The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

"Boys Own"

or

"I Have Good News and I Have Bad News"

The Second World War makes for fascinating history and fascinating reading. The convergence of warfare, technology, and the dark arts of espionage fairly boggles the mind that so much was going on in the background while foot-soldiers and pilots and sailors were slugging it out on the battlefields. The Allies would do anything to gain an advantage. Whether it was Operation Mincemeat, or Operation Crossbow, or Operation Anthropoid or "The Ladies" at Bletchley Park or Alan Turing's "computing machine" or the spies and conspirators at "Camp X", so much was done behind the scenes of "the lines" to disrupt enemy operations or lead them astray that soon the conspirators got caught up in their own chicanery. When secrets were discovered of enemy bombing runs, the information could not be used to save lives lest the enemy discover the Allies' advantage. One cannot calculate the lives that were lost...and needlessly...in order to preserve that most transitory of things, military secrets.

 

They make for good reading,* but Hollywood never seems to think that they'd make good stories unless they're blown up (and real good) to cartoonish proportions. That Operation Crossbow film is a good example of that.

 

Gus March-Phillips in the hirsute form of Henry Cavill

And so is The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, Guy Ritchie's new film, which tells the story (sort of) of "Operation Postmaster" an "unofficial" British operation to disrupt the supply chain to German U-boats (or anything else) by dispatching ships that the Special Operations Executive suspected were running arms for the Germans. It was a short operation—roughly 30 minutes—where what was called The Small Scale Raiding Force, under the command of Gus March Phillips, hijacked three ships from the Spanish harbor of Fernando Po in Spanish Guinea, while the ships' officers were being thrown a party ashore (by an SOE agent). The SSRF delivered the ships to the Navy a few days later.

Lassen, March-Phillips and Hayes update a German war-ship on the floppy state of its captain.

Well, that sounds exciting enough, but the screenwriters aren't happy with that, so they invented rescues, subterfuges, feints, a honey trap, and various bloody attacks to complicate the story and make it more of an episode of "Mission: Impossible" than what actually happened, no matter the "Based on a True Story" card that starts the film. The filmmakers take it too far and not far enough—the actors hardly resemble their real-life counterparts and their fighting skills are far more athletic and balletic than the training required of what was called a "butcher and bolt" unit. And although much play is made of the crew being "'A'-Team" "mad," the SSRF has been more described as amphetamine-popping sociopaths (all in a good cause, of course).

In the movie, that's Ian Fleming in the middle and Gubbins on the right.

(Fleming wasn't even in this branch, although he did do some spy-work)

So, don't believe what you see—it's not a true story in the way its being portrayed—and I'll shut up about the discrepancies and just talk about what's there on-screen, although don't be surprised by a pervasive grumbling tone.

It seems that England is having difficulties with German U-boats patrolling the Atlantic, disrupting shipping lines and destroying relief efforts sent from the United States—which is still reluctant about entering the war with troops, despite Germany goose-stepping all the way to France. For Prime Minister Winston Churchill (Rory Kinnear, unrecognizable in make-up), this is infuriating: even if America did send troops, there's a good possibility that the troop transports would be sunk, and any aggressive action is opposed by His Majesty's Government and by the British Navy. Churchill decides to take covert action through the SOE—"Hitler is not playing by the rules and so neither are we"—to take out any boats they can find at sea and try to disrupt the German's supply lines to the U-boats.

SOE's head Brigadier Colin Gubbins (Cary Elwes), with help from his adjutant Ian Fleming (Freddie Fox) spring Gustavus March-Phillips (Henry Cavill) out of irons and tells him of their plans to sink the Duchessa d'Aosta, an Italian merchant ship docked at the port of Santa Isabel on the Spanish island of Fernando Po that reconnaissance has determined is a supply ship for the German U-boats. March-Phillips is informed that two SOE agents, the already established-in-Fernando Po Heron (Babs Olusanmokun, who has become a favorite of mine since playing the ship's doctor on "Star Trek: Strange New Worlds") and Marjorie Stewart (Eiza González, who I'm glad is there even though Marjorie Stewart had no part of the mission) are already on their way to Fernando Po by train to lay the ground-work for their operation.

March-Phillips, while taking the time to mooch booze, cigars and Fleming's lighter, is understandably skeptical ("We both know I'm not very popular with this current administration) and he warns that the troops he wants to gather for the mission are a bit unorthodox ("You won't like them...they're all mad"), and is reassured that he has discretion as the job doesn't officially exist (nor will it ever exist, seeing as they're going to be attacking a Spanish port and Spain is being obstinately neutral in the war as its Prime Minister, Franco, is obstinately a fascist).

