The Films of Joseph Losey examines the career of the expatriate director

through a close analysis of five of his most important and challenging films.
When his leftist politics made him a target of the House Committee on Un-
American Activities in 1951, the blacklisted Losey left the United States and
continued his film career in England. Concerned mainly with the use and
abuse of power inherent in intimate relationships, Losey also explored these
issues as manifested in institutions and social classes. His finest films attack
the injustices and hypocrisy rooted in the privileges of the English class
system and frequently depict the moral failure of characters who betray
their best instincts. The Films of Joseph Losey also discusses Losey’s close
working relationship with playwright-screenwriter Harold Pinter and actor
Dirk Bogarde, his experimental form of storytelling, the psychological com-
plexity of characters acting as narrators of their own stories, and the intricate
handling of time in the structure of his films. Close studies of King and
Country, The Servant, Accident, The Go-Between, and The Romantic En-
glishwoman confirm Losey’s stature as a director of powerful and compel-
ling films of both moral importance and great formal complexity.
BLANK PAGE
The Films of Joseph Losey
 CAMBRIDGE FILM CLASSICS

General Editor: Raymond Carney, Boston University

Other books in the series:

Peter Bondanella, The Films of Roberto Rossellini

Sam B. Girgus, The Films of Woody Allen
Robert Phillip Kolker and Peter Beicken, The Films of Wim Wenders
Scott MacDonald, Avant-Garde Film
James Naremore, The Films of Vincente Minnelli
Scott Simmon, The Films of D. W. Griffith
David Sterritt, The Films of Alfred Hitchcock
Maurice Yacowar, The Films of Paul Morrissey
 JAMES PALMER
University of Colorado, Boulder

MICHAEL RILEY
Claremont McKenna College

CAMBRIDGE
iy UNIVERSITY PRESS
 Published by the Press Syndicate of the University of Cambridge
The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge cB2 IRP
40 West 20th Street, New York, Ny 1roo11-4211, USA
10 Stamford Road, Oakleigh, Victoria 3166, Australia

© Cambridge University Press 1993

First published 1993

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Palmer, James, 1940—
The films of Joseph Losey / James Palmer, Michael Riley.
p. cm. — (Cambridge film classics)
Filmography: p.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-521-38386-2 (hc). — ISBN 0-521-38780-9 (pb)
1. Losey, Joseph — Criticism and interpretation. 1. Riley,
Michael, 1935— . Il. Title. III. Series.
PN1998.3.L68P35 1993
791.43 /0233'092 — dc2o 92-37480
CIP

A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. _

ISBN 0-521-38386-2 hardback

ISBN 0-521-38780-9 paperback ,
 To Sue, Sydney, and Sarah — without whom
even movies are meaningless
J.P.

To French Fogle and the memory of Fred Mulhauser

and Beverle Houston — whose wise counsel and generous
friendship made a great difference
M.R.
BLANK PAGE
 Contents

Acknowledgments page 1x
1 “Pictures of Provocation” 1
Country 16
2 ‘What Beauty Is There, What Anguish”: King and

3 “An Extension of Reality”: The Servant 42

4 ‘The Inner Violence”: Accident 64
5 “The Annihilation of Time”: The Go-Between 90
6 “The Arrival of Strangers”: The Romantic Englishwoman 117

Notes 148
7 “No Ready-Made Answers” 145

Filmography 155
Works Cited 168
Index 171
Vil
BLANK PAGE
 Acknowledgments

Several institutions and numerous friends and colleagues made valuable

contributions to this book. We thank Madeline Matz of the Library of
Congress, Larry Gordon of Arlington Properties, and the UCLA Film Ar-
chive for making it possible for us to view films that were otherwise un-
available. The staff of the Center for Motion Picture Study at the Academy
of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was always helpful. So, too, Scott
Woodland and his staff at Boulder’s Video Station, surely one of the coun-
try’s premier video stores, were unfailingly expert, cheerful, and patient.
We are especially grateful to those who read and commented on various
drafts of the manuscript. Les Brill and Langdon Elsbree read it in its entirety
with characteristic rigor and sympathetic interest. Cathy Comstock, Paul
Gordon, Marian Keane, Susan Linville, and Nick Warner read various chap-
ters and offered comments that helped us sharpen our argument. The late
Beverle Houston read an early version of the chapter on Accident and made
valuable suggestions with her usual critical insight and generosity. In En-
gland Brian Davis helped with details in the discussion of King and Country,
and David Caute, Joseph Losey’s biographer, kindly offered astute com-
ments and checked the accuracy of the biographical passages and the film-
ography. We also thank Mary Losey Field for her assistance and good
wishes.
We are grateful to Rubin Rabinovitz and Bryan Bach for being generous
with their time and computer expertise. In Boulder Hazel Barnes, Virgil
Grillo, and Nancy Hill have offered steadfast support over the years, as has
Bob Fossum in Claremont. Special thanks are due Bruce Kawin for originally
suggesting this project. Our thanks also to Beatrice Rehl of Cambridge
University Press and Raymond Carney, general editor of Cambridge Film

1x
Classics, for their enthusiasm and support, and to Robert Racine and Mary
Racine for their meticulous editing.
Several of the ideas in this book profited from the keen questions and
comments of students in a course on film narrative at Claremont McKenna
College. Particular acknowledgment is due Lucia Chapelle, Hilly Hicks,
Broderick Miller, Peter Otte, and Kevin Walder.
For permission to reproduce frame enlargements we thank British Home
Entertainment (King and Country), Daniel Angel and Dial Trading Limited
(The Romantic Englishwoman), and Weintraub Entertainment Limited (The
Servant, Accident, and The Go-Between). Our thanks to the editor of Col-
lege Literature and the CWRU Film Society for permission to use previously
published material. Portions of Chapter 3 appeared as “‘ ‘An Extension of
Reality’: Setting as Theme in The Servant,”’ Mise-en-Scéne 2 (1980), and of
Chapter 5 as “Time and Memory in The Go-Between,” College Literature
3 (1978).
We are also grateful to Claremont McKenna College and the University
of Colorado for grants to help defray the cost of obtaining permissions and
frame enlargements.

x
 I
ictures of
CG P y

Provocation”

The expatriate American director Joseph Losey (1909-84) claimed his place _
among important filmmakers with such rich films as The Servant (1963),
King and Country (1964), Accident (1967), The Go-Between (1971), and
The Romantic Englishwoman (1975). His reputation, however, remains
unjustifiably problematic. For some he is an allegorist detached from his
characters, for others principally a stylist with a penchant for the gothic.
Admittedly the body of his work includes both great achievements and failed
aspirations; masterful films stand amid misbegotten efforts such as Modesty
Blaise (1966) and Boom! (1968). Moreover, critics have disagreed radically
about the very nature and characteristics of his work. The French critic
Gilles Jacob, for example, writes of Losey’s ‘‘unshakable faith in human
nature” (1966, 64), whereas Foster Hirsch concludes that the “world-view”
in his films is “essentially negative, their sense of the possibilities of human
nature and society deeply pessimistic’’ (1980, 220). The effort to see Losey’s
achievement whole has been further complicated by the drama of his per-
sonal history and the several ways of dividing his filmmaking career. After
only five feature films in the United States, in the years 1948—51, he was
blacklisted and moved to England, never making another film in his own
country although he expressed the desire to do so and, on at least one
occasion, nearly succeeded. Given the blacklist and Losey’s subsequent exile,
the most obvious division of his films is between those produced in Hol-
lywood and those after. But the films he made after Hollywood can also be
divided between the English and the European, and the three films he made
from screenplays by Harold Pinter can be distinguished from his other
English films made both before and after their collaboration. Despite these
complications and the range of critical opinions, an overview of Losey’s
films reveals a major filmmaker profoundly committed to his art, always
I
growing in his command of his medium, willing to take risks that would
have daunted a lesser artist, and at his best the director of an impressive
number of exhilarating and complex narrative films.
Losey’s position as an expatriate who made films in several countries led
to his own amused comment in an interview in American Film that “‘there’s
quite a good deal of confusion in the world as to what I am, in terms of a
director. The French now think I’m English. A lot of the English think I’m
English. The Italians think I’m French.... Anyway, it’s unimportant, isn’t
it? I wanted to make some pictures because I think that I have a certain
distance that has made it possible for me to comment on certain European
societies and situations in ways that perhaps otherwise I couldn’t have done”
(1980, 59—60). Losey’s outsider status worked both for and against him;
he was “‘at home”’ everywhere and nowhere. As he suggested, he could bring
the fresh perspective of a cultural outsider to conflicts arising from the class
system in England or, in a late film like La Truite (1982), from the sexual
mores of contemporary France. But his status as an independent director
also meant continual struggles to get financing for his various projects (more
than sixty aborted projects, not to mention the loss of the final editing rights
on Eve [1962], a film the producers recut and shortened by some forty
minutes, thus destroying Losey’s original conception of “a film which I
think came as close to being a great film as I had ever achieved’ [Ciment
1985, 222]). His disappointment with Eve, however, was followed by the
great success of the first of his three extraordinary films with Harold Pinter,
The Servant, which marked a turning point in his career.
As his many interviews reveal, Losey was an artist who thought long and
deeply about his work, a man of exceptional candor, as ready to judge some
of his films harshly as to express his pleasure in others. (He liked The Prowler
[1951], The Servant, and Accident, for instance, but of The Gypsy and the
Gentleman [1958], he confessed with some dismay, “I think it’s largely a
piece of junk, and I’d just as soon nobody saw it again” [Gow 1971, 39].)
He was also generous in his praise of his collaborators: designers John
Hubley, Alexandre Trauner, and especially Richard MacDonald, with
whom he often worked and who, in Losey’s words, “contributed genius’”’;
writers Evan Jones, Alun Owen, David Mercer, Tennessee Williams, and
of course Pinter; cinematographer Gerry Fisher; editors Reginald Beck and
Reginald Mills; actors such as Stanley Baker, who had some of his best
roles (Blind Date [1959], The Criminal [1960], and Accident) in Losey’s
films, and preeminently Dirk Bogarde, whose five films with Losey, including
three to be discussed in this book, were instrumental in transforming a
popular leading man in England into one of the finest screen actors in the
2
world. Losey’s expressed admiration for these and other fellow artists was
returned in the form of repeated collaborations, evidence of a bond of
sympathy and trust that he referred to more than once and that obviously
gratified him deeply. ,
In an art-industry beset by a persistent conflict between artistic aspirations
and commercial timidity, by a disheartening number of projects planned
but unfulfilled, Losey’s frustrations with producers, financiers, and distrib-
utors both in the United States and abroad were perhaps not greater than
those of other major filmmakers. The topic is a sad commonplace in the
careers of most of his peers. But in light of his considerable achievements,
Losey’s unrealized hopes for films based on Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor
of Casterbridge, Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo, and most of all, with Harold
Pinter, Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu further suggest the
imposing range of his interests and the high ambition of his artistry. One
can only lament that Losey never had the chance to make these and other
films he planned. Many of the films that he did make, however — those we
discuss and others we have reluctantly excluded for reasons of space — linger
in the memory and compel an admiration that belongs only to an artist of
the first rank. More importantly, as this book will argue, several of Losey’s
finest films challenge and expand one’s understanding of film as a narrative
medium in their bold exploration of narration as an informing principle of
cinematic form and expression.

At present, the most detailed account of Losey’s life and the best source for
biographical information is Michel Ciment’s Conversations with Losey
(1985), which is based on a series of interviews that begins with a discussion
of Losey’s early years and continues through his comments on La Truite,
his next to last film.* The book concludes with an afterword by his widow
Patricia Losey, who collaborated closely with him over a number of years
and who adapted Nell Dunn’s stage play for his last film, Steaming (1985).
Losey’s candor, his views of his professional frustrations, his self-criticism,
his generosity toward his collaborators, his insecurities, his commitment to
his art — all come through with clarity and sometimes wry wit in his extended
talks with Ciment. From these interviews, one has an overview not only of
the period of his greatest successes, but also of his formative years, his
education, his politics, and his apprenticeship in the world of theater and
film.
Losey’s Midwest background helped both to define him and to provide
a culture against which he could rebel. Born in La Crosse, Wisconsin, to
3
parents of English, Dutch, and German extraction, he recalled to Ciment
his early memories of big houses, large family gatherings, and an Aunt Mary
whose “‘Proustian”’ house full of Japanese prints and porcelain from around
the world provided hospitality for touring celebrities such as Ford Madox
Ford, Mark Twain, and Hamlin Garland. Losey also commented on his
Episcopalian training, his mother’s snobbishness, and the pervasive preju-
dices (anti-Catholic, anti-Semitic, anti-Norwegian) of a small-town com-
munity. When he was sixteen, his father died suddenly of peritonitis; he
recalled his subsequent relationship with his mother as difficult and distant,
and he was to see her infrequently after he left Wisconsin for Dartmouth
College in 1925. In his senior year at Dartmouth Losey broke his back in
a freak theater accident. A year in the hospital, which he spent reading and
studying, led him to change from medical studies (‘“‘a completely false vo-
cation that I’d imposed on myself’) to theater and English literature; after
graduation, he completed a masters degree in English at Harvard in 1930.
“The back thing was a blessing in disguise,” he told Ciment, ‘“‘as the black
list was a blessing in disguise. The catastrophies in my life seemed to have
always worked out for my benefit” (1985, 22).
In 1931 and again in 1935 Losey traveled to Europe. On the latter trip
he visited Russia, where he met Vsevolod Meyerhold, the actor and avant-
garde theater director, and even directed an English-language production
of Clifford Odets’s Waiting for Lefty in Moscow. He briefly thought of
staying in Russia, but was talked out of the idea by a member of the Politburo
who, he later said with characteristic candor, “‘was really like a breath of
fresh air because he cut through all of my nonsense, my idealistic nonsense”’
(Ciment 1985, 41). In the thirties, Losey became a Marxist, and later in
Hollywood he joined the Communist party, a move that was to have a great
and disturbing impact on his life. Living in New York City throughout the
thirties, he first wrote theater reviews, then worked as a stage manager, and
eventually directed plays, working with such writers as Sinclair Lewis and
Maxwell Anderson. His New York experience was a blend of theater, pol-
itics, and film that led him to work for such politically oriented groups as
The Living Newspaper, the Federal Theater, the Political Cabaret, and even-
tually to begin making educational and documentary films. When the war
broke out, Losey worked for the United War Relief and then volunteered
for the Air Corps, but a dossier of his political activities thwarted his en-
listment, and he spent the better part of a year working in radio for NBC.
Ironically, before the war ended, he was drafted into the army and ended
up making films in the Signal Corps.
After the war, Losey worked for MGM, directing a short film, A Gun in
4
His Hand (1945), that received an Academy Award nomination. His chance
to direct his first Hollywood feature came when Dore Schary, executive
producer at RKO, asked him to make The Boy with Green Hair with
producer Adrian Scott. But when Scott was subpoenaed in 1947 to appear
before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, production plans
for the film were suspended. Meanwhile Losey helped stage a large rally at
the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles for the defenders of the Hollywood
Nineteen (before the Nineteen became the Hollywood Ten), and soon after
this event, he mounted a celebrated stage production of his close friend
Bertolt Brecht’s Galileo, starring Charles Laughton, which was presented
in Los Angeles just prior to Brecht’s appearance before the HUAC and
subsequent hurried departure for Europe. A few months later the production
was also staged in New York. Despite these highly visible public activities,
Losey somehow survived the first round of blacklisting. Dore Schary again
asked him to direct The Boy with Green Hair, but of course without Scott
as producer. (Schary was himself fired by RKO’s owner, Howard Hughes,
before The Boy with Green Hair [1948] was completed.) This antiracist,
pro-peace allegory or fable, which remains popular today, was attacked as
a “red” film, a film that, according to Losey, “Hughes tried his best to
change”’; failing that, Hughes threatened him with a message about his
contract: “‘ “You'll stay here for seven years and you'll never work’ ”’ (Ciment
1985, 82). Finally, his friendship with Brecht, his defense of Adrian Scott,
his sponsorship of composer Hans Eisler (brother of Gerhardt Eisler, the
head of the Communist party in East Germany), and his own party mem-
bership all made him vulnerable when the HUAC investigations were revived
in 1951.
Losey’s blacklisting has been much commented on by himself and others,
and it certainly played a crucial role in the direction his career was to take.
Without going into great detail, any summary of his attitudes about the
blacklisting — about the witch-hunting, the scapegoating, and the betrayal
by friends and colleagues — reveals one essential thing, and that is Losey’s
concern for maintaining a sense of personal integrity both during and after
the blacklisting era. As he commented in a radio interview later:
There is the terrible problem — how to be honest, as honest as one
can. How not to betray, or seem to betray... what one believed and
did in extreme youth — whether in the 1930’s or during the war or in
the post-war period. I don’t think anyone in his right mind wants to
say “I didn’t do this, I didn’t stand for this, or I stood for this because
I was a dupe,” or whatever the escape-hatches may be. Because those

5
 attitudes or those points of view — no matter how limited they might
have been or whatever caused them at the time — they are what one
has developed from. They are part of what one is. And if you deny
them, you do yourself and everyone else a great disservice, because
then you obscure instead of clarifying. (“Speak, Think, Stand Up”
1970, 60)

In Victor Navasky’s Naming Names, Losey gives a fascinating account of

the events surrounding his being named a Communist, and of his betrayer
who some years later offered him an attractive film project that he turned
down (1980, 357-59). Controversy marked Losey’s film career from its
inception, and the political turmoil of the late forties and early fifties in
America eventually turned him from a Hollywood director into an expatriate
director. Ironically, as Losey told Gene Phillips: “In a way my being black-
listed was one of the best things that ever happened to me because it forced
me to go to Europe to continue my career as a film maker. Otherwise I
might have stayed on in Hollywood merely making money instead of making
pictures I want to make. What could be worse than that?” (1976, 34—5).
Speaking about the didactic qualities of his first two Hollywood features,
The Boy with Green Hair and The Lawless (1950), Losey succinctly put
into perspective the kind of films he made not only in the United States,
but for his first several years in England:

They were what is called “‘message”’ pictures. And they were made by
a man — me — and other men and women, who thought we knew the
answers or thought we could find answers. I stopped somewhere along
the line — I guess at Eve maybe — making that kind of picture, and
have been much more interested in making pictures of provocation:
that is, opening up the mind so people have to examine situations and
attitudes and come to their own conclusions. (Ciment 1985, 97)

Interestingly, for a few critics the early melodramas in Hollywood are Lo-
sey’s finest. The French critic Pierre Rissient, for example, argues in his book
Losey (1966) that the American films are his best, simple, unpretentious,
and the more successful for these traits. But Losey himself never concurred
in this assessment. With typical frankness he told Ciment that The Boy with
Green Hair “‘certainly is obviously a first film” (1985, 88). He was dissat-
isfied with the studio settings (they seemed unrealistic to Losey, who knew
from his own experience what small towns were like and who would have
preferred location shooting) and frustrated in trying to deal with the film’s
mix of fantasy and reality, notably in the war orphan scene that was shot
6
in a studio-built glade and even in the charming song and dance fantasy
with Pat O’Brien and veteran vaudevillean Walter Catleff. Losey also felt
that the film was compromised by mixing a pro-peace message into what
was “basically an allegory about racism” (Milne 1968, 66). Similarly, al-
though he liked The Lawless, Losey told Milne that the film was ‘“‘very
primitive as a piece of work” (1968, 83), one that, as he said to James
Leahy, “‘belongs to a very early period of thinking for me....I was still
trying to get out of my system, I suppose, some of the things which were
very much a part of me in the thirties and early forties” (1967, 34—5).
Despite Losey’s perceptive criticism of his early films, this stage in his
career reveals something more than merely a politically committed neophyte |
director learning his craft. For instance, The Boy with Green Hair, quite
apart from its troubled production history, merits attention not just as the
first feature of a filmmaker who went on to a distinguished career, but as
a film that demonstrates its director’s already considerable strengths. What-
ever its limits, the film remains not just a well-meaning if obvious work of
earnest social criticism, but a promising film of charm and sensitivity,
marked by excellent performances by Pat O’Brien, Robert Ryan, and es-
pecially the twelve-year-old Dean Stockwell. Indeed Losey’s skill with actors
would be remarked on by many performers who worked with him subse-
quently. The film contains affecting scenes of prejudice and betrayal by the
boy’s peers and the community’s leaders. The boy’s green hair, more effective
as a symbol of his individuality, his “color” difference, than as a symbol
of renewal or peace, is, with the townspeople’s approval, cut off in the
barbershop scene that is simultaneously poignant and discomfiting. Adults
and children alike witness the shaving of the boy’s head, revealing the power
of their conformist thinking and, ironically, compromising their own in-
dividuality as well. Thus, in his first film Losey expressed a theme that he
would turn to again and again — the cowardly and ultimately hypocritical
responses of characters confronting ethical dilemmas in which they betray
themselves as well as others.
Although Losey ascribed to The Prowler, his third film, ‘‘a kind of Hol-
lywood polish which I don’t admire and don’t strive for,” he also counted
it ‘a very smooth picture... which really doesn’t date” (Ciment 1985, 104).
Certainly, of his early films it is the one that best suggests the directions his
mature work would take. Written by Hugo Butler and Dalton Trumbo,
both of whom were to be blacklisted (Trumbo was uncredited because he
had already been identified as one of the Hollywood Ten), The Prowler is
an effective film noir about a morally adrift policeman who contrives to
murder a beautiful woman’s older husband (allegedly mistaking him for a
7
prowler) in order to get the woman and her money for himself. If the plot
seems conventional film noir fare for the early fifties, Losey’s handling of
the material pushes against the somewhat overworked patterns of the genre.
The character of the wife Susan (Evelyn Keyes), for instance, reverses the
usual femme fatale. Unlike the wife in Double Indemnity, who betrays her
lover after luring him into murdering her husband, Susan is the one ma-
nipulated. She responds ambivalently to Garwood (Van Heflin), the police-
man who becomes her lover, one minute defending her husband and
rejecting Garwood’s advances and the next desperate in her desire for him.
An easy mark for the hypocritical cop, she becomes Garwood’s unknowing
accomplice, playing her role perfectly because she is unaware of his schemes.
Materialistic and manipulative, Garwood is a predator who will not be
deterred. Although the initial prowler is never seen (the opening camera
shot constitutes the viewer’s voyeuristic gaze and Susan’s discovery of our
look), Garwood quickly becomes the prowling intruder. His successful
schemes founded on deceiving others are based on self-deception as well.
But however crudely ambitious, Garwood is something more than a card-
board character. Both calculating and naive, crass and genuinely confused
by his conflicting values that make him see Susan as his ticket to the good
life and his only hope for a relationship that will break through his loneliness,
Garwood is an alternately repellent and pathetic victim of his self-destructive
action. In his moral and psychological isolation, he seems oddly to pursue
loneliness even as he tries to live out his dream.
Significantly, in its provocative study of the policeman, The Prowler an-
ticipates two elements that will appear with increasing frequency in Losey’s
films — his complex use of physical settings as an element of characterization,
and the motif of the intruder. The married couple’s large and somewhat
vulgar house so impressive to the envious policeman; the motel that he buys
with the money gained from his murder of the husband and marriage to
the unwitting widow; and the stark desert ghost town in which his corrupt
dream comes to an end — all reveal the hapless murderer’s character and
his perverse enactment of an American success story. Like so many of Losey’s
characters, Garwood is not just a loner but an intruder, an outsider who
enters a closed social world only to disrupt or subvert that world or be
destroyed by it. In Garwood’s case, both of these things happen. Indeed, in
many respects he is a quintessential Losey character — competitive, hypo-
critical, manipulative, sexually opportunistic, internally divided, and self-
destructive. Garwood is the progenitor of Barrett in The Servant, Stephen
in Accident, and Robert Klein in Mr. Klein (1976), a man whose temporary
success in fulfilling his dream ultimately damns him.
8
 With his Hollywood career brought to a close by the HUAC investigations
and the resulting blacklisting of directors, writers, and actors on the political
left, Losey directed in Italy in 1952 the first film to be made abroad by a
blacklisted artist (Stranger on the Prowl [Imbarco a Mezzanotte]). Even-
tually settling in England, he directed several films, including The Sleeping
Tiger (1954) and The Intimate Stranger (1956), under various pseudonyms
— using for the latter film the name Joseph Walton (his first and middle
names).* (The Intimate Stranger seems a displaced paradigm for the situation
confronting a victim of the blacklist; its plot centers on an American film
editor on the Hollywood “bad boys” list, now a successful executive pro-
ducer in England, whose career is nearly ruined when an American woman
unjustly accuses him of a past affair.) Ironically, with these two films, and
Time Without Pity (1957) and Blind Date (1959), Losey continued to col-
laborate with fellow American victims of the blacklist, including Carl Fore-
man, Howard Koch, Ben Barzman, and Millard Lampell. But, importantly,
because the prohibitions of the blacklist often extended to English films
with American financial backing or dependent on American distribution
(Time Without Pity was an exception), he had no control over his material,
which was basically routine studio melodrama.
“Partly because of the typecasting nonsense in Hollywood,” Losey told
Milne, “‘after my first film I had been cast in the role of a director of
melodrama. So of course when I began to work again here, I was, in the
case of The Sleeping Tiger, handed a piece of sensational melodrama” (1968,
43). The Sleeping Tiger is little more than a Freudian melodrama wherein
a psychiatrist studies the criminal mind by taking a delinquent (Dirk Bogarde
in his first Losey film) into his home, thus creating a situation that threatens
the psychiatrist’s marriage to a younger American woman whose passionate
nature is barely concealed beneath her gratifications in the material and
class advantages of her marriage. Time Without Pity, which also has Freud-
ian overtones, attacks capital punishment in a tale of a guilt-ridden, alcoholic
father fighting the clock, the bottle, the authorities, and the real murderer
to save his falsely accused son from execution. A more interesting film, Blind
Date, is a skillful murder mystery with a clever twist, certainly not political
except in the most extended sense. The film’s most vital relationship is
between the accused, a naive young Dutch artist involved with the discon-
tented wife of an important Englishman who has powerful establishment
connections, and a rude Welsh detective (Stanley Baker in his first film with
Losey) who is determined to expose the truth of the crime regardless of
social consequences and pressure from his own departmental superiors. The
Criminal, whose original script Losey judged “‘very, very bad... a parody
9
of a Warner Brothers prison film” (Ciment 1985, 184), emerges from the
later script by Alun Owen as both an evocative exposé of English prison
life and a character study of an independent but small-time operator who
dies when he competes with a formidable criminal syndicate whose power
he does not comprehend.
These films, along with The Damned (1963), an effective polemic against
the horrors of nuclear warfare, are not insignificant. Their importance,
however, lies principally in what they reveal of Losey’s growing sense of
how to merge themes that mattered to him with the power of individualized
characters set within particular social worlds, which are revealed by complex
cinematic means. Losey acknowledged both his need for and frustration
with the message films of this period in his artistic growth when, in speaking
to Milne about Time Without Pity, which was adapted from a successful
mystery melodrama by Emlyn Williams, he said: ‘“We had to turn it upside
down to try to make it into something with ‘something to say.’ I think by
this time I and others in my position were somewhat hysterical in our
hammering out, no matter how small the point, and probably somewhat
bitter too” (1968, 44). As his work matured — and as he gained more control
over his choice of material — Losey backed away from the temptations of
melodrama. Even when melodramatic elements were inescapably part of a
story, he sought to undercut the more obvious aspects. In Time Without
Pity, for example, unlike the play on which it was based, the identity of the
murderer is revealed at the very beginning of the film. Increasingly, Losey
made his way to the center of a personal vision that outgrew (without
forsaking) his simpler outrage at social or political injustice. Social themes,
even “messages,” had not lost their significance for him altogether, but they
were subsumed by more complex attitudes and artistic forms. Thus, he
remarked to Milne after the release of Accident: ‘There aren’t any ready-
made answers.... You can only provide a stimulation which I think at its
best is some sort of complete artistic statement, which therefore is form and
emotion” (42). This formulation — art as a fusion of form and emotion —
is the key to understanding the development of Losey’s artistic temperament
and achievement.
Losey’s personal artistic struggle became one of understanding the com-
plexities and ambiguities of his characters’ sexual obsessions and will to
power, which are inextricably bound to their moral failings and their self-
destructiveness. As he told Milne, ““With Eve I wanted to make a picture —
as I still and always do — about the particular destruction and anguish and
waste of most sexual relations, whether heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual
or whatever” (1968, 27). Eve, The Servant, Accident, The Go-Between,
IO
 The Romantic Englishwoman, La Truite, even his elegant film of Mozart’s
Don Giovanni (1979) — all testify to Losey’s enduring fascination with this
subject in its different cultural contexts and with its interrelated themes of
~ class conflict, personal ambition, hypocrisy, and betrayal. What substitutes
for the overt violence of the earlier melodramas is a pervasive atmosphere
of anxiety, of threat, of suppressed or inner violence. Rather than a psy-
chology of tidy answers that a film like The Sleeping Tiger provides, Losey
came to understand what Robert Bresson stated epigrammatically in Notes
on Cinematography: “No psychology (of the kind which discovers only
what it can explain)” (1977, 39). For a director so often accused of didac-
ticism, Losey made films after his early years that are surprisingly free of
explanations and answers. Instead, what he discovered and presented most
lucidly through the sophisticated narrative structures and narrational strat-
egies of his best work is an ineluctable mystery at the heart of human nature
and human behavior. Losey’s films neither insist on nor ignore causality;
instead his characters are more often compelled by motives that are am-
biguous or uncertain rather than simple or straightforward.
Some critics have misunderstood Losey’s sense of the ambiguity or mys-
tery of characters, finding in him a cool detachment, a preference for ar-
gument rather than a concern for individual suffering and loss. “At heart
a symbolist,” Foster Hirsch called him, “infatuated with moral and political
metaphors” (1980, 11), a teller of tales of “haunted, pursued characters...
emblematic of a larger social or political reality” (218). Losey himself would
have acknowledged this tendency in his early films, but his attitudes in later
films toward such characters as Hamp and Hargreaves in King and Country
or Leo Colston in The Go-Between argue against such a judgment overall.
Looking back on his films, Losey referred to an earlier period (Time Without
Pity, Blind Date, The Criminal) in which “the characters were beginning
to develop as real people” (Milne 1968, 46). Simple dramatic plausibility
was no longer adequate; characters began to be defined by their own psy-
chological and moral nature rather than by the social themes of the films.
It is precisely the human drama that Losey had in mind when he spoke of
“dealing with a subject which is harsh and cruel... as in the case of Accident,
The Servant or King and Country...[and trying] to handle it, as I have
tried to, so that people can see what beauty is there, what anguish, and
have some compassion and understanding...” (31). Indeed, anyone willing
to look at Losey’s films openly — that is, without preconceived dicta often
as rigid as any Losey himself was ever accused of — will discover in them
an insight and responsiveness to the purely human plight of his characters
that is far removed from conceiving of them as mere emblems.
II
 Like pronouncements about his supposed detachment from characters,
criticism of Losey’s style as visually excessive or overelaborate in a particular
film is often silently extended to an evaluation of his work overall. Although
frequently commented on, his style has been discussed for the most part
only in a general way, and the narration in some of his best films hardly at
all. The term that critics, both admiring and hostile, have most often invoked
is ““baroque,”’ which Losey objected to not as inherently derogatory or
inappropriate to some of his films, but as an encompassing, pseudoexplan-
atory label applied to his films collectively. But just what constitutes a
baroque film? An apparent ornamentation, perhaps, or a self-conscious
elaboration? The films of Ken Russell come to mind, as do those of other,
lesser directors for whom the spectacle of their medium seems more com-
pelling than their stories and characters. But “Eve was a properly baroque
film,”’ Losey believed, “because it was dealing with a baroque city, a baroque
period, and essentially a baroque group of characters. It’s the labelling that’s
troublesome” (Milne 1968, 56). By contrast, he described The Servant, King
and Country, and Accident as made from scripts that ‘“‘were complete in
one way or another in themselves; they were entities, had their own style,
from which one could develop a cinematic style” (48).
There are, of course, ongoing traces of a personal signature in Losey’s
films, which he believed not so much necessary as inevitable in an artist’s
work. In part this is a function of his unusually close and continuing re-
lationship with the same few designers — particularly Richard MacDonald,
who worked with Losey repeatedly, even on films where he was not credited
as production designer. Losey’s meticulous attention to visual detail was
typically in the service not of verisimilitude but of stylization, “‘breaking
down reality and reconstructing it in terms of selected things that made it
possible for audiences to see only what you wanted them to see” (Ciment
1985, 167). His oft-noted fondness for mirrors in the mise-en-scéne, for
example, is not merely a stylistic flourish or affectation, as both The Servant
and The Romantic Englishwoman make clear. In both of these films mirrors
hang in houses whose decor intimately expresses the narcissism, the preoc-
cupation with self and identity that consumes their inhabitants. “I think
places are actors,” Losey once said. “(Houses in Secret Ceremony [1968],
Accident, The Servant, these are characters for me, and they influence im-
mensely the actions of the people who are put there’”’ (Milne 1968, 268,
270). The same can be said of the fierce landscape in Figures in a Landscape
(1970) against which the characters play out a drama of hostility that yields
to dependence, or the images of a subdued and oppressive Paris in Mr. Klein
in which elegant apartments and country houses seem deprived of color and
12
character. |
richness as the Nazi roundup of Jews in World War II overtakes the central

If there are Losey films whose stylistic intensity is sometimes overdrawn,

they are the first of his English films in which the choice of material was
not his and in which the desire to “say something” from within the ano-
nymity of his exile was still urgent. Rarely, it is true, does one see a Losey
film without being aware of its visual style, but this can as easily be con-
sidered a strength as it can a weakness. In some cases — Boom! is a good
example — Losey’s visual brilliance nearly overcomes an otherwise failed
effort. Speaking of his work before Accident, he confessed to Tom Milne
his own estimate that “many of my films are... overloaded, overpacked,
overdense. But dense in a different way from Accident; dense in the sense
of trying to say too much directly instead of through people and behavior
and... well, with less skill” (1968, 53). Perhaps so far as style is concerned,
Accident is the watershed film, for its style is supremely restrained, almost
severe. So, too, is style in The Go-Between, and yet both of these films are
also unusually rich in evoking the palpable presence of their physical world
as a force in its own right. In both of these films it is Losey’s mode of telling
the story, and its relation to characterization and the subjectivizing of time,
that sets them apart from the mainstream of narrative films and defines
their place among his most mature work.
Losey’s finest films are characterized by a layering of unresolved tensions
not just between social classes, but between calm surfaces and passionate
depths, between intellect and emotion, between places and the characters
who live in them, between communities and those who intrude on them.
Particularly in his collaboration with Pinter, Losey explored more complex
forms to express these tensions, going beyond the simple storytelling that
producers typically preferred. ‘““Many of them feel,” he once lamented,
“there isn’t any film unless, as they put it, there is a strong storyline. This
is really nonsense” (Milne 1968, 120). As his ties to the norms of traditional
studio filmmaking loosened, Losey was attracted to more adventurous ap-
proaches to film form. Thus, as he turned away from the plot-centered
energies of melodrama and social protest, he explored more intensively
another, more important tension between what is now commonly distin-
guished as story and discourse — that is, the tension between a film’s story
(its inferrable characters and events) and the way the story is told.* His
growing interest in subjectivity and the experience of time began to influence
his sense of the resources of film to tell stories in uncommon ways and led
him to such complex literary experiments in point of view and narration
as Nicholas Mosley’s Accident and Thomas Wiseman’s The Romantic En-
3
glishwoman, to L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between, a moving study of an aging
man whose life has been sacrificed to memory and loss, and finally to Proust’s
A la recherche, which he and Pinter sought unsuccessfully to make as a
film.* In all of these the possibilities of first-person narration or character-
narration assume a significant place. In fact, the complex control of nar-
ration — that is, the activity of telling a story — is of major importance in
Losey’s collaboration with Pinter and in his single film with writer Tom
Stoppard, which was based on Wiseman’s novel.> Both Accident and The
Go-Between, for example, present substantial time-past segments that nar-
rate their central characters’ memories, and the narration in The Romantic
Englishwoman includes scenes from a screenplay one of the characters is
writing, as well as others of a seduction that may only have been imagined.°
In Accident the omniscient narration of Stephen’s Oxford world reveals
leisurely, civilized surfaces and characters who seem far removed from the
threat of violence or a profound moral crisis, but Stephen’s character-
narration makes clear not only the substance of such a crisis, but its sub-
jective aftermath, its enduring place in his consciousness.” So, too, for Leo
Colston in The Go-Between, for whom returning to the sites of a boyhood
holiday is a journey in which time seems suspended and the past his only
reality. For both Stephen and Leo inner reality prevails over ‘“‘objective”’
reality, and subjective realism, narrated in the mode of art cinema rather
than that of classical narration, is at the heart of their stories.* As characters,
they, like Lewis Fielding in The Romantic Englishwoman, live with a special
vividness and self-knowledge in their memories or fantasies. Indeed, it is
with memory and fantasy that these films are concerned at least as much
as the observable events in the quotidian worlds the characters inhabit.
Moreover, the interaction of different levels and kinds of subjectivity is
central to the films’ artistic forms, which reveal private worlds in which
power, privilege, and passion are the stuff of an inner violence and moral
failure, subjective worlds in which time both imprisons and is annihilated.

Selecting a limited number of Losey’s films for analysis inevitably means

making hard choices and excluding a number of works that deserve close
attention. Other viewers and critics might well make different choices. The
Prowler, The Criminal, Eve (even in its multilated state), Figures in a Land-
scape, Mr. Klein, Don Giovanni, La Truite, and Steaming, for example, are
films from throughout Losey’s career that demonstrate his range of interests
and his ongoing growth as an artist. But, in our judgment, Losey’s finest
films are the three he made with Harold Pinter. (They are also, we would
14
argue, Pinter’s finest as a screenwriter too.) And they form the core of this
book. In addition we have chosen King and Country, Losey’s eloquent
antiwar film about moral choice and growth and the inequities of class
privilege, and The Romantic Englishwoman, a darkly witty tale of contem-
porary marriage, which is one of Losey’s four or five films to concern itself
centrally with a woman’s role and experience. We have elected to begin
with King and Country, although it was made the year after The Servant,
principally because this order allows us to treat the progression of the Losey—
Pinter collaboration in consecutive chapters while doing little violence to
the chronology.
The analyses of the films will address Losey’s formal experimentation
with narration as it relates to characterization, subjectivity, and time. The
effect of the past on the present is significant in many of his films, but the
matter of time is particularly at issue in Accident, The Go-Between, and
The Romantic Englishwoman, where character-narration foregrounds tem-
porality as both a theme and a principle of the formal complexities of those
films. Losey’s style, his supposed distance or emotional detachment from
characters, his evocative use of settings as a function of characterization,
and his recurring themes will also receive close attention. Unrelenting in
exposing hypocrisy and corruption, Losey increasingly focused his attention
on the ways in which characters use and abuse the power inherent in per-
sonal (sexual) relations, as well as in institutions, racist societies, and social
classes, and he was especially sensitive to those who were abused. If, through
his work, Losey concentrated on moral failure, he did so with an under-
standing and compassion for human frailty and fallibility. One may ascribe
his obsession with moral responsibility to his Midwest Puritan upbringing,
or to his sociopolitical and artistic temperament, which was shaped by the
Depression and the war years, or to his experiences during the blacklist era,
when extremes of human behavior, acts of moral courage and integrity, and
acts of betrayal existed side by side. What is certain, in any case, is that
Losey made powerful and challenging films of both moral import and great
formal beauty.

