Martin Slidel

I had a problem with blackface since childhood, exposed to endless repeats of ‘The Black and White Minstrel Show’ on TV. Here, it mars an otherwise wonderful film. Even though so-called ‘minstrel’ acts were part of a long-ago musical landscape. It’s key because it transposes the final scene where a mask is stripped away. What remains, however, is a great film that demonstrates Hitchcock’s confidence anew. A top-drawer murder-mystery, well-paced and entertaining, in which an albeit gentler aspect of suspense is maintained. The story runs as smoothly as the wide-angled shots from one scene to the next. Hitchcock again goes for a pivotal close-up in which the viewer’s breath is held. Plus, a final sweeping crane-shot; also breath-taking. It must have been challenging to keep the momentum going; following the incredible ‘Sabotage’. It could seem that having the action transferred to the countryside (i.e. away from the ‘Noir’ aspects of the city) somewhat lessens the tension. Then again, neon is no match for former child star Nova Pilbeam's radiance. She carries the narrative superbly, almost as if alone. Leading man Derrick De Marney is a great match: their slow burn endearing, heart-wrenching and ultimately life-affirming. It’s impossible to mentally place oneself some 80 years back to a society with hardly any racial integration. Blackface represents racism. Does that make Hitchcock a racist? No. It is a narrative device. An offensive one.

Only notable now for its nostalgia and sentimentality, strangely unfunny yet strangely soothing, like most of the 1970s Spin-offs much is lost in translation from a TV skit to a feature-length. However, the soundtrack alone is legendary – and there can’t be many films which boast Pat Coombs as top-billing.

What to write about perfection? Or that hasn’t been written before? Other than to attempt to convey its often quite literal filmic brilliance: an unmissable item on every movie fan’s Must-See List. There is something very special conveyed at this level of film-making. Self-assured and confident, and always in control, the visual dialogue and its often-majestic beauty is again played against the twists and turns of every other form of dialogue and filmic choreography. This film would have secured Hitchcock’s reputation if he had never made another. An espionage thriller with Bond-esque moments including a moving-train chase, elements of mistaken identity (as later explored in ‘North by North West’) and windswept Scottish moors... it would make an excellent double-bill with ‘Skyfall’.

Consider this a B-movie pantomime and you’ll be fine. But as a progressive part of Hitchcock’s oeuvre? With hardly a trace of his genius evident, fans scratch their heads in befuddlement. Excepting the brief heart-stopping flourish of the final scene, the only comfort is the knowledge that even a master can produce a dud. The overall problem is its routine-ness. Laughton is great, yes, but not at his greatest – and dominates proceedings a little too much. Maureen O’Hara is wonderful on screen too – but surprisingly unconvincing as the desperate Irish orphan. Just as Laughton is a little too much, she comes across as a little too nice. The two aspects counterbalance but thus there is no fissure. It is as unconvincing as each plot ‘twist’ rolled-out with turgid doggedness. Likewise, there is no sexual fissure between O’Hara and her leading man. Again: Robert Newton is just too damn ‘nice’. It’s a jolt, with expectations so high. Not even a score by Eric Fenby or dialogue by JB Priestley can save it. One of the problems being that it’s, like everything else, a little too overstuffed with dialogue. A little too this, a little too that... never straight down the line. There seems no room to manoeuvre Hitch’s visual craft. Gone: silent shots, fast-cuts, suggestion, montage, camera effects. As if he wiped the palette clean. Perhaps it was necessary. Possibly, the pressure was too much; the artistic freedom overpowered. Perhaps Hitch was constrained by production demands or by the reach of Laughton’s star – instead of the more pliable ‘cattle’ whom he could mould to his needs. A stuffy historic drama, it would appear, was the last thing he needed. Although ‘Waltzes from Vienna’ sparkles in comparison. No surprise that Du Maurier hesitated before conferring the film rights to ‘Rebecca’. A pity that ‘Jamaica Inn’ makes a sorry end to a run of classics. And yet… in retrospect, even with some quarters considering it one of the worst of British films, its camp atmospherics render it still in the ‘classic’ mould. Which finally allows it some trace of lingering mystery... if only, as first stated, it is best regarded (though far from low budget) as a B-movie panto.

It’s difficult to write an honest review in retrospect of the outstanding Stewart/Day remake some two decades later. But these are uniquely different films. Each stand, likewise, for different reasons: both as great as the other. I cannot choose and why would I want to. In this version, for one monochrome reason, there seems greater reliance on the artistry of the lens and its varied effects. And so, this remains dark, creepy, intense… and quite horrifying in places. Yet daubed with the director’s rich sense of irony. As if applying pan-stick to the grin of a clown which in turn becomes something macabre. Edna Best is superb as the distraught mother. Hitchcock allows her full-rein and she takes hold skilfully. If (again, in retrospect) this disallows her quite the same level of emotional intensity as her successor. There is terrific acting all round. No one overdoes it under the master’s guiding hand. The unforgettable Peter Lorre remains eerily sadistic; he can still sneak under your skin; as if not acting at all but holding a mirror to the psyche. This seems to further reflect in the pewter-grey of London: every building, every space, every grimy cobblestone street and dusky streetlamp appear packed with character. Thus, the viewer is submersed into intrigue via this interplay between a carefully visualised story and the puppets it populates.