One of his proposed team, the master planner of his outfit, Geoffrey Appleyard (Alex Pettyfer) is a prisoner of the Nazis, and March-Phillips and his crew—Anders Lassen (Alan Ritchson, streaming's "Reacher"), Henry Hayes** (Hero Fiennes Tiffin), and explosives expert Freddy Alvarez (Henry Golding)—do a side-trip rescue on the way, using their Brixham fishing trawler, Maid of Honour, as their transport.

That's a lot of set-up exposition, but one of the strengths of Richie's direction—and of the screen-writers—is that it all gets taken care of quickly, amusingly, and lets you know who's who and what's what before settling into the details and taking care of the action, which is fast, brutal, and probably far beyond what the actual team doing the mission did. Oh, they were perfectly capable of filleting a man with a knife—as happens frequently in the movie—but, the action is just too choreographed to be in any way realistic. Efficient and fast, certainly, but, once a jugular is slit, why keep stabbing?

There's also an air of pushing the "aren't we crazy" throughout, an inherent smugness that carries on throughout the movie. Usually, Cavill is the most visible culprit of this in whatever he plays, and, yes, in the film's first 45 minutes, he succumbs to that—Florence Pugh's line "What a poser..." kept coming to mind—but, eventually he settles down, stops grand-standing, and towards the end, is a welcoming commanding presence and then, towards the end, exquisitely delivers a good James Bond-ish line: "Marjorie! Over-dressed and under-dressed at the same time...as usual."

An aside: Here's an issue that irked me—The "James Bond" angle. Sure, they uncomfortably shoe-horned Ian Fleming (Bond's creator) into the narrative, then capped the movie by saying that Cavill's character, March-Phillips, was Fleming's inspiration for Bond, but I've heard others, including William Stephenson, were Fleming's model—there has been so much speculation and it's usually based solely on trying to make some correspondent's subject matter more important (or at least "buzz-worthy") than it would be without it. Fleming saw a lot of spy-craft during the war, but I think he got his main inspiration by looking in the mirror and fantasizing.

It's a good adventure flick with the added bonus that SOME of it is true, and, surprisingly, in some of the details that they don't make a point of, but it's a bit of over-kill on many levels. War is butchery, after all, and there's quite a bit of evisceration in this film. At one point, in taking over the ships, Ritchson's Anders goes through picking off crew-men, starting with bow and arrows (his specialty), then knives, then an axe, all done with a blood-thirsty glee. "Good times". But, maybe that wouldn't have been as entertaining as what the "mad" "crazy" "sociopathic" members of the SSRF really did when the took over those ships in 1942.

Those crew-men that didn't put up a fight they took prisoner, 29 in all, and turned them over to the British Navy.

The Small Scale Raiding Force—No. 62 Commando

 

Top: Maj. Gustavus March-Phillips, Geoffrey Appleyard,  Graham Hayes, Anders Lassen

Bottom: Marjorie Stewart, Major Colin 'M' Gubbins

The Target
 

* One of my most enjoyable times reading one of these histories is "The Man Called Intrepid" by William Stevenson, published in 1976, about William Stephenson. It's fascinating reading, but some of its validity has been called into question.

 

** The man's name was actually Graham Hayes, and can't think of a logical reason why they might have changed it.

The Formula

Written at the time of the film's release.

The Formula (John G. Avildsen, 1980) Fairly lousy movie, done in the clunky Avildsen style, of a police detective (George C. Scott) following a series of murders that involves the MacGuffin of a synthetic substitute for petroleum. Avildsen is the perfect director for thudding cartoons like the "Rocky" series and The Karate Kid. But when having to provide any subtlety or style, as he attempted to do with Slow Dancing in the Big City, it's a miserable failure. And one has to say that he didn't add anything to the thriller or detective genres (or even the "paranoid thrillers" established in the 70's) with The Formula.

There is one joy, however, and that is to see the meeting of two of the better actors of the American stage square off, and really, it's probably the only reason the film got made (except for a tenuous tie-in to the then-dissolving energy crisis). They have one scene together of any consequence. Both men are a bit over-weight—Marlon Brando playing the fattest of oil-cats—and the two meet for a semi-perfunctory sizing up of each other.* One anticipates sparks flying between two acting titans.