TS
 2
CC h Beauty Is
What
. 99
There, What Anguish
King and Country
The origin of King and Country was an actual incident in World War I
involving a young enlisted man who was executed for desertion. To this
material Losey brings a keen social conscience and continuing commitment
to expose hypocrisy and injustice, particularly when they are institution-
alized. He also reveals a humane understanding of the personal dilemmas
(emotional as well as moral and intellectual) of characters suddenly faced
with circumstances in which only the most painful choices are possible.
To be sure, as in such “‘message”’ films as The Lawless, The Criminal,
and Time Without Pity before it, elements of melodrama are evident in
King and Country. They are subsumed, however, by Losey’s fusion of
moral issues and particularized characterizations; abstractions of honor
and duty are pitted against the reality of human aspirations, perceptions,
and failures. Losey remarked to Tom Milne, “I set out to make a picture
which, while set in World War I in a very specific and classically limited
way, was to my thinking mot a war picture” (1968, 124). As he told
Ciment, “The picture is the personal relationship between that officer and
that poor private deserter....So that when that pistol, that coup de grace,
has to be fired at the end, in a sense Hargreaves [the officer] is ending his
own life as well as the boy’s”’ (1985, 245). Losey’s conception of King and
Country as a personal drama going beyond an argument or protest is es-
pecially significant when one considers the appalling background against
which the film is set.
In his book Britain and the Great War, 1914-1918, J. M. Bourne
notes that the British working class was the least militarized in all of
Europe when Lord Kitchener called for volunteers in August of 1914.
But men like Hamp, the working-class cobbler and central figure in King

16
 and Country, responded, and before Christmas of that year more than
a million Englishmen had volunteered. These patriotic but virtually un-
trained soldiers wished to win the war quickly and just as quickly get
out of the army. With an unprofessional army of volunteers, the high
' command was convinced that the death penalty for some offenses was
necessary to keep morale high. Bourne offers the following commentary:
“How good was the army’s morale? The final answer must be ‘good
enough.’ There is abundant evidence of the problems. There were 25,000
courts-martial for absence without leave, 20,000 for disobedience and
insubordination and 4,000 for self-inflicted wounds. Drunkenness was
rife. More than 3,000 men were sentenced to death, mostly for cowardice,
desertion in the face of the enemy or sleeping on duty...: 346 were
actually executed” (1989, 223).* These figures are the more astounding when
one considers that only one American soldier since the Civil War, Private
Eddie Slovik in World War II, has been executed for desertion. (His story
became the subject of a film, The Execution of Private Slovik [1974], starring
Martin Sheen.) Britain, in fact, lost approximately 750,000 men in World
War I. In view of such staggering carnage, the fate of a single soldier, whether
just or unjust, could easily disappear, which is why Losey tells just such a
/ story.
The man who wrote the story, Losey explained to Michel Ciment, “‘was
not a writer; he was a defence lawyer in the court-martial. It troubled
him all his life that he wasn’t able to get the boy off” (1985, 244). This
material was brought to Losey in the form of a radio play, whose script
he thought “‘no more than a kind of remembered transcript of the trial”
(244). But as he told Ciment, “‘I liked the material....I went back to the
original case. In this script, Dirk [Bogarde] figures as a writer too because
he wrote some of the scenes. Since he had been an officer in the British
Army, and since his family had been very much involved in the 1914-18
War, he was able to give me background and it was immensely helpful”
(242). In addition to his contributions to the screenplay, Bogarde gave under
Losey’s direction a superb performance, one of the finest of his career, as
the arrogant, self-satisfied British officer whose life is profoundly changed
because, in Losey’s words, he is “‘educated by the boy’s simplicity.’ This
comment about the character of the British officer is noteworthy because
it bears on one of the most important aspects of Losey’s artistic growth —
his ability to integrate his impassioned attacks on social injustices with his
increasingly sophisticated and subtle studies of complex characters in moral
crisis.

17
 In King and Country Private Arthur Hamp (Tom Courtenay) is court-
martialed for desertion. The year is 1917. The place is Passchendaele, in
the Flanders region of the Western Front. The bare facts of the case —
Hamp walked away from the guns when he could stand them no more —
are not at issue. The only possible defense is the youth’s mental condition
at the time of his act — not so much a defense, in fact, as a patchwork of
mitigating circumstances: Hamp is only twenty-three years old; he vol-
unteered for military service rather than being conscripted; he has been
under fire for virtually all the three years since the war began; he is the
lone survivor of the original troop with which he was sent to France; and
he has recently learned in a letter from home that his wife has taken up
with someone else. A pathetic list it is, unlikely to move a military court
to anything except pity. Despite an eloquent plea by the officer assigned
to defend him, Captain Hargreaves (Dirk Bogarde), Hamp is found guilty
and sentenced to death. The field court, legally entitled to confirm its guilty
verdict and temper it with mercy, declines to do so, passing the final decision
to headquarters. The higher command orders Hamp’s execution in the
interest of “‘morale”’: the battalion is about to move into battle again. At
dawn the next morning, the firing squad’s volley fails to kill Hamp. Captain
Hargreaves takes a pistol, walks over to Hamp, kneels and holds him while
he speaks to him briefly, and then shoots him in the head, putting an end
to Hamp’s agony.
Without any combat scenes, King and Country tells a terrible story of
war’s injustice. More particularly, it exposes the fateful arrogance of a class-
conscious Officer corps all too confident of its prerogatives, and the grotesque
notion that an execution for alleged cowardice, even when the allegation is
demonstrably unjust, constitutes a fine and bracing tonic for young men
about to face the renewed terror of trench warfare. These are strong themes,
and Losey intends they should arouse moral outrage — not just in a backward
glance at the Great War as history, but in a present confrontation with the
film. But do such didactic intentions commandeer the film, leaving its char-
acters stranded as mere emblems, “‘moral and political metaphors,” as some
critics would have it? Are Hargreaves and Hamp and the others denied a
full measure of the fictive life that film narrative can bestow because Losey
remains detached from them? Are the characters, in other words, merely
agents of an argument? Certainly Losey’s strong views about war’s moral
and political chaos, and his perhaps even stronger condemnation of hy-
pocrisy, are crucial matters in the film. Captain Hargreaves’s summation in
the court-martial sequence, for example, as well as the arguments he makes

18
in the later scene with the colonel (Peter Copley) just after Hamp has learned
of his death sentence, bristle with an impolitic indignation at justice betrayed
in favor of a conception of military law that reduces it to a hollow form
or, in more extreme terms, that may be little more than a hypocritical ritual
serving the values of a ruling class struggling to preserve its own dubious
status. These themes are not unique to the Great War, of course, nor to
Losey’s film about it. Neither are they simply abstractions or intellectual
propositions, the stuff of argument rather than feeling. For Losey does not
offer characters who are mere hostages to ideas and arguments. Exactly the
opposite is true: themes, issues, arguments, all compel a viewer’s attention
not just because of their intrinsic power, but precisely because the fate of
Hamp and Hargreaves is at stake.
To discuss King and Country as a kind of tract, an argument whose
passions belong only to the intellect, or as an allegory, whose characters
exist as surrogates for contending views, is, quite simply, to deny the human
drama at its heart. Doubtless the film claims viewers’ attention in different
ways and for different reasons, its intellectual and political views prominent
among them, but no way or reason is more important, or more moving,
than the complex relationship that develops between Hamp and Hargreaves.
These two men, apart from elementary military formality, barely have a
means of communicating at the outset, but in the end they are bound to
each other by something beyond the power of even death to dissolve. They
have not suddenly become friends, nor could they. Both men would find
the idea ludicrous. By any social measure they have no more in common
at the conclusion than when they first spoke. Each man is, from first to last,
a citizen of the world he came from, a world the other can hardly grasp
despite their having shared the same terrain. Their relationship changes,
however, in ways that are implicitly acknowledged in the final awful moment
when Hamp cannot die except Hargreaves deliver him. They have a bond,
even if neither man, not even Hargreaves with his self-conscious gift for the
power of words, could so much as begin to articulate it. Telling the story
of that bond, its nature and its implications, is the task of the overall
narration and of the various interacting stories told by the characters
themselves.
King and Country shares many of its themes, in various inflections, with
other films about war — among the best of them, Paths of Glory, All Quiet
on the Western Front (both versions), Breaker Morant, The Rack, How
Many Miles to Babylon? Not surprisingly, such films often have a measure
of overt didacticism, and when there is courtroom drama, as there is in

19
several of the films cited here, that mode’s affinity for dramatizing argument
makes didacticism even likelier. For all their common ground and shared
intentions, however, such films can differ substantially, making comparisons
between them problematic. But this is not the case with a comparison of
King and Country to Stanley Kubrick’s celebrated and brilliant Paths of
Glory. Both Losey and Kubrick have been accused of a certain coldness, of
being artists whose intellectual commitments and obsessions with style leave
little room for a genuine interest in characters and still less for compassion
for them. Moreover, in both story and themes King and Country and Paths
of Glory share a number of important elements: common soldiers in World
War I are court-martialed unjustly; officers must defend the soldiers before
tribunals whose guilty verdicts are a foregone conclusion; the courts’ de-
cisions are tainted by political considerations; the rationale for the verdicts
is that the executions will provide a salutary example for the condemned’s
fellow soldiers. Despite these similarities, however, there are differences in
the two films that are significant and suggestive.
Paths of Glory exposes the moral corruption of the French high command
in ordering a criminally foolish attack on an impregnable German position
called the Ant Hill. When the attack fails, a terrible order is given: three
men are to be chosen arbitrarily and tried for cowardice, the “explanation”
for the attack’s failure. The film’s condemnation of military politics, personal
vanity, and the callousness of great power is forceful, and the fate of the
three men chosen for court-martial and certain execution is shocking. But
it seems in some ghastly way only inevitable. Although the rendering of
their deaths is extended and powerful, the ritualized barbarism of the ex-
ecution more than the humanity of the victims is what the narration con-
centrates on and what horrifies the viewer. The film is most effective in
dealing with the two generals, Mireau (George Macready) and Broulard
(Adolphe Menjou), and their perverse minuet of elegant manners and deadly
ambition. Indeed the predictability of the outcome concentrates attention
on the sheer ornamentation of the generals’ moves. The story of the generals’
easy victory over the defense counsel, Colonel Dax (Kirk Douglas), and his
humanism is what Kubrick most forcefully tells.
King and Country does not deny the existence of such characters as hold
the stage in Kubrick’s film. There are villains in Losey’s film too, and fools
and knaves enough to go around. But the victims, two very different victims,
are what most concerns King and Country. One of the more significant
differences between the two films is that King and Country not only admits
the possibility of moral change, but concerns itself centrally with the story

20
of such a change. That is what defines the character and experience of
Captain Hargreaves. Certainly Hargreaves is not a better man than Ku-
brick’s Dax. In fact the arrogance, the cold, almost sanctimonious rectitude
(“We're all on trial for our lives’) that mark him at the beginning of the
film make him a good deal less likeable at first than Dax is throughout
Paths of Glory. But considered as characters, Hargreaves is more complex
than Dax, and that makes a world of difference. Hargreaves can and does
change, whereas Dax is confined by the very design of Kubrick’s fiction,
which excludes the possibility of change. Thus, at the end of the film Dax
returns to his duty. He has spoken for humane values, but he cannot make
any difference. There seems no difference anyone can make in Kubrick’s
film. Paths of Glory exposes a world in which humane values may still exist
but are impotent in the face of the endless resources and power of those
who control society’s corrupt institutions. Colonel Dax, then, is an admi-
rable man who is powerless so long as there is a General Broulard in the
world, and Broulard and his kind are not only in the world but very much
in command of it.
In King and Country Hargreaves, too, proves unable to change the course
of the public world he lives in. But there is still a private world of conscience
and choice that is not beyond reach, and that is the film’s principal arena.
Hamp’s pitiful walk away from the guns is officially judged desertion, and
he is thrust in front of a firing squad. His death, however, is not simply an
example of corrupt and arrogant power, although that has dictated his fate.
The army’s ceremony of death in Losey’s film is no less grim than in Ku-
brick’s, but the meaning is totally different. In the shocking stillness that
follows the executioners’ failure, all of King and Country’s arguments, its
sense of absolute outrage at such injustice, its “punitive fierceness,” as
Brendan Gill has called it, are subsumed in a moment that is absolutely
private. Hamp and Hargreaves exchange their final words, and Hargreaves
fires the single bullet that ends Hamp’s life and changes his own forever.
Losey’s film, for all its anger and despair, is finally about a mystery of
human experience and about changes that are felt far more than they can
be explained. Perhaps Kubrick in Paths of Glory believes in something better
than the humankind he sees and tells his story about; that may even be his
reason for telling it. But, if so, his terms seem almost philosophical rather
than personal or individual, intellectual rather than emotional. Losey, on
the other hand, tells a story in which loss and sacrifice are a measure of
what is best in men, however dark and ironic the context, and this is what
possesses one long after the arguments themselves have been forgotten.

21
Losey once said that “when I made King and Country, | thought that for
once I'd made an absolutely simple classical picture, according to all the
classical rules, and nobody is going to be able to say it’s baroque. But they
did, you know” (Gow 1971, 41). Whether he was referring to the norms
of classical film narration or to the classical unities of time, place, and action
is unclear. Probably both. So far as narration is concerned, the classical
style with its privileging of continuity editing to emphasize spatiotemporal
verisimilitude is the dominant mode. The classical unities are also generally
adhered to, nowhere more obviously than in the single setting that makes
for an austere, even claustrophobic film. Despite the classical simplicity that
dominates (especially in the long scenes between Hamp and Hargreaves and
during the court-martial), narration in King and Country is also highly
stylized at times. The considerable complexities of the prologue and the
flash cuts that appear several times during the discourse make this evident.
(Also, the original release prints were entirely sepia tinted “to recall,” as
Losey said, “old photographs from that period” [Ciment 1985, 248]. Many
of the prints now in circulation, however, are black and white.)
The crucial fact is that the film’s style is the expression of a narrational,
even authorial, perspective, not merely an embellishment or an end in itself,
and the potential relationships of author, narrator, and character are some-
times ambiguous. Before one flash cut, for instance, Hamp tells Hargreaves
that he has a son, and there follows a brief image of a child with the costumes
and artificial backgrounds typical of formal photographs of the day. Sim-
ilarly, when Hamp admits that his wife has taken up with someone else,
two brief images follow, the first of a man lying in bed holding a cup of
coffee or tea, the second a closer shot of the same thing. Are these images
of Hamp’s son and of his wife’s new lover? Or are they figurative, not the
actual people in Hamp’s life but suggestive of them? Are the three images
meant to be understood as originating in Hamp’s consciousness, his mem-
ories or fantasies, or do they belong exclusively to the overall narration?
These questions cannot be answered conclusively. The same is true of a
number of other flash images — including one of the German kaiser and the
king of England riding together and others presumably of the streets of
Islington, Hamp’s home — that appear in the same fashion. Most of the
flash cuts are stills, photographs whose associations with Hamp, with his-
tory, with the overall narration of the film remain ambiguous. To whom
should these images be attributed? Perhaps they are Hamp’s; they could
be.* But another possibility seems equally likely: the perspectives of the
author and narrator, closely aligned in the film and present from the first
frame, continue to be discernible. In other words, the omniscient narration
22
is not neutral, nor does it pretend to be. The perspective first established in
the prologue continues to make itself felt throughout the film’s narration.
The style, tone, atmosphere, prevailing iconography, and even the likely
resolution of King and Country are all evident in the richly anticipatory
prologue, some of whose images are repeated later. In the juxtaposition of
both its wide range of cinematic techniques and the substance of its images,
this extended opening segment signals the irony that suffuses the discourse
overall. Significantly, Losey’s understanding of the darkness of his story and
the fervor of his moral sensibility are the more powerful for his choosing
irony rather than the blunter instruments of melodramatic denunciation.
The mood, in fact, is reminiscent of the poignance and passion of the war
poems of such youthful writers of the time as Wilfred Owen and Siegfried
Sassoon, who evoked with great power the awful gulf between the heroic
aspirations of young men going off to war, and the reality of desolation
and death that overtook them in muddy trenches beneath the endless scream-
ing barrages of artillery fire. The Western Front was a world in dissolution
where men and animals alike decomposed and disappeared in the muddy
landscape, and this is shockingly conveyed in the prologue’s images of
enormous explosions momentarily frozen only to dissolve in an instant into
ravaged landscapes and then again into dead horses and the skeletons of
soldiers half-buried in mud.
The prologue consists of two sections, and in this nearly five-minute
opening, Losey uses dissolves, still photographs, freeze frames, jump cuts,
rack focus, tracking camera, and a complex sound track that mixes music,
background sound, silence, and voice-over. The opening shot is a low-angle
long shot of a large sculpture that stands framed against the sky atop the
Wellington Arch at Hyde Park Corner. Known as a quadriga, the sculpture
features a bronze figure of Peace descending into a war chariot whose driver
pulls up his rearing horses. By a reverse zoom, this image of peace is then
juxtaposed within the same shot to the Royal Artillery Monument and a
close-up view of the bronze boots of another sculpted figure, a dead World
War I soldier (Figures 1 and 2). (The close-up of the foot soldier will later
contribute to the closure of the film whose final shots include the muddy
boots of the executed Hamp.) The tracking of the initial close shot reveals
the engraved commemorative words ROYAL FELLOWSHIP beneath the dead
figure. The tracking camera then reveals the end phrase: OF DEATH. The
delayed disclosure of the second phrase converts the honorific into the ironic.
The harmonica solo that has accompanied these images now stops. In silence
the camera continues its close-up scanning of the monument’s frieze de-
picting living and dead soldiers sprawled across a battlefield. Although the
23
Figure r. The opening image of King and Country, the “quadriga” sculpture
atop the Wellington Arch at Hyde Park, depicts the figure of Peace descending =
- to halt a warring charioteer. (Courtesy BHE British Home Entertainment) = = =

fluidity of the tracking shot conveys a continuity, the close-up takes in only
_ small units at a time. The effect is a somewhat disorienting presentation of =
a large monument whose frieze, never seen in its entirety, appears chaotic —
and fragmentary. Over the sculpted war scenes is now heard the rising
sound of the indifferent London traffic around Hyde Park. Thelongtracking =
_ shot comes to rest in a low-angle shot of the monument’s sculpted howitzer,
one of the few images depicting more than a partial view of any object.
_. Suddenly, a jump cut to an artillery explosion fills the screen, sound and
image shattering the momentary stasis. The tensions between sound and
silence, between camera movement and static, inanimate images, between
abstract compositions and recognizable forms, all resonate with the explicit
war imagery embedded in the last part of the long opening shot.
A jump cut from the explosion to a medium tracking shot (almost a
continuation of the opening camera movement) of the ever-present rainand =
mud of the trenches marks an abrupt transition to the second part of the
___ prologue. Boots, helmets, shovels, and barbed wire are embedded in mud
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beside the duckboards or wooden walkway. The sound of rain and the
return of the solo harmonica accompany the image that dissolves into still
more mud, rain, and barbed wire until the shot rests on a broken wheel,
an iconic image (which reappears as one of the last of the film) readily
suggesting the cyclical, fateful, and fragmented world of the soldiers. A
second artillery explosion is then freeze-framed, sudden violence becoming
with equal suddenness both static and silent. This dissolves to an image of
muddy shell holes that is in fact part of a larger photograph from the archives
of the Imperial War Museum. The camera draws back to disclose in this
same photograph a dead horse still in harness, which will return as the
film’s last image. The final series of dissolves of archival stills showing
desolate and ravaged landscapes scarred by blasted trees ends with a close-
up of the skeleton and skull of a dead soldier (a renowned photograph taken
in the aftermath of the battle of the Somme; Figure 3). In voice-over, Tom
Courtenay recites A. E. Housman’s lines:
Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, after all, is nothing much to lose;
Though young men think it is, and we were young.’
A final dissolve of this skull over a close-up of Hamp, lying on a cot and
playing a harmonica, concludes the prologue.
Like an envoi closing this poetic, evocative prologue, Housman’s words
cast a fatalistic tone over the entire film. Courtenay’s recitation (he speaks
as a kind of “everyman”’ here, rather than in the character of Hamp) and
the dissolve of the skull into Hamp’s features clearly presage this soldier’s
fate. Even before the story begins and the characters are introduced, then,
the emotive power of the film is at work, and irony has taken its place as
an informing trait of the narration.
The first scene following the prologue is highly ritualized in its narration
of dialogue and action as the discourse continues to delay introducing the
main story events. In a kind of choric interlude, a group of soldiers who
will later play a part in the story is cleaning out a large muddy shell hole
or cesspit with long-handled shovels. Working in unison, the soldiers speak
in fragments, completing each other’s phrases. They obviously look on this
task as a ritual of sorts, and their vernacular language is spoken in chantlike
rhythms. The mood and attitude of men too long in the trenches are suc-
cinctly conveyed, but this scene reveals a good deal more about the film’s
conflicting views of human nature. (The ellipses in the following quotation

26
indicate a change of speaker as the conversation passes from soldier to
soldier.)
Ha Ha Ha... What’s this remind you of? [soldier lifts a shovelful of
muck]... remind you of anything? You know, when this war is over,
I think [Pll get me a job in the sewer...and so you should, too...
well, it’s the same smell, the same company... the perfect soldier...
aye, the perfect soldier .. . loved his country ... killed rats... killed lice
... went without food... without drink... without sleep... without
[a soldier holds his shovel erect between his legs]... went over the top
... killed the kaiser, won the war... home again... honorable dis-
charge...fat pension... from his grateful country... women waiting
for him... children fond of him... liquor is free for him... he sleeps
in the sun... Remind you of anything? [soldier again lifts up the muck].
In the soldiers’ words and self-mocking tone, the scatological and the heroic
are combined, offering a dualistic view of man as animal (wedded to the
needs and demands of his body) and man as a self-conscious entity capable
of having ideals and acting heroically. His capacity to kill is, interestingly,
a feature of both his creatureliness and his idealism — a theme, in various
forms, in much of Losey’s work.
The themes of death and dissolution already announced by the prologue
are extended in this dialogue. The soldiers’ talk while shoveling muck also
invokes in its oblique mixture of the mundane and the profound a psycho-
logical and mythicoreligious conception of human nature of the sort that
is brilliantly examined in Ernest Becker’s The Denial of Death. Becker writes
that ‘“‘the anus and its incomprehensible, repulsive product represents not
only physical determinism and boundness, but the fate as well of all that is
physical: decay and death” (1973, 31). Becker’s insight is, of course, implicit
in the scene rather than explicit in the dialogue, but the inescapable irony
he has grasped is persistent in the film’s conception of humankind as strug-
gling to reconcile its limits with its hopes for something nobler. Becker
emphasizes man’s “‘abject finitude, his physicalness, the unlikely unreality
of his hopes and dreams” (33), but hopes and dreams are no less a necessary
part of human experience than the demands of the body. If Losey’s char-
acters almost never escape their limits, neither are they entirely defined by
them. Certainly Hamp and Hargreaves do not escape, but the young soldier
in his simple integrity and the officer in his awkward and unanticipated
moral growth define human possibilities that exceed, however ironically,
the forces both physical and social that bind them.

27
 The scene of the soldiers shoveling muck also implies the larger embedded
story of “‘the perfect soldier,” against which Hamp’s career as an enlisted
man and alleged deserter is unconsciously judged by those who would insist
on the necessity of military (and social) forms regardless of human limits,
perhaps even because of them. The perfect soldier follows the mythological
path of the hero (separation, initiation, and return) by leaving home, by
undergoing deprivation and suffering and doing heroic deeds, and finally
by coming home with his special experience and knowledge to a hero’s
welcome. Joseph Campbell suggests that the hero’s adventure can even begin
with a mistake: ““A blunder — apparently the merest chance — reveals an
unsuspected world, and the individual is drawn into a relationship with
forces that are not rightly understood” (1968, 51). Hamp’s impulsive re-
sponse to the call of king and country (““Well, when I volunteered, we didn’t
know any better, did we?’’) and to the urge to take the dare and surprise
his wife and her mother by enlisting come close to a blundering into the
unknown, into the human carnage that he can only describe to Hargreaves
as “‘worse than anything.”
In the ancient tradition, the separation, initiation, and return of the hero
signify that he enters the world of the dead, suffers, undergoes a symbolic
death and rebirth, and comes home alive and ready to share the gift of his
knowledge with the living. In King and Country, however, the ritual pattern
is invoked only to be subverted and aborted. The bewildered Hamp, sep-
arated from Islington and his bootmaker’s shop, the workplace of his father
and grandfather before him, found himself fighting next to a boy from up
his street, a boy who was then blown to bits. ““Willy’s nowhere, except over
me,” Hamp says in his plain language to Hargreaves. “I had to get me a
new uniform.” Significantly, Hamp has also seen a man drown in a shell
hole, and two days later Hamp himself was blown into another shell hole
and nearly drowned. As he tells Hargreaves: “‘After that I couldn’t stand it
anymore. ...It was like being dead, sir.” Shortly after this symbolic death
Hamp started walking away from the guns. When Hargreaves asks if he
knew where he was walking, Hamp replies: ““No. No. After I got a few
miles away from the guns, I got it into my head that I was making for home
... Islington, you know. It didn’t make any sense, but that’s what I got into
me head.’ Almost by accident or instinct, then, Hamp follows the hero’s
pattern of initiation, which proves a profoundly ironic pattern in Losey’s
film. Hamp’s return home was an aborted one, of course, for he was arrested
for desertion. As to his special knowledge, he knows only that “I reckon
Pil get a fair trial....Itll come out all right,” and as he tells Hargreaves

28
more than once, ‘““There’s nobody left in A Company that’s been out here
as long as me, so you see they can’t shoot me.”
When the court-martial convenes and the colonel begins the proceedings
by reading the charge to Hamp, the language of the accusation is formal,
but the meaning blunt. The penalty if Hamp is convicted is extreme, a
“shooting job,” Hamp remembers one of his captors saying. Hearing the
charge now in the court’s impersonal language, Hamp seems almost to falter,
but he enters his plea of not guilty. The formalities conclude when Captain
Hargreaves addresses the court, saying, “I’ve spoken to Captain Midgley,
and we’ve agreed that I won’t dispute the facts of the case.’’ Hargreaves’s
demurrer to the facts, however, proves to be the basis for disputing virtually
everything that is proffered as fact, not just within the confines of the court-
martial, but within the narrative overall. In other words, although Captain
Hargreaves “will not dispute the facts,” the facts prove anything but agreed
upon. Even their very nature, what constitutes a fact, is implicitly disputed.
And not all the facts, it turns out, are created equal. Moreover, Hargreaves’s
position also points to one of the most significant traits of the film’s nar-
ration. Story and discourse will include and depend on numerous other
stories, other discourses. In an important sense, truth and justice, and his-
torical memory, are, like Hamp’s fate and Hargreaves’s too, indivisible from
stories. In their different roles and circumstances, many of the characters
are cast as narrators. They tell stories; they raise issues, whether acknowl-
edged by the text or not, of authority, subjectivity, reliability, interpretation,
levels of narration, and their relationships.*
Because of Hargreaves’s stipulation of the facts, the defense turns entirely
on interpretation: not whether Hamp walked, but whether his walk con-
stitutes desertion. Hamp himself never exactly opposes the official charge.
Instead, his statements are mainly limited to answering the questions Har-
greaves puts to him. As a result, Hamp’s answers, first in his interview with
Hargreaves and later in his testimony, add up not to his own best defense
before a court-martial, but simply to his best effort to tell what he knows.
Hamp’s innate integrity makes it impossible for him to make up excuses,
manufacture emotions he doesn’t have, or even follow a line of questioning
that might help to exonerate him. He has numerous opportunities to assert
that he didn’t know what he was doing, or to insist, as he once mentions,
that the devil was dragging him down to his death in a watery shell hole,
or that he intended to return to the battalion after his ‘‘walk.”” When Hamp
is questioned by the colonel, Hargreaves, and Captain Midgley (James Vil-
liers) during the court-martial, his self-incriminating testimony simulta-

29
neously affirms his good character. Only when he tries to speak as Har-
greaves would have him do, does Hamp momentarily veer from the truth.
Consider the following exchange at the court-martial:
COLONEL: Private Hamp, you say you wanted to be left alone for a bit.
Does that mean you intended to return to batallion?

isn’t it? ,
HAMP: I don’t know, sir.
HARGREAVES: That’s because you don’t remember anything very clearly,

HAMP: That’s right, sir... yeah. |

HARGREAVES: You had no clear plan or reason in your mind, did you?
HAMP: Well, I just started going, sir. I couldn’t help me-self. Well, like you
told me to say, sir, I was acting under extraordinary strain...I can’t...]
can’t think of anything else, sir.
Hamp not only reveals being coached, but he also reacts (screwing up his
face) to his own false, unnatural way of speaking in Hargreaves’s elevated
diction (“‘extraordinary strain’’). Hamp is simply incapable of dissembling,
and out of desperation he says to Hargreaves in the presence of the court:
“Td sooner you told them, sir. You know more about it than me.”
The conceptual and intentional gulf between the court’s charge and pros-
ecution, on the one hand, and Hamp’s knowledge or understanding, on the
other, is not only wide but crucial. Within that gulf Hamp’s story is at issue
in each instance of testimony and in every conversation about the case —
between Lieutenant Webb (Barry Foster) and Hargreaves at the beginning,
between Hargreaves and Midgley and the legal officer immediately after the
case goes to the court for a judgment, and between Hargreaves and the
colonel when the death sentence is confirmed. But first and most of all in
the initial interview between Hamp and Hargreaves.
Having been assigned to defend Hamp, Hargreaves initially pronounces
the court-martial a futile enterprise. He tells Webb that the accused (even
before he has met him) is “a failure as a man and a soldier.”” Comparing
Hamp to a dog with a broken back, Hargreaves says that one doesn’t sit
around talking; one shoots the dog. (Hearing Hargreaves express these
views, Webb good-naturedly but pointedly asks him, “What were you like
as a child?” To this Hargreaves answers flatly, ““The same.”’) A whole world
is revealed in Hargreaves’s remarks and a particular view of that world.
Hamp’s responses to the charge and to this officer’s questions limn another,
radically different world and view. ““We didn’t know what it was going to
be like, did we?”” Hamp says to Hargreaves. “I didn’t think about it too
much, but I suppose you reckon to yourself, in my kind of life, well, it can’t
30
be much worse than this, you know. Not you, sir, but my sort, and most
of the lads.’” Hamp never suggests that he sees himself a victim of the class
differences between Hargreaves’s world and his own, or that there is a
fundamental inequity between the two.
Contemptuous of the accused at the outset, Hargreaves changes his mind
during his interview with Hamp, whose manner of storytelling, or narration,
is perhaps even more persuasive than his narrative. At one level, the acts
he relates do not sound like desertion: he made no effort to hide, walked
on the open road, traveled on a train, tried to talk to a priest. Somewhere
along the way he got it into his mind that he was “‘making for home,” but
he recognizes that was a fantasy, not really an objective. Another aspect of
Hamp’s narration is even more persuasive, and that is defined by his very
nature. At the trial he is called stupid; the corporal guarding him tells
Hargreaves that Hamp is a “strange one.” (Some reviewers have considered
him a simpleton, merely a dolt.) The suggestion is that Hamp is mentally
deficient, but that is to misunderstand his character. Hamp is an innocent.
“For goodness and inarticulateness,” Brendan Gill wrote in his review, he
“is a second Billy Budd.” Gill’s is a fine insight, for Hamp is Billy’s true
descendant. But there are differences too. Hamp’s is not pure goodness, an
absolute force in its own right that can survive the onslaught of evil even
as it is evil’s victim. Rather, his is an innocence helpless to defend itself and
changed inevitably by the evil of war, mortally fearful of the outcome, but
an innocence that remains profoundly human and intact even at the moment
of his death. Hamp has seen war; he has heard the guns; he has seen men
blown to bits and other men drown in mud. He has come close to dying
that way himself. He is no longer simply the young bootmaker who, on a
dare, volunteered for king and country. Still, Hamp has not become cynical
or crafty. He remains, like Billy Budd before him, trusting, open, even loving
in this least likely of places for such qualities to endure.
In the first scene between Hamp and Hargreaves, which is quite long,
Losey relies principally on long takes in which the subtly shifting relationship
between the accused and his defender is revealed by the mise-en-scéne even
more than the dialogue and action. Hargreaves dominates the beginning of
the scene by virtue of his rank and the circumstances. Without being overtly
challenged by Hamp, he nonetheless loses the initiative to the youth’s
straightforwardness. Hamp is never less than respectful, even humble, but
his humility is of a piece with his honesty. For Hargreaves, unlike the officers
of the court-martial who will formally judge Hamp, the youth’s defense
proves not to lie in the confines and definitions of military law, but in his
shockingly exposed humanity. Losey reveals the greater depth of this en-
31
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_ Figure 4. A high-angle shot marks the beginning of the interrogation scene

British Home Entertainment)
in King and Country when Hargreaves first meets Hamp. (Courtesy BHE

counter as Hargreaves’s superior place in the images yields to Hamp’s.

Moreover, from the beginning of the scene when Hargreaves’s authority =|
seems unchallenged, the images undercut this perception, for they are
-_ crowded with the visible evidence of this war-torn moment, the tentative, ==
_ dark quiet of a temporary command post and its pathetic cell in which
Hamp and Hargreaves are equally vulnerable to the forces of death that = —s_—
have brought them face to face. As Hamp tells his story, the mise-en-scéne
increasingly centers on him until finally, in a single image that favors them
equally, the two men, so unequal in their status, sit on the same bench
talking to each other (Figures 4—6). Losey’s pointisnotsimplythesubversion —s—©
of Hargreaves’s military authority, but a prefiguring of the conclusion in
which both men willbe victims,
Later, during the trial, Hargreaves addresses the members of the court:
“Private Hamp is not a liar. He is not glib. He has no ready answers. He
has an embarrassing honesty that made him a bad witness in his own case.”
So far as the court and its verdict are concerned, Hargreaves is right, al-
though one wonders finally if anything Hamp might have said would have —
- made him a better witness and altered the outcome. Hargreaves’s charac-
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terization of Hamp, however, speaks to the qualities that do make him the
most credible of witnesses. Furthermore, the process whereby Hamp’s cred-
ibility is tested proves the model for testing all the narrations. That is,
questions of authority, reliability, and interpretation that are raised by any
narration are here made overt and tested within the discourse itself. Captain
Midgley, the prosecutor, and Captain O’Sullivan (Leo McKern), the medical
officer, for example, have their own individual and eccentric attitudes to-
ward Hamp and his story, attitudes that focus attention on the officers’
personal and professional authority and reliability as interpreters. Midgley
effectively cross-examines all witnesses and misses no opportunity to portray
Hamp in unfavorable ways as an undistinguished soldier, as a malingering
coward, and even as a shrewdly calculating deserter masquerading as a
simpleton. Midgley skillfully makes his case against Hamp, but without
personal animus; in fact, his personal feelings contrast with his courtroom
tactics. Midgley can later tell his adversary with sincerity: ‘““You did very
well, Hargreaves. I hope you got him off.” As if to counter this sentiment,
the legalistic Midgley adds: “‘But, you know, a proper court is concerned
with law. It’s a bit amateur to plead for justice.” Still later, before the verdict
is in, Midgley encourages Hargreaves to violate protocol and visit the anx-
ious Hamp because “‘it would be kind.”’ Unlike Midgley, the pompous and
insensitive Captain O’Sullivan views Hamp’s guilt as confirmation of his
professional competence as a doctor. Where Hamp is uncertain about his
state of mind when he walked away from the guns, O’Sullivan is all certainty
in judging him a coward. O’Sullivan’s version of things covers his own
indifference, if not incompetence. According to O’Sullivan, Hamp did noth-
ing less than “turn and run.”
Although the colonel in King and Country is not portrayed with the
ruthlessness and self-aggrandizing egomania associated with Kubrick’s gen-
erals in Paths of Glory, he is nonetheless coldly protective of power and
privilege. Such class considerations inevitably raise questions about hypoc-
risy. Losey himself characterized King and Country as “a story about hy-
pocrisy, a story about people who are brought up to a certain way of life
... and who finally have to face the fact that they have to be rebels in society,
that they have to be outlaws and outcasts and outsiders in society for the
- rest of their lives, with all the penalties this entails, or else they have to
accept hypocrisy” (Milne 1968, 125). Hargreaves, however, is the only
character for whom this seems unmistakably true.
The crisis of conscience that Losey speaks of is evident at the court-martial
and its aftermath, where the colonel in effect seeks to wash his hands of
the whole affair. Hargreaves frames his closing argument to the court by
34
contrasting Hamp’s confused state of mind at the time of his desertion with
the court’s responsibility for its actions. ‘““This court,”’ he argues, “has the
power to choose. ...I beg to remind the court that if justice is not done to
one man, then other men are dying for nothing.” This constitutes the film’s
most overt statement of a social and moral theme in the fashion of Losey’s
earlier work, but for all its importance this is not the climax or the thematic
center of King and Country. Silence and a slow pan of the faces in the room
convey the impact and persuasiveness of Hargreaves’s plea until the colonel
dismissively replies, ““Matter of opinion.” The colonel remains unswayed
by either the logic or emotion of Hargreaves’s speech, but his position is
defined more by his equivocations than by his convictions. Informed shortly
after the trial that he may confirm Hamp’s sentence himself or send it to a
higher authority, the colonel orders others to prepare a finding and have it
sent off for confirmation.
The highly structured events in King and Country (a court-martial, a
priest’s visit to a condemned man, a firing squad) reflect Losey’s view of
the centrality of ritual in social and moral life, and they suggest his sense
that men may envelop themselves in such rituals rather than accept the
burden of individual judgment and choice. In the scenes between the colonel
and Hargreaves, even the smaller rituals of military etiquette can be signif-
icant. When the death sentence is confirmed by headquarters, the distraught
Hargreaves goes to the colonel. Saying nothing, but nearly gagging on the
scotch the colonel offers him, Hargreaves is reprimanded for his breach of
decorum in sullenly gulping down the drink. To the colonel’s comment,
“Rather short on ceremony, aren’t we?” Hargreaves responds, “Yes, I had
too much of that today.” Relatively insignificant in itself, this exchange
reveals the officers’ ceremonious world of rank and class. The exchange
also suggests Hargreaves’s ongoing struggle with his role in these rites, a
struggle brought to a crisis through his unanticipated relationship with
Hamp. Hargreaves is again cautioned for “‘overstepping”’ when he tells the
colonel that Hamp’s execution means they have all lost and they are all
murderers. Hargreaves questions the rationale of killing Hamp to maintain
morale; in response the colonel first affirms the rightness of the verdict but
then admits to sharing something of Hargreaves’s doubts. The colonel’s
admission calls everything into question, as Hargreaves’s moment of rec-
ognition and stunned silence suggests. Through formalities, however, the
colonel rescues the situation, dismissing Hargreaves by asking him “‘on your

| 35
way out” to deliver a “next of kin” letter to Webb, the officer in charge of
Hamp’s execution. The colonel is no amateur gamesman in protecting his
position. Not only has he turned Hargreaves into errand boy in the service
of the execution, but he has set in motion the procedure to punish Webb
(a fear that Webb has previously confided to Hargreaves). A knowing smile
at the mention of Webb’s name indicates Hargreaves’s recognition of the
predictable but skillful manipulations of his superior officer, who says of
Webb’s relationship to Hamp, “his man, his platoon, his mistake... teach
him a lesson.”
Also at issue in this scene are both men’s versions of the ‘“‘facts,”’ an issue
at the center of much of Losey’s work because ambiguity is so often falsely
clothed as certainty. Facts for Hargreaves include Hamp’s “technical de-
sertion,” which was really no more than ‘“‘a bloody little walk’’; for the
colonel, the facts are his received orders to execute Hamp in order to boost
the morale of the battalion moving into combat the next day. Because of
his empathy for Hamp, Hargreaves has come to a more imaginative un-
derstanding of facts, an understanding that accepts the uncertainty of human
motives and the complexity of human character.°
In the film, the playing out of rituals, whether social (class), military, or
religious, establishes a kind of mad order in the midst of chaos. Even the
enlisted men, those most subject to the cruelties of this hierarchical world,
get Hamp drunk and, to allay their own fears, enact an execution of the
condemned man. Unlike their earlier mock trial of a rat, which Losey himself
called “‘slightly cardboard’”’ (Milne 1968, 126) and “‘the least successful
thing in the film” (Ciment 1985, 246), this dark revel before the execution
conveys the confused and contradictory feelings of the men — their drunk-
enness, their fear, their homoeroticism, their need to comfort and be com-
forted, and their concern for and cruelty to Hamp. Whatever the opiate,
whether drink, religion, or drugs, the men use it to blot out their anxieties
and anguish over the condemned man now victimized by the war and by
the indifference or cruelty of men (the officers, the doctor, the padre, and
the enlisted comrades themselves) pledged to help him.
The drunken antics of Hamp’s comrades are interrupted by Lieutenant
Webb and the padre (Vivian Matalon). In the harrowing scene that follows,
the blindfolded Hamp shouts after his runaway companions and blindly
grasps hold of the padre, who has come to absolve Hamp of his sins. Like
the doctor, Captain O’Sullivan, the padre proves to be so removed from
Hamp’s needs and feelings that his ministrations are cruelly, if uninten-
tionally, misguided. Stressing a chastening and scourging God whose great
mercy forgives all sins, the padre condemns as he tries to comfort; his
abasement of the already victimized and abandoned Hamp is a ghastly ritual
that serves to comfort only the dutiful and self-absorbed priest. His devotion
to ritual is paired with his indifference to Hamp (Figure 7). When Hamp
36
then vomits the communion wafer and wine, Lieutenant Webb intervenes
to pump a syringe full of a soporific drug into the pitiful soldier. Although
the padre insists that Hamp’s soul is present in the room, Webb is more
honest and aware of the consequences of his action. Over the drunk and
drugged Hamp, Webb declares, “All that’s here is a few hours of bloody
nothing.”
The horror that surrounds the firing squad scene at the end of King and
Country comes from the realization that, on the most pragmatic level and
on the ritual level as well, Hamp’s death seems meaningless. Hargreaves
and even the colonel have expressed their doubts about how efficacious
Hamp’s execution will be in raising morale or instilling courage in the troops.
Nor is Hamp a successful scapegoat; his death is obviously unlikely to lessen
the chances of the other soldiers’ dying in battle — quite the reverse seems
to be the case. As Private Sparrow says while cradling and comforting the
drunken Hamp just hours before his execution: “Here today, gone tomor-
row. It doesn’t matter who kills you, does it? Well, you’ve lived a long life,
Hamp, and you’re due. You rot in the mud and that’s that. Doesn’t matter
what anyone bloody well thinks about it, does it? Hey, we’re all moving
up soon. We’ll be in the same boat as you are. We'll all be rat food before
long.” In context, this grim, cliché-ridden, desperate consolation of Private
Sparrow’s also has the terror of truth about it (Figure 8). Even that which
might be taken as ironic in Sparrow’s speech (“you've lived a long life,
Hamp, and you’re due’’) rings true when we remember Hamp’s three years
in the trenches that have left him the sole survivor of his unit.
In their last full scene together, Hamp tells Hargreaves, ““You’ve taught
me a lot of things, sir, and I’m grateful.’ Hargreaves answers, “Have I?
Rather too late, I fear.’”’ Although learning things too late is a familiar pattern
in tragedy, Hamp is not a tragic figure. What Hamp has learned through
his articulate defender and spokesman is not altogether clear. If Hargreaves
speaks the truth for the confused Hamp, the young private learns little more
than that he unthinkingly walked away from the guns, that he should have
done his duty, and that he must now submit to military law. Whatever
Hamp’s capacity for anguish or self-knowledge, it has neither the depth nor
scale of classical tragedy, or even of a Paul Baumer in All Quiet on the
Western Front. Furthermore, in the final hours Hamp’s suffering is obviated
through Webb’s hypodermic and the enlisted men’s rum. What dignity he
has in the end finds expression in his brief exchange with Hargreaves after
the botched execution.
Blindfolded and tied to a chair, Hamp is carried almost senseless to the
execution site. Shown from a perspective behind the firing squad, it appears
37
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Figure 7. In contrast to the brutally honest Private Sparrow, the self-absorbed

padre offers ritual prayers that only add to Hamp’s terror and abasement.
(Courtesy BHE British Home Entertainment)

