, Nick Clegg, piece, Politics, Qatar, Russia, season, Spain, The Disappearance of Alice Creed, tuition fees, World Cup, writing, xmas
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”
Hearing a wise, sombre voice of experience gently intone these lines every November is always disarmingly moving. And so it was today at the 11th hour, on the 11th day of the 11th month. Even the date has a twisted, bizarre symmetry and significance. You cannot help but feel refreshingly tiny and naive, as part of something greater, a unified more meaningful whole. You cannot help but feel guilt for getting so caught up and needlessly emotional about your trivial everyday concerns.
I arrived at the village war memorial in the church grounds a good half an hour before the silence was due to begin. So I crossed the road and sat down on a damp bench. From here I could watch the folk of various hues arrive and take their places. From what I remember of last year’s silence, which was rain soaked, the turnout was poor. Today however, despite a definite wetness to the agitated air around us, a sizeable crowd gathered. It was a disappointingly predictable bunch, consisting of the elderly, the vicar, the handful of children from the local schools compelled to go by their teachers. I was the only youthful attendee besides a young couple who also preferred to hover at the edges of this familiar crowd.
Of course many did not attend because they were at school or work and observing silences of their own and it is right that they do not greatly alter their usual daily routine, as the sacrifices were made in order to allow the continued existence of everyday life. But it was disheartening to know that acquaintances of mine, with nothing better to do, had stayed at home. My generation’s lack of a sense of history is depressing. And even if the stay-aways did bow their heads in a private moment of reflection, which is of course fine, it is a shame they could not make the trek to a public event to prove to the older generations and doubters that the youth of today are not so very different, and just as capable of respect. Whether or not we would have coped so well with the challenges faced by generations tasked with terrifying world wars on the continent, is another matter.
I am sometimes of the opinion that donning the respectful poppy too early can detract from the overall message of Remembrance. The overwhelming poignancy of the moment itself should be preserved and anything that diminishes its intensity is a threat to the longevity and colour of the tradition. However it is obvious in a modern world that the British Legion requires a good deal of time to build the profile of the day, to raise funds for those it still cares for today and to educate those youngsters completely unfamiliar with the concept. It is just sometimes a shame, purely from the point of view of a historian, that the vibrancy of reflections on the two great world wars of the twentieth century is endlessly diluted. Whilst the sacrifices of servicemen and women in modern conflict are just as worthy and brave, the motivations behind these conflicts are often more dubious and they do not cast the shame shadow as the two major conflicts. As well as remembering the cruelly cut short lives of soldiers and military personnel, the key message of Remembrance Day, it always seemed to me, was that never again would war be permitted to swell to such terrible, destructive size. By annually reflecting and re-examining the memories, we as a nation would never forget and strive for a peaceful world.
I have often felt adrift and without a purpose in this twenty-first century world of ours and it was easy to daydream in my younger days of living in a previous era; exotic times of unity and meaning and excitement and daring. But glancing at the faces of those so obviously personally touched by catastrophic events, I was reminded of why I should feel lucky. For the sort of national unity, togetherness and purpose felt during the world wars was forged from extraordinary hardships, and the dreams of people then are our realities today. We owe it to them to make the most of what was won for us and dream up our own inspiring visions of advancement. No doubt many are put off from attending a “service” at a memorial due to the smattering of religious attachments. Personally I do not find any sort of contradiction in respectfully staying silent during the prayers, bowing my head whilst others choose to say “Amen”. I found some of the rhythms and imagery of prayer adding to the tears welling in my eyes. Most of all, regardless of faith, the torrents of unified mourning, respect and sadness needed a focus, which the vicar and his Bible provided, at times. Powerful beyond words though were the lines, mumbled by all:
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them
Posted in Personal, Uncategorized
Tagged 11, 11th, 2010, afghanistan, Armistice, attendance, BBC, bible, binyon, blitz, British, charity, Church, continent, day, elderly, Europe, first, for the fallen, generation, Great, history, hour, hymn, intone, laurence, Legion, meaning, memorial, memories, minute, modern, Money, month, mourner, names, November, One, poem, poppy, prayer, religion, Remembrance, respect, sadness, significant, silence, symbol, too early, trenches, trumpet, Two, unity, veteran, vicar, village, war, whole, World, year, youth