Murder Most Old-Fashioned

I’m not a one for detective fiction or whodunits. The plethora of detective/police/mystery fodder on television these days leaves me bored and bewildered.  I quite like the Poirot series with David Suchet, but this is because of the glimpses of my favourite Art Deco style.  Quite often I’ll be so enamoured of a building that he’s visiting that I miss a vital piece of plot and get lost.  But I don’t really care, I’ll just look at the scenery.  Similarly, with the Miss Marple films of the 1960s, everything else is second fiddle to the leading lady.  Margaret Rutherford IS Miss Marple.  Others may disagree, but to me, her casting in this role is both Rutherford and Marple’s finest hour.  The plot of the film is almost irrelevant.  The jowl-wobbling, cape-tossing, murder enthusiast spinster is everything.   Especially sat on the train at the beginning of ‘Murder She Said’ (1961); being in turn haughty, playful and incredulous.

It is during this scene that Miss Marple witnesses the murder, around which this first film in the series pivots.  An express train is in the process of overtaking the slower stopping train on which she is travelling.  One compartment which draws alongside hers on the adjacent track has the privacy blinds drawn.  Suddenly, one shoots up to reveal a woman who is being strangled and in the final death throes.  On my most recent viewing of this film I found myself musing that this simply could not happen anymore.  The days of private compartments in which you could carry out a pre-meditated murder are long gone.  I’ve always quite hankered after the old train compartment, which I vaguely remember from my 1970s childhood – particularly travelling to Cornwall in one on a Golden Rail holiday circa 1979.  A compartment with just room for around 8 people seems a bit cosier and more civilised than our completely open carriages of today, where you are continually subject to 80-odd peoples’ conversations and opinions.  And if you are unlucky enough to have to take an aisle seat there is the constant by-pass of large-hipped people and their myriad forms of baggage.

However, viewers of ‘Murder She Said’ are reminded that this old sort of carriage seating had its dangers.  Originally, compartments didn’t even have a connecting corridor, which did lead to attacks.  The first railway murder, described in the fascinating book “Mr Briggs’ Hat” by Kate Colquhoun, shows how the closed compartment style of travel sealed the poor Mr Briggs’ fate.  Even with a connecting corridor, blinds could be drawn by those seeking privacy.  Very unsafe indeed.

The 1963 follow up film ‘Murder at the Gallop’ showcased another obsolete form of pre-meditated murder.  That is, poisoning by town gas.  A disembodied hand attempts to finish off Miss Marple herself (noooo!) by turning on the unlit gas supply to her bedroom heater as she naps.  Given a long enough exposure in a poorly ventilated room, this would have been a killer, much more so than today with our natural North Sea gas.  Town (or coal) gas was produced as a by-product of burning coal, and contained a hefty dose of carbon monoxide.  Suicide by placing the head in a gas oven was extremely common before the mass change over to natural gas in the 1960s and 70s.  Of course, Miss Marple woke up while in the midst of being gassed.  Many wouldn’t have and would have found themselves efficiently and cleanly murdered, with little evidence to go on to track down the perpetrator.

It is interesting to see how changes to the way that we live our lives has also resulted in a change to the way that murderers could plan their crimes.  It’s just as difficult to envisage a modern-day Marple…as it is to envisage her as anyone other than magnificent Margaret.

Bless This Planet

‘Bless This House’ is one of those spin-off films from a 1970s sitcom.  All the successful series from this era did it - from ‘Steptoe and Son’ to ‘Are You Being Served’ – with varying results.  Some are watchable if you’re not in the mood for anything taxing; while others are an embarrassment – British cinema’s dying gasp.  ‘Bless This House’ (1972) comes somewhere in the middle of the scale – predictable and hackneyed in places, but with a liberal enough sprinkling of laughs to keep you watching.  It’s also a feelgood factor to see so many familiar faces from your childhood viewing.  Sid James, Terry Scott, June Whitfield, Peter Butterworth  and, well, I was going to say Robin Asquith but the only other thing that I know him from is the Confessions films and I’m sure I didn’t see those as a child!