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Figure 8. Private Sparrow cradles the condemned Hamp and consoles him
with the grim observation, “We'll all be rat food before long.” (Courtesy BHE
British Home Entertainment)

35
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Figure 9. The final, fatal exchange between Hargreaves and Hamp. (Courtesy
BHE British Home Entertainment)

that some of the men intentionally fire off target. In any case, the execution
fails, and O’Sullivan, removing Hamp’s blindfold, announces as much.
When Webb slowly draws his pistol and then hesitates, Hargreaves takes
the gun from him and walks over to Hamp. Cradling Hamp’s head on his
arm, Hargreaves asks, “‘Isn’t it finished yet?”? Hamp replies, ““No sir, ’'m
sorry.”’ In this bitterly ironic exchange both military and class distinctions
between them are implicitly acknowledged, but so is their mutual concern
and respect.
In addition, subtle and ironic religious connotations are invoked here. A
passage from Bourne’s Britain and the Great War provides an illuminating
context within which to view this scene:
If England’s cause was just, if the war was a struggle between good
and evil, then it followed that England’s cause was also God’s. The
concepts of suffering, redemption and renewal lay at the heart of
Christian faith. Their imagery came naturally to people brought up
on the Bible, the Book of Common Prayer, the Protestant Hymnal
and The Pilgrim’s Progress. The Church, too, for its part, had long
made use of the imagery of war. The idea of the ‘Christian Soldier’
assumed a new meaning and significance. Christ’s example was the
39
 war’s inspiration and justification. ‘Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Christ’s sufferings
offered many parallels with that of the soldier. The war’s poetry is
full of them. ‘He stood before me there,’ Sassoon wrote of an ordinary
Tommy. ‘I say that He was Christ.’ (1989, 230—1) ,

Christian faith and the influence of the church were undeniably powerful
forces throughout the war. King and Country, however, has already called
into question the ministrations of a priest blind to the needs of the
condemned Hamp, and the execution scene raises the issue of Hamp’s
death as a spiritually redemptive sacrifice. However much one may want
to see such significance in the film, Losey’s deeply ironic view allows for
no transcendent resolution. Bourne may rightly claim that “Christ’s suf-
fering offered many parallels with that of the soldier,” but Hamp’s stupe-
fied anguish, as well as his innocence, ordinary goodness, and truthfulness,
only accentuate the unfairness, the despair, the pathos of his death.
Hargreaves’s question — “Isn’t it finished yet?”” — may recall Christ’s
last words on the cross — “It is finished” (John 19:30) — but Hamp,
however Christ-like, can neither save nor be saved. Defined against rather
than by military and religious rituals, Hamp and Hargreaves play out
their fate. In any traditional sense, Hamp’s death accrues little meaning
as a sacrifice. His dying hardly gives life to the community, or if it does,
it maintains an unjust and hypocrital society. The ritual surrounding
Hamp’s death does not express the sacred or point to a hoped-for spiritual
transcendence. Still, something other than despair resonates with the pistol
shot that ends Hamp’s life (Figure 9). Horrific as that moment is, it defines
Hargreaves’s sacrificial act, an act confined to the human plane of existence
and fraught with sorrow, guilt, and love. The anguish here is as much
Hargreaves’s as Hamp’s. Thus, the question becomes what Hargreaves
has learned from Hamp. Not duty but a sense of humanity, a personal
commitment to Hamp, necessitates his action. Hargreaves is changed
forever through this relationship; what he learns about his own contra-
dictory nature and about his capacity for compassion can best be measured
against the smug and arrogant Hargreaves who at the beginning prejudged
Hamp a failure as a man and soldier while he glibly pronounced, ““We’re
all on trial for our lives.”’ In retrospect, Private Sparrow’s questions to
Hamp — “It doesn’t matter who kills you, does it?” and ‘“‘Doesn’t matter
what anyone bloody well thinks about it, does it?” — are not merely
rhetorical. It matters to Hargreaves. In choosing to fire the pistol himself,

40
Hargreaves transforms a bungled public ritual into a personal sacrifice,
an act of love, mercy, and expiation.

That war is a horror that undermines even the loftiest of civilizations hardly
needs saying. But of course, it does need saying, over and over again. The
task is ancient and more than honorable, however futile it may seem, and
King and Country takes its place in that tradition. But Losey’s film is more
than an eloquent jeremiad. Folly and evil are all too apparent in its tale,
but Losey is drawn to the human reality of the social and moral themes
that compel his attention. He is no longer the polemicist, however skillful,
if he was ever merely that. Neither is he merely a stylist. And, one must
remember, the temptation to find a more suitable label is clearly one that
he would have rejected. The film is better served by simply recognizing its
own powerful terms: a callous determination to enforce military order (and
its social forms) fatefully intersects with the life of a single, powerless young
man and then unexpectedly with the life of another man whose status would
have seemed proof against such a calamity. The first man dies, and the
second is irrevocably changed, although his social position, his place in the
army and the world he comes from, seems not in the least changed. King
and Country indicts in the most forceful terms the false values that betrayed
both men, but even more it reveals, as Losey said he hoped it did, ‘‘what
beauty is there, what anguish” (Milne 1968, 31). Losey’s words here, almost
wistful as they are, express his deepest intentions as an artist, summing up
his attitude not just toward King and Country, but toward all the films to
be discussed in the following chapters. Needless to say, the films are not
identical in themes or tone; no single note is relentlessly struck. Victims,
however, are his persistent concern, whether victimization is imposed on
characters by forces outside themselves or born of their own human failings.

4I
 “A n Extension of
Reality”’
The Servant

“While I was in Rome, working on Eve,” Losey told Michel Ciment,

“Dirk Bogarde rang to tell me that there was in existence a Harold Pinter
script from The Servant.... Actually, I had taken the novel The Servant
[by Robin Maugham] to Dirk just ten years before. I got in touch with
Harold whom I’d known before. It was a very uneven but absolutely brilli-
ant script” (1985, 224). Rights to the Pinter script were purchased with
funding arranged by Losey’s agent Robin Fox, the father of James Fox,
the young actor who subsequently gave an exceptional performance as
the ill-fated Tony. (At the time of his original interest, Losey apparently
had Bogarde in mind for Tony rather than the servant Barrett, the role
he eventually played with such insinuating power.) The Servant proved
to be the film that changed Losey’s artistic life and reputation once and
for all. “So with [Richard] MacDonald and Dirk Bogarde and with my
various hurts and destructions,” he told Ciment, “I had a kind of rising
from the ashes on The Servant’? (179). A cool reception when the film
premiered at the Venice festival was soon forgotten in the enthusiasm
of its openings in New York and London and, a few months later, in
Paris. Thus, at the age of fifty-four, with his fifteenth feature film, Losey
had his first international success. More important, despite a conten-
tious first meeting with Pinter, he had found his ideal collaborator as
screenwriter.
The Servant is especially significant for what it reveals about Losey and
Pinter’s discovery of the possibilities of a common voice. So far as English
society was concerned, both were outsiders, although obviously in different
ways. Losey was the expatriate American struggling to come to terms with
another society even as he was in exile from his own; Pinter was the bright

42
and talented son of a working-class family with limited access to the priv-
ileges so available to the upper classes in his own country. Despite this
common ground, the son of a Jewish tailor living in Hackney, in London’s
East End, and the American midwesterner educated in the Ivy League would
seem unlikely collaborators. Commenting on their disparate backgrounds,
however, Losey saw this as an advantage. ““The two of us together,” he told
Ciment, ‘“‘can have a look at aspects of England that probably no others in
the world could have” (1985, 262).
Other traits, too, might seem obstacles to their successful collaboration,
none more so than the gulf between the tendency toward “baroque ro-
manticism” of Losey’s visual style and Pinter’s oblique, elliptical language.
But their artistic differences, like the differences in their cultural back-
grounds, became the basis for a new, more expressive vision for both
men, one in which visual richness and understated, suggestive language
did not contradict each other but were joined in a provocative tension.
Noting that Pinter’s scripts “superbly evoke the visual for me,” Losey
said that “‘the screenplays that Harold has done with me...are absolutely
different from anything that he’s done for anybody else. His screenplays
always have their personal stamp, there is no doubt about that. But if you
look at some of the other films he’s made, they are not the same films as
the films he makes with me” (Ciment 1985, 242). The screenplay for The
Servant, however, does bear a noticeable resemblance to the playwright’s
stage dramas. The often elliptical dialogue and strangely disturbing tone of
scenes in which the subtext seems more compelling (and somehow men-
acing) than anything in the text itself suggest such Pinter plays of this period
as The Birthday Party (1957), The Caretaker (1959), and The Homecoming
(1964). And this is not always to The Servant’s advantage. For all the film’s
brilliance and disturbing power, the tension between text and subtext is
occasionally too insistent. Moreover, a striking shift in style and charac-
terizations intrudes in the last third of the film. To some extent the latter
arises from the original material; Maugham’s novella is weakest in its last
section, which attempts to resolve the narrative without fully confronting
the psychological and social issues of sexuality and power it has raised. The
shift in style reveals that the brilliant possibilities of the collaboration be-
tween Losey and Pinter are not yet fully realized in their first film together.
In their next two, Accident and The Go-Between, however, they succeed
in fusing their different strengths to achieve wonderfully subtle and expan-
sive films. Looking back on their work, Losey summed it up by remarking:
“We got to understand each other very well and to trust each other com-

43
pletely. And I think it’s the best and most useful collaboration I’ve ever
had” (240).
In Hollywood U.K., Alexander Walker, always a perceptive critic of Lo-
sey’s films, examines The Servant within the sociopolitical context in which
it was produced: “This year, 1963, was the year of rumours, doubts, sus-
picions and scandals about public figures and people in high places in Eng-
land whose confluence was such that, by the time the Losey film was ready,
it threatened virtually to destroy all credibility in our rulers and ‘our bet-
ters’”’ (1974, 205). The year 1963 saw the Profumo scandal, the downfall
of the Macmillan government’s minister of war, which was set in motion
by his sexual entanglement with a young model. Making clear that he is
not “suggesting any post hoc, propter hoc relationship,” Walker goes on
to say that
within its own terms The Servant had managed to conceptualize a
state of change in British society which... was forcing self-knowledge
on to people who had been hidden from it by their own sedulously
fostered division of life into public and private sectors with appro-
priate, though hypocritically unreconcilable, standards of conduct for
each. The Servant was one of the events that breached this moral
cordon sanitaire; it isolated something British society already felt stir-
ring, and because it was a work of art that was all of a piece (or very
nearly) it permeated one’s cultural consciousness more profoundly
than any British film had done since [Karel Reisz’s] Saturday Night
and Sunday Morning. (208)
The central conflict in The Servant exposes the arrogant, self-indulgent
corruption of a privileged class dependent on exploiting an underclass
whose servility is but a thin veil for long-standing resentments and desires.
But the film goes beyond an indictment of social or class inequities, and
beyond melodrama as well, in its shocking tale of a master and
servant mutually destroyed. Both characters are too individualized and
complex to be construed as broadly as ideological melodrama would
require. True, politics is plainly at work here; so, too, are good and
evil. But the film cannot be explained by politics alone, nor simply as
a morality tale — if such tales can ever be termed simple. Rather, it tells
the story of a collapse, both personal and societal, in which false values,
the politics of class, the vagaries of desire, and the power of uncertain
sexuality claim equal places in a world suffused with hypocrisy. In its
tale of a destruction that seems both eccentric and inevitable, The Servant

44
joins themes and character in a fashion that marks a significant step for
Losey in his journey from the relative simplicity of social commitment
to sensitivity to the dilemmas of individual characters in a complex social
and moral world.

In various ways the principal characters in the film are all destroyed. Tony
hires Barrett, the manservant who takes over the decorating of Tony’s re-
cently purchased Chelsea town house and who eventually brings Vera (Sarah
Miles), a young woman supposedly his sister but in fact his mistress, into
the house as a maid. Despite opposition from Tony’s fiancée Susan (Wendy
Craig), Barrett comes to control the weak and sybaritic master. Fulfilling
Barrett’s plan, Vera seduces Tony, who then drifts away from his already
listless relationship with Susan. When Tony and Susan discover Barrett and
Vera having sex in the master’s bedroom, Tony, who seems shattered by
the discovery, orders the pair from the house. Despite his plea that she stay
with him, Susan leaves Tony also. In an emotional limbo, Tony, who is
unable to care for himself, later rehires Barrett, who claims that Vera was
responsible for all that happened. In the haze of drink and drugs that follows,
Tony soon sinks into a world of degradation and ambiguous sexuality. The
servant, now the corrupt and corrupting master of the house, eventually
brings Vera back and locks Susan out one last time. With the roles now
fully reversed, the servant secures the house and locks on to his victim in
a symbiotic-parasitic relationship that imprisons and destroys both men.
From the beginning the house and the changes it undergoes give shape
to a story of human possibilities perverted, of destruction that engulfs all
those who enter it. The importance of Richard MacDonald’s set design and
Douglas Slocombe’s cinematography can hardly be overestimated, for the
spatial design and furnishings of the house and the lighting and photography
of this setting are inextricably joined to the film’s atmosphere and its themes.
The empty house invites its inhabitants to decorate it, to fill it with both
objects and actions, to make it their own. As a result, the house becomes
what Losey calls “an extension of reality,” a metaphor for conflicting,
sometimes contradictory, desires. Lacking any self-awareness, or even a
strongly defined personality, Tony implicitly extends a fatal invitation to
the servant to become the dominant force. Tony, the dreamer of romantic
notions about building great cities in the South American jungle (yet another
environment), having only the vaguest ideas of what his own house should
be, relies on Barrett, whose first task in looking after Tony is to supervise

45
the decoration and furnishing. Turning his hand to that task, the servant is
soon exerting an influence on his master that foreshadows the role reversal
to come.
The mise-en-scéne of the first sequence — Barrett’s arrival for his interview
with Tony and the interview itself — establishes the pattern of fluid circular
camera movements that informs the film’s visual style. The few cuts in the
sequence are confined to the first moments of Barrett’s arrival. Once Tony
shows Barrett to an upstairs room for their principal discussion, the re-
mainder of the sequence is presented in a single, predominantly circular
shot punctuated only by occasional pauses. In the opening shot the camera,
tilted upward, tracks backward along a row of trees, their branches barren
against a wintry sky, gradually turning until it comes to the facade of a
building. The camera then pulls back for a wider angle that shows Barrett
standing on a sidewalk just below the sign “Thomas Crapper, Sanitary
Engineers.”” (Whether this juxtaposition is meant as a pun on Barrett’s
origins or character is arguable, but all the same, a scatological background
is wryly linked to the man with his umbrella, topcoat, and hat — not a
bowler, of course, for Barrett is not a gentleman but “‘a gentleman’s gentle-
man.’’) Continuing its circle, the camera follows Barrett as he walks toward
Tony’s house. Finding the door unlocked, he enters the house unannounced.
An interior shot pans from Barrett’s entrance to a view of the staircase (a
central battleground of the ensuing struggle) and holds for a time until
Barrett reenters the frame, crossing to the stairs and ascending the first step
or two. The shot continues to track as he moves from the entrance hall to
explore adjoining rooms. Eventually, through a series of open doorways
Barrett sees in the distance the sleeping figure of Tony, who has had “‘too
many beers for lunch.” Lacking any furnishings or ornaments, the house is
defined thus far only in terms of empty spaces and shapes, the succession
of doorways, and the figure stretched out on a deck chair. As Barrett stands
over Tony, a series of alternating shots (high angles looking down on Tony
and low angles looking past the reclining Tony in the foreground to Barrett)
further anticipate the struggle for dominance that will define this relationship
(Figure 10). Awakened by Barrett, Tony rouses himself, and for a time his
boyishly easy charm and aristocratic insouciance tend to override the initial
impression of a passive young man lacking energy or direction.
Once they are in the upstairs room, which is empty except for two chairs
set rather incongruously in the middle of the space, Tony asks Barrett to
sit. Although Tony sits briefly in the other chair, he is soon up and walking
about the room. Standing over and circling around the seated Barrett, Tony
seems easily to dominate the interview with his questions and comments.
46
But the image tells another story. The single sustained shot (two minutes,
thirty seconds) combines Barrett’s stationary position, Tony’s wandering
about, and the camera’s own fluid movement to effect a constantly changing
mise-en-scéne in which first one character and then the other dominates the
image (Figure 11). If Tony stands while Barrett sits, and his freedom of
movement in the image expresses his superior social status and the advantage
he has in making the decision about employing Barrett, Barrett is nonetheless
often in the foreground of the frame dominating the image. The result is a
visual counterpoint that calls into question the apparent social meaning of
the scene. Beyond dialogue and events that are ordinary, the image estab-
lishes the potential drama of class conflict and personal domination within
this seemingly undramatic encounter. At its conclusion Tony admits to
needing “‘well, everything... general looking after... you know.” A def-
erential Barrett, ready to assume the task, smiles and answers, “Yes, I do,
sir.” Like a patient spider, Barrett watches Tony move casually about the
room even as the mise-en-scéne signals that Tony has already begun to
entangle himself.
Under Barrett’s watchful eye, the house takes shape and becomes almost
a physical extension of the servant himself, who winces as the workmen
clumsily nick newly painted woodwork. When Tony first shows the redec-
orated house to Susan, he unintentionally reveals Barrett’s already consid-
erable control. Susan is amused by Tony’s naive enthusiasm for his new
surroundings, but she is also dismayed by his lack of concern for the way
Barrett has everywhere imposed his tastes. Unaware of this, Tony proudly
unveils to Susan the chic new sculpture that Barrett has installed in the
garden, an abstract that metaphorically suggests Tony’s own shapeless char-
acter. As if intuitively, Susan seems to realize that the servant has constructed
a pleasure house that is a prison, and she reacts against Barrett and the
hermetic environment he is creating.
Susan is an intrusion from the outside world, and she and Barrett will be
locked in combat over Tony’s life and soul. Their struggle begins with
Susan’s initial response to the interior decorating. The portraits of aristocrats
that hang on the walls are reminders of the past, of an elegant and refined,
if contradictory, world now dead, along with Tony’s father and Lord Barr,
Barrett’s former employer, both of whom died within the same week. But
as heir to this world, Tony is overrefined, almost effete, without individuality
or purpose, except for his absurd rationalizing talk, his romanticized version
of noblesse oblige about building a civilization for the poor of Asia Minor
out of the Brazilian jungle. When Susan first enters the newly decorated
living room and examines the paintings, Barrett tells her that “the simple
47
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: - me why : oe, a : . é : . . . aoe : — *. . “ me : "
: seemingly dominating the patient Barrett, whose servitude has already begun PSE
, to entrap the unwary aristocrat. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.) ee
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Figure 12. A stylized tableau offers a satirical look at the smug and insular
aristocrats, the Mountsets. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

and classic is always best.’’ Susan, objecting that the paintings aren’t classic
but ‘“‘prehistoric,” rejects this carefully arranged, superficially aristocratic
world that will soon turn decadent. Her conflict with Barrett becomes more
apparent in their quiet but intense struggle over the decor during one of
Susan’s visits to Tony when he is in bed with a cold. At first Barrett rather
ostentatiously occupies himself with dusting books and spraying the house
with disinfectant. But when he tries to remove the flowers that Susan has
brought into Tony’s sickroom, she insists the flowers stay. On a later oc-
casion when Tony ts not present, she tries to assert her authority over Barrett
by changing the decor with colored pillows and flowers and by emphatically
treating him as a servant who must light her cigarettes and follow her orders.
Susan is herself a problematic character who, even when successfully
deflating Tony’s pretensions, seems nonetheless a snob in her attacks on
Barrett. Although one may sympathize with her struggle against the insidious
servant, her eagerness to demean him may well expose her own cruel as-
sertion of class privilege. There is in fact a general uncertainty about Susan’s
values, attitudes, and motivations.* Interestingly, her role in the film is
greatly expanded from that of the sweet girlfriend, Sally, in Maugham’s
novella. Sally waited for Tony during his tour in the army and hoped to
49
 marry him. Although she dislikes Barrett intensely and opposes him in her
modest way, Sally has no ongoing confrontations with him. Angered by
Tony’s obsession with the many comforts that Barrett provides and frus-
trated by Tony’s inattention to her, Sally gives up on him reluctantly and
sadly when she marries another man and moves to a farm in Rhodesia. On
the other hand, Susan, who also eventually says she loves Tony, disappears
and then reappears in the film only to be finally excluded by Barrett. Al-
though she wins some battles, Susan is ultimately humiliated by the servant
as she attempts and fails to save Tony.
Barrett, who can anticipate and even create Tony’s desires, controls the
feckless aristocrat by making him a prisoner of his own senses. Once Barrett
introduces Vera to the scene, he is in nearly total control. A provocative
but enigmatic tool in the servant’s schemes, Vera seduces Tony, who be-
comes sexually obsessed with her and thus steadily more bound to the house.
When maid seduces master (appropriately, in the kitchen) the heightened
use of sound — water dripping from a tap, the ticking of a clock, the loud
ringing of an unanswered telephone (presumably a promised evening call
from Susan) — creates a charged atmosphere that combines with Vera’s
sensual teasing pose on the kitchen table to entice and entrap Tony. The
centripetal pull of the house and its sensual pleasures grows ever stronger
on Tony. Even dreary weather, rain and snow, contributes to the oppressive
} atmosphere that draws him back to the house and to the solicitous services
of both Barrett and Vera.
Shortly after the seduction scene, Pinter’s simultaneously mundane and
suggestive dialogue, modulated with telling (and typical) silences and pauses,
draws on the weather motif when Barrett, showing Susan to the door, finds
an offhand and indirect way of suggesting that he has the upper hand in
their competition for Tony. He says to Susan, “I’m afraid it’s not very
encouraging, miss... the weather forecast.” In a similar vein, on an earlier
occasion Barrett arranged a weekend away from the house, leaving Tony
and Vera alone. When he returns and correctly surmises that Tony and
Vera have slept together for the first time, the two men have the following
banal exchange about Vera that the servant nonetheless invests with con-
siderable innuendo:

BARRETT: I notice she didn’t do the washing up.

TONY: Still under the weather, I suppose.
BARRETT: Under the what, sir?
TONY: The weather.
BARRETT: Oh yes.

50
 The subtext of much of the dialogue in such scenes is matched by the
complexity of the images. A familiar signature of Losey’s style in many of
his films is the elaborate use of mirrors. Perhaps first evident in The Servant,
they are an integral part of the decor, of the “‘tasteful and pleasant sur-
roundings” that Barrett is so anxious to create. When the image focuses
directly on a single character, a doubling effect frequently occurs because
the character is reflected in a mirror. Such doubling (sometimes even tripling)
suggests the divided personalities of the central characters, as well as their
self-indulgent, narcissistic attitudes and contests. In fact, the first view of
the completely decorated interiors of the house is presented as a reflection
in a convex mirror. The image of the living room in which the mirror hangs
is clear, but the mirror warps its appearance. Also, the multiple mirrors
often reflect the triangular arrangement of the characters as their complex
emotional and psychological relationships shift (Figure 13).
One scene making skillful use of such mirroring involves all four main
characters — the scene in which Tony and Susan return from their country
weekend to find Barrett and Vera having sex in Tony’s bedroom, the same
room where the servant was first interviewed. Tony discovers his servants’
sexual relationship while he stands on the stairs. From the bedroom door
above, Barrett’s silhouette looms on the wall in the background between
Susan and Tony, marking the first of many triangular compositions (Figure
14). Once Tony demands that Barrett come downstairs, the confrontation,
which reveals that Vera is not Barrett’s sister, but his fiancée, and that Tony
has had his own sexual encounters with her, features a particularly sugges-
tive use of mirror images. Standing to the left of the convex mirror, Susan
is, significantly, excluded from its reflection. Positioned in the center of the
direct shots of Susan and Tony is the mirror itself, which first holds the
distorted reflections of Tony and Barrett and, subsequently, when Vera
arrives to announce her engagement to Barrett and declare that Tony “can’t
’ave it on a plate for ever,” frames and implicates the three occupants of
the house. The figures in the convex mirror are foreshortened, diminished,
and elongated like the eerie images in a carnival house of horrors.
Once Barrett and Vera are banished, the discourse takes a decisive turn,
not only in terms of the story, but in style as well; for the film’s last section
is increasingly expressionist in its images and steadily more extreme in the
characters’ actions. To some extent the visual style of the later scenes is
anticipated in details such as the distorted mirror images. Also the action
and dialogue in the last section may be prefigured, as Losey intended, in
the stylized tone of the restaurant and Mountset country house scenes earlier

51 |
in the film. Both of these aspects are problematic, however, and a number
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relationships that pervade The Servant. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment
Ltd.)

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Figure 14. Tony and Susan discover that Barrett (in silhouette) and Vera (off
screen) have usurped the master’s bedroom for their sexual games. (Courtesy
Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

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Figure 15. A shadowy vortex, the stairway is a playground for the ball game
and the many other power games between master and servant. (Courtesy
Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

of critics have taken exception to them — ranging from Alexander Walker’s

modest caveat that the film is “very nearly” of a piece to American critic
Vernon Young’s conclusion that the shift is fatal to the film’s unity. Young,
who saw the film in the Venice festival and attended a press conference
Losey gave afterward, referred to Losey’s “‘defending the catastrophe which
some few of us insisted had overtaken [The Servant] ...at about the two-
thirds mark” (1972, 223). One need not wholly agree with Young’s severe
judgment to conclude that the striking change in the last section threatens
to undermine the film’s overall coherence.
That Losey himself was concerned about the risk of disparate styles is
clear from the story he told in various interviews about the rewriting of the
restaurant scene. ““Near the end of the shooting,” he told Ciment:
| suddenly realized that the country house scene and the ball game
scene were so stylized that in the existing material there were two
different styles. The basis of one of the styles was in those two scenes,
which took place at the beginning and near the end. The whole thing
was going to break in two unless I had another sequence of that style
53
 in the middle. So I called Harold and said to him that it could be done
in the scene in the restaurant which originally was not a very good
one because it was a very long dialogue scene between James Fox and
Wendy Craig. It was uninterrupted, and not interesting. I felt that
somehow the upper-class aspect of the country house and of the ball
game required in the middle a kind of return to this society which,
after all, was the background and basis of the picture. (1985, 227-8)

Although, interestingly, Losey misremembers the order (the restaurant scene

precedes the country house and ball game scenes rather than occurring
between them), his perceived need for balancing highly stylized scenes with
the tone of the rest of the narration is perceptive.
A brief look at the Mountset country house scene, which caricatures an
insular, moribund aristocracy, suggests what gave rise to Losey’s concern.
Tony tells Susan in the restaurant that Agatha and Willy Mountset have
invited them for a weekend in the country. A long, leisurely pan of the
gardens of the country estate to the accompaniment of sprightly, almost
comic, music introduces the scene. Cutting to a shot inside the grand house,
the camera follows a servant carrying drinks into a large formal room. The
doors open as if onto a stage where the Mountsets and Tony and Susan are
posed in a tableau. Behind each of the Mountsets stands marble statuary
that seems to mock their stilted behavior (Figure 12). The subject matter
and inflated tone of the conversation constitute a satire on both the self-
assured ignorance of the Mountsets (Lady Mountset assures the others that
South American cowboys are called ‘‘ponchos’’) and on Tony’s naively
idealistic and ludicrous plans to build cities in the Brazilian jungle. This
amusing and theatrical send-up ends, aptly enough, with the exit of the
servant and the closing of the doors that first opened onto the scene.
In the rewritten version of the restaurant scene, the counterpointed con-
versation between Tony and Susan arguing about Barrett nearly succeeds
in subsuming the odd, seemingly irrelevant snatches of conversation of three
other couples: a society man and woman, a bishop and his curate, and two
apparent lesbians. That the latter two of these “overheard” conversations
are rather nakedly about power, a frequent theme for Losey and Pinter and
a major issue in The Servant, contributes to integrating.them into the nar-
rative overall. In addition, the scene is also intercut with brief shots of
Barrett meeting Vera at the station and bringing her to Tony’s house, which
creates an ironic counterpoint to Tony’s spirited defense of Barrett to the
more mistrusting and discerning Susan and implies a connection between
these otherwise separate events.
54
 In addition to the shifts in tone and style, the last section of the film, for
all the brilliance of individual moments, does not embrace the range of
thematic possibilities that have emerged so much as set them out one by
one. Viewed in the aggregate, the scenes following Tony’s rehiring of Barrett
are alternately realistic, parodic, surreal, and even allegorical, and they
threaten to go in several directions (from homosexuality to a satiric inversion
of the British class system to a Faustian version of evil) in offering possible
explanations for the characters’ motivations and precipitous slide into dec-
adence. Interestingly, these scenes are rooted in the least explicit portion of
Robin Maugham’s novella. Maugham’s first-person narrator, Richard Mer-
ton, who is omitted from the film, explains that he was spending a year in
the United States during the period of Barrett’s final ascendance to complete
power over Tony. (The bare fact of Barrett’s return has been mentioned to
him in letters.) Merton says:
I fear that the weakness of this story is that I am unable to explain
the reason for the increase in Barrett’s influence during the year I was
away. He stood for ease and comfort in Tony’s mind. But it must have
been more than that.... Tony was lonely. The screen of convention
which stood between him and Barrett had been shattered. There was
now an easy understanding. They had been after the same girl. They
were no longer master and servant.... Barrett was far too clever to
state the position as baldly as I have done. I expect he took on his
role as dragoman step by step, with sly little hints and furtive allusions,
until he finally established his position as the agent who satisfied Tony’s
needs. (1964, 75—6)
Obviously, Losey and Pinter could not settle for anything so vague as the |
speculations and disclaimers offered by Maugham’s narrator. Instead, the
period of ascendancy is largely omitted in favor of portraying its conse-
quences, which are startling in their departure from what has come before.
Drawing on details from the novella — Barrett’s and Tony’s preoccupation
with crossword puzzles, for example, and a final scene in which a teenage
prostitute arrives while Merton is trying to make a last appeal to Tony —
the film narrates the final collapse.
The last section begins with a scene of Tony working a crossword puzzle
when Barrett, complaining of “‘all this muck and slime,” sweeps into the
room whose disarray contrasts with the self-conscious orderliness he earlier
presided over. Tony, in a listless insistence on maintaining at least the
appearance of proprieties between master and servant, responds: “Well, do
something about it. You’re supposed to be the bloody servant!’ Barrett
55
ignores this, replying that he is “not used to working in such squalor.’ He
complains: “Look, why don’t you get yourself a job instead of moping
around here all day? Here I am scraping and skimping to make ends meet
... getting worse and worse...and you’re no bloody help... d’you know
that butter’s gone up two-pence a pound?” As a set piece (despite the curious
question of what has become of Tony’s fortune) the scene works as an
energetic satire of the reversal that now characterizes their relationship. But
the changes are especially unsettling in the way they violate one’s under-
standing of the characters. Moreover, placed at the beginning of this section,
the particular shift in the characterizations of Tony and Barrett in this scene
is likely to skew one’s response to the following scenes that prepare for the
darker, more decadent extremes of the conclusion.
Although Tony is not greatly changed as the listless and slovenly aris-
tocrat, his ready acceptance of Barrett’s crabbed and insolent speech is
disconcerting, but not wholly implausible. Barrett, on the other hand, has
become a bitchy, frazzled housemate who complains about everything from
the price of butter to Tony’s lack of employment. What has happened to
the fastidious, controlled, and shrewdly manipulative man who dominates
the first two-thirds of the film? Barrett is not just changed, but seems a
parody of an upper-class notion of a frustrated working-class housewife.
He has never been so stridently affected and almost effeminate as he is now
in his open abuse of Tony. How to account for such a sudden and radical
change in the servant, in his relationship with Tony, and in their general
living conditions? Is one to assume that this petulant nag is the “‘real’’ Barrett
whose hidden character is now revealed? Has living with Tony perhaps
corrupted a trim and orderly Barrett who is weaker or more easily influenced
than might be supposed from his past? While pointing to the problem, such
explanations fail to convince. More important, beginning the section with
a nagging “wife and husband” risks foregrounding homosexuality as re-
ductively explanatory. To its credit, the film is more honest in facing the
homosexual implications of the relationship than Maugham’s novella, which
never openly acknowledges the possibility, but this scene founders on car-
icature. Alternative interpretations involving the will to power and class
conflict, as well as ambiguous sexuality, that the first two-thirds of the film
kept viable and subtly balanced can hardly coexist if one believes what one
sees and hears in the bickering of the two main characters, who have been,
until now, beyond stereotyping.
The misbegotten nature of the squabbling-couple scene is the more ob-
vious when it is compared with a slightly later scene in which Tony and
Barrett, both dressed in coats and ties, have a dinner prepared by Barrett,
56
which Tony declares “fabulous.” Tony’s compliments and Barrett’s coy
expressions of gratitude (“It’s nice to know it’s appreciated. It makes all
the difference’) certainly reveal the reversal that has taken place. Besides
signaling at least a version of decorum, however oddly enacted, the scene
hints at the possibile emergence of a latent homosexuality without relying
on sex-role stereotypes. The most telling element arises in an exchange about
friendships in both men’s army days. Barrett says, ““You know, sometimes
I get the feeling that we’re old pals.” Tony responds, ““That’s funny... I get
the same feeling myself.” Barrett tells Tony that he has felt this way only
once before, in the army. ““That’s funny,” Tony again responds. “‘I had the
same feeling myself there, too. Once.” The reiteration of the word “‘once”’
subtly extends the possible sexual implications of the conversation and
effectively suggests one aspect of the struggle for power between the two
men. Interestingly, no other scene in this section has so quiet, almost poign-
ant a tone, as if beyond the overt bickering and menacing contests, there
might reside ordinary human frailty. But the moment is at best a truce, and
the outcome of the violent games that ensue has more to do with power
than mere victory.
From the almost conventional contest for dominance that marks the suc-
ceeding scene when Tony awakens Barrett and angrily insists that he clean
up tea dregs on the carpet, the narrative moves to one of its most brilliant
moments. Tony and Barrett, stationed on the staircase, play a ball game in
which, as Pinter describes it in the screenplay, “‘according to their own rules,
the ball must be bounced off the wall or on the stairs past the opponent”
(1972, 50). Power, place, advantage — all are at stake as the contestants
revel at one moment in a point scored and protest in the next that they are
being unfairly treated. Although Losey regarded this scene as one of the
two whose style threatened to unbalance the film, it has little in common
with either the restaurant or Mountset scenes. Nor is its narration extreme
or divergent from the pattern of expressionism that grows steadily as the
film approaches the orgy scene with which it concludes. In fact, the visual
stylization is especially effective, genuinely enlarging the scene rather than
merely calling attention to itself. In the images, there are, in a sense, four
players in the game, for behind Barrett and Tony their shadows loom on
the wall like phantom opponents, larger, insubstantial, but commanding,
as if the shadow contest were the truer picture of the conflict (Figure 15).
Barrett, who starts the game in the inferior position, will end up standing
at the top of the stairs, where he dominates Tony (and the image), ordering
Tony to run off and pour him a brandy.
That Barrett has ascended to full power over Tony is confirmed in the
57
& z , eae Figure 16. The “Faust” scene where the Mephistophelian Barrett dominates ee
the stuporous Tony. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.) =

formidable game of hide-and-seek they soon play. In the darkened house

___ Barrett searches for Tony, calling to him in a voice no less sinister than it
is soft and seductive. “Puss, puss, puss,” Barrett coos. Tony’s dread of being
found (and found out, as suggested by Barrett’s line while he stalks him, =
---“You’ve got a guilty secret’”) is revealed in lurid images of the shifting
shadows of Tony’s face distorted on the shower curtain behind which he
-__ cowers in obvious terror (Figure 17). When at last Barrett tears back the
curtain to expose Tony, one sees the faucet dripping just as the kitchen tap)
__ did in the scene when Vera seduced Tony. That Barrett’s seduction of Tony
___ ig partly sexual is surely implied by the recurring image of dripping water,
but the scene’s disturbing power is darker and more malevolent than mere
sexual seduction, however morally forbidden or socially condemned. The
ruthless but recognizable power struggle of the ball game has been succeeded
by something more amorphous, more far-reaching and dangerous, for in
the hide-and-seek scene Barrett’s dominance seems nearly demonic and
LEE -Tony’s will has collapsed, leaving him only a trembling victim. Not merely =
power, but evil itself seems to possess the house and its inhabitants.
Although Losey expressed regret at having once said The Servant was
about Faust, because “‘this was a terrible over-simplification” (Milne 1968,
---- 13), one of the most important scenes leading up to the orgy, and defining oe
es i
Figure 17. In the ominous, almost surreal images of the hide-and-seek game,
the shower curtain behind which Tony cowers distorts his shadowed profile.
(Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

