In 1946, people in Britain wanted a chuckle. You could
hardly blame them, entertainment had been basically cancelled during the war
years, and small delights were still being rationed. The celebratory
consumerism going on in America wasn’t happening in British homes. Buildings
were still being repaired, families were still buckling down. Victory feels
different when you’ve been fighting on your own soil.
Over at Ealing Studios – the oldest continuously working
film studio in the world – the business had been kept alive with documentaries,
propaganda driven war films, and the odd symbolism-drenched thriller or two. But
it was time to get back to something light and cheerful. A well-earned bit of
jolliness.
So, Ealing went to work on Hue and Cry. It was the first instalment of a group of films that
are known as the Ealing Comedies. But instead of being an actual comedy, the film is more like a gangster story for kids.
Like that Disney one where everyone in Oliver Twist is dogs. (Lest we somehow
wind up with angry British film historians over here, Hue and Cry not only isn’t a comedy, per say, it also isn’t the very first comedy produced by Ealing.
But its financial success did kick off the new era, and it’s a great way to
wrap your head around the change because of its mishmash of genres.) Hue and Cry is well worth watching for
its location filming in a bombed out London, and it was well-received by
audiences.
The big brains at Ealing kept going with the new model,
picking up speed with a collection of beloved classics: The Lavender Hill Mob, Kind
Hearts and Coronets, The Ladykillers,
and The Man in the White Suit among
them. A keen-eyed reader might notice that these feature Ealing regular Alec
Guinness, and it’s fun to note for all of us who first saw him in Star Wars or Lawrence of Arabia, or even Smiley’s
People, that Alec Guinness started his career as a comedic leading man.
In 1951’s The Man in
the White Suit, he stars as Sidney Stratton, a young scientist who puts his
foot in it when he devotes himself to inventing a fabric that will never stain
or wear out. Along the way, he falls in love with the more beautiful but less
interesting of two women in his life, and falls afoul of both Big Textile and
the unions. Big Textile doesn’t want to sell a product it can never replace,
and the unions don’t want people to lose jobs as the demand for labour falls off
once the everlasting fabric starts hitting the market.
It’s sci-fi satire at its best, with a simple “what if”
premise and believably outlandish human responses.
Sidney, for his part, is completely oblivious to all the
social upheaval his breakthrough will bring. There’s a point towards the end
where his kindly old landlady chides scientists for never leaving “well enough
alone.” She takes in washing for extra money, and if clothes never need
washing, what’s she supposed to do then?
You think that this might be a turning point for Sid, but it
soon becomes obvious that he actually hasn’t learned a lesson from all this.
Nobody has. Nobody is better or wiser, they all just keep going until next
time. It’s a great ending, unless you prefer a big finish wrapped up in ribbon
and a white wedding. Which is perfectly fine to prefer, but in that case you’ll
probably hate this movie.
Visually, it’s super bright. It’s light and airy and full of
daylight splendor, which feels really unique and bold when you’re dealing with
a crazy inventor. The laboratory is a friendly, open space, the loading docks
are full of sunshine, even the offices of bitter men of means are cheerful to
look at.
Sidney’s fabric is startlingly white – it can’t stain, but
that also means it can’t be dyed – and it glows in the dark a little bit
because it’s slightly radioactive. He
has a suit made from it, and at first his wealthy girlfriend laughs at how
overwhelming it looks, but then tells him that the glow of it makes him look
like “a knight in shining armour.”
The suit’s glow is part of the charm of the final moments of
the film, which find Sidney hunted through the streets of a northern industrial
town in the dead of night, trying to get on the train to Manchester to protect
his revolutionary fabric. Even the night scenes are bright, by the way, and not
just because the suit acts like a flashlight, but because they’re not full of
expressionist shadows or narrow alleyways. They use big pieces of sky and open
roads between short, stout buildings.
Factory furnaces loom in the background, but not like
oppressive towers of Sauron, or belching symbols of corruption you might see in
a film noir. They’re simply the heart of the town. Everyone’s lives revolve
around the textile mill, and the textile mill is always present.
On the side of Big Textile are Hammer Horror regular Michael
Gough, and ubiquitous character actor Cecil Parker. Gough is the young man on
the make, Parker the father of Sidney’s love interest and owner of the mill. Joanne
Greenwood is Daphne, the leading lady, and she has the same problem all Joanne
Greenwood characters have: a total lack of relatability. This time around,
she’s brimming with her usual cold blonde sexuality, but there’s also a
manipulative quality to her interactions with Sidney that makes her seem out of
touch with the story at hand. And she’s absurdly wealthy, calling her father “daddy”
and pronouncing it “deddy” with her ear-splittingly upper crust accent, not
helping matters in the empathy department.
Representing the unions is Vida Hope as Birtha. She’s not as
seductive as Daphne, but Birtha seems to recognize more of who Sidney is rather
than who he wants to be, and her perspective of wanting to do what’s best for
everyone collides hilariously with Sidney’s idea of the same subject. She ends
up locking him in a basement apartment in a solid bit of physical comedy. Her
bossiness and warm heart are an interesting counterpoint to a flighty scientist,
but we wind up going with the traditional fantasy rich girl instead.
Supporting Birtha in representing the working class are
Patric Doonan as your typical blue collar type, and Edie Martin in a wonderful
turn as the landlady of the boarding house where Sidney and Birtha live.
All three groups – scientist, workers, factory owners – are as
wrong as they are right, of course. Sidney’s dream of inventing a fabric that
will save the average person money over time, with its implications for
durability in other textile categories like ship’s sails and reusable bags, is
as noble as his lack of understanding the major flaw is short-sighted. The
world isn’t set up for his invention just yet. And while Birtha and the workers
certainly deserve to have reliable jobs, the entire working class would benefit
from durable, long-lasting clothes that they almost never have to replace. The
factory owners are failing to see how human nature and the fashion industry
will ensure demand for their high-priced product, and that monopolizing the
ever-lasting fibre might be the best thing ever.
So which group is right? Is Sidney's improvement the next logical step, and society will have to adjust whether it wants to or not? Are jobs today more important that lower expenses tomorrow? Should business owners have the right to slow development of new innovations in order to better prepare themselves for the impact of competing products?
The Man in the White
Suit doesn’t look like American science fiction from the early 50’s, and it
doesn’t feel like it either. But
then, it doesn’t feel like what we’ve come to associate with British sci-fi
either. In 1955, just four years later, Ealing Studios would belong to the BBC
and become the home of the Quatermass
series and the original run of Doctor Who.
The aliens arrived, and the small near-future stories of how to wrangle
technological changes fell to the wayside.
But maybe they shouldn't have, because the questions they ask are ones we're still trying to answer today.
No comments:
Post a Comment