When I last watched ‘Bless This House’, I settled down with my sewing box.  Films like this, easy to follow and so very familiar, are a cosy background to another task.  Two relaxing hits in one.  Three in fact, as these two are invariably accompanied by a cup of tea and some chocolate.  ‘Bless’ means an hour and a half of bliss.  You can allow your imagination to have a wander too, and this time I was blessed with quite an interesting idea along with a realisation that things aren’t always as modern as they seem.

The film opens with Mrs Abbot (Diana Coupland) and Mrs Lewis (Patsy Rowlands) collecting what many would call junk.  It’s their intention to open an antiques stall in a specialist market place and they are busy building up stock by rummaging in jumble sales.  One person’s junk is indeed another’s treasure, as a charity shop fanatic myself, there’s no need to convince me of this.  Armed with my copy of the latest Vogue magazine in order to read up on what I should be looking for, I rattle through the rails looking for discarded sartorial treasure.  I’m proud of my eclectic wardrobe, where very few items cost me more than a tenner and many of them were made to fit well and to last.  When I tire of them, I either give them back to charity or sell them on eBay, sometimes even getting my original outlay back.  Cheap and environmentally friendly!

While watching ‘Bless This House’ I was replacing some shabby buttons on an otherwise decent linen cardigan, with a set from my extensive collection (thanks to Nan and Oxfam).  It wasn’t long before I had the idea of setting up an Etsy shop to sell on some of my old (otherwise known as vintage) sewing kit.  And following that thought came another about some things never changing.  I am by no means the only person going around second hand sales and later selling on my finds – it’s a booming business out there in cyber space.  I had lazily thought that this was something new that had been born out of our new way of life, half spent in the ether.  But having watched ‘Bless This House’ I can see that I was wrong.  Of course I was.  Didn’t I spend my teenage (pre computer-age) years riffling through the stalls on Sheffield flea market?  Doesn’t every town have its antique/second hand quarter which goes way back in its establishment?  The only difference is that now more people can afford to do it, as the overheads of this activity have been reduced to a listing fee.  We’re all digging out our junk in the hope that it’s treasure – and now that we are well into the disposable society age there is more of it in circulation.

I can’t quite decide if ‘Bless This House’ recognises the environmental connection to this junk recycling.  Sid and Diana’s daughter (Sally, played by Sally Geeson) spends much of the film protesting against environmental damage.  Had the connection between recycling and the environment been made back then?  Again, quite lazily, I had assumed not.  In fact I wouldn’t have said that there was much at all in the way of environmental awareness back then but it seems I was wrong.  Sally supports her mother’s venture. Perhaps even in 1972 some did recognise the need to re-use materials.  There was certainly a lot less waste back then, as the small dustbins that I remember from my childhood attest.  What a shame that it took so long for the need to recycle to really take off…and let’s hope that we get better at it.

http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SewsAttic

Keep Soldiering On

‘The League of Gentlemen’ (1960) is a magnificent crime caper film, liberally sprinkled with familiar film faces.  Jack Hawkins, Richard Attenborough and Bryan Forbes are just three of those faces.  And of course if there’s Bryan, Nanette Newman is often found in the vicinity.  And there she is, in the bath, being cheeky.  Clearly this film has something for everyone.

The plot involves a former army top brass type (Hawkins) bringing together a motley collection of former soldiers.  Each served in World War Two and has something shady to hide from these times.  None of them have settled into a respectable post war life either.  Hawkins has researched each man carefully over a long period of time, and has allocated each of them a role in a perfectly planned bank robbery.  Both the promise of an equal share in a large sum of cash, along with the fact that they each have nothing to lose, means that they all accept the job.

Hawkins moves the men into his rambling old country house where they settle into an army-like existence as they plan, construct and rehearse.  They are all only too pleased (despite minor grumbles about potato peeling and room sharing) to return to the old life.  At last, after years of drifting, they have some form to their lives and a goal in sight.  At first glance, this barracks style set up could be for comedy effect – grown men playing at being in the army like a bunch of kids let loose in an old disused base camp.  But, there is a serious bit of social history behind this.