=E - an

A
i;;.
Figure 18. Tony’s magnified eye, seen through a glass sphere, in turn sees a
misshapen, inverted world in the orgy scene that concludes the film. (Courtesy
Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

59
the film’s final darkness, strongly evokes the Faust legend. With a fire in
the grate as background, a medium close-up of a tabletop shows a game of
solitaire in progress. From the right margin of the frame, Barrett’s hand
moves the cards around and then places a small bottle of some liquid on
the table as he is heard offering “‘something special” to the unseen Tony.
Although he twice rather feebly rejects the potion, Tony succumbs to Bar-
rett’s inveigling to “just have a little sip.” The camera draws back to a
medium long shot of the two men, Barrett, at center right of the image,
dominating Tony, who sits to the left on the floor virtually at Barrett’s feet.
“You see. I can still think of things that will please you, can’t I?’’ says the
tempter, as he pours yet another glass of the special concoction for Tony.
The fire, the potion, and Barrett’s superior solicitude all link him to the
legendary Mephistopheles, particularly the versions of Marlowe and Goethe,
as does Barrett’s most Mephistophelean line to Tony, ““My only ambition
is to serve you. You know that, don’t you?” (Figure 16). Even Barrett’s
strategy of admitting mistakes recalls Mephistopheles’ tactics, and Barrett’s
excuse to Tony — “After all, I’m only human, aren’t I? You wouldn’t like
me if I wasn’t human, would you?” — hints at the question of the servant’s
almost preternatural, if not diabolical, personality. Tony, too, in his pathetic
struggle to articulate a plan of action, enacts a tortured version of Faust’s
striving that, in Goethe’s drama at least, defines man’s restless spirit and
insatiable curiosity, a striving that eventually saves Faust’s soul. In a pain-
fully halting manner, Tony says to Barrett: “Listen... Listen... Perhaps...
we...could both...make...an extra effort.”” With a snap of his fingers
and a patronizing slap to Tony’s cheek, Barrett replies: ““You’re right, Tony,
you’re dead right. That’s what we ought to do.” The deadly sins are by
now obvious in the film — pride, envy, anger, greed, lust, and especially
sloth. Like Mephistopheles, Barrett takes possession of Tony’s life and soul
by playing the procurer for his desires. Unlike Faust, however, Tony is not
stirred to activity; he is not defined or saved by his striving, but damned
by his sloth.
The difficulties centering on consistency of characterization, stylistic co-
herence, and structural unity that grow pronounced in the scenes after
Barrett’s return persist through the orgy scene that ends the film. Among
the most obvious inconsistencies is Susan’s character. Angry and offended
by what she learned when Tony, both shamed and betrayed, ordered Barrett
and Vera from the house, Susan walked out on Tony. Reappearing now,
Susan seems an entirely different character — passive, uncertain, even sub-
missive, where previously she was opinionated and assertive in defending
Tony and her own social status against Barrett’s encroachments. In this last
60
scene Susan, a most unlikely advocate of Vera’s needs and rights, even urges
a nearly incoherent Tony to pay Vera some recompense for his past misuse
of her. In addition, Susan abases herself, kissing Barrett and then submitting
to Barrett’s kisses and his taunts in a desperate last attempt (according to
Losey’s own explanation of her motivations) to rouse Tony and incite him
to defend her. Her actions, however, are unconvincing and out of character;
only when she slaps Barrett as he shows her out the door does she slip back
into or reclaim her previously defined character.
More than inconsistencies of characterization or stylistic excesses have
troubled some critics, who have found the orgy scene marred by empty or
too explicit allegorizing. Nonetheless, Losey, who could be both an astute
and a harsh critic of his own work, steadfastly defended the ending. ‘‘Per-
sonally I like the orgy scene,” he told Tom Milne. “‘T like the film, and I
couldn’t have made it any other way at the time” (1968, 136). Losey also
defended the orgy to Ciment and argued as well for the coherence of the
other highly stylized scenes: “‘A lot of people said, at the time, that the orgy
was tacked on and it wasn’t the same picture — which is not true. There
was a direct development out of the country house, the restaurant, the ball
game, to the orgy” (1985, 231). Although Losey can rightly point to pre- —
ceding scenes that establish a stylized mode of presentation, few similarities
can be drawn between the orgy and the country house and restaurant scenes.
The latter are sharply satiric — witty and shrewd, even savage, but not
ominous and disturbing. By contrast, the ominous scenes, those most
charged with menace, the Faust and hide-and-seek scenes, together with the
ball game scene, do prepare for the fateful ending by presenting not merely
a reversal of the master—servant roles, but the collapse of all social norms
and moral values in a world where all barriers are down.
Losey’s view of the orgy scene suggests the extent to which he intended
to subvert one’s distance from the film’s world. The “‘sequence is uneasy,”
he wrote, “it’s uncomfortable, because it turns people back on themselves
... makes them face up to certain things that are implicit in the preceding
material” (1970, 59). Clearly he intends the scene not only as a conclusion,
but as a formal closure of the overall design of the narration, which, iron-
ically, exploits ambiguity to make explicit the nightmare of dissolution that
is implicit from the beginning. In the orgy scene Tony’s complete collapse,
narcotized finally to the point of stupor, and Barrett’s malevolent stage
managing of a strangely shapeless but devouring decadence reach a surreal

61 |
climax that is genuinely disturbing in its shadowy and ambiguous details.
Like the house itself, the film is hermetically sealed, reflexive in the narcis-
sistic images of characters gazing into mirrors or through glass balls that
distort and invert the already bizarre interior world (Figure 18). Thus, Tony
and Vera (who, having sought to return to the house only to be banished,
is inexplicably present once again) point a camera at a mirror, taking a
snapshot of their own reflection. In a sense the film implodes; the house
clock, whose chimes have regularly sounded at the most dramatic moments,
stops; and Tony, immobilized by drugs and drink, slips into a timeless world
under Barrett’s control.

However controversial its extremes, the conclusion of The Servant remains

at least an arguable closure of its tale of the darkness that has invaded the
world of the house and the characters who seal themselves off within it.
Whatever one’s judgment of the orgy scene, ambiguity is likely to be at
issue, for it is crucial to the film not just in its conclusion but throughout.
In an interview Pinter once said:
I do so hate the becauses of drama. Who are we to say that this happens
because that happened, that one thing is a consequence of another?
... The most we know for sure is that the things which have happened
have happened in a certain order: any connections we think we see,
or choose to make, are pure guesswork. Life is much more mysterious
than plays make it out to be. And it is this mystery which fascinates
me. (Klein 1985, 51)
Although Pinter’s remarks about the “‘becauses” were in response to ques-
tions about Accident, they are equally relevant to The Servant with its
troubling question of causality. Just why did this particular moral catastro-
phe happen? For that matter, was it moral, social, or psychological? Was
it the inevitable product of a historical dialectic, as Alexander Walker ob-
serves, Or, more narrowly, the psychological intersection of two personal-
ities, each with his own weaknesses, merely waiting for some fatal invitation?
Or do the social forces and individual frailties constitute the terms for
enacting an allegory of the triumph of evil where good has abdicated its
place? Not surprisingly, the film has produced wide-ranging disagreements
about the answers to these questions.

62 |
Calling The Servant “the definitive Losey film,” Gordon Gow observed
that it “has been variously construed as a class-struggle metaphor, an essay
on the ascendency urge, a study of evil. All definitions seem to me valid”’
(1971, 37). Alexander Walker cites still more disparate interpretations:
‘““*The parable of a man and his alter ego’ (Richard Roud, the Guardian);
‘Is it, by implication, a study of homosexuality?’ (Eric Rhode, the Listener);
‘a film about possession, not merely who owns what but who owns who
[sic]’ (Philip Oakes, the Sunday Telegraph); ‘an all-out attack on Britain’s
caste system’ (Time)’’ (1974, 218). Walker’s view, like Gow’s, is that the
richness of the film’s metaphoric treatment of the master—servant relation-
ship contains a multiplicity of meanings. This is certainly true, but the
disagreements about interpretation can also be traced to the shift in style
and characterizations once the servant is taken back by the master who
fired him in the first place, and even more precisely, to the weight of the
first scene after Barrett’s return, when the themes of sexual identity and
power are treated in such broad terms.
At its best The Servant reveals and prefigures what Accident and The Go-
Between \ater confirm and extend: the singular vision shared by Losey and
Pinter involves mystery. Not suspense, but mystery. Not a lack of causes
but an obsession with consequences dominates all three of their collabo-
rations. The “why” that haunts The Servant is not irrelevant, but neither
is it the reason for telling the story. Indeed, as its many and varied inter-
pretations suggest, there is no shortage of plausible explanations of the
calamity the film narrates. Losey, like Pinter, is drawn to the mystery of
human behavior and motivation precisely because it is mysterious, finally
unexplainable. As early as Time Without Pity, where the identity of the
murderer is revealed in the first scene of what would otherwise be a con-
ventional whodunit, Losey rejected mere suspense. In Accident and The Go-
Between Losey and Pinter explore one of the most perplexing questions
about human behavior: not why such things happen but what it means that
they have happened.
For these filmmakers, seeing life whole means confronting and accepting
its ambiguity rather than imposing explanations. But there is no gainsaying
that ambiguity is always a calculated risk in narrative, where it can exceed
the richness of unresolved but suggestive possibilities earned by a text to
slip into what amounts only to frustrating uncertainty or obscurantism. In
the final analysis The Servant, despite its considerable strengths, is vulnerable
on these grounds. Indeed, Losey agreed when Milne observed that “‘there
is a stage missing” in the film (1968, 137). Losey’s distinction between
suspense and mystery, however, along with Pinter’s view of causality, point
to the demanding rewards of narratives that do not simply offer answers
to questions. Questions more than answers, consequences more compelling
than their causes — these are the stuff of the films Losey and Pinter have
made together. First in The Servant and then in the more complex and fully
realized Accident and The Go-Between, they make clear that there can be
no other way of telling a story they find worth telling.
63
 ‘The Inner Violence”’
Accident

The rich command of his medium and deepening understanding of the

themes of power and privilege that are evident in King and Country and
The Servant anticipate Losey’s more ambitious achievements in Accident.
The heightened tension between evocative imagery and understated lan-
guage that pervades the first of Losey’s collaborations with Harold Pinter
is even more striking in their second film together, which was adapted from
a novel by Nicholas Mosley. Similarly, the intensely personal revelation of
character that marks the story of Hamp and Hargreaves is also at work.
Compared with these earlier films, however, the world of Accident seems
almost uneventful except for the fatal accident with which the film begins;
there are no conflicts as overt as the court-martial or the corrupt struggle
between master and servant. Instead, destructive contests are masked by
calm surfaces profoundly at odds with concealed passions. Beneath the
restrained, civilized forms of English university life, passion and power prove
indivisible; sexual desire and deception compel moves and countermoves
whereby advantage is secretly won or lost. The tension between what is
spoken and what unspoken, between what is desired and what denied is
made palpable by a narration in which, as Pinter described it, “everything
happens, nothing is explained.... Just a level, intense look at people, at
things. As though if you look at them hard enough they will give up their
secrets” (Taylor 1966, 184). The result is a remarkably suggestive film in
which there always seems more at stake than either the characters or the
, narration openly acknowledge.
The first-person narrator of Nicholas Mosley’s novel says, “Once this
would have been a thing of tension; bells and music. Now we act it all so
slowly. The camera stays for minutes on a close-up. Speaks for itself. Silence.
Time running out” (1967, 46). The passage is notable not only for its
64
cinematic allusion, but more importantly for the way it joins two kinds or
levels of subjectivity: the narrator’s remembered experience and his nar-
rational act of remembering. In Mosley’s complex handling of point of view,
objective reality is twice removed. The narrator presents his memories,
which are inherently fragmentary and associative, and their substance is not
so much the original events as it is his subjective experience: the events
occurred; the narrator as a character experienced them; and that experience
is in turn remembered and narrated. In the novel, then, the process of
narration is at least as important as the narrative it produces, for the con-
sciousness of the first-person narrator — his intellect, emotions, and values,
and their subjective interaction — dominates the story he tells. Both the
novel’s events and characters, including the narrator himself, can be said
to have no existence apart from the act of recollection. Implicitly, of course,
this is the case in all first-person narratives, but Mosley foregrounds the
subjectivity, making it the narration’s defining trait and a theme as well.
This ‘“‘rather extraordinary free association novel,” Losey told Michel Ci-
ment, ‘‘seemed to me ideal material and so it did to Harold” (1985, 259).
From the Mosley book there ‘“‘came a much more free collaboration and a
much closer, much more exciting and interesting one because of the way
we both saw the use of film’? (239—40).
“We thought a lot about how it should be done, and worked together
very closely on it,’ Pinter remarked.
At first we thought of perhaps trying to do it the way the book does,
to find a direct film equivalent to the free-association, stream-of-
consciousness style of the novel. I tried a draft that way, but it just
wouldn’t work....Do exactly the same thing on film and the result
is precious, self-conscious, overelaborate. (Taylor 1966, 183)
Forsaking the novel’s style, however, did not mean forsaking subjectivity
altogether. Rather, it meant turning to a different mode, that of “‘art-cinema”’
narration with its potential for complex relationships between objectivity
and subjectivity, rather than classical narration, which typically relies on
observable reality as an index of characters’ inner lives. “‘I wanted to make
a film about an accident in which there was no physical violence,’’ Losey
said, “only the inner violence of what people feel” (Milne 1968, 19). In the
film that Losey and Pinter would make of Accident, a simple, unadorned
look at the characters and their physical world would discover surfaces
intended not to reveal, but to deceive. “In this film everything is buried,”
Pinter said. ““The drama goes on inside the characters” (Taylor 1966, 184),
and that is precisely the realm of the subjective.
65
 Unlike the novel, the film begins and ends in time-present, which frames
a long time-past section (fully two-thirds of the running time) and raises
the fundamental question of whether the two time frames are narrated by
the same voice. Is there, as some critics have maintained, an overall om-
niscient narration that produces the ‘‘objective”’ reality of the present and
also the “‘expressive”’ or subjective reality of the central character’s memories
of time-past? Or is the past narrated by the character himself? If the latter,
does the omniscient narration’s potential for commentary continue during
the character-narration of the past, or is it suspended until the resumption
of time-present? Is there one narrational commentary or two?" If two — the
character’s and that of the omniscient narration — are their commentaries
during time-past simultaneous or discrete, at one narrational level or two?
These questions, which turn on the possibilities of subjectivity in film, require
close attention, for the source and nature of the film’s moral judgment is
centrally at issue. In the novel judgment clearly belongs to the first-person
narrator; is the same true of the film? And in light of this question what is
the importance of the relationship of character-narration to characteriza-
tion? One can argue that character is most expressively revealed in action,
and it would be a mistake to suppose that Losey and Pinter reject this view
altogether. The “‘level, intense look at people, at things’ argues otherwise.
Instead, they enlarge the concept of action to include a character’s own
private, even secret, act of narrating that can be no less decisive for having
occurred solely in the realm of subjective experience.

Accident’s concern with the presentness of the past transforms a conven-

tional tale of sexual passion and personal betrayal into a complex study of
the nature of consciousness. In the interaction of third- and first-person
voices, the film deals specifically with the reverberations of events in the
inner life of the central character, and much of the inner life is narrated by
the character himself in a long first-person sequence contained within a
third-person time-present frame. Time, then, is not only a theme but also
an organizing principle of both narration and characterization; for the sense
of time’s “ever-presentness” is a dimension of consciousness, a function of
memory, which is more than a mere storehouse of recollections. That which
is remembered is necessarily interpreted by the rememberer, who in this film
is both a character and a narrator. Remembering, then, is itself an event,
the act of narration, performed by a character within the discourse, and as
such it is a singularly complex instance of self-revelation. The first-person
narrator, who produces the time-past character and the events that engage
66
 him, is a version of the time-present character, albeit one not necessarily
aware of the implications of all he narrates.
Accident’s story centers on Stephen (Dirk Bogarde), a middle-aged Oxford
don with a wife and children, who becomes obsessed with Anna (Jacqueline
Sassard), a beautiful young Austrian woman who is his pupil. When he
discovers that another of his pupils, William (Michael York), a young aris-
tocrat, is romantically interested in Anna, and later that she is having an
affair with his colleague and friend, Charley (Stanley Baker), also a married
middle-aged don, Stephen enters an unacknowledged but fateful sexual
competition. On the way to Stephen’s house after a late-night party, William
is killed in a car accident in which Anna was probably driving. After rescuing
her from the wreckage, Stephen takes Anna to his house, where he virtually
forces her to have sex with him. The next morning he drives her back to
Oxford. Later that day, Stephen returns to Anna’s room and watches, along
with an uncomprehending Charley, while she packs and leaves. Afterwards,
Stephen returns to his wife and children and the life he lived before the
accident.
The discourse rearranges these events. Beginning at the time of the ac-
cident, it presents the story’s events in chronological order for a while. Thus,
Stephen rescues Anna and takes her to his house, where he seeks to comfort
her and also telephones the police. When the police arrive, Stephen gives
his brief account of the accident, but omits any mention of Anna. Afterward,
Stephen goes upstairs, where he finds Anna sleeping fitfully. As he watches
her, he sees her foot twitch and is reminded of the instant only moments
earlier when, as he helped her from the overturned car in which William
lay dead, he suddenly screamed: “Don’t! You’re standing on his face!” At
this moment the discourse suspends the story’s forward progress and returns
to time-past, to its earliest narrated event, a scene in Stephen’s room in
college at Oxford on the summer day when he and William first spoke of
Anna. The discourse then proceeds chronologically with the long time-past
sequence of events that unfolded between that conversation with William
and the afternoon some time later when Stephen last saw William and Anna
at a cricket match only hours before the fatal accident. After the cricket
match scene, the discourse returns to Stephen’s memory of the image of
William dead, then Anna climbing from the overturned car, and then to
time-present where Stephen still stands watching Anna sleeping. This last
transitional sequence reverses the path of the initial movement to time-past,
and with the resumption of time-present, the discourse continues to follow
the story’s chronology to the conclusion.
At the moment when story and discourse diverge in Accident, the question
67
of narration — that is, the identity of the narrator(s) — becomes significant,
indeed decisive. A sequence of five shots effects the transition from time-
present to time-past (more precisely, to two stages of time-past) and from
the overall third-person narration to Stephen’s character-narration or mind-
screen (Figures 19-23). Considered individually, the shots seem simple, but
they can be understood properly only in the context of the sequence as a
whole. The five shots are as follows:
(1) Medium shot of Stephen looking out of the frame. [time-present]
(2) Medium shot from the waist down of Anna sleeping with one shoe off.
Her foot twitches. [time-present]
(3) Close-up of Anna’s foot kicking the shoe. [time-present]
(4) Close-up of Anna stepping on William’s face in the wrecked car. (Ste-
phen’s off-screen voice is heard screaming: “Don’t!’’) [recent time-past]
(5) Close-up of William’s smiling face in Stephen’s Oxford rooms. (Ste-
phen’s off-screen voice is heard asking: ‘““You haven’t spoken to her?”
When William says “No,” Stephen’s off-screen voice continues: ““You’ve
just seen her.”’) [earlier time-past]
The relationship of shots (1) and (2) is the simplest, constituting a con-
ventional pairing of third person and first whose code indicates that the
camera momentarily presents Stephen’s physical point of view as he looks
at Anna (Figures 19-20). However, with (3), the close-up of Anna’s foot
kicking her shoe, which is very brief, the complexity increases substantially.
This shot is the crucial one in the sequence. In one sense (3) constitutes a
continuation of (2) in which Stephen saw Anna’s foot involuntarily twitch,
but the continuation is only temporal, not spatial, for camera angle and
distance both change (Figure 21). The camera, therefore, can no longer be
understood as temporarily occupying Stephen’s physical vantage point as
it was established in (1). Consequently, several possibilities arise. Has Ste-
phen perhaps moved to another location? The extreme brevity of (3), the
shot of Anna’s foot kicking the shoe, makes that unlikely. Or has the third-
person narration of (1) resumed? Possibly, but the next shot argues against
that, for (4), the shot of Anna stepping on William’s face, is certainly sub-
jective, Stephen’s involuntary recall of the recent past (Figure 22). One might
argue that (3) is not subjective because the camera’s angle and position do
not conform to Stephen’s physical perspective, but the case for subjectivity
is confirmed by the dialogue. In the original time-present scene of the ac-
cident, Stephen shouted, “Don’t! You’re standing on his face!” In (4) he
shouts only “Don’t!” The change makes clear that while this is not a con-
ventional point of view shot, neither is it merely a recapitulation by the
68
third-person narration; rather, it is Stephen’s (figurative) memory. Thus,
given that (2), the shot of Anna sleeping, and (4), her stepping on William,
are both subjective, and that (3), Anna’s foot kicking the shoe, is both
extremely brief and so intimately related to the object of (2), it is hardly
plausible to consider the shot of her kicking the shoe as a momentary
resumption of third-person narration that is almost instantly relinquished.
That (3) is subjective has important implications for both narration and
characterization. ,
If (3) is not Stephen’s physical point of view, then, unlike (2), it is a form
of character-narration, what Edward Branigan would distinguish as “‘char-
acter projection” and Bruce Kawin would call mindscreen.* In other words,
(2) is subjective camera, a point of view shot; its field is the character’s
physical eye. The field of (3), however, is the mind’s eye. The consequences
of this distinction are crucial, for the field of the mind’s eye is always a
function of character-narration, whatever its duration. Moreover, character-
narration expresses its narrator’s interpretations, whether rational or irra-
tional, voluntary or involuntary. The key issue is that shots (2) through (5)
are all subjective, but in different ways. Thus, (2) is conventional subjective
camera, or point of view, and (4) is mindscreen-memory. However, (3) is
what Kawin (after Munsterberg) would explain as an “act of attention,”
and Branigan as character projection. This close-up is not anchored in
Stephen’s literal gaze but in his thoughts that motivate and define the cam-
era’s gaze. The discourse, then, moves from Stephen’s physical view of Anna,
to his momentary concentration on a detail, and on to his memory generated
by that detail. The result is a subtle but discrete movement along a contin-
uum of subjectivity more complex than that customarily recognized in nar-
rative film. Considered in this context, (3) can now be recognized as not
dependent on Stephen’s physical position vis-a-vis Anna. Instead, the shot
presents his mind’s isolation of details — Anna’s foot and shoe — that he
associates with the earlier incident and that trigger his memory of it. Stephen
is thus the off-screen narrator of both (3) and (4), which, given their rela-
tionship and their brevity, seem calculated to suggest the mental process of
involuntary association.
With (5), the shot of William in Stephen’s room in college, the discourse re-
turns to the beginning of the story, or at least to its earliest narrated event
(Figure 23). But (5) is not the first instance of time-past in the discourse,
merely the earliest chronologically. The first instance is (4), Stephen’s mem-
ory of Anna stepping on William in the wrecked car. Because (3) and (4) are
both mindscreen, although of different kinds, it is clear when (5) immediately
follows that Stephen’s mind has turned swiftly from the dreadful memory of
69
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In terms of narration, the movement from recent to earlier time-past reflects a
(perhaps unconscious) narrating strategy on Stephen’s part. In effect, Stephen
as first-person narrator adopts or appropriates a style usually associated with
traditional third-person “‘objective”’ narration, a stance outside the narrated
events. Ironically, Stephen’s attempt to distance himself is both an avoidance
and a form of implied self-judgment. As his own narration will eventually re-
veal, the displacing of traumatic memories with happier ones is not a wholly
successful escape for Stephen. He may seek to evade or suppress certain un-
pleasant facts or feelings, but finally he cannot deny them. Revealed first in
the movement from time-present to the two stages of time-past, this charac-
teristic of Stephen’s moral and psychological nature will prove decisive in the
aftermath of his dark encounter with Anna.
The reasons for examining this short sequence at such length are, one
hopes, now evident, for it is crucial to recognize that Stephen has several
distinct existences within the film. He is a character in the discourse. He
also narrates part of it. And these two Stephens are not identical. Simply
71
put, in time-present he is an on-screen character produced by the overall
third-person narration; in time-past he is the off-screen first-person narrator
who produces still another on-screen character, the remembered Stephen
who is this mindscreen narrator’s self-conception. However similar (even
apparently the same) these two characters named Stephen may be, they are
nonetheless discrete. Moreover, neither of them is precisely the same as the
Stephen who is a narrator. This means that even as one watches and responds
immediately to the actions of the Stephen-character of time-past, one is
simultaneously watching another event, the act of character-narration per-
formed by the Stephen of time-present. Thus, the overall characterization
is a function of the various potential relationships of these several Stephens
and the formal means that produce them. What, then, is Stephen like? What
does one know about him, and how does one know it?
The answers to these questions depend on an analysis of levels of nar-
ration, even though some critics have maintained that in Accident there is
only one level — that of an omniscient narration that presents both time-
present and time-past. In his book on Losey, Foster Hirsch compares the
first-person narration of Mosley’s novel with what he asserts is the “‘objec-
tive” third-person narration in the film:
No longer is Stephen’s consciousness the stage on which the action is
set. Stephen appears in every scene in the film, but the events and
characters are not filtered through his attitudes as Pinter makes no
attempt to translate onto film the novel’s Jamesian experiment in
limited point of view. Quite the reverse of duplicating or of finding
visual equivalents for the interior, increasingly subjective frame of the
novel, Pinter presents the story and characters in a cool, objective
manner — we are kept at a distance from all the characters, including
Stephen. (1980, 119)
Seeing only one level of narration in Accident, Hirsch presents a re-
ductive view of the film. One may not identify with Stephen in any
approving or even sympathetic way, but neither is one “‘kept at a distance
from all the characters, including Stephen.’ Hirsch acknowledges that the
narrative is Stephen’s, noting that Stephen “‘appears in every scene”’ (which
is not precisely accurate), but the failure to see Stephen’s function in the
discourse as narrator surely robs the film. of much of its psychological
complexity.’
Viewing the entire discourse as third-person narration also leads to a
decidedly dark assessment of Stephen’s moral and emotional temperament.

72
Thus, for example, Beverle Houston and Marsha Kinder observe that,
unlike the “highly sympathetic” character in Mosley’s novel, the film’s
Stephen is cool, fearful, and devious. They see his “repressed and ma-
nipulating behavior” as revealing a “‘true opportunist,” who is ultimately
guilty of rape (1978, 28). This view is insightful as far as it goes — Stephen
is indeed repressed and manipulative and often acts deviously — but the
implications of character-narration need to be taken into account. The
source of much of the information leading to this view is, in fact, the
first-person narrator, who is a function (or aspect) of the Stephen of time-
present. One must consider not only the time-past character’s circum-
stances and behavior but Stephen-narrator’s implied view or judgment of
them as well, remembering always that both of these characterize the
Stephen of time-present. The result is a character no more morally and
emotionally justified than the one Houston and Kinder describe but, be-
cause of mindscreen, one who is different nonetheless. For the darker
estimate of Stephen is implied by a narrator who is a larger version of
the character himself. Because, as Seymour Chatman has pointed out,
“the character-interpretive behavior of audiences is structured” (1978,
138), in Accident one must consider Stephen-narrator’s role in charac-
terization, for it is a unique element of that structuring. All of time-past,
then, not just its events but all the details of its representation, can be
read as revelatory of Stephen’s psychological traits and moral nature.
Stephen’s judgment is the more significant precisely because it remains
private, confined to the realm of consciousness. He tells his tale to himself,
not to another character — not even to the film’s audience, which, in a
manner of speaking, is eavesdropping. Thus, the mindscreen, Stephen’s time-
present view of his own past experience, is an instance of what Kawin would
term “unauthorized narration,” a kind of involuntary telling of his tale. The
distinction between authorized and unauthorized narration is one of inten-
tion. Does the mindscreen narrator mean to tell his tale to listeners, however
defined, or does he see himself as his only auditor? Because Stephen’s
narration is intended only for himself (unlike, for example, Walter Neff’s
in Double Indemnity or, in a different mode, Jane Eyre in Robert Stevenson’s
film of Charlotte Bronte’s novel), it is unauthorized and all the more re-
vealing, for such narration is uncontaminated by the need to convince any-
one other than the narrator himself.°
Unauthorized first-person narration, however, provides an especially
strong possibility of discerning a simultaneous commentary by third-person
narration as well. In Accident the view of Stephen inferable from the om-

73
niscient narration of the opening and closing time-present segments is some-
times evident in time-past also. (For most viewers, recognizing the inter-
action of the two levels is likely to be retrospective; i.e., the return to
omniscient narration at the conclusion of time-past reasserts its larger per-
spective, which can then be more readily traced in what has gone before.)
The ironic relationship of these levels of narration is particularly notable
in several key scenes. In the first, Stephen returns to his room in college
immediately after falling into the river while punting with William and Anna.
Significantly, the narration includes the sound of his fall, but excludes the
physical action itself, removing it to the realm of off-screen space. This
narrational ploy is consistent with Stephen’s ongoing efforts to turn away
from disturbing facts, a personal inclination that has been evident since the
original movement from time-present to time-past. Moreover, the view of
both instances of evasion can be seen as expressing a degree of insight into
Stephen’s character that may exceed his own understanding; a judgment by
the overall omniscient narration is thus strongly suggested.
Once he recovers from his angry embarrassment and changes into dry
clothes, Stephen sits on a couch with William sharing whiskey and talking
with easy familiarity. In his exploitation of time and space (including eli-
sions), Stephen as mindscreen narrator implicitly interprets the remembered
incident. The conversation focuses on his apprehensions about growing old,
his assertion that aristocrats are “made to be killed” (to which William
replies, ““Of course, they’re immortal’’), and his suggestion that William
bring Anna to his house on Sunday. Given what eventually happens, this
conversation seems not only psychologically revealing but very nearly pres-
cient, and certainly ironic. Interestingly, between the scene’s first two seg-
ments — that is, after Stephen’s lament about aging and before his exchange
with William about aristocrats — a cut to an exterior view of the college
shows gargoyles on a building’s facade while a bell is heard tolling four
o’clock. A second cut returns to the room, and the conversation resumes.
Moments later, after Stephen’s remark about the fate of aristocrats, another
cut shows the exterior view again, and the bell is now heard tolling five
o’clock just as William is heard making his reply about immortality. Ob-
viously, neither exterior shot presents Stephen’s physical point of view.
Rather, they are best understood as belonging to both levels of narration:
a figurative image (character projection) in Stephen’s case, and an implied
commentary in the case of the omniscient narration, which recognizes the
irony and places the conversation and events in the larger context of the
discourse overall. Also, the two instances of the clock’s tolling, which occur

74
during the scene, not at each end of it, indicate conclusively that the con-
versation is a good deal longer than the portion actually narrated. Whatever
the full extent of the conversation, Stephen-narrator (along with the om-
niscient narration) has distilled the essence of the occasion in linking the
subjects of aging, William’s fate, and the then fledgling obsession with Anna.
The irony could not have been apparent to Stephen at the time, of course,
but it is now inescapable to the character-narrator who is remembering, as
it is to the third-person narration as well. The interpretive emphases dispel
any possibility of seeing even this early stage of events as merely coincidental.
Motives and designs, however unacknowledged at the time by Stephen’s
conscious mind, were at work even then.
Shortly after the scene with William, the narration presents the only scene
in which Stephen is not present as a character — a scene not included in the
published version of Pinter’s screenplay. Just after Stephen has told his wife
Rosalind (Vivien Merchant) about inviting William and Anna to Sunday
lunch, there is a cut to a scene showing the lone Charley, carrying a bottle
of liquor and some papers, entering Stephen’s room at Oxford. Charley
lights a cigarette, glances over some books and papers on Stephen’s desk,
and tosses his burned match into the fireplace. Other than its position in
the discourse — that is, after Stephen announces the invitation to lunch and
before the Sunday sequence itself — there is no indication of this scene’s
place in the story’s chronology. Neither is there any explanation of how
Stephen-narrator knows of this event. On these grounds, one might argue
that third-person narration intervenes to show us what Stephen obviously
cannot see. Or one might argue that Stephen’s narration includes infor-
mation he learned after the fact — by Charley telling him, for example.
Certainly nothing precludes character-narration from including such details.
An interesting and even more suggestive explanation — one not inconsistent
with Kawin’s notion of mindscreen or Branigan’s of character projection,
nor with simultaneous levels of narration — is that the scene is an imagined,
not an actual, event. In other words, according to this interpretation, the
scene is produced by neither a third-person narration with greater knowl-
edge than the character nor the character’s own reconstructing memory
alone. Instead, generated by Stephen’s envy, jealousy, and suspicion of Char-
ley, the scene metaphorically expresses Stephen’s psychological state, his
sense that Charley constantly encroaches on his territory. Mindscreen (like
character projection) can be motivated by and can express a character’s
state of mind; when in the very next scene Charley arrives uninvited at
Stephen’s house for Sunday lunch, he is carrying items (liquor and this time

75
a newspaper) that appear to link these two intrusions with Stephen’s fear
that Charley’s presence invades his entire life.
In the most famous sequence in the film (nearly one-quarter of its screen
time) the character-narrator presents the Sunday afternoon on which Wil-
liam and Anna and the uninvited Charley spend the day with Stephen and
Rosalind. Still unaware of Charley’s affair with Anna, Stephen is at first
merely dismayed by his colleague’s insistent and distracting presence. None-
theless, the sunny, apparently tranquil day unfolds with seductive languor
as the characters have lunch, play tennis, have conversations, and go for
walks. Eventually, despite Rosalind’s pregnancy and her obvious coolness
to the idea, Stephen invites the visitors to stay for supper. If on its surface
the afternoon is unremarkable, the narration reveals a level of unacknow-
ledged tension and a veiled sexual sparring, principally between Stephen
and Charley, that leave Rosalind wary and William a vaguely confused
bystander.
The deceptively casual, languid scene on the lawn in the midst of the
Sunday sequence is in many ways a paradigm of reflexive storytelling, again
suggesting a commentary at the omniscient level, for the scene contains a
series of stories within stories. The first of the scene’s twenty-one shots is
a high-angle shot that zooms back from wine decanters on the grass to
encompass Stephen’s family and guests on the lawn. The dialogue between
William and Charley that begins in the second shot presents storytelling as
the overtly reflexive subject of the scene. Charley, who is a novelist, tells
William, who would like to write a novel but believes he cannot, that writing
is easy — “It’s child’s play.” Charley encourages William to become a sto-
ryteller — “Here on this lawn... what are we all up to?” — but another story
briefly intervenes as Stephen’s daughter, Clarissa, tells Anna about the trip
she and her mother will make on Tuesday to Grandma’s house, where
Rosalind will rest during the last weeks of her pregnancy. At its simplist
level, storytelling is ‘‘child’s play,” stringing together one event after another
in the same way that Anna, in the foreground of the second shot, makes a
daisy chain of flowers, a necklace she places on Clarissa as the scene con-
cludes. With Clarissa’s brief story completed, Charley, putting on his glasses
(a kind of emblem of his perception and control), again asks William to
“describe what we’re all doing” (Figure 24).
William’s story is a simple description of the immediate scene. His
straightforward, unimaginative account of the people around him isolates
the characters in their discrete activities (“Rosalind is lying down. Stephen
is weeding the garden. Anna’s making a daisy chain. We’re having this

76
 conversation’’). Reasserting his storytelling role, Charley points out to Wil-
liam that “you could go further.” Shots (11) through (15), including the
dialogue, are as follows:

(x1) (medium shot of Rosalind) CHARLEY: Rosalind is pregnant. |

(12) (two-shot of William and Charley with Stephen gardening in the back-
ground) CHARLEY: Stephen is having an affair with a girl at Oxford.
(13) (reaction shot of Anna) CHARLEY: He’s reached the age when he can’t
keep his hands off... ,
(14) (reaction shot, medium close-up of Stephen and the first shot to isolate
him in the scene) CHARLEY: ... girls at Oxford.
(15) (two-shot of William and Charley) CHARLEY: But he feels guilty, of
course, so he makes up a story.
WILLIAM: What story?
CHARLEY: This story.
WILLIAM: What are you talking about?