And they don't. It's a genial little walk in the sun and the two banter back and forth—Scott's Lt. Barney Caine probing gently and Brando's Adam Steiffel waxing folksy and feigning detachment. But it's fun to watch. Brando's off in his "method" world—if he seems distracted it's because an assistant is feeding his lines through a hearing aid, and Scott observes the performance with an odd amusement, completely out of character.** What you're seeing is a fellow thespian (and fellow Oscar refuser) do his thing and barely suppressing his amusement...and bemusement.

It happens sometimes in movies, when very talented people with nothing to prove collide in a scene. As when Meryl Streep and Vanessa Redgrave play old friends in Evening, or Al Pacino just sits back and revels in Jack Lemmon's shop-talking in Glengarry Glen Ross. It doesn't help a bad movie. It can't help Evening or The Formula. But it's one of those magical moments when artifice is usurped by genuineness and the joy of creation is reflected off the screen to the audience.

* Come to think of it, Brando's character would have been more effective if he were an insular baron.

** Apparently, the rueful shakes of Scott's head during the scene are his reaction to Brando doing a completely different "read" of his lines than previous takes.

Stand-Up Guys

There are so many movies with actors "of a certain age" being disrespectful that it's almost its own sub-genre.  Here's one from 2013, and this was written at the time of the film's release...

"We're Still Here!"
or 
"...End of Story" 

Oh, man, it's painful, the first few minutes of Stand Up Guys, the new gangster-with-gags film directed by Fisher Stevens. Valentine (Al Pacino) is being released from prison after 28 years, for his part in a robbery that turned deadly. On the outside, waiting for him, is Doc (Christopher Walken), who was also part of that robbery but managed to stay out of the gray-bar hotel for reasons unknown and is now "retired," spending his free time being a diner habitué and painting landscapes.

Doc takes Val home to his apartment, which the ex-con compares unfavorably to the accouterments he has recently vacated. At this point in the movie, Val announces that he wants "to party," at which point I resisted an urge to get up and get popcorn. It wasn't going to be pretty, whichever way it was played, comedy, bathos, or weirdness. The obligatory visit to a whorehouse is somewhat lightened by Lucy Punch (a Brit actress playing a longish Island accent) as the daughter of the madam these guys used to know in their and her prime.

Things don't go well (nyuk, nyuk) so Doc and Val rob a drug store (very easily)—Val gets little blue pills and proceeds to take too many of them, and Doc has some expensive prescriptions he needs to supplement—complications arise, so to speak, which requires a trip to the hospital, where Julianna Margulies provides an "E.R." flashback and informs the two about her father, their former getaway driver, who's stuck in a nursing home.

Alan Arkin plays that character, and it's at that point that the movie picks up with a couple quick chase sequences and a needed pivot point for the Pacino-Walken dynamic. The movie gets better with Arkin's presence, even though one can't say it improves. But Arkin's added energy manages to lift the movie over the speed-bumps that the script-cliché's drop in the path. Where Pacino is manic and Walken is passive, Arkin manages to bridge the gap (and their vocal pauses) with a complacent nervousness that bounces off both actors entertainingly.

It's unfortunate watching, really. To see these gold-standard actors (all Academy Award winners, not that that really matters) reduced to mining what they can out of a vein of tin is disheartening, no matter what smiles they can produce out of it. Something could have been done, recent examples of the story-form being In Bruges and Going in Style.* But just the casting of these young-now-aging turks can't make this one any more than it is, a faded half-hearted comedy about aging gangsters that might have been enough to re-team Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau back in the day.

This is a minor, minor, minor film with major talent in it that eventually makes the most of the material, but can't elevate it into something worthwhile or even makes a statement. And, frankly, I'm getting too old for movies like this.

* Martin Brest's 1979 comedy-drama about over-the-hill retired thieves trying to supplement their meager Social Security—Pacino surely knew about it, as it starred his mentor, Lee Strasberg.

Never Let Me Go

Alex Garland, who wrote and directed Civil War, adapted the Booker-winning tome the the film is based on.

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Ménage à Triage"
or
"My Clone Sleeps Alone"

"The breakthrough in medical science came in 1952. Doctors could now cure the previously incurable. By 1967, life expectancy passed 100 years."

Never Let Me Go, the film, makes you wonder what all the fuss was about. A slight "Twilight Zone" bit of story, hinging on one theme—the central conceit being the showing of life from the point of view of sheltered, cloned organ donors who will live out their short lives being harvested for spare parts—but taking the concept and going nowhere with it, serving almost solely for the metaphorical revelation that "life is short."

 

I know that. I read the papers.