While watching, I got the firm impression that this structure to their lives had been a serious psychological hurdle in its absence.  They were all lost in a futile search for something that was unobtainable in peacetime.  I began to wonder if this had been a common or recognised problem in the two or three decades following the war.  It wasn’t really something that had occurred to me as both of my Grandads had returned from their war service to settle into steady jobs.  But, on giving it more thought, there will have been those whose wartime experience was so intense that a return to normality was difficult to deal with.

Three dapper post war gents.  The one with the pipe is Grandad.

A brief Google brought up a fascinating website which immediately answered all of my questions – and more.   http://www.alanallport.net/main/psychology-of-demob/ contains a section of blog entries, all concerning real ex-service personnel’s feelings on returning home.  In summary, common problems emerging from this resource include:

·        Missing being ordered about and having every day mapped out for them

·        Missing a clear sense of hierarchy and camaraderie

·        Adjusting to a life where there is no immediate danger around every corner

·        Adjusting to being back in civilisation after long periods in remote outposts

·        Feelings of depression in returning to a home where austerity, bomb sites and exhaustion are the order of the day

One entry relates the story of a man so unable to cope with life in Civvy Street that he pretended to be a wanted man in order to secure himself a spell in prison. 

That many returning soldiers faced these problems is obvious when you think about it.  But it took Mr Hawkins’ exploits to make me think about it. Film really can open your eyes to history.

Our Passport To Rations

Earlier this year I read a book entitled ‘These Wonderful Rumours’.  The book contains the fascinating wartime diaries of Derbyshire schoolteacher May Smith and has an introduction by my history heroine Juliet Gardiner.  The wartime diary is no publishing innovation – the Mass Observation diaries of Nella Last and others have already achieved a well deserved fame.  In particular I would recommend ‘Our Hidden Lives’ – a compilation of several diaries overseen by Simon Garfield. But as these were all submitting their diaries to the Mass Observation project, they were perhaps conscious of an audience and felt compelled to write about events which they would not have otherwise covered in personal jottings.  It is clear that May Smith’s diary was not intended for public consumption.  Much of it covers the everyday movements of friends, family and boyfriends; her teaching and learning experiences and shopping for clothes.  Potentially banal stuff perhaps, but when she does mention events of significance you know that these were the ones that had the biggest impact on the general public.

One of the reasons why I enjoyed it so much was its provincial, semi-rural setting.  A lot of the surviving home front coverage seems to concentrate on London and the South East – I suppose what could be termed the front line of the Home Front.  But through her diaries we find out the concerns of the majority of provincials in protected jobs.  It seems that the biggest concern for May was food and clothing.  Of course the reason why this was such a concern was rationing, introduced on 8^th January 1940.  We hear of a potential suitor who sends her gifts – not of chocolate or flowers but dead poultry and eggs – which are received with near rapture!  Wedding cakes have cardboard instead of icing and May wears underwear that is made from old handkerchiefs.  In our society, which is based on over-consumption all of this is barely imaginable – although personally I think that we should start to imagine and become accustomed to the idea.  How long will it be before we have to ration fossil fuels?  Many people in the UK already self ration petrol and gas because of the spiralling cost.  As the population continues to grow and demand the lifestyle that their parents have become accustomed to in recent decades – how long can we sustain this? I wouldn’t be surprised if a more permanent rationing system is introduced before this century is done.  

If this does happen, I pity the government that has to introduce it.  When wartime rationing began in 1940, I think it fair to say that while no-one welcomed it, most accepted it as a necessity and patriotic duty.  The enemy was on the doorstep and this enemy was tangible and plainly evil.   But even though war was over in 1945, rationing continued on for several years.  Many people questioned the reasons for this as they settled into peacetime and began to grumble at the government that upheld the policies.  I imagine that now, when we are even less inclined to accept government policy than we were in the 1940s, opposition to such a scheme would be vociferous.