Several points concerning storytelling, characterization, and irony need

elaborating here. In addition to the reflexivity of the dialogue that fore-
grounds storytelling and stories, the scene is resonant with ironies generated
by knowledge held by and withheld from various characters. First, William
proves to be a rather naive spectator and listener, nonplussed by Charley’s
tale, particularly its odd and reflexive conclusion. Charley tells a story, which
he ascribes to the silent Stephen, in much the same way that Stephen, as
character-narrator of time-past, is the off-screen narrator of this scene.
Charley, of course, is the on-screen teller of this story within a story, and
unbeknownst to anyone in the scene but himself and Anna (note shot (13)
of the knowing Anna), he is telling his own story, for the viewer later learns
that he and Anna are already engaged in an affair that the married and
guilt-ridden Charley is projecting onto Stephen. As a character within the
scene, Stephen knows nothing of Charley’s affair or the full irony of Char-
ley’s projection onto him, although both Stephen’s and Rosalind’s reactions
to Charley’s story may well indicate their anxieties surrounding Stephen’s
attraction to Anna. When Stephen acknowedges that he has overheard Char-
ley’s story, he proves to be, unlike William, a far more knowing target,
smarting from the psychological accuracy of this displaced story. Whether
Charley has fortuitously or knowingly hit on Stephen’s private obsession is
uncertain, but he is undoubtedly a shrewd and manipulative player in the
personal, sexual, and professional competition that characterizes his rela-

77
ag a
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Figure 24. Charley, who encourages William to “describe what we’realldoing
here,” will shortly narrate a story projecting his own affair with Anna onto
“Stephen. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

tionship with Stephen. Beyond Charley’s rather transparent intent to shock,

the full irony of his story is delayed (for Stephen-character and for the
Nate i a ee “S pee ee
viewer) until Stephen finds Charley and Anna using his house a few days
Although the scene on the lawn includes several storytellers of varying =
sophistication — Clarissa, William, and Charley — its presentation belongs
to Stephen-narrator. The editing in the scene, for example, particularly when
Charley relates Stephen’s putative affair with one of the “girls at Oxford,”
seems motivated by Charley’s story, withholding shots of Stephen until =
Charley verbalizes his friend’s sexual fantasy/escapade. However much this
effectively reinforces Charley’s storytelling, it remains for the ironic, know-
ing, and judging mindscreen narrator to focus on the remembered surprise
and guilt Stephen felt when he was caught in Charley’s net. Inthese rapidly
___ shifting and subtly composed images, the character-narrator “sees” himself
_ in his ambiguous, even dishonest relationships with these characters. Ros-
___alind, for instance, has a variable place in this memory, more often in its
background or at its margins, but unmistakably possessing a power that is
revealed when she is presented in close-up. This scene too seems oddly
prescient, and one’s sense of both the prescience and projection are produced
 Cc eerrr—s——s— — @=«.—=S— c——r—“—O™—O—O—O—O—O—OOCOCOC—C—C—~™~C~—OOCOOCS

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eS —~i‘_OOOsisCOrCr—C—ir—CS~rs—C~—CS«w—SOwiqWS—ir——i~a—“iCOr—siwsOC
Sas lrhrttteONSNCCSssét®wOs‘(OCS#NRC ((#SES USNC

Figure 25. In his violent seduction of Anna, Stephen betrays family, friends,
and self. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

- principally by Stephen-narrator, who interprets his memories. If Charley

holds a position of control and ironic perspective within the scene (know-
ingly projecting his own immorality onto Stephen), Stephen-narrator’sown
tronic perspective enfolds and contains this. Thus, Charley’s superior knowl-
edge in the scene is temporary and ultimately illusory from the perspective =
of the mindscreen narrator, who knows his own failings as wellas Charley’s.
_ Charley’s arrogance in Stephen-narrator’s memory of this scene contrib-
utes to irony of another sort that becomes evident in the third-person nar-
ration of a scene near the end of the film. In the later scene Stephen and
Charley confront each other in Anna’s room, watching her pack her be-
_ longings to leave Oxford. The viewer understands Stephen’s perspective—
- amixture of guilt and satisfaction — because ithas been revealedinStephen-
- narrator’s narration of time-past, in the omniscient narration within which
the time-past narration has been embedded, and in the interaction of the —
two. Stephen refuses to tell the bewildered Charley anything about the
accident that killed William, Anna’s participation in it, or Stephen’s own
involvement in the subsequent events. The tables have turned, even if only =
Stephen and the omniscient narration (and viewer) know that. Not sur-
___ prisingly, the scene in Anna’s room is more likely to cause the viewer to
recognize the significance of multiple levels of narration than those that =
make up time-past, simply because the narration of time-past is now past
also. In the later scene the viewer possesses more knowledge and is aware
of it, and the later knowledge sheds light on the earlier.
The interaction of the two levels of narration is especially telling in the
reflexivity of Charley’s storytelling enterprise. Whereas the extent to which
Charley’s story was a projection went unrecognized by Stephen-character,
who came to possess that knowledge only later, it is known to Stephen-
narrator, who temporarily suppresses it. Further, by its ‘““acquiescence”’ in
the suppression, the omniscient narration is implicated in the first-person
narrator’s strategy. In story terms the projection, and the sexual liaison
between Charley and Anna on which it is partly based, occur well before
they are revealed at both levels of the discourse. Moreover, the revelation
that this is a story within a story perhaps belongs more to the omniscient
narration than to the Stephen who is remembering the incident. Still another
level of reflexivity belongs exclusively to the third-person narration, which
reflects, as it were, on the power and possibilities (and limits) of stories to
discover answers or provide proofs — a theme also articulated in Mosley’s
novel, whose narrator says, “It’s true that art is the medium to provide
answers, but these will of course be outside the scope of reason, which is
all that can actually prove anything” (1967, 23—24). Just as Charley’s story
“knew” more than perhaps Charley himself did, so, too, Stephen-narrator’s
story knows more than its teller. And the omniscient narration knows, or
reflexively comments on, stories, storytelling, and art itself.
The most problematic sequence in the film is Stephen’s evening with
Francesca (Delphine Seyrig) in which the narration’s nonsynchronous image
and sound tracks call attention to the telling rather than just the tale. In his
petty competition with Charley, Stephen has arranged an appointment with
a television producer in London for whom Charley is a regular performer.
When the producer is absent because of a sudden illness, Stephen is put off
by a glib subordinate (amusingly played by Pinter himself), who insinuat-
ingly mentions the college provost’s daughter, Francesca, with whom Ste-
phen had an affair some years earlier. Seeking to shore up his already fragile
self-confidence, and doubtless to compensate for his frustrated sexual ob-
session with Anna, Stephen impulsively telephones Francesca and takes her
to dinner. Afterwards they return to her flat and have sex. The entire en-
counter is narrated in romanticized images that are at odds with intermittent,
nonsynchronous dialogue the characters may or may not have actually said.
In either case, the heard dialogue is obviously not the whole dialogue. The
two characters are seen greeting one another, apparently reminiscing, having
dinner, returning to her place, and finally lying in bed after their lovemaking.
80
At no time are they actually seen speaking, but at intervals during the
sequence they are heard (in voice-over) uttering banal, conspicuously insin-
cere sentiments about being happy and unchanged since the days of their
more youthful affair.
Because its rendering is unlike anything else in the film, the Francesca
sequence foregrounds questions about levels of narration. The expressive
elements — including the retreating camera that draws back from scenes,
often ending in a high-angle shot of long duration; the obsessive repetition
of dialogue and the many unanswered questions the couple asks each other;
and most extreme and disconcerting of all, the disjunction of image and
sound — are so emphatic that commentary seems their primary purpose.
And one may feel that commentary this overt is the province of the om-
niscient narration rather than Stephen’s. This possibility, however, leads to
the view that the character-narration has been preempted altogether, which
is exceedingly unlikely unless one argues for a complete rupture in the text.
A more persuasive argument takes account of the overall logic of the film’s
narration and the fact that Stephen’s character-narration has involved self-
judgment all along.
The disembodied voices and mute characters in the Francesca sequence
convey Stephen’s sense of simultaneous presence and absence. Viewed
through the rain-streaked window of a restaurant, the couple plays out a
conventional liaison with a lassitude that underlines the lack of conviction
in their persistent attempts to reassure each other of their ageless, ideal,
unchanging selves. As a character in the sequence, Stephen is contradictory
— weak, indecisive, opportunistic, sentimental. But the Stephen who narrates
this tryst both reveals himself and deepens its irony when, for example, in
the opening shot of the restaurant scene, he remembers a wall mural of a
nude Adam and Eve (holding an apple). Although such a shot can be at-
tributed to the omniscient narration whose perspective undercuts the char-
acters’ superficial intimacy, nothing requires that the viewer separate this
narrational stance from Stephen’s. As the narrator of time-past, Stephen
offers an ironic, dissociated commentary on his own displaced desire. If this
view is shared by the overall narration, the judgment is Stephen’s nonethe-
less. Whatever a viewer might conclude about this slightly pathetic reunion,
the character-narrator goes well beyond simply understanding it as a wistful
charade. The narration is obviously figurative — characters whose mouths
never open, enacting sentimental “brief encounter” roles, while their own
disembodied voices punctuate and expose the falsehood. Overall, this most
obvious and perhaps severest judgment of the mindscreen narration is re-
vealingly centered on sexual sham, on an emotional dishonesty so basic as
- 81
to be immoral.® Significantly, this corrupt idyll is succeeded by a still more
corrupt act, for in the very next scene, Stephen-character plays panderer to
his own competitor.
Returning to his supposedly empty home (Rosalind is spending the last
days of her pregnancy at her mother’s), Stephen is shocked to find Charley
and Anna and realizes they are having an affair. His defeat as a player in
this dark game would seem complete, but as the character-narration reveals,
Stephen is a secret player in another, still darker game. Giving Charley a
key to his house, Stephen becomes a vicarious and cowardly collaborator
in Charley’s sexual relationship with Anna. With cool self-possession, Ste-
phen thus surrenders to his obsession and his darker self. The character-
narrator has now foreshadowed, however unwittingly, the outcome of the
long night during which he is actually telling his story. When the discourse
returns to time-present and character-narration yields to the film’s overall
third-person narration, this darker self prevails as Stephen moves relentlessly
to possess Anna sexually.
In the final scenes, the third-person omniscient narration assumes the
viewer’s now larger knowledge of Stephen’s character and recounts the
violent playing out of his moral tragedy. This is not, of course, the only
tragedy. As Losey once said when referring to the accident that claims
William’s life, “It was a tragedy but not the tragedy. It was a catalyst, as
the girl was a catalyst’? (Milne 1968, 18—19). With the return to time-
present, the third-person narration reveals how all other circumstances and
considerations — including William’s death (in story time only minutes ago)
and the fact that Rosalind is about to give birth — are forced aside by the
urgency of Stephen’s sexual obsession (Figure 25). His behavior after the
accident is at its coldest and most destructive, and yet, as Pinter said when
speaking of the film overall, “the unforgivable, unforgettable things are
never said” (Taylor 1966, 184). The third-person narration is almost dis-
concertingly oblique and elliptical, maintaining a firm distance from all but
the first rush of Stephen’s confrontation with Anna in the bedroom. This
narrational stance confirms that the film’s subject is not precisely events.
Rather, the private moral implications of Stephen’s actions, their place in
his inner life, is the principal concern, and the narration signals one to look
beyond events to the realm of Stephen’s consciousness. For finally Stephen
proves to be too weak a man to resist his desires and too honest to forget
them. Significantly, this psychological insight and moral judgment are pro-
duced by neither third-person nor character-narration alone; they arise from
their interaction.
The interaction of both levels of narration is nowhere more apparent or
82
suggestive than in Accident’s final scene, which is almost a mirror image of
the first scene. At the beginning of the film the third-person narration pre-
sents an exterior nighttime view of Stephen’s house at the time of the car
crash: In a silence broken at first only by the distant sound of a plane flying
overhead, the camera remains absolutely still for several minutes (the open-
ing credits are superimposed). As the off-screen sound of the accelerating
car becomes audible, the camera begins a slow forward movement toward
the facade of the house, stopping at the moment when the fatal crash is
heard. By contrast, in the last scene the third-person narration, viewing
Stephen’s house in daylight, begins at the forwardmost point of the camera
in the opening scene. Stephen’s children are playing in the courtyard in front
of the house when his daughter trips and falls. He emerges to rescue her
and takes the children inside, closing the door behind him. Only then does
the camera begin to withdraw, coming to rest outside the gate at the very
place where the film begins (Figure 27). This concluding image, completing
a circle whose path the narration has traced, establishes closure and may
even suggest a restoration of the emotional and moral equilibrium that
presumably marked Stephen’s life before the story began. But the discourse
presents more than an image. Throughout this last scene, the “natural’’
sounds are nearly drowned out by the repeated sound of the accident.
Exactly as in the first scene, the sound grows louder and seems to come
nearer until, just as the camera comes to rest, the crash itself is heard again
— and then silence. The apparent restoration of Stephen’s world, unchanged
and untroubled, is, one now knows, an illusion. If he seems to have escaped
the consequences of his actions, that is only a matter of seeming, of ap-
pearances. The accident and its aftermath, the combination of tragedies,
betrayals, and violence, deny escape and belie the ordered surfaces and forms
of Stephen’s life.
The repeated sound of the car accident, then, is best understood as both
the third-person narration’s metaphor for Stephen’s ongoing moral tragedy
— an assertion of the inescapable presentness of his past — and also as
subjective sound, what Stephen’s mind figuratively hears and cannot evade.
This interpretation is reinforced in the penultimate scene of the film, where
a silent Stephen walks through the cloisters at Oxford (Figure 26). Over
this continuous shot of him, the bells of the Oxford towers join with the
sounds of the accelerating car, the rising noise level of the approaching car
acting as a sound bridge to the final scene. Although both levels of narration
are present in these last moments, one is inclined to privilege character-
narration because of its importance and function in the narrative overall.
The crucial issue is this: first-person narration enlarges the characterization
83
i ' ta A
IE Z Figure 26. Over this shot of Stephen at Oxford, the sound of the car accident _ LOIS
as heard once again, serving as the omniscient narration’s reminder of the
ongoing tragedy and the subjective sound of the accident replayinginStephen’s
mind. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)
and modifies the meaning of the film as a whole by foregrounding Stephen’s
judgment of himself. Character and characterization are at the heart of =
Accident and depend on the interaction of these levels of narration. If time-
past is not understood as character subjectivity, the theme of consciousness

- ifnotaltogether absent.
__ ~ perhaps one should call it self-consciousness — would be much diminished,

A more wide-ranging discussion of Accident, not focused precisely onthe

complexities of the film’s narration, would touch on much that this chapter
pes has thus far slighted and that must receive less attention here than we would ae
eS G like. Among the topics would be the character of Anna and her role in the DS
ee story, Stephen’s relationship with William, the motif of games, the character a 2
of the provost of Stephen’s college, Oxford itself as a kind of character.
Not all of these topics have equal weight, but all of them are important to
the density of observation and insight that characterizes the lm.
First-time viewers are frequently perplexed by Anna’s character androle.
She is, by any measure, an exceedingly enigmatic figure — quite apart from
-__-Jacqueline Sassard’s narrow range as an actress, a failure much commented
on by reviewers, and all the more noticeable for the wonderful performances
el i ee
A rr:—“(i‘_lw CCE ret
A e,rlrhmhmhrhrhrhrmhmhmhrhrmhmrmrmheeeeeehhlrer,,—>>=—e=Re

OSs Sh CUCL r—“‘“‘COOCOCOCC*C*C#N ee

re SI ES OT ce,
Figure 27. The repeated sound of the accident continues over the next (and
final) scene as Stephen helps his daughter. The formal closure of Accident will
end where the film began, with a placid view of Stephen’s house. (Courtesy
Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.) eee ee ee eee
that surround hers. In the novel, Mosley’s Stephen remarks about Anna
(whose physical description is quite different from Sassard): ““We were fas-
___ cinated because of that nothingness about her, so that we could put anything =
we liked onto her” (1967, 47). Nothing in Stephen-narrator’s tale in the
film suggests that he has this perception, but the novel’s characterization of
_ Anna is much the same as the film’s nonetheless. (Some critics have seen
her character as consistent with a negative view of women they find in
__ Losey’s films, not just those made with Pinter.) But Anna, in the film asin
the novel, is not so much a character of understandable traits and motives
as she is a figure on whom the various men — Stephen, Charley, and William
__ = project what they want to see, even, one suspects, what they will “find”
in one beautiful young woman if not the other. In this sense Anna is their
creation — perhaps one should use the plural, for there are several Annas
born of the men’s different needs, desires, and self-conceptions (to say noth-
ing of the viewer’s response). To insist on defining her character more
-_ specifically would be to redefine the basic terms of the film, shifting attention ==
-_ from the (arrogant?) innocence of William, and the sometimes willful naiveté

EE EE BSG II
- and folly of Charley and then Stephen, to the different matter of how their
views tally with the reality of this object of their pursuit. And there can be
no doubt that Anna is principally an object to them, rather than an indi-
vidual. Why does Anna have an affair with Charley, whose attractions are
mixed at best? Why does she decide to marry William? Why does she ask
Stephen to tell Charley of her decision? How willing or knowing a seductress
(or victim) is she when it comes to Stephen? All of these questions are left
unanswered, because the uncertainty of Anna’s motives and intentions, her
own private self, is exactly what remains unknown and unknowable to the
men and, along with her beauty, what fuels their fateful desires and
competition.
When Anna is first glimpsed, in the earliest scene of the time-past nar-
ration, by William and Stephen from the window of Stephen’s room at
Oxford, she is a remote figure, beautiful and undefined, perhaps already a
little mysterious. (Appropriately, Anna stops to pet a goat, a traditional
symbol of lust, tethered on the lawn below Stephen’s window.) In that
moment, for all the easy intimacy and conviviality that obviously exist
between the don and his aristocratic student, a foreign element appears —
not exactly Anna herself, although her foreignness is implicitly a part of her
allure, but the subtlest opening of a gulf between William and Stephen that
the younger man fails to recognize at the time and probably never does. It
is unclear just how aware Stephen is that he has already begun to compro-
mise this friendship that he clearly values. The scene closes when Stephen
offers to introduce the two young people and William declines. A kind of
game has begun. William is, of course, both the victor and the victim in
this game in which he does not even know he is a player. But his eventual
death and its aftermath may obscure his place as an important person in
Stephen’s life. In a fashion more common to British universities than Amer-
ican, this youth and his tutor know each other rather well and share an
appealing friendship that can easily be lost sight of in one’s growing aware-
ness of the unacknowledged passions that compel the adults into whose
world William has happened.
If youth itself seems William’s principal virtue, Stephen-narrator’s mem-
ory recalls details, modest in their own right, that reveal William in more
appealing terms than simply the unearned Edenic grace of a young man
who has not yet been cast out of the garden. Oddly, though, some critics
have perceived William as an arrogant, almost malicious competitor who
consciously challenges Stephen with jibes about middle age or being sexually
“past it,” but such views ignore or misunderstand the tone of their scenes
together. For example, when Stephen returns to his room in college im-
mediately after his humiliating fall into the river while punting with William
86
and Anna, William first teases him affectionately: ““You look very dignified.”
“I feel wet,”’ Stephen says. ““Well, you don’t look wet.... Nobody looked ,
at you and said you were wet, did they? They thought you were quite
normal.” To Stephen’s bitter complaint that he is growing old, William
replies, “I wouldn’t say you looked old. You’ve still got a pretty good figure.”
Admittedly a young man’s reassurance can salt the wound it is meant to
heal, but William’s remarks do not belong to a youth without feeling or
consideration. Quite the contrary. “‘It’s nice knowing you,” he says quietly
to Stephen a few minutes later when the two of them sit together on a couch
sharing a bottle of scotch. ““You’re not a bad fellow for a philosophy tutor.”
Their conversation concludes with the exchange about aristocrats being
meant to be killed. The irony of William’s reply — “Of course. They’re
immortal” — inevitably dominates one’s sense of the scene, but the conver-
sation has revealed neither tension nor insensitivity on William’s part. In-
deed, for Stephen-narrator, the remembered scene is no less poignant than
ironic.
Stephen’s friendship with William does not, however, prevent him from
deliberately making moves (with William and others) intended to secure an
advantage with Anna that he never openly admits until their final, solitary
time together. From one point of view, Stephen moves and countermoves
in a seemingly endless series of games in which all the characters are players,
whether they always know it or not. The deadliest games, of course, are
those that are never acknowledged, but the film is marked as well by games
of a more formal sort: tennis during the Sunday sequence, a cricket match
on the day of William’s death, during which his youth bests Charley’s now
aging prowess, and a ferocious contest (based on the so-called Eton wall
game) at William’s ancestral country home when he insists that Stephen
play goal. This is the only scene in which competition between William and
Stephen is overt; similarly, William’s insistence that Stephen play (“Only
the old men watch, and the ladies’’) is the only time that an aristocratic
arrogance on his part seems apparent. Accident is full of games and “‘games,”’
metaphors for the kinds of lethal competitions whose outcome none of the
players is quite prepared for.
In the film’s last formal game, the cricket match played in the afternoon
of the day of William’s death, Stephen stands on the sidelines, behind the
provost of his college, while William leads his team to victory over Charley’s.
The contest between Anna’s lover, Charley, and her yet undisclosed fiancé,
William, is evident at both narrational levels, but it is not the cruelest game
being played. Admiring William as a “magnificent young athlete,” the prov-
ost (Alexander Knox), whose gloved malice has been hinted at before, asks
87
 Stephen if he was good at games when he was young. To Stephen’s admission
that he was not, the provost replies only with a private and slyly knowing
smile. In the immediate terms of the narrative the provost’s reaction is
irrelevant, but it nonetheless exposes him as just as heartless a player in the
game of power as any of the others. When Stephen tells the provost that
he has recently seen his daughter, Francesca, the provost pretends not even
to know whom Stephen is referring to. Finally he says to Stephen, with cool
calculation, “‘Ah, give her my love.” In its own way, this moment is one of
the most chilling in the film.

Despite the film’s considerable originality, and making allowances for its
unusually measured tempo and stylistic departures, such as the Francesca
sequence, Accident has been seen by some reviewers as simply an instance
(although admittedly an eccentric one) of classical film narration. The tran-
sitions into and out of time-past, for example, have been treated as little
more than sophisticated variations on the optical and aural cues with which
flashbacks have traditionally been introduced and concluded. But to con-
ceive the film in these terms is to oversimplify to the point of reductiveness
not only Accident but the artistic resources of the medium. One need not
have thought about the possible complexities of filmic narration to recognize
that Losey and Pinter have more in mind than an indictment of middle-
aged infidelity and guilt. Instead, the film’s experiment with narrational
voices and point of view in the mode of art cinema is concerned not simply
with action or plot, but with the expression of individual consciousness —
not just with events but with the reverberation of events in the inner life.
“No physical violence,” Losey said, ‘“‘only the inner violence of what people
feel’? (Milne 1968, 19). Certainly Accident does not pretend to offer a model
of how the mind works, nor have narrative films, including art cinema,
generally sought to do so. Accident belongs to that relatively small body of
works that have expanded one’s understanding of the uncertainties and
hidden recesses of human experience by invoking the resources of film art
rather than science or psychology or even reason. Everything happens; noth-
ing is explained; the presentness of the past; the need to both forget and
: remember — these are the film’s themes, its answers, to invoke the notion
expressed by the novel’s narrator. Accident is neither the first nor the last
of Losey’s films to concern itself with such matters, but in its subtle explo-
ration of subjectivity in narration and characterization, it is the first to take
so large a step artistically in confronting them. —
In an interview given after both Accident and The Go-Between were
88
completed, Harold Pinter commented: “I certainly feel more and more that
the past is not past, that it never was past. It’s present” (Gussow 1972, 25—
6). The view is Losey’s too, of course, and it has haunted much of his work,
including such otherwise different films as The Boy with Green Hair, Time
Without Pity, Blind Date, The Criminal, Accident, and The Go-Between,
his next and last film with Pinter. Significantly, the last two films of the
Losey—Pinter collaboration discover in the interaction of third-person nar-
ration and character-narration the discreteness of both time-present and
time-past while making real their indivisibility. In Accident Stephen’s emo-
tional and moral dishonesty and his violent seduction of Anna betray the
claims of both marriage and friendship, the claims of his own best self. The
film’s subtle modulation between third-person narration and character-
narration reveals that although these betrayals occurred in the past, there
is neither refuge nor relief in this fact. The past is indeed ever present, and
it necessarily becomes the province of first-person narration when it enters
the discourse as memory, a present, personal, and narrated-to-the-self event.
The insight lies at the center of Accident, and it will be extended to an
informing principle in The Go-Between with its complex narrational struc-
ture and double articulation of time.

89
 “The Annihilation
of Time”’
The Go-Between

In 1971 at the Cannes festival the grand prize, the Palme d’or, was awarded
to The Go-Between, Losey’s last-produced film with Harold Pinter. Alex-
ander Walker rightly called the film, which is based on a novel by L. P. Hart-
ley, a “masterpiece,” but like that of so many of Losey’s films before and
after it, the path of The Go-Between from inception to completion was tor-
tuous. In this instance, however, delay proved fortunate. ‘Immediately after
The Servant | took The Go-Between to Harold,” Losey told Michel Ciment:

He wrote a screenplay of about fifty or sixty pages. In the middle of

his work the project broke up because a man got a hold of some
subsidiary rights that blocked us. It was not revived until seven years
later. And when we went back to that script, we found that we were
not at all satisfied with it, which was a development simply of The
Servant collaboration. (1985, 239)

The more adventurous collaboration on Accident had intervened, and Losey

and Pinter had become, in Losey’s words, “‘fascinated by the concept of
time, and by the power the cinema has suddenly to reveal the meaning of
a whole life” (304). Pinter told John Russell Taylor when The Go-Between
was in production:

Looking back at what I had done the first time, I realised that I had
missed a whole aspect, perhaps to me now the most important aspect,
of the book. I had concentrated on a straight dramatisation of the
central story about the young boy and the lovers. Now what I find
most exciting about the subject is the role of time: the annihilation of
time by the man’s return to the scene of his childhood experience.
(1970, 203)
90
Shaped by Losey and Pinter’s growing interest in film and time, and the
increasing richness of their collaboration, The Go-Between is a remarkably
complex and moving film.
The conception of time that fascinated Losey and Pinter and that informs
The Go-Between is related to the philosophy of Henri Bergson, who was
a major influence on Marcel Proust and Alain Resnais. In Bergson’s view
linear or clock time is produced by the analytical function of the intellect,
which spatializes time, dividing it into one-directional discrete units, thus
fragmenting the emotional life by separating past, present, and future. The
result is a rupture in what should be whole. By contrast, pure time, as
Bergson conceives it, is multidimensional; past, present, and future are
fused." (Given the relevance of Bergson’s ideas, The Go-Between clearly
presages Losey and Pinter’s efforts to make a film based on A la recherche
du temps perdu, Proust’s classic meditation on time, memory, and meaning.
So, too, the film has some similarities to Resnais’s Hiroshima mon amour
and La guerre est finie for the same reasons.) The “annihilation” of linear
time proves not only a major theme in The Go-Between, but the key to its
structure: a double articulation in the form of discrete but interacting nar-
rations of present and past in the life of its central character.
The story events of the past, which constitute the majority of the discourse
and are narrated chronologically, center on a middle-class English boy, Leo
Colston (Dominic Guard). Spending a holiday at the lavish country home
of a schoolmate during a scorchingly hot summer, young Leo, who was
almost thirteen, was drawn unwittingly into being a messenger, a go-
between, for the aristocratic Marian Maudsley (Julie Christie), the beautiful
older sister of his friend, and Ted Burgess (Alan Bates), a handsome tenant
farmer with whom she was having a secret affair. Anxious to please Marian
— and only dimly aware of the implications of her relationship with Ted —
Leo found himself trapped on a battleground of class conflict and adult
sexuality. Suspecting the affair, Marian’s mother, Mrs. Maudsley (Margaret
Leighton), finally shed the mask of calm elegance that had hidden her sus-
picions and fears, dragging Leo from his birthday celebration and forcing
him to go with her into the rain to discover the lovers having sex in their
trysting place. This cruelly abrupt and shocking confrontation with adult
sexuality and betrayal destroyed Leo emotionally, condemning him to an
existence barren of love.
In Hartley’s novel, which is narrated entirely in first-person, time-past is
the main body of the discourse; the present is a framing story (including
an epilogue) in which Leo Colston tells of finding the diary of his long-ago
summer and his subsequent return to its sites. Time-past is thus mediated
91
by the narrator, now an older man who, under the stimulus of the diary,
concentrates on what he experienced as a youth. The impingement of the
past on the present and the process of memory itself are revealed by the
rendering of the past through the reflective and ironic sensibility of the
mature narrator looking back on his life. His summary judgments of his
youthful experience occur primarily in the framing story. The narrator re-
members, for example, when, early in his visit, Marian took him to Norwich
to buy a new (and cooler) summer wardrobe. After the shopping, Marian
left him to amuse himself visiting the cathedral because, she said, she had
some shopping of her own to do. Of the conclusion of that adventure, the
narrator says:
I hung around the statue, wondering who Sir Thomas Browne was,
shy of getting into the carriage and sitting there as if I owned it; and
then I caught sight of her on the far side of the square. She seemed
to be saying goodbye to someone, at least I had the impression of a
raised hat. She came slowly towards me, threading her way through
the traffic, and did not see me till much later. Then she waved her
parasol with its frilly, foamy edges and quickened her step. (1984, 49)
Marian was actually having a rendezvous with Ted, but the boy was ab-
sorbed in his own experience, which the adult remembers as a moment
when he felt “‘it was glorious to be me, intimately satisfying to look like
me”’ (48). In the epilogue the subjectivity of the narration acquires an ad-
ditional aspect, for reflection and evaluation are added to simple
recollection:

I saw now, what I did not take in then, that her chief object in going
to Norwich was to meet Ted Burgess: his must have been the raised
hat on the other side of the square. But it would be unduly cynical to
say I was only a pretext for her journey. It would have been an
expensive pretext, for one thing — not that she minded about money.
I felt pretty sure that she was genuinely concerned about my perma-
nently overheated state and wanted to do me a good turn. Inexplicable
as it seemed to me now, the conviction that she had never really cared
for me had been the bitterest of the pills I had to swallow. (294-5)
The layering of time is evident in this passage, for in his memory the narrator
joins his original experience to his later disillusionment upon realizing his
betrayal, and enfolds both within his perspective some fifty years later. Only
in the journey that is the narration itself does Leo Colston’s experience as

92
both child and adult acquire meaning. Narration, then, is an act of discovery
for Hartley’s Leo. And this is what attracted Losey and Pinter when they
returned to the novel and compelled them to dismiss a simple presentation
of the story of the young boy and the lovers.
In Making Pictures: The Pinter Screenplays, a study of Pinter’s adapta-
tions of novels rather than of his own stage plays, Joanne Klein argues that
the writer habitually regards the past as “‘alive, but not real, the past exists
as a property of the imagination, as a fictive rather than factual phenom-
enon” (1985, 801). But consider Pinter’s remark quoted in the previous
chapter: “I certainly feel more and more that the past is not past, that it
never was past. It’s present” (Gussow 1972, 25—6). This remark, uttered
after both Accident and The Go-Between were completed, argues for the
“realness” of the past as something more than mere recollections or even
imagination. Neither Pinter nor Losey would accept the notion that the past
is only fictive. ““The past is rather than was,” as Klein asserts, but the very
heart of Losey and Pinter’s view in The Go-Between is that the past is
present as reality, not simply imaginative recollection. The notion of an-
nihilating time necessarily leads to destroying the distinction between “‘is”’
and “‘was.”’ In The Go-Between time only “‘is.”
Working again within the broad outlines of art-cinema narration, Losey
and Pinter extend the experiment in subjectivity begun in Accident. To
annihilate time they reject its most potent manifestation in narrative gen-
erally — that is, a structure based on linear time, such as typically underlies
classical narration and provides the fundamental basis for determining caus-
ality. As Robert Scholes has pointed out, post hoc ergo propter hoc (after
the fact, therefore because of the fact), which is a fallacy in logic, “‘is a
principle of fiction: that a cause and effect relationship links the temporal
elements in any narrative sequence” (1979, 423).’ (The most common var-
iation on this principle is a simple flashback, conventionally framed by an
activity such as dreaming or perhaps courtroom testimony that is understood
to be its origin.) Rather than linear narration, then, in its double articulation
of time the film provides parallel, interacting narrations. Moreover, voice-
overs from the present in the past and the past in the present, and the
nonchronological narration of the present, further militate against perceiv-
ing time in simple linear terms, or supposing a revelation of causality in
Leo Colston’s life to be the principal intention of the film. Instead, the
subjectivizing of the interactive narrations is precisely about revealing a
wholeness in which past and present exist as a single, indivisible reality. In
this subtle, exceedingly complex structure, ‘“‘threads which started off par-

93
allel gradually intertwine,”’ as Losey said, “and in the end past and present
are one and the same” (Ciment 1985, 304).

The narration of time-past is well under way in the film before one realizes
that the occasional intervention of brief scenes in time-present of a conser-
vatively dressed older man, shown in the rain at various sites that were part
of young Leo’s experience, narrate the return of the elderly Leo (Michael
Redgrave) to the now changed landscape of his boyhood summer. Although
the discourse continues to suppress information that would readily establish
the relationship of time-past and time-present, one eventually realizes their
connection and the implication that the lively young Leo’s experience at the
turn of the century produced the somber, lifeless man who inhabits the gray
and dismal present. Past and present, then, penetrate one another so that
the boy’s innocence and promise of life stand side by side with the man’s
death-in-life. Thus, the drama and poignance of The Go-Between are not
merely that of the boy’s lost innocence but of the man’s desolation as well.
Even when one realizes that young Leo’s experience produced the elder
Leo’s bleakness, however, there remain questions about how to interpret
the narration.
At the first level the film presents an omniscient narration of time-present,
which tells the story of the older Leo Colston’s return to the sites of his thir-
teenth summer; at the second level, the adult Leo narrates his memories of
that summer. But there are ambiguities in the narration at both levels, most
obviously in the voice-overs from both time periods and the nonchronologi-
cal structure of the present. One’s inclination is to explain discrepancies in
both narrations (as distinct from the narratives they produce) in terms of
characterization. The voice-overs, for instance, can often be accounted for
either as the adult Leo’s memories or as subjective judgments expressed in his
character-narration of the past. The irregularity of the narration of time-
present, however, is most unusual, for the omniscient narration permanently
suppresses cues that would establish its full chronology. Moreover, the non-
chronological structure subverts the implied claim of “‘objectivity” typical of
omniscient narration. How, then, is one to interpret the subjectivized third-
person narration of the present? Is it, too, an element of characterization, and
if so, in what sense? The answer to these questions is not immediately appar-
ent; there is, in fact, no single moment when it is revealed. But gradually it be-
comes clear that the atemporality of the time-present narration expresses the
subjective experience of the older Leo, the emotional incoherence or discon-

94
tinuity that has excluded him from the fullness of life ever since his fateful en-
counter a half-century ago.
The film’s opening shot behind the credits is deceptively simple. In close-
up the camera slowly tilts down a rain-spattered windowpane through
which, at first, nothing can be seen. As the raindrops slip down the surface
of the glass, indistinct shapes, a blurred landscape, appear barely visible
beyond (Figure 28). Accompanied by the descending chords of the musical
score, this downward movement (of raindrops and camera) comes to an
end as the camera moves toward the glass and seems to pass through it into
a brilliantly sunny long shot of an English manor house. As the long shot
holds, a man’s voice-over states: ‘““The past is a foreign country. They do
things differently there.” An evocative opening, to be sure, not least for the
questions it raises about the juxtaposition of the rainy windowpane and
sun-drenched landscape and the relationship between the voice-over and
the image. Only as the film progresses does one retrospectively come to
understand that the Leo Colston of the present has spoken, but the first
bright warm view of Brandham Hall and the following shot of two young
boys riding in a carriage through the beautiful Norfolk countryside intro-
duce the Leo Colston of the past. Thus, the film’s double articulation of
time is operative from the beginning in the intersection of the subjectivized
omniscience of time-present and the older Leo’s character-narration or
mindscreen of the past. Importantly, The Go-Between begins, however
briefly, in the present, only to move into a sustained time-past sequence
where young Leo is introduced to Brandham Hall and the Maudsley family.
(A small but crucial difference between this opening and that of Pinter’s
published screenplay is that the screenplay begins not with the time-present
image of the rainy glass, but with a time-past shot of the sunny English
countryside.) In Losey’s complicated enunciation of narrational levels, the
time-present image is followed by an image from time-past over which is
heard the time-present voice of the adult Leo. The initial disjuncture between
sound and image will be repeated with variations throughout both levels
of the narration and will become a defining trait of the discourse’s inter-
rogation of time.
From the beginning Losey’s fascination with houses that are revelatory
of the characters and conflicts they enclose is fully exploited in the story of
Leo, both boy and man, who becomes first entranced and then entrapped
by the Maudsley mansion. The opening scenes of Leo’s introduction to the
Maudsley household capture, through the extended motif of windows,
stairs, and doors, both the awe and enthrallment of the boy and the irony

95
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: , Figure 28. The Go-Between begins with the time-present image of the rain- z
_-- spattered windowpane that comes to be associated with the older Leo. This _
image gives way to the sun-drenched world of young Leo and time-past.
(Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.) — oe ae oe
of the omniscient narration s perspective. iLhese windows, stairs, an oors
are all passageways, the means whereby one may look into or enter another
place. The several and varied passageways of the film include more obviously _
ae . a : pe : ° ¢ e ° : so a
the doors into the Hall or from room to room, the intricate stairways that _
both separate and link distinct social worlds, and the windows through |
which young Leo first observes the Hall’s beautiful inhabitants — particularly
| Marian. Thus, the film’s first sequence (including the titles) introduces not _
only most of the principal characters, but the carefully elaborated formal |
design that governs the narration asa whole. ~—
| As Leo enters Brandham Hall, the camera follows him through a doorway |
and up the winding stairs to his friend Marcus’s room. Shown at first throug
a window as he begins to climb the stairs, Leo stops on a landing to look —
through another window at the distant figures of Marian and the Maudsleys
houseguests on the lawn below. Once in the room he goes toa window to
look at them again. Leaving the room, Leo and Marcus go downstairs, their
| progress marked by a series of shots through still more windows, each of |
. : ; . “ae aren De .. e , : ; , . . 3 . : 2
which shows the languid, elegant figures more closely. Although it seems a |
: e . . ‘e- - ; e Fi : ; ° - . . : ~ , :
simple use of the motif at this point in the film, symbolizing Leo’s entrance
; into a new world and his curiosity about the beautiful but remote people
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Figure 29. On Brandham Hall’s great central staircase, young Leo is sur-
rounded by imposing portraits when he is surprised by Marcus emerging from
a secret hiding place. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