The book the film is based on, written by Kazuo Ishiguro (who wrote "The Remains of the Day"), was nominated for the Booker Prize for fiction in 2005. It is faint praise to say the film makes you want to read the book, as it must be Ishiguro's writing style that garnered the acclaim, and the majesties and mysteries of his prose and story-telling capabilities that inspired the making of this film that betrays those intentions. Because other than that central conceit, and some interesting acting choices by the participants, the film fails to generate anything other than a melancholy malaise. And whether one wants to use it as a tract against Britain's private school system, a cautionary tale of "science gone wrong," the ultimate pointlessness of Faith, or the horrific extensions of animal experimentation, the fact is that we're all one synaptic event away from becoming a squishy spare parts warehouse, as revealed on our own personal Id's, something done as an act of charity, the giving of our last full measure.

So, the mixed signals sent by the film of the book, and its clumsy way of revealing the particulars of the plot, do no service to its source, merely revealing the surface highlights, and not delving into more meaty psychological or motivational matters, turning the film into merely a digest, a palimpsest, or more appropriately, a cadaver of the book.

It focuses on a trio of children—Kathy (Carey Mulligan), Ruth (Keira Knightley) and Tommy (Andrew Garfield)—raised in a private boarding school, one of many that is, in fact, more of a farm. The children attending know nothing of the outside world, raised in a bubble of perfect manners, good health, docility, and fear of what lies beyond the fence surrounding the grounds. There is no need to prepare them for life as we know it, because they won't be participating in it. Only contributing to it.

They are carefully groomed and kept in the dark about their purpose, and within the cliques that inevitably occur there, rumors and speculation swirl among the kids about what happens when you go outside the fence (nothing good), and eventually, about ways to get deferments from donor status by proving their worth by displaying artistic skill...or, cruelly, falling in love.

They cling to these beliefs, like rosaries, with no basis in fact, but only the strength of their hopes, and in the absence of all evidence. Kathy and Tommy grow close, become empathetic friends, but as they grow older, Ruth becomes the object of Tommy's affections, and Kathy goes her own path, choosing to become a "carer," in service of the donors on the short path of their careers, delaying her fate, watching as those less fortunate are taken away from her, piece by piece. 

It's frustrating watching. Oh, the actors are fine, and actually more than fine, given the material. Mulligan's crooked half-smile speaks volumes of a life only partially lived, and Knightley is completely unafraid of looking sadly decrepit.  But, it is still painful to watch these clueless kids, marginalized and compartmentalized, pursuing fruitless hopes in an effort to live a full life. One would feel more sympathy if they would just be a bit more their own advocates, or even a bit more revolutionary. It is extraordinarily facile to compare this one to other "low shelf-life" movies on the order of The Island, or Logan's Run, sci-fi action films on the theme. Never Let Me Go has the same built-in planned obsolescence of adolescents conundrum—given the acquisition of some knowledge, wouldn't some of them choose to fight it? It doesn't have to be with space-guns and chase scenes, but...something. And despite their role in the food-chain, don't the administrators of these schools (Charlotte Rampling plays the main one here), especially the ones portrayed here, have some sort of empathetic identification with their charges, especially given the revelations they profess (rather hollowly)? That these questions pop up during the viewing of the film, when one should be riveted to the screen and it's reflected situations, only points out that the film-makers haven't done their work perfecting their illusions, in pursuit of their allusions. 

To further extrapolate the somewhat cruel comparison of the film to a cadaver of the original piece, the spirit of the thing is missing, however ardently it is played. Ultimately, one's appreciation of the film lies in its performances in the service of a flawed interpretation and one's own interest in the players, which is as superficial as this film feels.

Don't Make a Scene (Redux): Lawrence of Arabia

I've got a couple scenes in the works—well, one's done but I'm not ready to publish it yet—so here's a scene from Lawrence of Arabia, one of those movies that has to be seen on the big screen. The TCM Film Festival is doing that this weekend. I've seen it that way in 70mm at the Cinerama (it's now called the SIFF Cinema Downtown) and, really, it's the only way to really SEE it. 

"The film academic" I mentioned here is David Bordwell, who, sadly, passed away February 29 this year. Despite my dismissing his point about There Will Be Blood, his writing was always entertaining and enlightening.

The Set-Up: I recently read an article from a film academic extolling a scene from There Will Be Blood, in which its playing-out in one shot, or camera set-up, is praised to the skies as a master-stroke of direction.

Tosh.

While it is true that far too many directors these days are seemingly relying on the craft of montage (editing) as opposed to mise en scene (camera placement),* I would submit that it is not that special an achievement, but, rather "Directing 101." Any director worth his view-finder knows the importance of "blocking," or the arranging of actors in a scene. It establishes relationships, points-of-view, all sorts of sub-conscious signals to the audience about the participants of a scene. And it allows the actors to do what is their natural inclination to do: act in an unbroken line with their fellow-actors, playing off of each other, without the technical interruptions of setting-up for another angle.