When post-war rationing is under consideration, there is one film that leaps out as the obvious place to go for a look at the attitudes of the day.  ‘Passport to Pimlico’, an Ealing classic, depicts exactly what happens to vital supplies when a community becomes inward looking and selfish.  After a UXB goes off and reveals a treaty detailing Pimlico’s long forgotten annexation to Burgundy, the local residents become determined to exercise their independence from British government.  After initial euphoria at rationing being no longer applicable, they find that their supplies are running dangerously low, and one accidental event leaves them with virtually nothing to eat.  It is only the charity of well-wishers that enables them to continue with their stance, as food parcels are thrown over the barbed wire by other Londoners, typically enjoying seeing a bit of subversion.  These scenes are often spoken of as being a direct reference to the Berlin Airlift which took place the year before this film was released – a pivotal Cold War event.  I think that this is meant to remind the audience that when things are not done the British way, you might as well just hand everything over to the political extremists.

Another scene in the film shows Pimlico’s main street being taken over by “black marketers” (illegal traders).  Since Pimlico has suddenly found itself out of British jurisdiction, these spivs have realised that they can openly trade here without fear of arrest.  In her diaries, May Smith mentions visiting a black marketer only once.  She vows never to do it again simply  because of the expense.  The goods that she purchased were not worth the cost.  So we are seeing another warning.  Bring back the free market now while there are still shortages and the few will prosper – charging what they like for goods that people need.  Finally, I like to think of that sudden change in weather at the very end of the film as symbolic to this theme.  When Pimlico residents officially become British again, the prevailing heatwave suddenly breaks and rain pours down.  The residents are thus reminded what it is to be British.  But the rain falls on everyone, whether rich or poor.  And they all ultimately benefit from that rain as it turns into drinking water and feeds the growing food, even if in the short term we may curse our climate.

Because of this constant theme alluding to rationing and the reasons for it, I do believe that ‘Passport to Pimlico’ was on a mission to remind the British that it was still very much needed.  The message is “stop whining and think”.  This shows that at the time of this film, there was a growth in opposition to continued rationing which some felt needed tackling. 

We continue to allow the gap between rich and poor to widen and to actively encourage uncontrolled consumption, while resources disappear.  It’s going to take a lot more than a film to persuade the people to accept the curbs on aspirations that rationing will being next time around.

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Not Afraid of the Darkness Outside

‘A Taste of Honey’ (1961) is always worth dipping into, not least because of Dora Bryan in one of her best roles.  She manages to pull off tragic with hilariously funny at the same time, mostly because of the so recognisable language and turn of phrase.  Of course we have Shelagh Delaney to thank for the dialogue, but Dora’s delivery is top notch.  I’m sure I’m not alone in hearing echoes of my own family’s conversations in her lines.

The other major star of the film is the Greater Manchester location.  It is easy to see how this might have been utterly compelling viewing to contemporary audiences.  Most locations in other films that I have looked at on this blog are around London and the Home Counties – quite naturally as this is where the studios were.  To see the grim industrial north depicted so vividly without any fake romanticism is refreshing.  It is also now a window on England’s lost industrial past. All the factories have gone (or have become luxury apartments).  The canals are filled with pleasure craft.  A lot of the houses have been torn down.  I expect that for residents of the areas filmed (Salford, Stockport and Manchester) it’s a fascinating spot-the-landmark opportunity.

Myself, I find interest in the film as a documentary on the leisure habits of mid- 20^th century industrial inhabitants.  This may be ironic given that the film is, on the whole, a tale of misery.  But though the lives depicted were nasty and brutish, the result was that any opportunity for fun, for a taste of honey, was grabbed by the throat.  We therefore, quite rightly for the film, have images of people drinking up entertainment with an enthusiasm that perhaps we have lost today, when we are entertained sedentarily by all manner of devices within our homes.  I spotted several ways in which the characters took part in activities that were once a common way of letting off steam.  Dora Bryan’s character (Helen) spends quite a lot of time out dancing, once the place to go for social contact.  Yes, we still have our nightclubs, but the kind of event that Helen attends attracts a much wider cross section of the population.  As Helen shows us, these are the places where many marriages were once agreed.