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Figure 30. “Immortals, inheritors of the summer,” the novel’s narrator calls
Ted and Hugh, an attitude expressed in this low-angle shot showing young
Leo with his competing heroes just before they do battle in the cricket match.
(Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

a7
who belong there, the simplicity is more apparent than real, for the narration
has already linked implicitly the rainy windowpane to the clear windows
through which young Leo first sees this golden world beckoning to him.
The boys’ descent down the stairs also includes a brief incident that seems
a paradigm for Leo’s experience. Marcus, who has run down the stairs
ahead of Leo, opens and then hides behind a secret door off one of the
landings. When Leo stops on the landing and looks up at the large, imposing
portraits lining the stairway, Marcus suddenly jumps out from his hiding
place to grab him from behind, and the two begin to scuffle (Figure 29).
Such child’s play portends something more, for the older Leo knows what
the young Leo will learn at great cost — what seems grand, stately, and
elegant about the aristocracy can be a veil for what is labyrinthine, secretive,
dangerous, and destructive.
Once Leo has moved outside the Hall, joining the world beyond the
doorways and windows that he has been looking through, he skirts by
Marian, dressed in white and lying in a hammock. He seems perhaps already
to have fallen under her spell, the first slight instance of another motif, that
of spells and curses, that will play a major role in the film. As he continues
to explore the grounds of the estate with Marcus, Leo must slip by the
“deadly nightshade” plant (Atropa belladonna, he correctly identifies it) in
the old garden. Leo’s contact with the poisonous belladonna (beautiful lady)
as he brushes against it is a visual metaphor foreshadowing the final con-
sequences of his relationship with Marian. From the omniscient narration’s
perspective on the fate of the adult Leo, these scenes are most ironic, for
young Leo is famous at school as a magician, a sorcerer who has made two
classmates fall off a roof. At the first dinner with the family, the boy explains
why his victims did not perish: “Well, it wasn’t a killing curse, you see.
There are curses and curses. It depends on the curse.” Leo’s innocence stands
in dark contrast to the fact that he will learn too much too soon about
killing curses. Only later can one appreciate the full irony in Marian’s
question to him during that first dinner: ““You’re not going to bewitch us
here, are you?”
A good deal of the film’s symbolism — colors, sorcery, the zodiac, the sun
— arises from Hartley’s novel. Losey often extends these by purely visual
means, particularly in the case of colors and the sun, the latter associated
specifically with Marian. Moreover, in both the film and the novel the
various patterns of symbols are densely interwoven, so that an element of
one pattern becomes an element of another as well, weaving together even
more tightly the separate threads of the narration. Frequently, the film’s
dialogue and visual imagery center on Leo’s interest in sorcery. The middle-
98
class boy has entered the godlike world of the upper classes. (The novel’s
narrator says, “In my eyes the actors in my drama had been immortals,
inheritors of the summer” [1984, 293].) The signs of the zodiac cover the
front page of the diary where he keeps a detailed record of his spells, and
he associates himself with the dominating Leo of the zodiac, who is ruled
only by the sun. As he takes on his role as the go-between, first carrying
messages for Marian’s fiancé, Hugh Trimingham (Edward Fox), and then
for the farmer, Ted Burgess, Leo begins to lose his identity. Hugh calls him
Mercury, the messenger of the gods, although Leo, interestingly, knows
Mercury only as the smallest of the planets and the one nearest the sun.
For Ted, Leo is simply the “‘postman,” but one who will eventually “catch
out” Ted in both the cricket match and the dangerous game of love (Figure
30). Marian supplies Leo with new clothes and a new identity that entangles
him in an aristocratic world and sexual intrigue as fascinating as it is mys-
tifying to him. When early in the film young Leo turns to a spell in an effort
to check the mounting heat, he is unsuccessful; the next day the temperature
has climbed another degree. He and Marian’s father mark each day’s rising
temperature that foreshadows the approach of the traumatic climax that
must inevitably end the summer. The summer heat that permeates the world
at the Hall parallels the passionate affair of Ted and Marian, as well as
Leo’s own awakening sexuality.
When Leo arrives at the Hall wearing a brown Norfolk coat whose style
and color match the formal lines and rich brown tones of the Hall, he is
conspicuously the outsider, the object of family joking because his heavy
wool coat is out of keeping with the hot summer weather. The new suit of
clothes that Marian buys him on their expedition to Norwich is Lincoln
green, and later she intends to give him a green bicycle for his birthday.
Leo is closely associated with green — it’s “your true color,”’ Marcus tells
him, ‘‘Marian said so” — not only because of his inexperience and envy of
the aristocratic world, but also because he plays a kind of Robin Hood to
her Maid Marian, who consciously courts his attentions and uses his ad-
olescent infatuation for her own devious purposes. And this Robin Hood
helps steal, however unwittingly, the aristocratic Marian for Ted Burgess,
the tenant of Black Farm. Red, too, is associated with Leo, who cuts his
leg sliding down Ted’s haystack and who later becomes upset at the sight
of rabbit’s blood that Ted, returning from hunting, smears on one of Mar-
ian’s letters. This bloodletting foreshadows the violent end to the affair and
Ted’s suicide. At the height of his glory, Leo is called on to sing a song to
the assembly of aristocrats and farmers after he has caught out Ted in the

99 ,
annual cricket match. The song, which is in fact a hymn, nicely describes
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second person, iterates the older man’s sense of his younger self as a totally
different character and, poignantly if not tragically, his judgment on that
earlier self as guilty of a kind of hubris. For the man, responsibility belongs
to the boy rather than the adults who used him so carelessly. When he sits
across from Marian with her golden parasol or, in a later scene, next to the
large brass horn of the gramophone in the smoking room, one is visually
reminded of Leo’s flight too near the sun.
In its rendering of these scenes from the past and of the adult Leo in
whose mind they dwell, The Go-Between is about both memories and the
process of memory itself. For, as Henri Bergson believed, memory is not
mere preservation; memory creates. The unfolding vision of that long-ago
summer, then, is not presented simply as a record; the images are simul-
taneously Leo’s memories and the visual equivalent of memory’s journey
into the past. A deceptively simple use of camera and sound suggests this
complex dimension of the film. For example, Marian, Ted, and Hugh are
all seen at some length before they first speak, a pattern that may suggest
the particularly insistent quality of visual recollection. Indeed, young Leo
himself sees the surrounding countryside, the house, and Marcus’s bedroom
before either he or Marcus speaks a word. It is as if in the mind of the adult
Leo the past can be seen before it is heard. The handling of time in the film
is like a palimpsest, a layering of different times and perspectives within
any given moment, whereas in the novel the older Leo’s perspective is most
overt in the prologue and epilogue. It is in the epilogue, for instance, that
the adult Leo comments on his reluctance to think about what happened
to those “others” who experienced that summer with him and survived.
Leo comments:
As to these “others”? of Brandham Hall, somehow I could not think
of them as going on after I had stopped. They were like figures in a
picture, the frame enclosed them, the twofold frame of time and place,
and they could not step outside it, they were imprisoned in Brandham
Hall and the summer of 1900. There let them stay, fixed in their two
- dimensions: I did not want to free them. (Hartley 1984, 296)
This simile is put to a different use in the film by helping to convey the
process as well as the substance of memory. The figures of the past —
particularly when Leo sees them through the windows and at the moment
before the dinner when he first sees all the Maudsleys together — are often
grouped into tableaux, like formal portraits from an album of memories.
Losey is subtle rather than emphatic in his use of such moments, but they
nonetheless emphasize this quality of Leo’s memory. Similarly, those mo-
102
ments when the camera holds on the landscape, or the instance when the
camera holds for several seconds on a Norwich street from which young
Leo and Marian have just disappeared around a corner, convey a kind of
contemplation and attention that is itself an action.
Memory as both fact and act is foregrounded in several ways that are spe-
cifically cinematic. Consider, for example, the scene in Norwich when Leo
first sees Marian and Ted together. After leaving the cathedral, Leo walks into
the city’s square. In a shot that begins with the boy entering the left fore-
ground and Ted and Marian across the square in the right background, the
camera then dollies forward past Leo. Initially the shot frames the youthful
figure of Leo’s remembered self. As the camera moves forward, though, ex-
cluding him from the frame, it in effect combines one form of subjective vision
— memory in its simplest terms — with another that corresponds closely (but
not exactly) to the physical point of view of young Leo as he watches the fig-
ures across the square. The movement of the camera is a purely cinematic
metaphor for the movement of the adult Leo’s mind, his act of concentration
as he enters more deeply and fully into the past. One cannot argue that the
adult Leo’s narration here conveys anything like the details of judgment and
sense of betrayal that the passage from the novel’s epilogue contains; how-
ever, in Losey’s sophisticated command of point of view, the subjective realm
of time-past is not fixed but dynamic, alive in its power to compel Leo’s atten-
tion. Further, the discourse’s first intercut to a time-present scene, a shot of .
the older Leo at the church cemetery, appears in the midst of the sequence just
as the boy leaves the cathedral immediately before he sees Marian and Ted.
Even without an explanation of their relationship, the intercutting of these
scenes necessarily affects one’s response to the character-narration, for the
potential unity of a past moment filled with youthful innocence and curiosity
is invaded by the silence and solemnity of the present. This proves to be a
deeply suggestive pattern in the film, for its interacting narrations reveal a Leo
whse life has, in a sense, been inverted. For Leo, ironically, it is the past that
is prey to the present, not the reverse. What the prologue and epilogue accom-
plish in the novel thus becomes an ongoing, elucidating process from first im-
age to last in the film.
After the first two voice-overs — ““The past is a foreign country” and “You
flew too near the sun” — the discourse intermittently presents brief scenes of
the older Leo in time-present returning to the sites of his past. This, even more
than the voice-overs, is what begins to radicalize the narration. The first of
these scenes (actually the second time-present image, the first being the rainy
window behind the credits) shows from the back a man staring through the
gates of a church cemetery. The motionless, forlorn figure, wearing a gray
103
raincoat and bowler and carrying an umbrella, appears only to be a staid, al-
most too conventionally attired gentleman whose temporal and physical lo-
cation are unexplainable. Not until later does one realize that the aging Leo is
visiting the graves of those who peopled his remembered world (Figure 31).
That summer, one eventually learns, also marked his own psychological and
emotional death, but this insight is virturally inaccessible at this early stage in
the narration. Further, not only is the time-present moment unexplainable for
lack of cues provided by the discourse, but its intrusiveness is compounded by
an accompanying voice-over. Over the image from the present the now famil-
iar voice of young Leo is heard repeating the lines one heard him say at his first
dinner at the Hall: ‘““Well, it wasn’t a killing curse, you see. There are curses
and curses. It depends on the curse.” Irony is obvious in the juxtaposition of a
youth’s pronouncement about “killing curses” to the image of a graveyard,
but beyond this one is at a loss to interpret the scene fully. Nonetheless, a sub-
stantial number of the elements that inform the third-person narration have
been introduced and foregrounded; many of their details, however, remain
suspended. Their import will emerge only little by little with great complexity
in subsequent scenes.
When the discourse presents the second and third time-present scenes —
a fragment of Leo’s arrival at the Norwich train station and his arrival
outside the church where he visits the graveyard — one realizes that the first
three time-present scenes (excluding the film’s initial image) are not narrated
chronologically. They appear, instead, in a 3-1-2 order: Leo standing at
the churchyard cemetery, then turning and walking away; next stepping
into a car after arriving at the Norwich station; and then the car drawing
up to the church. The fourth time-present scene shows Leo in the foreground
of an over-the-shoulder long shot of a house one later learns is lived in by
the now aged Lady Trimingham, who, as the beautiful Marian Maudsley,
was the reckless enchantress of Leo’s boyhood. As impossible to locate
precisely as the others, the fourth time-present scene nonetheless seems likely
to occur later in story time than its predecessors. Once introduced, these
time-present scenes appear with increasing if irregular frequency. Despite a
persisting uncertainty as to their origin and their relationship to the coherent
narration of time-past into which they intervene, these four scenes have
some noticeable common elements. A dismal rainy day (apparently the same
day), the recurring figure of the anonymous older man, and the impression
that the sites are near one another — all suggest connections. Whatever their
unknown relationships, and despite their separation in the narration of time-
present, these scenes invite one to begin constructing another story than the
one told by the character-narration of time-past.
104
 With the conclusion of the fourth time-present scene, most of the features
of the omniscient narration and its potential relationships to the character-
narration of the past have been established. Particular sites recur in both
time frames, inhabited by both versions of Leo. Dialogue from both periods
is heard over images from the other. And there are suggestive associations
between the present moments and the time-past scenes that immediately
frame them. The adult’s arrival in Norwich, for example, appears just when
the boy, on his shopping expedition with Marian, is asked to amuse himself
in the Norwich cathedral. Similarly, the car arrives at the cemetery imme-
diately after Leo first compromises himself by supporting Marian’s lie to
her mother that they saw no one in the city. And the time-present long shot
, of the unidentified house in the village is preceded by the scene of the youth’s
entering the church with the family and followed by the congregation leaving
the church, at which time young Leo first talks to Hugh Trimingham and
carries his first, quite innocent message: Marian has forgotten her prayer
book. Further, although one knows nothing yet of the house or its present
occupant, it has already appeared in time-past.
Interestingly, while the time-present scenes are not flash-forwards, they
have sometimes been regarded as such. The key to understanding this phe-
nomenon lies in a detail that has already been emphasized: the film’s first
image is in the present. Leo Colston’s past had a unity shattered by the
passions of a self-centered aristocratic world indifferent to the boy. Con-
sequently, the emotional integrity of his past, manifest in the chronological
structure and golden tones of his character-narration, can seem to trigger
the discontinuous, apparently random immediacy of a present whose only
meaning resides in memories the man can neither escape nor make his own.
The adult Leo’s present is not just “‘dried up,” as Marian later says; it is
without the simplest form of connectedness. When contrasted with the
mindscreen’s unity, the fragmentation and confusing lack of sequence of
the third-person narration express the subjective reality of a man for whom
the present is an uncharted land — although, ironically, it is the past he
declares a “foreign country.”’ There seems an unbridgeable gulf between
past and present Leo Colstons, an estrangement that defines his tragedy.
Seeking to unify the two time periods in a single story, one also seeks to
reconcile the two Leos. Ironically, this proves to be the very reason for Leo’s
return to this now alien landscape, even if he does not know it.
Once again Marian will ask Leo to be a go-between, this time to carry a
message to her grandson, who is descended from her union with Ted Burgess,
not Hugh Trimingham, the man she actually married. Marian wants Leo to
assure the grandson that his lineage is no curse, that he is “the child of so
105
much happiness and beauty.” With her aristocratic illusions still intact, Mar-
ian is oblivious to her role in making the man, as she says, “‘all dried up in-
side.”’ The scene in which Marian, now an old woman with only memories of
her own, asks Leo to carry one last message is the climax of the omniscient
narration of the present, and indeed of the larger realm of the entire film. The
adult Leo cannot have known when he answered Marian’s summons to re-
turn to the sites of his fateful summer holiday that its traumatic events and
emotions have survived unresolved all these years. What can he have sup-
posed Marian would now be like? And why would she turn to him again
when the past, it would seem, is now quite dead and forgotten? The answers
to these questions dominate the narration of the last long, exceedingly com-
plex time-present sequence, which concludes the film. The character-
narration of the past, however, has begun to provide answers, or at least the
basis for them, even before the questions themselves can be defined.
In his youthful and eager desire to please Marian, young Leo willingly if
innocently conspires with her. In what was initially an alliance that fed his
half-formed infatuation, Leo finds himself Marian’s increasingly confused
and troubled ‘“‘cavalier,” which is Hugh’s term for him. The messenger of
the gods, their go-between, becomes a conspirator. His divided feelings of
devotion and doubt are poignantly obvious in the character-narration when
Hugh enters a room just as Marian is giving Leo another letter for Ted.
Instinctively concealing the letter, he realizes at some level that this is a
betrayal of Hugh, whose kindness and interest have also won his loyalty.
As Hugh and Marian leave the room, Leo stands in the doorway while the
camera pulls back until he is shown framed by a series of doorways (Figure
33). The image is a metaphor for Leo’s dilemma, expressing his intuitive
recognition that the adult world into which he has been drawn has rooms
within rooms, levels of complexity and emotion that lie beyond his limited
experience and understanding. Clutching Marian’s letter, left unsealed in
her haste, Leo is perplexed and unsettled, no longer the happy postman, as
Ted has called him and as the elderly Marian will again before the film’s
conclusion. Finally, as he walks to Ted’s farm, driven by his need to penetrate
what has grown increasingly a mystery to him, Leo opens the letter. Seeing
only the opening line — Marian’s passionate “Darling, Darling, Darling” —
he sinks to the base of a tree, his tears a painful indication of this disturbing
discovery. If one is left uncertain how fully the adult Leo as mindscreen
narrator understands all the implications of this event, the more ironic
perspective of the overall third-person narration clearly embraces the mem-

106 , |
ories as well as the man to whom they belong, implicitly commenting on
the contradictions, both social and moral, that doomed the youth and the
elegant and beguiling Edwardian sunset that enveloped him.
By the time the character-narration reveals the crisis of Leo’s feelings
about continuing to deliver letters, the time-present narration’s scenes are
likely to have accumulated sufficiently for one to discern the outlines of the
story they tell. Certainly, the basic terms of causality are in place, but a
good deal remains to be disclosed in both narrations and in their interaction.
In one sense the meaning of Leo’s present is defined by the loss of all that
the past seems to promise. But as the dual narrations make clear, past and
present cannot really be confined to different realms. What were parallel
threads have intertwined, as Losey said. There are both boundaries and no
boundaries at all in Leo’s experience. In the interaction of the narrations,
causes and effects are not by any means irrelevant, but they belong to
linearity, to time divided. From the very first sequence the film subverts this
conception of time — not because it is irrelevant, but because it is inadequate,
too simple an explanation of a whole life.
In the final section, the structure and narration of The Go-Between be-
come even more complex, and therein lies the film’s subtlest, most far-
reaching confrontation with the conception of time. The dual narrations,
both third person and first; interactive time periods, one golden, the other
gray and bleak; multiple voice-overs from both narrations; two disparate
versions of Leo — these have defined the boy’s world and prepared for the
adult’s remarkable encounter with Marian, which is the climax of the film.
Time-present, confined until now to discontinuous fragments that seemingly
interrupted the past, begins to command a larger, more extended place.
Despite this reversal, however, time-past is not altogether subordinated.
With accelerating frequency its images and, importantly, its voices are in-
tercut with those of the present as the time-past narration moves toward
its own climactic moment when Leo is ruthlessly forced to confront at last
the mystery he has sought to comprehend and resolve. Ironically, the mount-
ing urgency of the narration of the past intensifies one’s sense of the buried
emotion in the measured narration of time-present in which Leo will finally
meet Marian again.
The use of voice-overs, which is significant throughout the film, becomes
particularly insistent and telling in the last stages as the two narrations
converge. Repeatedly linking the parallel narrations with voices from one
period heard over images from the other, the voices, particularly those of
both Leos, come to possess a unity of their own, forming a coherent nar-
rational level on which the two Leos coexist. Thus, the voice of young Leo

107
over the time-present cemetery scene may well be understood as the older
Leo’s recollection of a youthful comment that is deeply ironic in retrospect,
but one may also begin to associate the adult’s voice-overs with the boy’s.
This dimension of the film becomes even more complex when voices other
than the young or adult Leo are heard. The voice-over accompanying the
elder Leo’s arrival at the station in the second time-present scene, for ex-
ample, is that of Mrs. Maudsley explaining to young Leo his mother’s
proscription against him swimming. As the scene of the arrival at the station
continues, other voices from a slightly later past moment are heard in an
exchange between young Leo and one of the Maudsley sons, who asks why
Leo is taking his bathing suit to a swimming party if he is forbidden to
swim. The image of the arrival scene is then succeeded by one from the
past, showing the party from the Hall walking toward the river carrying
their bathing suits. These two time-past voice-overs, then, precede the images
of the swimming sequence to which they belong. And in the most unusual
instance of all, the adult Leo and Marian are heard twice in voice-overs
repeating the same words — once in time-past and later in time-present —
before the images of the scene in which they actually meet.
In the narration of time-present, the last section of the film is anticipated as
early as the fourth time-present scene in which the adult Leo looks from a dis-
tance at the unidentified house that will prove to be the elderly Marian’s.
Later, immediately after the cricket match and celebration, when Leo learns
from Marcus that Marian is engaged to Hugh, another time-present scene
shows a young man (in a medium long shot) walking past the same house.
The older Leo enters the frame, moving toward him until he sees Leo and
turns in acknowledgment. Still later, after a time-past scene of young Leo bid-
ding farewell to Ted in his expectation of leaving the Maudsleys and
Brandham Hall, there is a second version of this scene of Leo and the young
man. This time, shown from a different angle and with the two characters
moving in a slightly different physical pattern, the young man hesitates as Leo
approaches him. It is over this image that one first hears the voices of the older
Marian and Leo before the scene of their meeting. She says: “So you met my
grandson. Does he remind you of anyone?” Leo is heard replying: “Of
course. Ted Burgess.”” And Marian says, ““That’s it. That’s it. He does,” as the
scene concludes and an image of the Norfolk countryside follows. After a se-
ries of time-past scenes, including Leo joining the family for breakfast on his
birthday, there appears another time-present scene at the site of the house. In
an extreme long shot, the figures of the young man and Leo, barely distin-
guishable in the background, are shown shaking hands.
These four scenes, apparently presented in their story order, narrate a sin-
108
gle event — Leo’s meeting with Marian’s grandson — but the narration raises
several issues. First of all, the radically different camera distances and angles,
even more than the separation of the images, infuse the event with an extreme
discontinuity. One’s experience of classical narration, which emphasizes con-
tinuity, is effectively contradicted by a narration that undercuts any sense of
the event as internally coherent. Moreover, the temporal relationship of this
encounter with the grandson to the eventual meeting between Leo and Mar-
ian is ambiguous. Does the encounter precede Marian’s request that Leo be
her go-between once more, or does it narrate his acquiescence to her call to
carry one last message? The voices-over of Leo and Marian accompanying
the third shot suggest that this encounter with the grandson is not the one for
which Marian has summoned him. But given the complexity of time-present
narration, particularly its atemporality, one cannot be certain. Attempting to
resolve this issue proves crucial, however, for Leo’s response to Marian’s re-
quest is what the entire discourse has been leading to. Will Leo carry her mes-
sage? Would carrying it constitute, ironically, a reentry into life because its
import is hope and love? Or is it only that Leo’s life still belongs to Marian?
Can she alone command him after all these loveless years?
These questions are further complicated by the dual narrations, for the
last shot of the encounter with the grandson is accompanied by yet another
voice-over from the past. In this instance, in a line referring to the threat
of rain for Leo’s birthday celebration, one hears Mrs. Maudsley say, “‘It
seems that all will be well for Leo’s birthday.”’ But, of course, the climax
of the birthday dinner is not a celebration of Leo; it is Mrs. Maudsley’s
frantic dragging of the boy into the rain to confirm her own worst fears
about Marian and Ted (Figure 35). The intersection of the voices from the
birthday with the last shot of Leo meeting the grandson links the two events
and prefigures the far more disturbing intersection of the confrontation scene
with the lovers and Leo’s final meeting with Marian. Indeed, the threads of
the two narrations — both the voice-overs and the images — are woven
together ever more tightly as the climactic meeting approaches.
Like the narration of the meeting with the grandson, the three shots
showing the older Leo arriving at Marian’s house and waiting to be an-
nounced to the now aged Lady Trimingham are widely separated in the
discourse. In addition, their proper story sequence is reversed. The first
presents Leo in Marian’s sitting room, where one sees the man’s face for
the first time. This brief scene, which occurs somewhat after the midpoint
in the film, is embedded in the time-past narration of the community hall
festivities after the cricket match, where Ted, with Marian’s accompaniment,
sings ““Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes.” Ted’s song continues in voice-over
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Figure 36. During his last ride to Brandham Hall, the adult Leo’s lifeless face
expresses the sense of loss and pathos that haunt the ending of The Go-
Between. (Courtesy Weintraub Entertainment Ltd.)

with the time-present scene. The second shot, which appears immediately
after Ted orders Leo to leave because he refuses to carry another letter,
shows the older Leo being led into the sitting room by the housekeeper. In
voice-over young Leo is heard speaking the words of a letter to his mother
requesting that he be allowed to return home immediately because “‘] am
not enjoying myself here.”’ This voice-over might speak also for the adult
Leo’s discomfiture at the prospect of meeting Marian again. The final shot,
which appears in the midst of a brief time-past scene showing the boy sitting
alone and troubled, presents Leo waiting at Marian’s front door and then
being greeted by the housekeeper, who leads him upstairs to the sitting
room. Reversing the chronology of the story events, the third-person nar-
ration’s subjectivizing of time here suggests a reluctance to confront Marian,
expressing perhaps Leo’s subconscious desire to back out of the meeting.
Because of the parallel narrations, the time-present scenes of Leo ap-
proaching his reunion with Marian are implicitly compared to time-past
scenes of the boy’s increasing anxiety over his role as go-between. As the
character-narration moves toward its own climax, Leo struggles to extricate
himself from his confusing position. Unfortunately, to his letter asking to
[11
come home early, Leo’s mother responds (in a voice-over of her letter) that
such an abrupt departure would be “ungrateful to Mrs. Maudsley.”” When
his attempt to comfort Marian and counsel her to marry Ted fails to resolve
Marian’s problems or his own divided loyalties, Leo resorts again to his
magic. In the middle of the night, he goes to the old garden, tears out the
poisonous belladonna, and makes a potion from its berries, seeking perhaps
to exorcise its sinister influence or to turn its power to advantage in resolving
both his dilemma and Marian’s. Leo soon knows that even this sorcery fails
when Marian tries to force him to carry another message to Ted. This time
Mrs. Maudsley catches sight of the note that Marian struggles to slip into
Leo’s jacket. Insisting that he walk in the garden with her, Mrs. Maudsley
skillfully traps Leo in his (and Marian’s) lies and tries to make the boy turn
over the note. In this atmosphere of conspiracy and confusion, of moral
compromise and increasing suspicions, Leo is given his birthday party.
The time-past scenes of the aborted birthday party followed by the dis-
covery of the lovers divide the final meeting with Marian, which begins with
a voice-over repeating the lines about seeing her grandson. Marian’s attitude
seems to confirm the endurance of the aristocratic code that Trimingham
once expressed to the boy: ‘“‘Nothing is ever a lady’s fault.”’ Marian is as
self-centered and irresponsible as ever, having distilled from those tragic
events a romanticized view of her affair and Leo’s role as go-between. She
tells Leo that she believes her grandson has some sort of grudge against her.
He wants to marry a nice girl but won’t. “I think he feels,”’ she says, “he’s
under some sort of spell or curse... Now this is where you come in... You
know what really happened... Tell him, tell him everything just as it hap-
pened...Every man should get married... You ought to have married.
You're all dried up inside; I can tell that. Don’t you feel any need of love?
Speak to him. Tell him there’s no spell or curse except an unloving heart.”
The reason Leo has returned to the sites of the past is now clear, and
Marian’s ongoing insensitivity to the price he has paid for his youthful
affection and trust is appallingly evident. That she should ask Leo if he feels
no need of love and advise him that an unloving heart is the only curse are
more poignant than ironic. Marian created this man she so easily assesses
and criticizes, and she shows not the slightest awareness of her role.
Following the discovery scene with the lovers, the last half of Marian’s con-
versation with Leo is a sustained monologue addressed to the silent man
seated opposite her in the dimly lit room. The monologue, which actually be-
gins over the last moments of the discovery scene, continues even as the im-
ages of Marian and Leo are intercut with others from several different
temporal instances, the last being Leo’s drive to the now apparently aban-
I12
doned Hall. Marian’s voice-over begins: ““You came out of the blue to make »
us happy. And we made you happy, didn’t we? We trusted you with our great
treasure. You might never have known what it was. You might have gone
through life without knowing. Isn’t that so?”? The images accompanying
these lines suddenly present the only time-past scene to be repeated, showing
Leo and Marcus at the beginning of that summer skirting by Marian dressed
in white and lying in a hammock. Now, in the light of Marian’s declaration
about the spell or curse of a loveless heart, this moment when young Leo
seemed first to fall under her spell is especially telling. Moments later, be-
tween shots showing the older Leo’s ashen face as he sits listening to Marian
explain her plans for him, there is a brief scene, so still that it seems almost a
freeze frame, depicting Ted’s suicide. Recalling an earlier occasion when Leo
saw Ted cleaning his gun at the same table, this image, intruding in the middle
of her injunction to Leo that he tell the grandson “‘everything just as it was,”
certainly qualifies Marian’s version of the past. As a prelude to her final re-
quest, the self-deluding Marian asks Leo to “‘remember how you loved taking
our messages. Bringing us together and making us happy.”
In the final lines of Hartley’s novel, the epilogue allows for a cautiously
affirmative note, the suggestion that perhaps in a reenactment of his youthful
role Leo may at last be a go-between whose service brings life rather than
death. The older Leo describes his ambivalent feelings:
A foreigner in the world of the emotions, ignorant of their language
but compelled to listen to it, I turned into the street. With every step
I marvelled more at the extent of Marian’s self-deception. Why then
was I moved by what she had said? Why did I half wish that I could
see it all as she did? And why should I go on this preposterous errand?
I hadn’t promised to and I wasn’t a child, to be ordered about. My
car was standing by the public call-box; nothing easier than to ring
up Ted’s grandson and make my excuses...
But I didn’t, and hardly had I turned in at the lodge gates, wondering
how I should say what I had come to say, when the south-west prospect
of the Hall, long hidden from my memory, sprang into view. (1984,
310-11)
However tentative the prospects in the novel for Leo’s reentry into life, they
exceed those of the film, which ends with the painful conversation between
Leo and Marian, who has kept her illusions intact.
Like the camera moving through the rainy glass in the film’s first image,
Leo Colston has moved through the fatal, arrogant beauty of the past and
its tragic conflicts of privilege and passion. Unlike the Leo of the novel, who
113
half wishes ‘“‘that I could see it all as she did” and who clearly carries out
Marian’s “‘preposterous errand,” the film’s Leo returns to the Hall without
any indication that he is reenacting his role as go-between. Commenting on
the ending, Losey told Ciment that Leo “has finally understood what his
life has been and has put things back in perspective. ...It’s a belated ca-
tharsis. The old man finally refuses to allow himself to be used” (1985,
304). Losey’s comment suggests a resolved, cathartic ending based on Leo’s
understanding and his refusal to carry Marian’s message. ‘““What is impor-
tant about the ending,” Losey said, “‘is that he doesn’t pass on the message”
(316). Nonetheless, the film’s final sequence makes for a dark conclusion.
Following a series of close-ups of Leo’s face, almost ghostly in its lack of
expression (Figure 36), one sees, as Marian’s monologue continues, the last
image of Leo through the rain-spattered car window on which the reflection
of the Hall seems imprinted on his lifeless face. A sense of loss, of ironic
pathos, haunts the ending. Leo’s tragedy might have been avoided had he
been either younger and more innocent or older and more experienced. But
poised as he was between childhood and the first stirrings of those emotions
and drives that would have led him to maturity, Leo became the victim of
a world of adults who used him with little regard for his feelings and whose
abuse of his trust ruined his life.
In the narration of The Go-Between, neither past nor present prevails.
Their threads intertwine, and the tragedy of Leo Colston’s life stands re-
vealed. Although the loss of innocence is often poignant, the fact that this
boy — open, sensitive, loving, vulnerable — should become this man — empty,
unloving, cut off from human warmth — is doubly sad. The theme of time,
for all its fascination for Losey and Pinter, and the richness and complexity
of its role in the film, is not an end in itself. Rather, it is time in a particular
man’s life that is annihilated — not just an interest in time, but the meaning
of time in Leo Colston’s life that is the film’s goal. Finally there is only one
Leo, and his story as boy and man, his eager trust freely given and shockingly
betrayed, his loving childhood and his loveless old age are what compel
Losey and Pinter’s attention and dominate the film.’

One of Losey’s interests in The Go-Between, he told Ciment, came from

his belief that “there are many traces of the society of that time remaining
in society today” (1985, 304). He also identified “observation of characters,
a very acute awareness of class dynamics and contradictions” as among the
interests he shared with Pinter (242). Given the place and consequences of

. I14
social class in the closed world of Hartley’s story, Losey’s interest in making
the film might seem to confirm the view of him as a filmmaker of rigid social
conscience, more interested in his characters’ arguments than in their lives.
But the film that Losey and Pinter have made from Hartley’s novel focuses
not so much on the social forces that bind the characters as on their passions
and conflicts and on the emotional desolation that engulfs one man. Clearly,
abuses of privilege in a society where rank carries not just influence but the
power to force others to do one’s bidding is a theme in The Go-Between,
as it is in King and Country and The Servant.
When Ciment commented to Losey that none of the characters in The
Go-Between was dislikable, that he showed great compassion for his char-
acters, Losey responded: ‘I’m glad you sensed that because that’s what I
feel about people and that’s what I want to demonstrate. But it’s sometimes
interpreted as indifference. People aren’t either good or bad, they’re both
at the same time”’ (1985, 311). Marian, to be sure, is not only thoughtless
but cruel in her assumptions about Leo as both a youth and an older man.
Mrs. Maudsley, too, cruelly uses her rank and position to punish a child
who, being an outsider of lower rank, she seems to blame for the crisis in
her privileged but doomed world. Even Hugh, for all his good-natured
fondness for Leo, fails to see how vulnerable the boy is. If one can argue
that Hugh has no idea of Leo’s role as Marian and Ted’s go-between, his
conversation with Leo and Mr. Maudsley in the smoking room scene sug-
gests that he is not entirely unaware of the threat Ted poses to him. And
given Leo’s questions in the same scene about Ted and about the conse-
quences of a jealous love affair among adults, Hugh seems at least inatten-
tive to the boy’s uncertainties. But for all that The Go-Between exposes
of the painful and hypocritical inequities of class, all of its characters, not
just Leo, are shown in their human complexity. If their doubts and suffer-
ings do not excuse their failures, Marian and Ted, Hugh, and even Mrs.
Maudsley are nonetheless poignant. Like so many of Losey’s characters,
they are victims all.
Losey’s insight into his characters is apparent in his comments to Ciment
about casting in the film: .
Originally we wanted to do The Go-Between with an unknown girl,
because the girl really ought to have been about 18, 19 years old...
to make it work the way it should have....The farmer too should
have been very young. It really was a story of very young lovers who
were using a little boy who was only slightly younger than they were.

115
 They were on opposite sides of adolescence, of pubescence, and that’s
the way I wanted to do it but for reasons of finance we were quite
unable to do it. (1985, 240)
It detracts not at all from the sensitive performances of Julie Christie and
Alan Bates to see the point of Losey’s assessment. There would likely have
been another kind of poignance and different emotional nuances had the
lovers been so young. Nonetheless, Christie and Bates, who are actually in
only four scenes together, make palpable the lovers’ passion and urgency
and their dilemma in a world that refuses to allow such emotions to cross
social barriers. What is especially telling about Losey’s view is its emphasis
on the characters’ youth rather than their different classes.
So far as social issues are concerned, the gulf separating Marian’s world
from Ted’s is not fundamentally different from that between Tony’s and
Barrett’s in The Servant. In both films class differences play a decisive role
in the unfolding conflict and are exposed for their false values and hypocrisy.
In neither film, however, do Losey and Pinter sacrifice the drama of the
human conflict in order to expose and criticize the social. So, too, in King
and Country Hamp’s and Hargreaves’s fates wear a human face whatever
the corrupt values and hypocritical forces that engulf them. The social critic
that Losey was in his earlier films has grown in his understanding and
compassion for characters caught in conflicts that are often harsh and cruel.
It is a measure of Losey’s growth, and the fruitfulness of his collaboration
with Pinter, that the considerable formal complexity of The Go-Between,
its brilliant exploration of subjectivity and time, serves to reveal a drama
of human loss and suffering. Time in its wholeness, like social prejudices
in their narrowness, is a rich theme precisely because the lives of Leo and
the others are both moving and worth remembering. Losey’s later films do
not forsake this understanding, but in The Go-Between he achieves perhaps
its most memorable expression.