Overall, this film is witty, fast-paced, and visually stunning. Hitchcock consolidates his visual language which, as we now recognise, will hold him in very good stead. This is achieved by innovative camera shots, precise sequential editing, and the way in which the actors move and gesture. Evidently, the director is by now acutely aware of such intricacies of pictorial storytelling. The effect is engaging and entertaining, and elevates the melodrama above its origin. Like its predecessor, its plot meanders along of its own accord, although Hitchcock conjures a subtle element of intrigue during its final quarter. Betty Balfour is a talented actor, hugely charismatic, with adept comic timing. She is part of a terrific ensemble-cast of four. It’s great to see Gordon Harker playing the straight guy so masterfully. Hitchcock’s second comedy may not be as great as ‘The Farmer’s Wife’ but remains a pleasure to watch.

I enjoyed this film, if it appears lacklustre compared with previous efforts. What’s missing from this loose adaptation of Coward’s play is the witty dialogue. The remaining skeletal plot cannot sustain the visual demands of a Silent. Despite which, some of the cinematography, as to be expected, is just wonderful. Isobel Jeans also holds our attention. Overall, though, the outcome, more than engaging the viewer, seems an exercise in style. The familiar Hitchcockian darkness kicks-in by the last third but is only passingly suspenseful. That written, is it to judge by long-established expectations? A poor-quality print doesn’t help. The now-familiar theme of maternal intrusion unsettles from the start. The unavoidable interest, from today’s perspective, is what comes next…

This is one film that has not dated well but which shouldn’t be judged by today’s standards. Its premise is that the protagonist is shielding his mixed-race heritage. Worse, that he uses cross-dressing as a psychological shield. What ‘saves’ the film is that the white female love-interest knew all along. She prefers a death-sentence to exposing her lover, albeit shell-shocked into memory-lapse by his brutal actions. Once more, the ingredients for what should be classic Hitchcock. But he runs into problems. Yes, it’s a murder-mystery. Yes, he’d filmed the same previously. And more successfully too. Here, he seems not to have consolidated his skills. The onset of sound must have proved an additional challenge. His first Talkie was a blend of sound-and-silent. His second, a filmed play… In his third, it’s as if he’s simultaneously side-stepping the issue whilst continuing to explore it. Which is, in fact, rather clever. Because... it is in this exploratory sense that much of the film-making astounds. Both in the way that sound and image are choreographed – if often for separate purposes. Such as the chorusing voices of the jury. Or the dancing silhouettes of trilbies on a Big Top canvas. The murder scene, filmed in stillness (and silence) is unforgettable. As is the Dreyer-esque symbolism and camerawork in the film's final third: from the stark prison visit to the mesmeric circus. However, the first part of the film appears routine. The male lead, a do-it-yourself sleuth on whose charisma the story depends, is a perfunctory performance by Herbert Marshall. There’s a thin line between unravelling a mystery and dragging one’s heels. In early black-and-white, it is never thinner. If only someone had the courage or permission, this is one work of Hitch’s which would benefit from a thorough re-edit.

Rich and strange… refers to the Shakespearean idiom of a sea-change, as quoted in the film. Likewise, a more antiquated definition of ‘rich’ underlines its double meaning as explored in this oddest of tales… A story which plays-out in a serio-comic manner, and very successfully too. Although the main characters experience seismic shifts in perspective, the narrative comes back where it started, in a precursory ‘Wizard of Oz’ fashion. All the while, Hitchcock plays the viewer against expectation. There’s much to love about what is essentially a Talkie made by a silent movie-maker. Replete with title-cards and why not. It is Hitchcock pulling-out all the stops. He abandons the stifling claustrophobia of ‘The Skin Game’. Instead opting for a fast-paced, fast-cut, and essentially visual narrative. It is a splendid travelogue, rich indeed, and as painstakingly choreographed as ever. The blast of the opening sequence makes for a stand-alone Art House short, evoking instant recognition from any Londoner. Just one of many exquisitely-crafted filmic events. There are many enjoyable twists. Some baffling, some funny, some terrifying. Joan Barry is a pleasure to watch. Like Anny Ondra before her, she possesses a natural beauty and presence upon which the film comes to rely. A pity her husband (played by Henry Kendall) behaves like a pig. Despite which, as their trials deepen, we find ourselves rooting for the couple. The ending, a happy one, further atones; being far more hard-won than can be predicted. “Doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange…” is what Hitchcock strives for with every new work. A highly memorable film, with a pleasingly poetic arc.

‘Number Seventeen’ also commences as a silent movie before broaching into an effective ‘picture of sound’. It further strays into Film Noir but with a healthy dash of the director’s dry wit. It’s a great ensemble cast if no one member – apart from Leon M. Lion as the roguish hobo – stands out. This may be a saving grace though, considering the interwoven story-lines. Indeed, the main character in the first half is the shadowy and rickety staircase. This is replaced when all action transfers onto the outside of a thundering train. Whilst the narrative steams along relentlessly… Part Whodunnit, part before-its-time action movie, part spy thriller… Cinemagoers were perplexed. But witness Hitch’s delight in keeping them on the edge. By today’s standards it gains ground. I found it terrific fun.