Helen’s new fiancée (Peter) arranges a day out in Blackpool, a day of complete hedonism by the seaside.  This part is the most up to date leisure activity showing yet again that our days by the beach have changed little for decades. The difference here from previous films showing similar scenes is that the party arrive by car.  Up to that point in time, most trippers would have arrived by train.  But flashy Peter in his motor is at the forefront of a trend.  One that would see Blackpool’s Central Station replaced by a car park in 1964.  Helen’s daughter Jo (Rita Tushingham) spoils the day out by being unco-operative and sulky.  She is sent home alone by bus – another example of the motor replacing rail.  Later, she takes a bus again for leisure purposes when she and her friend Geoffrey go to Castleton.  Castleton in Derbyshire is famed for its caves and the Blue John mineral and it has long been a destination for tourists.  It is Kinder Scout country, where the mass trespass in 1932 resulted in an opening up of much more of this area to the workers from Sheffield and Manchester, who were looking to stretch their weary limbs in the fresh air.  That two poor kids from Salford could hop on a bus and access such scenery – and do so as part of a story of this genre- shows what a vital lung the Peak District became in these times.

Sometimes people escaped by staying on their own doorstep.  The Greek Chorus in miniature of the local kids who play on the streets show how freedom of movement and imagination are sometimes all you need to gain respite from your situation.  The children know the area and where to find Jo.  This kind of knowledge is denied the modern child.  Scenes of a street festival and a fun fair also seem to be depicting an old fashioned way of having fun, drawing the whole community out of their houses in a way unknown today.

One glaring omission is a trip to the cinema to watch one of the latest releases!  But an interesting insight into the days before we all started staying in to watch an increasingly smaller screen.

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Fame, Fame, Fatal Fame

Last year, I bought an Ealing film collection on dvd, mainly because it contained an old favourite of mine.  I’ve been slowly working my way through the rest of the features, some of which I had never heard of before.  One of these hitherto unknowns was ‘The Love Lottery’ (1954) starring David Niven.  The film’s title and its star led me to believe that I was letting myself in for 90 minutes of fluff.  Which I didn’t really mind at that point.  Sometimes when you’ve had the stuffing knocked out of you, a bit of fluff fits the bill nicely.  Although on the whole I must say, I don’t go in for soppy.

But the presence of Herbert Lom in the cast list raised my interest levels, and turned out to be an indicator of a little more depth than I was expecting.  Rather than being just another love story, this is also a wry – and still very pertinent – commentary on fame.  Niven plays a heart-throb film star (pushing the boundaries of believability if you ask me – he looks about 50 and has a receding hairline) who is followed everywhere by swarms of swooning teenage girls.  He gets very tired of this attention and flees his Hollywood studio for Europe.  He ends up in the Italian town where Lom’s character runs a lottery company.  Lom immediately sets Niven up with a huge gambling debt during a night in his casino.  In order to pay the debt off, Niven agrees to be the prize in a worldwide love lottery – he will marry the holder of the winning ticket. 

The character that I found the most interesting was that of the holder of the winning ticket.  She is depicted as the typical fan; young and totally obsessed.  Her little single bed is surrounded by pictures of him.  She has a boyfriend who wishes to marry her - a lovely turn by a youthfully handsome Gordon Jackson. Personally given the choice between Niven and Jackson I’d pick Gordon – I wonder if that’s a deliberate ploy?  But instead of concentrating on what he has to say to her, she is too busy dragging him off to the flicks and mooning after figures on the screen. Then going home and crying into her pillow.  How her life is adversely affected by her obsession with fame is nothing to her real experience of it later on when she goes to meet her prize.  Her dreams are shown up for the fantasy that they are.  Dogged at every step, she has her first evening with Niven ruined.  In the middle of a teenage scrum, she has her ballgown torn – an obvious but fitting metaphor for the destruction of her fame dream.