116
 “The Arrival of
Strangers”
The Romantic Englishwoman

By turns wry and bitter, The Romantic Englishwoman is a sexual comedy,

a social satire, even a domestic melodrama — with a curious thread of the
crime thriller woven in for good measure. It is also a gloss on themes and
formal elements that preoccupied Losey throughout his artistic life. He
compared the film, which was written by Thomas Wiseman and Tom Stop-
pard from a novel by Wiseman, to The Prowler, Eve, and Accident, saying:
“It deals with an impossible domestic situation in which a bourgeois life
encases people and they don’t get out of it” (Ciment 1985, 341). True
enough, but it also differs from the films Losey compares it to, particularly
in tone, for The Romantic Englishwoman is a kind of high-wire act, treading
a fine line with its shifting tones always threatening to upset a precarious
balance. In its attitudes toward its characters, the film comes close to re-
flecting the detachment Losey was often accused of, but that is a function
of its reflexivity, its self-knowing wit, rather than mere distance on Losey’s
part. A self-conscious commentary on its own narrative strategies is as much
a deliberate theme of the film as those that arise from its story. The principal
characters include a wealthy popular novelist, Lewis Fielding (Michael
Caine), his frustrated but adventurous wife, Elizabeth (Glenda Jackson), on
whom he projects relentless fantasies of betrayal, and the handsome, mys-
terious young foreigner, Thomas Hursa (Helmut Berger), who intrudes on
their uneasy marriage at Lewis’s all too perverse invitation. From beginning
to end, the film ‘“‘talks” about itself as a story about stories, about its
characters as types, and about its various genre legacies even as it trades
shamelessly and wittily in the currency of these very genres and types. The
result is a mordant comedy that ends not amusingly but sadly and that
leaves a viewer more than a little uncertain how to respond to dilemmas
that are at once clever and dangerous.
117
 More than most of Losey’s films, The Romantic Englishwoman had a
relatively untroubled production history. Shot immediately after Galileo,
Losey’s film for Ely Landau’s short-lived American Film Theatre series based
on the Brecht play he had staged nearly three decades earlier, The Romantic
Englishwoman is a film about which Losey later maintained he had little
to comment on. “I was less personally involved than on some of the other
films,” he told Richard Combs. “I didn’t have to conduct the same kind of
personal battles, and consequently I found that I could cut much more
ruthlessly” (1975, 141). Also, he said to Ciment: “I wasn’t passionate about
it but it’s true that I saw something of interest and value.... And I rather
liked shooting it’ (1985, 340). These comments focus noticeably on the
production circumstances, Losey’s freedom from many of the struggles that
so often attended his efforts, rather than the film itself. In this sense the film
was obviously among his least passionate, just as he said, but intellect rather
than passion (however passionate its characters) is in fact typical of the film.
Even so, the conclusion in which husband and wife return to the life they
lived before, despite their sometimes comic, sometimes dramatic, and always
ineffectual attempts to break free, is not without poignance. Lewis and
Elizabeth Fielding hardly summon the sympathy and compassion that belong
to Leo Colston, Hamp and Hargreaves, or perhaps even Stephen, but the
film does not merely skewer their follies and indulgences or those of their
world. The Fieldings are trapped by their own inability to conceive a larger
than bourgeois life, and the final scenes center as much on their real pain
as on its emblems.
Associated once again with Daniel Angel, who produced King and
Country, Losey worked for a time with the novel’s author, Thomas Wise-
man, who “did an original script with me which was interesting and good
in many ways, but like many novelists he was inclined to put into the
script purple descriptions that are not so easily translated into the visual”
(Combs 1975, 140). Whatever the limits of Wiseman’s descriptions, the
controlling premise of his novel would also raise problems for the ad-
aptation; for Lewis Fielding, who is himself a novelist, is posited as writing
the very novel one is reading. His wife is thus not only a character in
her own right, but one whose frustrated desires Lewis seeks to control
by making her also a character in his fiction. This premise is maintained
in the film, but the conceit of reading a novel by a novelist, a literary
reflexivity, is transformed; in the film Lewis is writing a screenplay that
allows him to “recreate” Elizabeth’s recent trip alone to Baden-Baden in
the light of his all-consuming fears and jealous fantasies. While the film
was in postproduction, Losey remarked:
118
 What interested me most about [the novel] were the various points of
view — the fantasy of the husband about his wife, the fantasy of the
wife about herself, plus the catalyst of the poet, who says very little
but is the only one who really has an articulate philosophy. ...Tom
Stoppard took it [Wiseman’s script from his novel] and treated it with
a good deal of irreverence and made it quite funny. He hardly changed
the structure, except he injected a bit more of the adventurer into the
poet, but he largely rewrote the dialogue. It’s a pretty bitter comedy
of domestic life, and it could be like a more conventional Discreet
Charm of the Bourgeoisie. (140)

Losey’s interest in “‘various points of view” attests to his ongoing concern

for storytelling, for narration, for forms of subjectivity that are crucial to
an understanding of the complex structure and characterization in his
films. Playing as it does with various genres and storylines, The Romantic
Englishwoman is vulnerable to attack for its apparent lack of unity, its
seemingly confused intentions. Its title might point to Elizabeth as the
protagonist and her story as the focus of the film. Whether she can have
“her story,” however, is problematic and a central concern in the film.
Conflict centers around Lewis’s need to narrate (and thereby control
Elizabeth whether through his script or by way of creating situations
through his insistence that Thomas Hursa stay with them) and Elizabeth’s
need to enact her own freedom outside of the home and against the
various scripted roles that define and confine her. Struggling to free herself
from Lewis’s fantasies, she ultimately takes flight with Thomas, an act
that at once defies Lewis and enacts the very fantasy he has feared and
written into his screenplay. Will Elizabeth be allowed her own desire, her
own subjectivity, or can she only play a part in other people’s stories, be
they her husband’s jealous fantasies or Thomas Hursa’s con-game thriller?
This was neither the first time nor the last that Losey focused on women
and their struggles within sexist societies. Indeed, in his last two films,
La Truite and Steaming, he dealt with women characters and their quest
for freedom, power, and self-determination more fully than one could
anticipate from his earlier films.
For all the irreverence and wit of Stoppard’s dialogue, the issues at stake
are serious, having to do with Elizabeth’s inchoate yearning for personal
freedom and identity as opposed to Lewis’s possessiveness and jealous de-

119
termination to control her. But whether the issue is freedom or control,
choice or responsibility, fantasy seems the principal recourse of both char-
acters. Sometimes narrated and at others only implied, fantasies continually
intervene in the couple’s contentious relationship and often threaten to
define it altogether. Does Elizabeth really desire freedom, or merely fantasize
romantic escape? Does Lewis genuinely love Elizabeth and understand and
worry about her restless vulnerability, or does he only fantasize equally
romantic betrayal because, as he once says, “I have to have everything in
its place”? “The realm of possibility is a terrible country,’ Lewis declares
somewhat drunkenly during a dinner party at a restaurant with their film
producer friend Herman. “What if such-and-such were the case? What if
the person you love is a liar?” he asks. “You say, it won’t happen to me
... But others are not so lucky. Hypochondriacs, paranoids, novelists — who
say it will happen to me. The truth will blow up in my face one day, and
that will be the end of my precarious existence. The tiles will fall from the
roof, the paint will peel from the window frame, the lawn run riot, and the
fruit will go rotting in the fruit bowl.” A perverse fantasy, yes, and a very
funny one as Michael Caine plays it, that reveals a good deal about Lewis,
including the fact that he is not un-self-knowing; and also a thinly veiled
threat to Elizabeth, his real audience that evening in the restaurant, that he
will not accept her uneventful account of her trip alone to Baden-Baden,
with which the film begins. ,

Elizabeth’s sojourn in the German resort, what may or may not have hap-
pened there, and its consequences drive the story of The Romantic English-
woman. Not only is Lewis obsessed by suspicion that Elizabeth had an affair
while on holiday, but to make matters worse, her putative lover, Thomas
Hursa, the handsome young man she met there who seems less the poet his
passport claims than a gigolo of mysterious background and intentions, is
about to arrive on the Fieldings’ doorstep. Lewis not only invites Hursa to
tea (without consulting Elizabeth), but to dinner afterward, and then, to
Elizabeth’s astonishment, to stay overnight. One devious invitation leads to
another, and before long Hursa is installed as a long-term houseguest and
even works for “pocket money” as Lewis’s secretary handling correspond-
ence. Elizabeth is outraged at Lewis’s game. He claims he merely wants to
observe Thomas as the basis for a character in the screenplay he is writing
for Herman. Elizabeth rightly perceives that Lewis is also conducting a test
of her declaration that nothing at all happened with Thomas in Baden-
Baden. Lewis seems determined to have Thomas in his home and under his
eye in order to confront Elizabeth and, presumably, force her to confess.
Reflecting the psychological, social, and moral issues of the film, all of this

120
is Outrageous; it also sets up an instance of the multiple levels of reflexivity
that give the film its special temper.
Well before Thomas’s arrival, but after receiving a letter from him mailed
in Paris, Lewis interrogates Elizabeth in his study, whose walls are papered
with countless photographs of her face in various expressions:
LEWIS: What is he [Hursa] like?
ELIZABETH: Young...and a poet.
LEWIS: Was it that night I phoned?
ELIZABETH: Was what?
LEWIS: You said, ““The lift is coming.” Is that when you met?
ELIZABETH: That’s right.
LEWIS: Tell me about him?
ELIZABETH: Why?
LEWIS: I want to write him in.
ELIZABETH: Jesus wept!
LEWIS: Well, did he show you his poetry?
ELIZABETH: In the lift?
LEWIS: How do you know he is a poet?
ELIZABETH: Because he told me.
LEWIS: ““What floor do you want? By the way, I’m a poet.” I was calling
your room.
ELIZABETH: I was in the bath.
LEWIS: In my version they’ll screw.
ELIZABETH: In the lift.
LEWIS: How did you guess?
ELIZABETH: I know your mind.
The scene reveals Lewis’s obsession with what might have happened in the
lift and his plan to incorporate Hursa into his screenplay. Also evident is
Elizabeth’s perceptive view of Lewis (‘I know your mind” — a claim, almost
an allegation, both make at one time or another) and her exasperation with
his game of turning her sins, real or imagined, into his art. Besides its place
in the story, this scene also underlines the theme of the problematic relation
of art and life, which recurs throughout the film. Well before this moment,
however, the film has introduced the reflexivity that folds itself into the
discourse, for the long initial segment, including Elizabeth’s trip to Baden-
Baden and various scenes of Lewis’s response to it, has already established
the intricate ways story and discourse comment on one another. Moreover,
the extent to which the narrative has begun to invoke various film genres

[21
(and familiar traces of Losey’s visual style) constitute still further comments
that will recur.
The long opening shot (in part behind the credits), showing a train window
beyond which snow-covered mountains slip by, holds the reflection of a
woman passenger whose image alternately appears and disappears against
the dark and light background of the landscape. As the landscape first
absorbs and then reflects the figure, her image seems almost apparitional,
that of a character who disappears at one moment as tantalizingly as she
materializes in the next. When the train arrives at a border station, a second
sequence briefly introduces a young man who speaks German fluently and
whose luggage and passport are examined routinely by a German border
official. This short sequence is followed by a return to a shot of the woman
asleep in her seat. As the segment proceeds, scenes crosscut between the
woman and the young man. He leaves his compartment and enters a wash-
room on the train, where he retrieves several packets of drugs hidden under
the sink. The man’s actions (and a darker musical score than the romantic
orchestration that accompanied the first view of the woman), together with
the doubling of the man’s image in the washroom mirror, add to a suggestive,
even ominous mood of the sort typical of stories of international crime and
espionage. As the train enters Baden-Baden, the two characters’ paths cross, _
and they eventually exchange glances when the woman tours the city ina
carriage that twice passes the man on the road as she heads for her hotel.
Later, the man hides the drugs in a drainpipe on the hotel roof, then amus-
ingly steals a room service dinner and dines elegantly alone in the hotel
garden, where he establishes a liaison with a wealthy older woman. The
omniscient narration, coolly observant and apparently without comment,
presents the incipient relationship between the unscrupulous and enterpris-
ing young man and the wryly observant woman traveller who is, of course,
Elizabeth Fielding. Later, after the two characters exchange glances again,
this time across a gaming table in the casino, the man follows Elizabeth
back to the hotel, where she takes a phone call in the lobby from her
husband, who has remained in England with their son. After the brief phone
conversation, during which she refers to her dissatisfaction with her do-
mestic life, Elizabeth tells Lewis that the lift has arrived in the lobby and
hangs up. The scene then cuts to England and a view of Lewis, reflected in
a mirror, showing him replacing the phone receiver. He tells the young au
pair girl to go to bed and then retires to his study, where he fantasizes an
erotic encounter that he fears Elizabeth is having in the lift (Figure 37).
In Baden-Baden, Elizabeth is indeed riding the lift with Thomas Hursa.
Striking up a conversation, he reminds her that she saw him on the road
122
without stopping and introduces himself as a poet. Elizabeth notes wryly
that he got “picked up anyway” and that his life as a “poet”? must be hard.
“These women are difficult,” says Hursa. “If they weren’t, they wouldn’t
have to pay, perhaps.’”’? When Elizabeth notices that she is on the wrong
floor, she and Hursa take the lift down; an overhead shot shows the de-
scending lift with Hursa crossing over to Elizabeth, possibly assuming an
intimate stance reminiscent of the seducer in Lewis’s character-narration of
his jealous fantasy. Another cut to Lewis phoning Elizabeth a half hour
later leaves open the possibility of a sexual encounter between Elizabeth
and Hursa, but she tells Lewis she fell asleep in the bath. However possible,
the seduction in the lift seems unlikely; nevertheless, Lewis’s obsessive jeal-
ousy leads to another brief post-telephone fantasy of his wife’s supposed
infidelity in the lift, a fantasy interrupted by their son’s crying out for his
absent mother.
As discrete sequences, the train and Baden-Baden scenes recall such genre
films as Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief and Stanley Donen’s Charade, ro-
mantic comedy-thrillers whose charming leading players, adventurous plots,
and exotic locales promise both light entertainment and excitement and
witty resolutions where couples are happily and stylishly united. But the
interpolation of the scenes of Lewis (and his fantasies) in England, though
it doesn’t necessarily block the thriller possibilities, raises other issues point-
ing in the direction of domestic melodrama. This seems at least partially
confirmed when the opening sequence in Baden-Baden is abruptly termi-
nated with a cut to a brief long shot of a large modern house, followed by
an interior shot of two men talking. The setting is the Fieldings’ home, and
one of the men, speaking with a German accent, says, “‘She feels that by
getting away by herself she will get to know herself.” The other man, Lewis,
begins, “‘sounds like the kind of thing Elizabeth...’ The first man continues:
“So this woman... buys a ticket to self-discovery. Rome, Paris — doesn’t
matter to her, doesn’t matter to me. I can shoot it anywhere. It’s a psycho-
logical story of the New Woman.” Herman, the film producer, is trying to
persuade Lewis Fielding to write the script of the story he has just sum-
marized. “I think it’s a very boring idea,’’ Lewis responds. “It’s also pre-
tentious and derivative. But mostly it’s boring. Why don’t you turn it into
a thriller?” ““Wonderful,”’ Herman agrees. “I'll leave it up to you.”’ Lewis
declines on the grounds that he is about to begin a new novel and then adds
plaintively, “Anyway, I can’t work. I want to see Elizabeth.”
Herman’s description of his proposed new film is clearly ironic, for, un-
aware that Elizabeth is in Baden-Baden, he summarizes a story with obvious
similarities to her arrival in the resort. Of course, nothing in Elizabeth’s
123
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shows the Fieldings and Hursa during a tense, argumentative supper. (Courtesy
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125
hostility that hints at more intimate concerns. Whatever its source, consid-
erable anger resides in Lewis that will surface with increasing significance
and self-destructiveness once Elizabeth returns home. For the moment,
though, he masks his emotion by suggesting Herman convert his film into
a thriller — a proposition both revealing and ironic.
The thriller genre hardly signifies a film more sophisticated than what
Herman has proposed. Moreover, rather than matters psychological or
social, the thriller’s conventions and typical concerns of mystery, high
adventure, and stylized romance require a move still further away than
Herman’s from any genuine consideration of issues important to women.
Thus, when Lewis would merely substitute one (inappropriate) genre for
another, the implied intellectual or artistic high ground of his criticism
proves to be a sham. But at another level, the thriller genre that Lewis
proposes accommodates what has just been narrated in the opening se-
quence, notably the gigolo and his drug smuggling. Herman’s tale of the
New Woman makes no provision for drug dealers or smugglers, whether
gigolos or not. Lewis’s proposal, however unintentionally, does make room
for such characters. He prefers a gilded adventure that eschews significance,
or even a predictable melodrama, to the unsettling questions raised by
Elizabeth’s journey."
The film’s first act concludes with Elizabeth’s return home and Hursa’s |
quick exit from Baden-Baden. Having dismissed Lewis’s second phone call
with her announcement that she is coming home, she takes a plane back to
England. Meanwhile, Hursa has troubles of his own. Entering the hotel
lobby with his expensive older woman, he suddenly recognizes another man
who is approaching the concierge; Hursa makes an excuse and returns to
the woman’s room. Having checked the drugs he had placed in the drainpipe
on the roof only to discover that the packets have been destroyed by the
heavy rain now falling, Hursa urgently packs a few belongings, steals some
money from the woman’s purse, and slips out of the hotel. The viewer
therefore realizes long before either of the Fieldings that Thomas has his
own reasons to seek an out-of-the-way refuge. That his motives for following
up on his acquaintance with Elizabeth should coincide with Lewis’s rampant
jealousy is not the least of the film’s ironies.
Lewis’s frustrations turn nasty when his jealousy focuses on Elizabeth’s
friend, Isabel (Kate Nelligan). From his study window, he views Elizabeth
and Isabel’s meeting in the gazebo, a visual foreshadowing of his view of
the sexual tryst between Elizabeth and Hursa later in the film. Lewis proceeds
to a vicious and unprovoked attack against Isabel. His motives for lashing
out at her certainly include his sense that he has been unable to discover
126
the truth (although, in fact, he has probably learned all there is to know)
about Elizabeth’s activities in Baden-Baden. The bitter exchange between
Lewis and Isabel coalesces around two issues — their mutual desire to know
what Elizabeth might have done on her holiday and an assessment of the
position of women in society. Isabel doesn’t regard “‘a woman’s destiny to
be to sit at home and wash her husband’s underpants.” She sharply, if
somewhat glibly, insists that ““women are an occupied country.” Lewis
responds not by denying her assertions, but by declaring Isabel “the most
boring woman in the world” and by judging her pronouncements to be the
commonplace platitudes of a commercial gossip. Lewis’s ad hominem ar-
guments and his final accusation that Isabel is imputing her own low stan-
dards of fidelity to Elizabeth reveal more about his insecurities (“She
practically accused you of having an affair in Baden,” he shouts at Elizabeth)
than they do Isabel’s inadequacies. Nevertheless, the issues of women’s
victimization and repression and their rights to their own desire and to a
freedom and destiny beyond wifely roles are addressed, though hardly re-
solved, in the remainder of the film.
In bed that evening an apparently amused Lewis tells Elizabeth about
his film script for Herman. Playing on what he supposes are the parallels
between his script and Elizabeth’s recent trip, he says that “‘it’s about
discontent” and asks if she is discontented. Her answer is especially
significant as it not only ends this scene, but is repeated at the beginning
of the following scene in Lewis’s study. Elizabeth says, “I would be, but
I don’t feel I have the right.””» When the next day she reads aloud her
answer reproduced in Lewis’s script, she responds: “‘Bloody hell, do I get
a percentage?” (Figure 39). In his response (““You already get half. What
more do you want?”) Lewis denies her right to her own words because
she is financially dependent on him. Ironically, Lewis’s habit of using the
life around him in an unmediated way in his script will eventually backfire
on him when life, somewhat stage-managed by him, all too closely comes
to follow his script.
The confrontation between the couple in Lewis’s study constitutes a cru-
cial scene in the film. Each character offers a revelatory set piece that pre-
sages, in Lewis’s case, the narrative trajectory and denouement of the film
One is watching, and in Elizabeth’s case, her view of the central issues
surrounding her identity and self-image as a woman:

ELIZABETH: So what’s it [the film script] about?

LEWIS: It’s about this ungrateful woman who is married to this man of
great charm, brilliance, and integrity. She thinks he won’t let her be herself,
127
and she feels stuck in a straightjacket when she ought to be out and about,
taking the waters, and finding herself. So one day she ups and goes and
finds herself out of her depth. But the husband comes and saves her and
then she realizes that he’s really a wonderful chap.
ELIZABETH: Does he play cricket for England, too?
LEWIS: I can’t think of his line back to her.
ELIZABETH: No?... Perhaps I am who you think I am. So what the hell.
David’s fine. Your book sells ten thousand hard and a hundred thousand
soft. The roof doesn’t leak, the house is painted, the deep freeze is full to
overflowing, and there is fruit on the sideboard. I have twenty-eight pairs
of shoes in my wardrobe, eleven long dresses, and no knickers. I haven’t
been on a bus since 1959. I have an account at Harrods, a standing order
to Oxfam. So what the bloody hell!

Elizabeth’s bitter and comic summary obviously echoes Lewis’s own litany
of fears expressed in the restaurant scene.
In his wish-fulfilling summary of his script, Lewis casts the husband as
hero and the wife as a confused ingrate in need of rescue. At one level, this
quintessential male fantasy offers a possible interpretation of The Romantic
Englishwoman itself; however, Lewis’s glib and funny summary is not just
incomplete, but misleading. Not surprisingly, the wife in his version comes
to realize that her husband is “‘really a wonderful chap,” but such an as-
sessment is hardly ascribable to Elizabeth at the conclusion of the film. In
fact, there is a radical shift in tone in the last section, for the anticipations
of Lewis’s script become an anguishing experience as they are played out
by the Fieldings themselves. Moreover, the relationship of the script (Lew-
is’s) within the script (the film one is watching) enlarges a number of complex
issues that were introduced in the first scene between Lewis and Herman.
Is Lewis prescient, or is he somehow responsible for authoring and bringing
about, indeed, living out, his script? Is his supposed power merely an illusion
that places him in a position to suffer and learn when the narrative in which
he is only a character supersedes the narrative produced by his own rather
feeble creative powers? Clearly, his script and The Romantic Englishwoman
are alike and radically different.
Elizabeth’s response to Lewis, both her words and actions, merits careful
attention. What right, indeed, does she have to harbor discontent when her
life is marked by such good fortune? Still, implicit in her description of their
comfortable bourgeois life is her judgment on herself and a social structure
that has, she feels, robbed her of any personal, self-defined identity. What
she has determines who she is. She is, in other words, defined from without,
128
not from within. As both consumer and commodity, she has become an
object among other objects. She cannot purchase a self; she can only witness
and be paid for or pay for her own commodification as an object of exchange
for men. Once Thomas arrives on the scene, however, this self-estimate is
called into question. What threatens Lewis’s world is not just the fear of
betrayal, of cuckoldry, but the possibility that Elizabeth may have acted
out her own desire. Women in Lewis’s view, it would seem, have no right
to desire; they can only be consumers or be consumed. This attitude is
pointedly addressed on several occasions. First, a minor character in the
restaurant scene obtusely asks Herman’s beautiful female companion, a
professor of philosophy at the Sorbonne, “What do you girls make a night?”
And as Hursa commented on his own women clients: ‘“These women are
difficult. If they weren’t they wouldn’t have to pay, perhaps.” Finally, some-
thing more than money is involved in the exchange that follows Lewis’s
discovery of Elizabeth and Hursa locked in an erotic embrace. Lewis says,
almost venomously, to Hursa, “I know you never pay for anything, but this
time you will.” Elizabeth replies to herself as well as the men, “‘T’ll pay.’’
Elizabeth is aware by this time that her identity is the product of various
social codes, a construct that needs deconstructing if she is ever to act from
a personal sense of self and be able to generate her own story and her own
subjectivity. The fact that the walls of Lewis’s study are covered with mul-
tiple photographs of her disembodied head has emphasized her fragmented,
reproducible image that objectifies her and turns her into a spectacle under
her husband’s constant view. At the very moment in the earlier scene when
she delivers to Lewis her bitter tribute to her bourgeois life, she also begins
to deface her image (Figure 40). As she talks of the reproduction of Lewis’s
latest book (“‘ten thousand hard and a hundred thousand soft’’), she mocks
her own multiple images by taking a pen and drawing eye glasses, wrinkles,
and mustaches on the arty photographs. Just as she resists Lewis’s attempt
to turn her words into dialogue, Elizabeth here tries to retrieve her fetishized
image. Her protests, however, in the scene in Lewis’s study and then later
in her almost frantic encounter with Hursa (“I don’t expect you to love
me’’) are more urgent than convincing. Elizabeth has first denied Lewis’s
fantasies and now confirmed them. But, in either instance, has she enacted
her own self, or only imagined it? The film’s final sequence of her flight
with Thomas both sharpens this question and leaves it finally unanswered.
Has Lewis really won, or was the game itself misconceived?
In a conversation only minutes after Thomas Hursa’s arrival at the Field-
ings’ house in Weybridge, Lewis pointedly asks him about Baden-Baden
and its clientele. Thomas allows that many cures are indeed sought, not all
129
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EE _ Figure 42. The Romantic Englishwoman ends wth this shot of the grim-faced So LE a
_. Fieldings enclosed in their car and staring at their house full of unwanted
party guests. (Courtesy Dial Trading Ltd.)
of them from the spa’s celebrated waters, and that, yes, bored wives are
prominent among the seekers. To this Lewis remarks, with a studied dis-
___ interestedness, “Well, the place must attract a certain type of young man
___ of easy disposition, tolerable appearance, and a shortage of cash.” Not at
all discomfited by the insinuation, Thomas laughs and says, “So youknow ——™
it, then.”” The exchange marks Thomas’s introduction to the gamethat Lewis
has been playing compulsively since Elizabeth’s holiday. Thomas’s ease and

Ce ee ee
his laugh should warn Lewis to beware. He cannot win this game, least of
all against Thomas, whose complete lack of self-consciousness is proof
against any rhetorical weapons Lewis might raise in the name of bourgeois

_ _Hursa is a curious character. He is, of course, another of the intruders

not a theme that I have chosen....1 haven’t consciously gone and said ‘I

EEE NI
want to make pictures about lives that are disrupted by the arrival of =
_ strangers’”’ (Ciment 1985, 343). Strangers or intruders nonetheless claim
a prominent place in the world of his films, and like most of them, Hursa
is the catalyst of a fierce struggle for power in the world he enters, although ee
power never seems his own object. His potency in the struggle, however,
arises from sources quite unlike those of other such Losey characters — say,
at one extreme, the fateful innocence of young Leo Colston in The Go-
Between or, at the other, the sly and corrupt deference of Barrett in The
Servant. Whatever Thomas may be, he is neither deferential nor innocent
of worldly experience. Neither is he simply a catalyst. He plays a critical
role in the angry contest between Lewis and Elizabeth, but this does not
define him. True, his values are radically opposed to those of both the
Fieldings, which the film quite ruthlessly exposes. As Losey himself has said
of Thomas, ‘“He’s someone who’s totally free of bourgeois life, whereas
they’re totally trapped in it’’ (Combs 1975, 140). But Thomas is not by any
means a hero. Even what happens to him at the end when his mysterious
pursuer from the drug smuggling transaction catches up with him is unclear.
For that matter, the drug smuggling undercuts any view of Thomas as a
kind of moralist or even simply a victim. One of the more perplexing ques-
tions posed by The Romantic Englishwoman, then, is what to make of
Thomas.
Both Thomas and Elizabeth are reinvented by Lewis twice over as char-
acters in his fictions — that is, as characters in Lewis’s script as well as in
the obsessive suspicions that inform it. Lewis may be said to have invented
Thomas in yet another way also, for it was he who encouraged his visit
and then invited him to stay, thus “‘casting’’ Thomas in a role that Lewis
believes is already written. In one sense Thomas is a truth teller, not only
because he says what he thinks, but more importantly because he under-
stands what he thinks. His way of life, which Losey called anarchic, shocks
less than his refusal to apologize for it. His clear eye for the self-deceptions
of the world around him, however, and his willingness to state them may
make him sound almost a moralist nonetheless. Compared with Lewis, who
seems unable to make anything better of his declared love and desire for
Elizabeth than relentless suspicion and impotent rage, Thomas is perhaps
more appealing. But, then, candor as a measure of virtue has its limits.
Something more is required; some capacity for giving is at stake. Ultimately
that proves to be the test for all the principal characters in The Romantic
Englishwoman. Eventually, as if in deliberate fulfillment of Lewis’s pre-
sumptions, Elizabeth casts Thomas as a central character in a fantasy just
as Lewis did before her. For Lewis he was a villain, an unprincipled seducer;
for Elizabeth he would be a hero. But, of course, he is neither.
Losey’s remark about being most interested in the various points of view
in Wiseman’s novel is reflected in the film’s narration, which is intimately
connected to its complexities of tone and different forms of subjectivity.
132
The overall narration is omniscient, although it bears traces of what David
Bordwell would call authorial commentary and Kawin “‘perspectival pre-
sentation,” an implied authorial perspective on what is shown. The film
does not attempt to reproduce the novel’s use of interior monologue, but
Lewis is nonetheless the source of several instances of character-narration
that present his fantasies, which are of two sorts. The first, Elizabeth being
seduced by a stranger in the hotel lift in Baden-Baden, is triggered by her
statement during Lewis’s first phone call to her in the resort and his second
call a few minutes later asking where she has been in the meantime. With
nothing more to go on than his compulsive suspicion and her remark that
she must hang up because the lift has arrived, he twice imagines Elizabeth
passionately submitting to the stranger’s advances. The third time his ob-
sessive vision occurs is on his drive home from the docks where he had
mistakenly gone to meet Elizabeth. The disorienting and obscure way these
scenes are shown (the shifting light in the moving lift, the oblique angles of
the moving camera) makes it difficult to be sure precisely what is happening.
Whatever else, the dark images convey Lewis’s state of mind — his fear, his
resistence to seeing (knowing), his own guilt and shame, perhaps, at imag-
ining his wife’s infidelity and his cuckoldry. The second form of his fantasies
narrates scenes from the screenplay he is writing in which he constructs
additional encounters with the stranger. Once Thomas Hursa is ensconced
in the Fieldings’ house, however, he becomes the identifiable seducer in
Lewis’s script.
The two forms of Lewis’s fantasies differ in a number of respects. However
imaginary in origin and stylized in their expressionist images, the first two
lift scenes might well be supposed part of the omniscient narration were it
not for the weight of the convention of preceding each with an image of
Lewis, suggesting that he is their likely character-narrator. The third in-
stance, however, during Lewis’s drive back from the dock, is immediately
recognizable as a mindscreen. An image of Lewis driving in his car this time
precedes the image in the lift; the viewer has seen him fantasize the same
moment twice before; and there is no longer a plausible temporal anchor
in the ongoing Baden-Baden segment. Lewis’s screenplay fantasies, by con-
trast, are all firmly anchored in scenes showing him at work on the screen-
play he has promised Herman. Moreover, their tone, which is highly artificial
in image, action, and dialogue, and consistent from one instance to another,
differs significantly from the scenes of Lewis’s involuntary fears, which he
narrates only to himself. By contrast, the screenplay’s imagined scenes are
anything but involuntary. They are in fact almost perversely willed as Lewis
elaborates on his suspicions with extravagant suppositions and with versions
133
of what Elizabeth has actually said in response to his none too subtle ques-
tions. Neither are they exactly narrated by Lewis only to himself. To be
sure, even he apparently realizes their ludicrous extremes and tears out of
his typewriter the pages on which he has written them. The very intent,
even if aborted, of making a commercial fiction out of his fantasies casts
them in quite different terms from his basically private fears, however. And
Losey makes the most of this dual status both to reveal Lewis’s character
and to comment wryly on the problematic relationship of life and art.
Losey’s treatment of this theme is witty rather than obviously serious,
clever and playful both intellectually and formally rather than overtly phil-
osophical. Doubtless this owes something to the collaboration with Stop-
pard, whose plays before and after The Romantic Englishwoman (his first
screenplay) typically juggle a fascination with wordplay, intellectualized
dilemmas, and a self-conscious theatricalization of ideas more than an in-
terest in individual human character. But one of Losey’s defining traits has
always been a strong sense of irony. In his associations first with Pinter and
then Stoppard, his sense of the complexity of characters, the contradictions
of human action and reaction, are joined to his interest in the resources of
language and self-conscious film form. When added to the fervor and insight
of the social and political views that marked his films from the beginning,
the result in The Romantic Englishwoman is an ironic comedy that grows
increasingly dark and even desperate. Stoppard, like Losey, has sometimes
been criticized for an apparent lack of interest in the purely human dimen-
sion of characters, and one can see traces of this impulse in the film they
made together. But the treatment of Lewis’s screenplay fantasies belies this
criticism somewhat, for these scenes not only make explicit the theme of
the relationship of art and life, but subtly (and comically) provide the viewer
with insight into this contradictory character who casts himself first as the
agerieved husband and then as the noble rescuer of a foolish and erring
wife — and who finally must seek to be as good a man as he has imagined
himself to be all along. Lewis’s screenplay fantasies are a melodrama of his
own devising, and in the genuinely disturbing events that overtake him and
Elizabeth, the film puts Lewis to a test. Life and art, even pulp art, are not
so easily distinguished as Lewis may have supposed. Fictions, however ex-
treme, the film seems to say, are in fact the stuff of life and one’s only (or
necessary) way of making sense of it.
The three different visualizations of Lewis’s script (all accompanied by
lush romantic music) are preceded by shots of him composing at the type-
writer in his study, listening to music through earphones while he struggles
to write scenes between Elizabeth and her supposed lover. In the first (pre-
134
sumably in Lewis’s imagined version of Baden-Baden since the city’s tour
book lies next to his typewriter), Elizabeth and Hursa (whose back is to
the camera because Lewis has yet to meet the young poet) are in a cafe
outside whose window is a terrace of empty chairs and tables. Elizabeth
confides her innermost thoughts about needing to get away from everyone
(“even from the child I love’’) in order to find herself. The gloomy weather
matches the pseudomelancholic mood in which she earnestly and preten-
tiously delivers the sentimental, confessional drivel that Lewis delights in
having her mouth. Lewis even ascribes to her the ideological slogan earlier
spoken by Isabel — ““Women are an occupied country.” The moment this
line is delivered, however, Lewis’s comically spiteful imagination envisions
a large red truck in the far background turning in the direction of the couple.
As Elizabeth delivers her final line to the silent Hursa, “I know you will
understand because you are a poet,” the speeding truck smashes through
the terrace chairs and tables, bearing down on the couple. Even Lewis cannot
let this jealous and hilariously vengeful scene stand, and the next shot shows
him tossing out the page he has been writing.
The second episode occurs after Hursa has spent some time living with
the Fieldings in England. It depicts, in stilted, symmetrically posed profile,
a nude Elizabeth and Hursa conversing at a Baden-Baden spa (Figure 41).
Elizabeth tells a rapt Hursa about her writer-husband and of the couple’s
travels in the days when they were freer, before the birth of their son. This
episode ends on Elizabeth’s line to Hursa, “I would love to hear one of
your poems.”’ The next shot is not of Lewis in his study as before, but of
the gazebo where Elizabeth is gardening and Hursa typing invitations to a
party Elizabeth has perversely decided to give for “all the people we don’t
know.” Elizabeth looks up to say, “I'd love to hear one of your poems.”
Whereas Lewis has freely incorporated lines from daily conversation into
his script, it now seems that the script is providing lines for Elizabeth. Such
interpenetration of Lewis’s script and the framing narration also charac-
terizes the third of Lewis’s screenplay scenes, which depicts Elizabeth and
Hursa dancing in the restaurant where they later dine just before running
off together. Moreover, her conversation in this scene seems incongruous
in two respects: she dances intimately with Hursa while expressing her
anxiety over her responsibilities as a mother, and her dialogue seems an
exaggerated extension of an actual conversation she had with Hursa earlier,
which Lewis was not privy to and thus could hardly expand on. Such
permeability raises questions about the levels of narration in the discourse.
At one level, all of these scenes are explainable as Lewis’s subjective visu-
alizations of his script. Certainly his jealousy and oft-stated suspicions (to
135
say nothing of his writer’s ego) are evident, but is the overall style of such
scenes solely ascribable to Lewis? The overwrought acting, the mock sol-
emnity, and the too perfect symmetry of the compositions signal parody in
each episode, and a dimension of the excess seems to belong not just to
Lewis but to the third-person narration as well. Lewis the writer of pulp
fiction is mocked as surely as he mocks his characters. Even more sugges-
tively, the dialogue in his script that echoes and anticipates dialogue in
scenes of which he can have no knowledge points to more than his character-
narration. The film’s overall third-person narration suggests a reciprocity
whose irony embraces Lewis and sees that he gets what he has imagined.
A more perplexing question of narrational origin centers on a later rep-
etition of the lift scene. In a darkened bedroom the camera moves over the
figure of Lewis and continues until it frames only Elizabeth in the same bed
in a close-up of her face and open eyes; one hears discordant music that
signals the cut to the now familiar lift scene, which was previously linked
to Lewis and his jealous fantasy. A suggestive ambiguity arises from the
clash of narrational conventions. What has been in the past (and perhaps
still is) Lewis’s mindscreen, now seems Elizabeth’s. The sound associated
with the lift is not heard until after Lewis is excluded from the frame by
the track to Elizabeth and close-up of her face. On the strength of past ,
associations this instance of the lift scene would seem to belong to Lewis;
however, both the sound track and the preceding shot of Elizabeth now
suggest otherwise. Has Lewis’s fantasy somehow been transferred, passed
on to Elizabeth as is later the case when she confirms his fears by running
away with Thomas? Or is this scene Elizabeth’s memory of what actually
happened in the lift in Baden-Baden, or perhaps her own sexual fantasy
that anticipates the seduction yet to happen in the gazebo? Is the fantasy
somehow “shared” by both of them, or perhaps ascribable to the third-
person narration? There are no definitive answers to these questions. Nor
do the ambiguities stop here, for the lift scene is followed by a return to
the bedroom, where Lewis begins to make love to Elizabeth. If Lewis’s
amorous actions are somehow motivated by the fantasy, does it not nec-
essarily place the lift fantasy in his mind once again?
The narrational issues are made only more problematic when the final
instance of the lift shots is interpolated into the actual seduction scene in
the gazebo. Here, briefly, is a description of five successive shots: (1) a high-
angle shot of the lovers in the gazebo; (2) a direct overhead shot of the
descending lift, previously seen in the Baden-Baden episode, but never a
part of Lewis’s fantasy; (3) a medium close-up of Elizabeth’s face during

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the gazebo seduction; (4) an extremely brief shot of her face at a nearly
identical moment in the lift scene; (5) a shot of the lovers in the gazebo
that zooms back to a high-angle long shot. The direct overhead shot of the
descending lift apparently belongs to the third-person narration, although
that is not certain. Impossible to decipher, the shot conveys a sense of falling,
of vertigo, of loss of control that might well represent Elizabeth’s sexuality
either through third-person narration or mindscreen. The brief fourth shot,
similar to those in Lewis’s fantasy, may be Elizabeth’s mindscreen and/or
part of the omniscient narration. Does the film grant access to Elizabeth’s
mind, to her subjective thoughts, through this shot and perhaps the earlier
lift scene intercut with the couple in bed? Possibly, but there are no other
such instances anywhere in the discourse. If so, however, the later lift scenes
provide brief but significant internal access to Elizabeth’s character and
prepare for, though not explain, her action in running off with Thomas
Hursa. Whatever the answer, and none is certain, the narrational ambiguity
itself becomes a metaphor for Elizabeth’s finally subscribing to and enacting
the basic fantasy with which Lewis has tormented her and himself. More
comprehensively, the ambiguity addresses a central theme in the film that
is also an issue in Wiseman’s novel — the struggle of the storyteller to tell
a story or, more accurately, the struggle among the various storytellers
(Lewis the scriptwriter, Lewis the husband, Elizabeth the wife, Elizabeth
the ‘“‘scripted’’ character, Hursa the drug dealer/gigolo, Hursa the critic of
the bourgoisie, and even the omniscient narrator of the discourse) to tell
their stories.
In many ways The Romantic Englishwoman is one of Losey’s more
overtly ideological films in that he and Stoppard foreground both the
Fieldings’ comfortable bourgeois ways and an ongoing critique of their
life (Figure 38). Thomas is, of course, the catalyst for this indictment,
which Lewis and Elizabeth seem to bring on themselves. When on Hursa’s
first evening in Weybridge Elizabeth attacks him for taking advantage of
people, for the irresponsible way he has of letting others look after him,
she is baffled by his reply: “It takes some of the burden off them.”
Interestingly, Lewis is the one who elaborates on Hursa’s cryptic remark
by saying: “(He means that owners are under the pressure of ownership,
the strain of hanging on to everything. Houses. Jobs. Wives... Fools, in
fact... Because all the time we are locking the doors and setting up the
burglar alarms, watching over the loved ones, we are being robbed of our
lives, the full expression of our lives.”” Although Lewis somewhat disarm-
ingly makes Hursa’s argument, his knowing tone seems meant simulta-

137
neously to express and undercut the relevance of such observations. Lewis’s
articulation of the paradoxes of bourgeois life ends with the following
exchange with Elizabeth:
ELIZABETH: Yes, but you don’t live like that.
LEWIS: No. I live with the burden of possession.
ELIZABETH: Possessiveness!
LEWIS: Desire. Love.