A competent director knows when to get out of the way of his actors (just as a competent studio should know when to get out of the way of the director). But to praise a director for letting a scene play out in one shot without cutting? Only understandable from someone who's never been exposed to the process, I guess. Or someone who's just griping on the over-reliance of editing in today's movies (given the dependence on editing to create "energy," especially the false kind as pioneered by the hackers at MTV) and is doing it in a back-handed kind of way.

Anyway, the point is—a director who pathologically doesn't let a scene play out without editing, "couldn't direct traffic if given white gloves and a whistle" (in the words of one disgruntled writer I've met).

Or...are directing for the limited band-width of television. Or...are insecure in the material to keep interest. Or...are being told what to do, as in someone's directing the director (so what does that make him? An employee, not an auteur).

Here's one of many scenes I've found lately, that, with the exception of the opening three establishing POV shots, is done in one shot/one take, and it's one of my favorites. It's the "introduction" to the titular hero of Lawrence of Arabia, and it contains two of my favorite lines in this movie, full of great ones.

The Story: Aside from a sequence dramatising T.E. Lawrence's*** (Peter O'Toole) death in a motorcycle accident, and the subsequent funeral at which we hear many opinions of the man, this is the first sequence in the long flash-back of the tumultuous events of his life presented in the film. The first image shows him as we will soon come to know him: dissatisfied with his station, and re-drawing the map of the Middle East. 

Action!

T.E. Lawrence: Michael George Hartley, this is a nasty, dark. little room.
M.G. Hartley: That's right.

Lawrence: We are not happy in it.
Hartley: I am. It's better than a nasty, dark little trench.
Lawrence: Then you're an ignoble fellow.
Hartley: That's right.
Lawrence: Ah! Here is William Potter with my newspaper.
W.Potter: Here you are, Tosh.
Lawrence: Thanks. (Potter waits)
Lawrence: Would you care for one of Cpl. Hartley's cigarettes?
Potter: Ah! (Potter grandly takes one)
Hartley: Is it there?
Lawrence: Of course. Headlines. But I bet it isn't mentioned in The Times. "Bedouin tribes attack Turkish stronghold."
Lawrence: And I'll bet no one in this whole headquarters even knows it happened. Or would care if it did.
Lawrence: Allow me to ignite your cigarette.
Potter: Sir...
Adjutant: Mr. Lawrence?
Lawrence: Yes?
Adjutant: Flimsy, sir.
Lawrence: Thank you.
(Lawrence takes the burning match and working his fingers up it, extinguishing it while the others watch)
Hartley: You'll do that once too often! It's only flesh and blood.
Lawrence: Michael George Hartley, you're a philosopher.
Potter: And you're balmy!
(Adjutant leaves. Lawrence reads. Potter lights a match tries to put it out with his fingers while Lawrence watches.)
Potter: OH! It hurts!
Lawrence: Certainly, it hurts.
Potter: Well, what's the trick, then?
Lawrence: The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.
Lawrence: Oh! By the way, should Col. Gibbon enquire for me, tell him I've gone for a chat with the General.
Potter: He's balmy!
Hartley (laughs): He's alright.


Lawrence of Arabia

Words by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson

Pictures by Freddie Young and David Lean

Lawrence of Arabia is available on DVD from Sony Home Video.**

* I attribute this to studio insistence on "coverage"--over-shooting a scene from different angles to ensure that the film will "cut" (edit in a way that isn't "jarring" to the viewer), and, by the way, gives the studio enough material to work with in case they want to fire the director if he isn't amenable enough to cut it the way the studio insists. It's why having the "final cut" in a director's contract is so cherished a clause (Would you like a list of the names of great directors who've had their movies re-cut against their wishes? We don't have time, but I can make a rough estimate---almost all of them!)

** Movie theater advocate Roger Ebert has written that "Lawrence of Arabia" on video "crouches inside its box like a tall man in a low room." That's a wonderful description. He continues "You can view it on video and get an idea of its story and a hint of its majesty, but to get the feeling of Lean's masterpiece you need to somehow, somewhere, see it in 70mm on a big screen. This experience is on the short list of things that must be done during the lifetime of every lover of film." In Seattle, it happens infrequently at the Cinerama. Next time you see it mentioned, go.

*** That link leads to the general Wikipedia entry, for a better site on the man who's the subject of the movie, go here.