Ultimately, this film shows that those who seek fame are fools.  Fame destroys the lives of those who achieve it, to the point where they become the puppets of others. Nothing has or ever will change in this respect.  Those who seek fame, or use it as a benchmark for achievement or the subject of prolonged fantasy fritter precious life away.  Both aspects place us firmly in the hands of those who only wish to make money from our folly.

We would do well to press this still very relevant message home again.

Bride Beware

‘Sailor Beware’ (1956) is a showcase for the reasons why Peggy Mount is rarely referred to without the preface “redoubtable” or “formidable”.  She plays the stereotypical “monster-in-law” with brass knobs on, terrorising everyone in a five mile radius with her dragonesque proclamations.  To say that she was born for that role is a subtle understatement.  A concept that her character, Emma Hornett, would have no grasp of at all.

‘Sailor Beware’ is a very humorous film.  It doesn’t take itself seriously and is aware that its characters are drawn simply and in one dimension.  It takes one aspect of a character and seizes upon it with comic gusto.  I don’t think that there is anything wrong in this as a light-hearted entertainment.  In fact I laughed myself silly, especially at the neighbour Mrs Lack, played by Thora Hird.  I would have liked to have seen her role extended.

This is a truly old fashioned film.  It’s unlikely that a modern screenplay would get away with such stock characters.  In particular, the nagging wife/mother-in-law and unfulfilled spinster sister (Esma Cannon) would now have to be shown as something other than one-dimensional if the film were to be taken seriously.  The ever delightful Esma’s character type is unknown these days.  Jilted at the altar, she never recovered and has spent the rest of her days living in her brother’s house, being bossed about by her sister-in-law.  Her deference to Emma’s superior status as a married woman is Austen-esque.  Thankfully, women’s status is no longer tied into marriage, rendering this type of character obsolete.

I would like to be able to say that the entire storyline, which centres around Emma’s daughter’s wedding, is also obsolete.  But unfortunately, for a reason I personally am unable to fathom, some women are still refusing to let go of the idea of a white wedding and a happy-ever-after.  People are still spending thousands of pounds (which they either don’t have, or would be better spent elsewhere) on an old custom, much like eating pudding at Christmas.  At the risk of offending some readers, I would say that the whole big wedding thing is a cry for attention from the insecure, and that the length of a marriage is often in direct proportion to the amount of money spent on it – the more money the shorter the lifespan. 

After all, it is only a hangover from a time when women were mere chattels going through a ceremony where she was transferred from her father’s possession into that of her husband.  Why perpetuate this when we are no longer bound to be defined by who we belong to?  Surely we are now sophisticated enough not to be defined by a Miss/Mrs title.  And why oh why do women still put themselves through the hassle of changing their surname?  Changing your address when you move house is bad enough. Why suddenly re-arrange your whole identity for the sake of tradition?  I just don’t get it.  Call me a bitter old spinster if you like, but I feel neither bitter nor spinsterish, I believe that I have the best of everything in being able to have children, have a career and keep my name, my identity, the one that I grew up with. 

These are the opportunities that we have – so why are some elements of the ‘Sailor Beware’ wedding so familiar to a 21^st Century audience?  The panic about the arrangements, the arrival of the cake, the silly white dress, the bride’s late arrival at the church to be “given away” by her father.  Still it goes on.  In some areas of life, I’d be all for keeping up old traditions, but there are some that we must resign to history.  Public hangings, for example.  We will never achieve true equality while we perpetuate this wedding language of “giving away” a woman to another family (as a breeding machine).  There are also stereotypes perpetuated by magazines and television about brides as controlling bridezillas determined to trap their passive man, which frankly I find offensive.  These stereotypes and language, like public hangings, must now be consigned to history.  We are all individuals.  Everyone should stop for a moment and think about this, then just get on with their lives as they are.  I would say to anyone contemplating marriage to watch ‘Sailor Beware’ and use it as a lesson on how laughably ridiculous the whole thing is.