The pattern here is clear, for what starts as an attack on Hursa’s ingratiating
ways of taking advantage of the rich ends with the Fieldings’ struggle to
understand each other and the mutual suspicions that characterize their
bourgeois life. Possessiveness, desire, and love are not casually chosen terms,
for they define the contentions surrounding their marriage. That Lewis
would list wives among the possessions that need guarding suggests how
thoroughly bourgeois materialism may corrupt personal relations. Elizabeth
struggles under the threat of just such objectification, which gives weight
to her charge of possessiveness against Lewis. That Lewis should counter
her charge with his own terms, desire and love, is equally revealing. Much
of the time Lewis is obsessed less with his own desire than with the pos-
sibility, the threat, of Elizabeth enacting hers. Lewis’s fantasies, both in-
voluntary and willed, and the narrational complexities of The Romantic
Englishwoman point to the centrality of these issues. Whether their rela-
tionship moves from possessiveness through desire to love is a question
raised by the concluding scenes as Elizabeth’s impulsive running off with
Hursa leads eventually to Lewis’s ‘“‘rescue”’ of her.
The various, even competing attitudes and concerns of The Romantic
Englishwoman finally coalesce around the character and narrative function
of Hursa, whose drug-smuggling activities are the film’s invention rather
than Wiseman’s. The result is an audacious mix in which Losey shrewdly
plays off the assumptions and patterns of one genre against another, which
makes for a good deal of witty irony, particularly in the Fieldings’ misun-
derstanding of the reasons for Thomas’s presence. For them Thomas is a
strange and provocative intruder into their marital conflict, in other words
a character in their story, subordinate to their needs and claims. But for
Thomas, Lewis and Elizabeth are merely an episode in the thriller that has
been his story, as it were, all along. Were Hursa only the gigolo-intruder
the Fieldings believe him to be, a satire of social values and contemporary
marriage would be the film’s only subject. His status as a smuggler on the
run, however, is something of a wild card. The implications of the thriller
genre, which were introduced in the Baden-Baden segment and have lain
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dormant for much of the time since then, reappear and considerably com-
plicate the film’s concluding section. The flight of Elizabeth and Thomas is
the most problematic element of the film, and the most daring. The tensions
between the different genre elements assume an emotional and moral in-
tensity that is darker and much less easily resolved than one might have
expected from the wit (even savage wit) and cleverness that have gone before.
As a character Elizabeth is subjected to enormous pressure by the story’s
events and, in a different sense, by the expectations of the renewed thriller
pattern. If adventure fascinates her, it is the least likely of modes to fulfill
Elizabeth, and yet an adventure, in which she is pushed steadily to the
margin, is mostly what she is confined to. Moreover, she embraces its
promise of escape more than the genuine freedom she has so often spoken
of. Indeed, Isabel, in a scene sharply contrasting with their earlier con-
frontation, tells Lewis: “Elizabeth hasn’t got what it takes to be free the
way she wants... For Elizabeth, Thomas is freedom, and that makes it sexy.
People make too much of sex. It shouldn’t be anything you leave home for.”
However facile Isabel’s judgments, they are telling. Lewis counters with no
more than token objections; he is bereft, which is all the more obvious for
his being surrounded by the photographs of the absent Elizabeth. If Eliza-
beth’s need to escape Lewis’s game playing and controlling jealousy is un-
derstandable, her actions are nonetheless futile. Her whispered voice-over,
“my poet,” which accompanies the long shot of the couple’s car as they
drive through southern Europe, is most problematic. Her invocation to
romance with “my poet” is doubly ironic, for Thomas is not one to be
possessed, and his status as a poet, or as a character she understands in any
depth, is certainly in question. At night she hovers watchfully over the
sleeping Thomas, unable to sleep herself, seemingly suspended between her
amazement at being there and her anxiety that her poet may disappear. She
seems no less defined by Thomas now than by Lewis before him. Having
run away from Lewis and their son and all the anxieties she felt as a mother,
she is left to a kind of child’s game (literally playing ‘“‘jacks”’ at the seaside)
without responsibilities and obligations, but also without purpose. That
Elizabeth and Thomas should run away together for quite different pur-
poses, rooted not just in their individual characters but in the underlying
genres to which each in a sense belongs, reflects the film’s command of its
disparate tones and elements. Thomas’s purpose is eminently practical: he
has been discovered by an associate of his mysterious pursuer and must flee
for his life. Elizabeth seems only to have accepted Lewis’s fantasy that
Thomas will be her lover.
To his credit, Thomas never lies to Elizabeth. When he learns that she
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has left home without any money, stocks, or even jewelry, he is dismayed.
Ruefully calling her a “‘crazy woman,” he begins to understand the extent
of her naively romantic illusions and how unprepared she is for the life she
thinks she has chosen. Unconcerned about money, she tells Thomas they
can live as he has lived in the past. He tells her the truth: he has always
lived for himself and would not make her happy. In a curiously touching
scene when they are in bed together, Thomas tells Elizabeth about the way
he has lived, about ‘“‘those romantic ladies” he could easily please and who
took nothing from him. He has spoken of this much earlier, but always
lightly, without feeling. Now, however, he speaks with intensity. To Eliz-
abeth’s fearful question, “I’m not one of them, am I?” he replies, ‘The
Englishwoman was the most romantic. All she wanted was everything.”
The disarmingly self-centered adventurer is quite gentle in his attempt to
make Elizabeth see the reality so at odds with her dream of romance, and
he urges her to return home. In their last scenes together, the poet and the
romantic Englishwoman sit quietly by the sea. He gives her a small bouquet
of flowers; he strokes her hair and wordlessly makes his farewell. The next
day he has found himself another wealthy older woman.
Elizabeth is not free but rather a refugee from her life, a condition that
is echoed reflexively in her status as a character with no place of her own
in the thriller genre that dominates the last section of the film. When Lewis
arrives, she learns that Thomas phoned him to come for her. Perhaps Thom-
as’s philosophy is anarchic, as Losey said, but the measure of his character,
the quality that makes him more than just an adventurer or a catalyst in |
the struggle between Lewis and Elizabeth, is the moral responsibility he
accepts at the end. Thomas is not redeemed by his actions, but he is revealed
as more complex than either Lewis or Elizabeth (or perhaps the viewer) has
supposed. That Lewis, despite his effort to prevent it, has led the gangsters
to Thomas results in an irony more poignant than bitter. ‘““What should I
do?” asks Lewis as he watches Thomas being abducted. Thomas’s seemingly
flippant reply, “Get a new secretary,”’ both relieves Lewis of the responsi-
bility of interfering and concludes the thriller story. What remains is Lewis’s
reunion with Elizabeth.
Does Lewis transcend his obsessive jealousy or merely enact the rescue
of a woman who “‘finds herself out of her depth,” as he once described the
wife in his screenplay? His concluding declaration of care, protectiveness,
and love for her seems genuine:

ELIZABETH: Why have you come?

LEWIS: I’ve come to take you home.

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ELIZABETH: Why?
LEWIS: I love you. ,
ELIZABETH: Why do you?
LEWIS: He phoned me and told me where to come. I don’t want you to
come to harm.
ELIZABETH: No.

Although his sentiments can be understood as more patronizing or pa-

ternalistic than loving, Lewis’s feelings appear direct and revelatory of
what he has come to understand about himself and the dangers of his
game playing. And one senses that Elizabeth asks her questions not out
of shame or guilt, but out of a guarded yet insistent need to know what
lies behind his declaration of love. The film does not simply indict Elizabeth
for acting out her desire or for searching for an identity beyond her
bourgeois home. Nor does it endorse Lewis’s obsessive jealousy, manip-
ulativeness, and drive for control. Instead, The Romantic Englishwoman
explores their mutually destructive attitudes and actions, never settling for
a too simple social criticism or merely an exposé of bourgeois values.
Once again Losey has made a “picture of provocation” in which social
and moral issues, however prominent, are embedded in the complexities
and contradictions of character rather than only emblemized by them.
One need only recall the conclusions to the Losey—Pinter films to recognize
the efficacy of the ending to this film. Barrett, having usurped the world
of the aristocratic Tony, locks up the town house as The Servant ends.
But his act entraps the inhabitants as effectively as it locks out any
outsiders. In Accident Stephen retrieves his children from outside and
returns to the house as the sound of the accident that killed William is
repeated on the sound track. The sound and the image of the placid
facade of Stephen’s house, which replicate the film’s opening shot, now
belie the moral corruption that forever holds Stephen’s present captive to
his past. In the last image of The Go-Between, the car in which the older
Leo Colston rides stops at the now abandoned and ruined Brandham
Hall, an apt symbol of Leo’s empty, unlived life. Entrapment, hypocrisy,
victimization, betrayal of self, violence, and desolation are among the
rewards of those who through social class, sexual manipulation, and
deception seek to control others. The final image of The Romantic En-
glishwoman that shows Elizabeth sitting in silent desolation beside Lewis
in a car outside their house hardly presages a happy future (Figure 42).
If Thomas, the intruder, is gone, the Fieldings are still held hostage by
their bourgeois life. Both shut in and shut out, the Fieldings can see and
I4I
 hear from their car the revelry of the forgotten but invited party guests
who now occupy their house.

In general, the world of Losey’s films is not a hospitable one for women.
In some films and for some women characters, this inhospitality is a key
issue that is directly addressed and explored. The restrictions of class and
the constrictions of contemporary marriage can serve to imprison them;
Marian Maudsley and Elizabeth Fielding are both caught in socially con-
ventional: roles against which they struggle but from which they fail to
escape. In other films the women, due to a deliberate emphasis on their
supposedly enigmatic quality (or perhaps, occasionally, to peculiarities in
the script), are underdeveloped or incomplete characters; Vera in The Ser-
vant and Anna in Accident, for instance, function primarily as objects of
the sexual obsessions of the male characters. However central to the plot,
these two women reside near the margins of their respective stories. The
Servant, like much of Losey’s work, centers on male protagonists and their
complex, frequently competitive relationships with other men; King and
Country, Accident, Figures in a Landscape, The Assassination of Trotsky
(1972), and Mr. Klein are further examples. Susan, in The Servant, is an
inconsistent character whose subservience toward Barrett in the end seems
inexplicable in light of her earlier assertive, even combative, stance against
him. Ultimately, she is banished, the outsider who can only witness the
symbiotic, destructive relationship between the two men.
It distorts the Losey canon, however, to see his work as solely male-
dominated. His last two films, La Truite and Steaming, continue to explore
women characters and issues that Losey had addressed as early as Eve and
as late as A Doll’s House (1973) and The Romantic Englishwoman. The
~ young heroine of La Truite, Frédérique (Isabelle Huppert), is in many ways
Elizabeth Fielding’s opposite. Elizabeth struggles to have a life and a story
outside of the controlling power of her screenwriter husband. Her “ro-
mantic’”’ projections onto Hursa, whom she calls in whispered voice-over
“my poet,” suggest how short-lived her escape will be. Frédérique, in con-
trast, is in control and even protective of her homosexual, alcoholic husband,
Galuchat, just as her marriage to him offers a first line of defense against
other, predatory men. She can go off to Japan with another man who hopes
in vain to be her lover. Like Anna in Accident, she can be the tabula rasa
onto which the men project their sexual fantasies, but unlike Anna, Frédé-
rique controls her situation. Aware of the libidinous men surrounding her,

142 .
she determines never to be a victim. Her power resides in the space between
““neut-étre” (perhaps) and “‘jamais’’ (never), the contradictory word-signs
that appear respectively on the front and back of her shirt. Frédérique’s
sexual unavailability, unlike Elizabeth’s desire, empowers her; ultimately,
through this sexual invulnerability, she establishes absolute control, social
and economic, over the competitive, obsessive men in the world of multi-
national corporations where she flourishes. Her final line in the film —
‘“‘Galuchat does everything” — is both deeply dismissive of the business world
and an ironic comment about the supposed power of the businessmen she
now controls.
In several ways, Losey’s last film is unlike anything he did before. The
all-male casts of King and Country and Figures in a Landscape find their
counterpart in the exclusively female cast of Steaming. The film is built
around the personal and political bonding of women who take common
action to fight the closing and proposed destruction of their community
bathhouse. To be sure, class conflicts arise between Nancy (Vanessa Red-
grave), the wealthy housewife, and Josie (Patti Love), the working-class
woman whose language and accent keep her unemployed. That Nancy has
been abandoned by her husband and Josie physically abused by her lover
point to experiences that bridge their class differences. The bathhouse is a
haven or sanctuary for the women, and their “‘steaming”’ is in anger over
the inequities of a sexist society. If the characters first seem little more than
conventional types engaged in polemics, they gradually become more in-
dividualized. And if didacticism threatens the film, leavening is found in the
fine performances, particularly of Sarah Miles and Vanessa Redgrave, and
in the happy, even celebratory, ending described by screenwriter Patricia
Losey as “‘a message of hope... based on human contact” (Ciment 1985,
386). These words express sentiments appropriate to Losey’s first films —
The Boy with Green Hair and The Lawless. With Steaming, his career comes
full circle.
Losey’s interest in women’s experience and issues in these films is, of
course, no guarantee of a depth or breadth of understanding. Indeed, the
feminist content of two of his films comes directly out of the stageplays,
Ibsen’s A Doll’s House and Nell Dunn’s Steaming, from which they were
adapted. Speaking of Steaming, Patricia Losey notes that “the film is about
women, a subject of perplexity for Joe’ (Ciment 1985, 386). Still, Losey
struggled throughout his career to understand the dynamics between men
and women, and his interests, attitudes, and focus changed over the years.
But as different as The Romantic Englishwoman, La Truite, and Steaming

143 |
are, they are recognizably Losey films, no less compassionate toward their
characters than they are sensitive to injustice and hypocrisy. Whether in
marriage, the business world, or the public bathhouse, questions of equity
and justice arise at the point where sex, power, and politics converge.

144
 ‘No Ready-Made
Answers”

A baroque stylist, a formalist filmmaker more involved in exploring elab-

orate settings or experimenting with cinematic time than in caring about
his characters; a pessimistic allegorist who paints, then damns, the darkness;
or a humanist, generous and compassionate, attuned to the injustice of racial
and class prejudice, and an enemy of hypocrites and opportunists — such
labeling, a makeup of truths and half-truths, of distortions, misconceptions,
and some insight as well, obscures a full and thoughtful view of Joseph
Losey, who abhored labeling of any kind. Beginning as a director of films
posing answers to social problems, he became a director compelled by
emotional and moral dilemmas lacking ready answers. Cautious about mak-
ing “heroes where there are no heroes and villains where there are no
villains,” Losey said that “I incline, and always have, to the thought that
it’s pretty hard to find absolute good and absolute evil in any one person.
But of the existence of good and evil I have no doubt” (Gow 1971, 37).
A controversial and uncompromising artist, Losey was aware that his
films placed certain demands on the viewer. “I don’t want to do anyone’s
thinking for them,” he said.
Instead, I wish to give people the benefit of my particular observations,
of my particular eye, my particular view of things, and also of such
passion as I feel about various things. Sometimes my view is highly
passionate, and sometimes it’s highly destructive rather than construc-
tive, but I have no ready-made statements, no ready-made answers,
no easy emotional identifications. (1970, 59)
One can imagine, however, Losey endorsing Thomas Hardy’s sentiment —
“If a way to the better there be, it lies in taking a full look at the worst.”
A hard look at characters in moral crisis, characters who often stumble by
145
failing to act on their better instincts and end by betraying themselves as
well as others — such is the treacherous ground his characters walk. But,
importantly, in his finest films Losey’s sensibility as an artist is drawn not
simply to issues of moral choice or to the risk of failure, but to the particu-
lar ways individual people live with both. Defeat and loss are common in
his films, but so, too, are what he called “internal rewards,” the possibil-
ities of moral growth, commitment, and even love where the forces
arrayed against such values might seem too powerful to permit them any
place at all.
Losey’s films leave open many questions because the world invoked in
them is an uncertain, enclosed, ambiguous one where characters can be
overwhelmed by evil from without and from within. In the early films (The
Boy with Green Hair, The Lawless, and M [1951], his American remake
of Fritz Lang’s German masterpiece), the conformity of a mob and its
potential for violence are indicted, but as his work matured, Losey turned
his attention to subtle and incisive character studies. His characters are
placed in very particularized and detailed environments. The British army,
Oxford, the world of the aristocracy — each has its own complex structures
and injustices; the films insist, nevertheless, on accountability, on personal
responsibility. Social systems can be inhumane — and Losey’s films indict
them — but they are so because people choose to act cowardly, hypocritically,
cruelly. There are other choices available to people, to Losey’s characters,
and the choices are not mere abstractions or emblems of some ideal. If the
motivations of his characters often remain unclear, their actions and the
decisions they make have real human consequences.
The films analyzed in this book depict some characters rationalizing and
evading responsibility; the colonel in King and Country, Tony and Barrett
in The Servant, Marian and Mrs. Maudsley in The Go-Between are all
examples. There are others who are victims — Hamp and Hargreaves and
Leo Colston. Still others like Stephen in Accident struggle and fail; or con-
tinue to struggle — Lewis and perhaps Elizabeth in The Romantic English-
woman ultimately come to accept and understand the costs of their actions.
Surely, Hargreaves and Hamp have their illusions in place at the beginning
of King and Country; Hargreaves thinks that he knows himself and what
to do with deserters. Hamp knows that the British army cannot kill him
because he has survived the worst already in his three years at the front.
Both Lewis and Elizabeth confront their respective illusions about control
and escape as the scripted world of one and the romantic escapade of the
other conflate and collapse. The goal of most of Losey’s characters, though
they would hardly be aware of it or want to pursue it, is disillusionment.
146
Tony and Barrett, Stephen and Charley, Leo, and the Fieldings — all are the
victims in different ways, and admittedly for different reasons, of elaborate
game playing. At stake more often than not are power and sex, for power
and sex and how they are substituted one for the other describe the dy-
namics, the maneuvers, and shifting alignments of the characters whose
capacity for deceit also harbors self-deception. To be disabused of self-
deception, of delusions (or in Tony’s case to surrender completely to them),
accounts for the desolation that marks their end. In the conclusions to these
films, the characters may be consigned to defeat, a moral defeat for some
— surely for Tony and Barrett, and for the unknowing Marian and the all
too self-knowing Stephen. But defeat for Hargreaves and for Leo (even,
modestly, for Lewis) is tempered, perhaps even transcended, through a reck-
oning with conscience and a deepening recognition of loss, guilt, and grief.
What can make Losey’s films seem especially difficult is that his aesthetic
strategies and structural complexities sometimes initially create a distance
between his characters and the audience. As he has said, there are “‘no easy
emotional identifications” in his films. The intricate handling of time and
the layered narrational structures in his films provide intellectual challenge;
Losey himself spoke more than once of his fascination with the resources
of his medium, and there was a measure of the intellectual in that fascination.
But the greater importance of his exploration of those resources was
grounded in his mature rejection of ready-made statements and answers,
which are inevitably implied by the structured causality and apparently
seamless dramatic logic of classical narration and narrative. Losey shared
with his finest collaborator, Harold Pinter, the conviction that “‘life is much
more mysterious than plays [and films] make it out to be’; in the mode of
art cinema they sought to allow for mystery, to render the real experience
of time as people live it rather than as the simple linear chain that classical
narrative depends upon. Almost paradoxically, the underlying functions of
Losey’s experimentation with form are primarily moral and emotional ones.
The character-narrations in Accident and The Go-Between simultaneously
provide the time-past world and the character’s subjective experience and
assessment of it, just as the character-narrations in The Romantic English-
woman convey the fears and overripe fantasies of the Fieldings. Losey uses
the resources of cinema, then, to present the inner life of his characters, to
convey another kind of realism, another way that people live in and ex-
perience the world. With such films he risked much, for he knew as surely

147 |
as T. S. Eliot that “‘... human kind / Cannot bear very much reality. / Time
past and time future / What might have been and what has been / Point to
one end, which is the present.”
 Chapter 1
1. In his forthcoming biography of Losey, British author David Caute draws on the
filmmaker’s personal papers, which were bequeathed to the British Film Institute.
With its publication in early 1993, Caute’s biography will certainly become the
standard reference for the details of Losey’s life.
2. In the film’s American release, under the title Finger of Guilt, the director’s credit
was given to Alec Snowden, who was the producer, rather than “Joseph Walton,”
Losey’s pseudonym.
3. Various terms have been applied to these aspects. This book will follow the usage
in Seymour Chatman’s Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film.
Chatman defines story as “events and existents (characters and setting)” and dis-
course as “the means through which the story is transmitted” (1978, 9). David
Bordwell, drawing on the Russian formalist tradition, prefers ‘“fabula (sometimes
translated as ‘story’)... [which] embodies the action as a chronological, cause-and-
effect chain of events occurring within a given duration and spatial field,” and
“syuzhet (usually translated as ‘plot’)... [which is] the actual arrangement and pre-
sentation of the fabula in the film” (1985, 49-50).
4. Despite a brilliant screenplay, which Losey thought “‘the absolute height of [Pin-
ter’s] accomplishment” and the American critic Stanley Kauffmann judged the finest
adaptation of a major work he had ever read, Losey and Pinter were never able to
obtain the necessary financing to produce the film. Eventually, in an unusual move,
The Proust Screenplay was published in 1977.
5. Ironically, despite its status as a defining element of narrative, whatever the
medium, narration in film received little attention until such studies as Bruce Kawin’s
Mindscreen (1978), which deals with filmic first person, a section of articles on
“point of view” in Film Reader 4 (1979), and Nick Browne’s The Rhetoric of Filmic
Narration (1982) demonstrated narration’s centrality to an understanding of film
narrative. The publication in English of Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method
(1980) by French literary theorist Gerard Genette provided an additional, major
impetus for the study of what has come to be known as narratology. Soon after,
Brian Henderson’s ““Tense, Mood, and Voice in Film: Notes after Genette” (1983)

148
imported and tested some of Genette’s ideas in the realm of film theory. Edward R.
Branigan’s Point of View in the Cinema (1984), David Bordwell’s Narration in the
Fiction Film (1985), a special issue of the journal Wide Angle (vol. 8, nos. 3—4,
1986), and Sarah Kozloff’s Invisible Storytellers (1988) widened the discussion
further. While Genette’s views — notably his notion of multiple levels of narration
and narrative — are not controlling in all of these studies, they hover influentially
behind many of the arguments.
6. Among the disputed (and fundamental) contentions in film theories of narration
is that which rejects traditional literary notions, preferring to treat filmic narration
as a process not dependent on a narrator. Branigan asserts that “‘ ‘narrator’ is a
metaphor, an anthropomorphism,”’ contending that narration “is not a person or
a state of mind, but a linguistic and logical relationship posed by the text as a
condition of its intelligibility” (1984, 3). Similarly, David Bordwell argues that “to
give every film a narrator or implied author is to indulge in an anthropomorphic
fiction” (1985, 62). And George M. Wilson states that “there are no grounds for
recognizing in narrative film a being, personlike or not, who fictionally offers our
view of narrative events to us” (1986, 135). (Interestingly, these and other writers
who would jettison a narrator from film as an unsupportable fiction frequently have
recourse to the term “narrator,” nonetheless.) Such views come close to substituting
one kind of anthropomorphism for another. Carried to its extreme, this proposition
leads to David Alan Black’s assertion that the first-level narration in film “belongs
to the medium itself” (1986, 22). By contrast, in a review of Bordwell’s book
Chatman counters that the claim that film narration “‘presupposes a perceiver, but
not any sender, of a message” is semiotically impossible, and maintains that it is “‘a
mistake to reject the cinematic narrator” (1986, 140). So, too, in her review of
Bordwell’s book Sarah Kozloff observes: “(How can a message be deliberately or-
ganized for a perceiver but not have any sender? How can stories, in any moment
of history, tell themselves? Bordwell condemns the positing of a grand image-maker
as an ‘anthropomorphic fiction’ and goes on to transfer... human activities and
qualities to an abstract process” (1986, 44).
7. In Mindscreen Kawin maintains that the fundamental test of narrating voice
resides in a narrative’s overall logic. In other words, whom does the logic of the
discourse present (either explicitly or implicitly) as narrating? Kawin argues that
filmic narration is not confined to the third person, but rather possesses the capacity
for a sustained first-person voice as well. In his view, which is not inconsistent with
Genette’s, a discursive presentation of the “‘field of the mind’s eye,” what a character
thinks (e.g., memories, dreams, and fantasies), constitutes a form of first-person or
character-narration, which Kawin calls ““mindscreen,” that may be embedded in a
larger third-person discourse or may encompass an entire narrative. In a later article,
“An Outline of Film Voices,’ Kawin maintains the necessity ‘“‘to establish whether
deliberate, personalized narration is taking place, whether a given view is objective
or subjective, whether whatever subjectivity does appear is authorial” (1984—5, 39).
The issue of subjectivity, which both Kawin and Branigan emphasize, is crucial, for,
as this book will argue, Losey’s films with Pinter and Stoppard extend the realm of
subjectivity well beyond the limits of classical narration.
8. See Bordwell (1985, 205-33). Distinguishing art-cinema narration from classical
narration (defined by traditional Hollywood studio filmmaking), Bordwell identifies

T49
three “interlocking procedural schemata — ‘objective’ realism, ‘expressive’ or sub-
jective realism, and narrational commentary.” The first of these, ‘objective’ realism,
deemphasizes the structured drama of classical narration, “‘seeking to depict the
vagaries of real life.” The second, ‘expressive’ or subjective realism, seeks to render
an inner reality, emphasizing a character’s subjective experience of events rather
than the events themselves. The third, narrational commentary, differs from the
norms of classical narration by highlighting the narrational act as “‘an intermittently
present but highly noticeable external authority through which we gain access to
[the story].”

Chapter 2
1. In The Great War and Modern Memory Paul Fussell observes: ‘““No one was to
know too much. Until 1916, the parents of soldiers executed for ‘acts prejudicial
to military discipline’ were given the news straight, but after agitation by Sylvia
Pankhurst, they were informed by telegram that their soldier had “died of wounds’ ”
(1977, 176). Fussell’s brilliant cultural history of the war contains many passages
that provide illuminating commentary on issues raised in Losey’s film. The book
includes chapters on war as ironic action, on life in the trenches, on mythic and
ritual patterns, and on the sexual (homoerotic) nature of front-line experience.
2. Reflecting on his use of these images, Losey told Ciment, ““Those early flashes of
stills at the beginning of King and Country [are] partly the stirrings of Accident, of
The Go-Between, of Proust” (1985, 244).
3. Unless otherwise noted, all quotations of dialogue from the films are taken directly
from their sound tracks. In an unexplained departure from Housman’s text, the
lines from poem “XXXVI” in More Poems (1936) are changed. Housman wrote:
Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.
4. These issues are also raised by a different kind of story contained within the
omniscient narration but not, strictly speaking, produced by a character-narrator:
first, the formal charge read at the court-martial and then, at the end of the film,
the telegram from the War Office to Hamp’s survivors. (The telegram is read in
voice-over by Dirk Bogarde, who is not speaking in the character of Captain Har-
greaves.) Each of these is a kind of mini discourse from which a story of Hamp’s
actions is intended to be inferred by those to whom it is addressed. These two
“official stories,” of course, flatly contradict each other. In the charge Hamp is a
deserter, and for this he will be shot. In the telegram he is a soldier who was “killed
in action,” and the “deep regret”? expressed is presumably on behalf of his king and
country.
5. This scene ends with Hargreaves quoting a line from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland (‘‘There’s a porpoise close behind me, and he’s treading
on my tail’’), which he then punctuates with the single word “Facts.” The colonel
has the last word, however, answering Hargreaves with the rueful lines from John
Masefield’s long poem “Biography”:

150
 When I am buried, and all my thoughts and acts
Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts,
And long before this wandering flesh is rotten
The dates which made me will be all forgotten.
In its way, this odd exchange points to what Paul Fussell calls “the unparalleled
literariness” of the war and to the great disparities that existed between the officers
and men, which was emphasized, he wrote, “not merely by separate quarters and
messes and different uniforms and weapons but by different accents and diction and
syntaxes and allusions” (1977, 82).

Chapter 3
1. Losey and Pinter disagreed in their recollections about the original screenplay
and its relationship to the actual shooting script. In ““The Losey—Pinter Collabo-
ration” Beverle Houston and Marsha Kinder quote the following remarks: “Losey:
‘Our finished film uses about one-fifth or a quarter of the original Pinter script
written before I came into it.’ Pinter: ‘I must make it quite clear that I didn’t write
a second script. | modified and developed to a certain extent the first script’ ” (1978,
17-18).
2. Losey ascribed this uncertainty to casting, calling Susan’s social status “very
obscure in the film.” He told Milne, “I like Wendy Craig as an actress enormously,
I like her personally, and after much searching I gave her the part. When we began
shooting, I asked her to try to assume an upper-class manner and accent; and it
was utterly hopeless. ... Ideally that girl should have been entirely believable as of
upper-class background” (1968, 141).

Chapter 4
1. Edward Branigan argues that “simultaneous with character narration there is
always present an underlying omniscient, third person narration, which creates the
fictional appearance of other narrations or levels within the text” (1984, 41). Bruce
Kawin takes a different view, accepting the possibility of an underlying level (par-
ticularly of authorial comment) but not its necessity. Bordwell aptly observes that
“within the art cinema’s mode of production and reception, the concept of the
author has a formal function it did not possess in the Hollywood studio system.”’
Among other factors, he notes, “‘director’s statements of intent guide the compre-
hension of the film, while a body of work linked by an authorial signature encourages
viewers to read each film-as a chapter of an oeuvre. Thus the institutional ‘author’
is available as a source of the formal operation of the film” (1985, 211). In effect,
the director of art cinema, who is equated with the author of literary texts, is a
source precisely because there is a larger body of his work to which the individual
film can be referred. (This seems equally true of such Hollywood filmmakers as John
Ford or Alfred Hitchcock.) But are authorial comment and narrational commentary
the same thing? Bordwell seems to elide the distinction between author and narrator
— in part, no doubt, because he favors a view of narration as a process or system.
By contrast, this book will maintain that just as the author and narrator of Pudovkin’s
Mother or Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (for all the latter’s autobiographical associa-

151
tions), like those of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, remain distinct, so do those
of the author(s) of Accident, The Go-Between, or The Romantic Englishwoman
and the films’ narrators.
2. In discussing what he terms “‘character reflection and projection,” Branigan says
that they “occur in (1) present time and depend on a (2) metaphorical framing
[emphasis added] which links the character to the production of space, as opposed
to a framing which is literally from the character’s point in space, such as a point
of view shot....The objects are linked to character by a narrative inference and
their presentation is (supposedly) modulated by a particular kind of character at-
tention — normal awareness, fear, guilt, desire, etc.” (1984, 123). The significance
of “narrative inference” is reminiscent of Kawin’s view that the test of voice resides
in a narrative’s overall logic.
3. Houston and Kinder conclude that although Accident “‘does not use conventional
first-person techniques, we see things primarily through Stephen’s point of view,
which is established by the flashback structure; but we don’t have access to his
thoughts and motives” (1978, 21). The question of character point of view is related
to Kawin’s argument in “An Outline of Film Voices,” particularly his reconsideration
of a narrating voice anchored in the perspective of a single character. In Mindscreen
Kawin identified a single category labeled “‘point of view” and treated as a variant
of the third person, a voice that ‘“‘subjectivized the world but not the narrative”
(1978, 18). In “Outline” he moves this mode to first person, calling attention to its
apparent objectivity while distinguishing it from a newly defined mode called “‘per-
spectival presentation,” a third-person voice of “implied authorial perspective on
what is shown” (1984-5, 41 and 44).
4. Focusing on the addressee, Branigan observes in a similar context that the “‘voy-
euristic reader is the unseen and unacknowledged spectator for whom an address
is, apparently, unaddressed (to no one); that is, the text does not acknowledge its
viewer” (1984, 44).
5. Within the overall omniscient narration Neff dictates a recording to his boss in
which he narrates the story of his relationship with Phyllis Dietrichson, the murder
of her husband, and his own subsequent betrayal by her. Thus, Neff’s narration has
an intended addressee in the discourse; the audience can be said to eavesdrop on
his narrative. Stevenson’s Jane Eyre opens with a shot of what is ostensibly the book
from which the film is adapted and returns to highlighted pages at intervals through-
out the discourse. In voice-over the title character begins by reading the words oni
a lighted page: ‘““My name is Jane Eyre.” This and other passages similarly presented
are not from the novel, however, but from a voice-over narration written for the
film. Interestingly, the film posits via the images of the book and its pages an overall
first-person narrator. In Invisible Storytellers Sarah Kozloff agrees with those critics
who believe that ‘‘behind the voice-over narrator there is another presence that
supplements the nominal narrator’s vision, knowledge, and storytelling powers.”
She points out, however, that “in many cases the voice-over narrator is so inscribed
in the film as to seem as if he or she has generated not only what he is saying but
also what we are seeing. ... The single most crucial factor in our acceptance of the
pose is that the film emphasize the character’s claim to be telling the story” (1988,
44—5). Jane’s narration, like Neff’s, has an addressee; it is, however, neither herself

152
nor another character, but the unspecified reader/viewer. Obviously, different kinds
of motivation and tests of reliability are implied in these two character-narrations.
6. A number of contemporary reviewers, because they ignored or miscontrued the
layered narrational structure in Accident, saw the film as an instance of classical
narration. Judith Crist commented that “‘conventionally, then, with flashback, we
are introduced to those [characters] involved with the girl and boy” (New York
World Journal Tribune, April 18, 1967); Andrew Sarris asserts that the audience
“is bored by the suppression of psychological investigation” (Village Voice, May
18, 1967); John Simon condemns Losey’s “‘arty gimmicks” when he says, “There
is the whole Francesca episode done in voice-over (action and off-screen dialogue
deliberately unsynchronized) for no cogent reason” (Film 67/68 1968, 106—7).

Chapter 5
1. This brief summary is indebted to John Ward’s Alain Resnais, or the Theme of
Time. In his excellent discussion of Bergson’s influence on Resnais, Ward notes that
although Bergson was a prolific writer, he has confined his exposition of the phi-
losopher’s thought to “two of his more important books”: Time and Free Will and
Matter and Memory (1968, 5).
2. Scholes and David Bordwell both emphasize that film viewing is an active rather
than passive enterprise for the viewer, and identify the determination of causality
as basic to a viewer’s activity in constructing a story from the data presented by the
discourse. Scholes says: “Our primary effort in attending to a narration is to con-
struct a satisfying order of events. To do this we must locate or provide two features:
temporality and causality.... Above all, when we recognize a work as a story, we
regard it as having a temporal sequentiality based upon cause and effect. This means
that if the events in a story are presented in their temporal sequence, much of our
narrativity [‘the process by which a perceiver actively constructs a story from the
fictional data provided by any narrative medium’] is devoted to establishing the
causal connections between one event and the next. It means further that if the
events themselves are presented out of a temporal sequence, we seek first to arrive
at an understanding of the true temporal sequence in order to grasp the causal
sequence informing the temporal” (1979, 422-3).
3. Both Losey and Pinter were attracted to this particular story for more than formal,
aesthetic reasons. John Russell Taylor quoted Pinter describing his reaction to the
Hartley novel: “‘I was reading it all at one sitting and, as it happened, alone in the
house. And suddenly at a certain point near the climax of the story, I found myself
in floods of tears. Really weeping. A few pages later I was off again. It was all very
eerie. And when Joe asked if I would like to write a script based on the book my
first thought was, impossible: I shall just be in tears for months at a time” (1970,
202).

Chapter 6
1. Richard Combs concluded that Lewis “‘characterises the [producer’s] suggestion
for a women’s liberation slant as ‘pretentious and derivative — and boring.’ Later

T§3
Fielding roundly abuses a friend of his wife’s who comes out with a phrase — ‘woman
is an occupied land.’... Thus the struggle of Elizabeth Fielding...to free herself
from her husband’s fantasies ...is largely discarded as a subject too cliched to be
worthy of attention” (1975, 143). It seems clear, however, that these scenes call
into question Lewis’s position rather than Elizabeth’s, for they expose his discomfort
and defensiveness about the very journey Elizabeth has embarked upon, whatever
its outcome.
2. For a thorough exploration of the problematic treatment of women’s desire,
subjectivity, and economic status in Hollywood films, see Mary Ann Doane’s The
Desire to Desire: The Woman’s Film of the 1940s (1987).

154
 Filmography

1939
Pete Roleum and His Cousins
Producer, screenplay, director: Joseph Losey
Photography: Harold Muller
Animation: Charles Bowers
Puppets devised by: Howard Bay
Music: Hanns Eisler, Oscar Levant

World’s Fair
Narrator: Hiram Sherman
Production company: Petroleum Industries Exhibition, Inc. for the New York

Running time: 20 min.

1940
A Child Went Forth
Producers, directors: Joseph Losey, John Ferno
Screenplay: Joseph Losey, Munro Leaf
Photography: John Ferno
Music: Hanns Eisler
Narrator: Lloyd Gough
Production company: National Association of Nursery Educators
Running time: 18 min.

1941
Youth Gets a Break
Codirector, screenplay: Joseph Losey
Photography: John Ferno, Willard Van Dyke, Ralph Steiner
Production company: National Youth Administration
Running time: 20 min.

1945

Director: Joseph Losey

A Gun in His Hand

T§5
Screenplay: Charles Francis Royal, based on a story by Richard Landau
Photography: Jackson Rose
Music: Max Terr
Production company: MGM (“Crime Does Not Pay” series)
Cast: Anthony Caruso (Pinky), Richard Gaines (Inspector Dana), Ray Teal (O’Neill)
Running time: 19 min.

1948
The Boy with Green Hair
Producer: Stephen Ames
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Ben Barzman, Alfred Lewis Levitt, based on a story by Betty Beaton
Photography: George Barnes
Editor: Frank Doyle
Art directors: Albert D’Agostino, Ralph Berger
Music: Leigh Harline
Production company: RKO-Radio (a Dore Schary Presentation)
Cast: Dean Stockwell (Peter Frye), Pat O’Brien (Gramp), Robert Ryan (Dr. Evans),
Barbara Hale (Miss Brand), Walter Catlett (the King)
16mm: Films, Inc.
Video: Image Entertainment, Inc.
Running time: 82 min.

1950
The Lawless (British title: The Dividing Line)
Producers: William Pine, William Thomas
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Geoffrey Homes [Daniel Mainwaring], from his novel The Voice of
Stephen Wilder
Photography: Roy Hunt
Editor: Howard Smith
Art director: Lewis H. Creber
Music: Mahlon Merrick
Production company: Paramount
Cast: MacDonald Carey (Larry Wilder), Gail Russell (Sunny Garcia), John Sands
(Joe Ferguson), Lalo Rios (Paul Rodriguez), Maurice Jara (Lopo Chavez)
Production time: 83 min.

1951
The Prowler
Producer: S. P. Eagle [Sam Spiegel]
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Dalton Trumbo, Hugo Butler, from an original story by Robert Thoeren,
Hans Wilhelm

Editor: Paul Weatherwax

Photography: Arthur Miller

Art director: Boris Leven

156
Music: Lyn Murray
Production company: Horizon Pictures
Cast: Van Heflin (Webb Garwood), Evelyn Keyes (Susan Gilvray), John Maxwell
(Bud Crocker), Katherine Warren (Mrs. Crocker), Emerson Treacy (William Gilvray)
16mm: Ivy Films
Running time: 92 min.

1951
M
Producer: Seymour Nebenzal
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Norman Reilly Raine, Leo Katcher, from the original screenplay by
Thea von Harbou, Fritz Lang
Photography: Ernest Lazlo
Editor: Edward Mann
Art director: Martin Obzina
Music: Michel Michelet
Production company: Columbia
Cast: David Wayne (Martin Harrow), Howard Da Silva (Carney), Luther Adler
(Langley), Martin Gabel (Marshall), Steve Brodie (Lt. Baker), Raymond Burr (Pottsy)
Running time: 88 min.

1951
The Big Night
Producer: Philip A. Waxman |
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Hugo Butler, Ring Lardner, Jr., Stanley Ellin, Joseph Losey, based on
Ellin’s novel Dreadful Summit
Photography: Hal Mohr
Editor: Edward Mann
Art director: Nicholas Remisoff
Music: Lyn Murray.
Production company: Philip Waxman, United Artists
Cast: John Barrymore, Jr. (Georgie La Main), Preston Foster (Andy La Main),
Howland Chamberlin (Flanagan), Howard St. John (Al Judge), Dorothy Comingore
(Julie Rostina)
16mm: Swank Motion Pictures
Running time: 75 min.

1952
Stranger on the Prowl (Italian title: Imbarco a Mezzanotte; British title: Encounter)
Producer: Noel Calef
Director: Andrea Forzano [Joseph Losey]
Screenplay: Andrea Forzano [Ben Barzman], based on a story by Calef
Photography: Henri Alekan
Editor: Thelma Connell
Art director: Antonio Valente

1$§7
Music: G. C. Sonzogno
Production company: Consorzio Produttori Cinematografici Tirenia/Riviera Film,
Inc.
Cast: Paul Muni (the Man), Joan Lorring (Angela), Vittorio Manunta (Giacomo
Fontana)
Running time: 100 min. (United States and Britain, 82 min)

1954
The Sleeping Tiger
Producer: Victor Hanbury
Director: Victor Hanbury [Joseph Losey]
Screenplay: Derek Frye [Harold Buchman, Carl Foreman], based on the novel by
Maurice Moiseiwitsch ,

Editor: Reginald Mills

Photography: Harry Waxman

Art director: John Stoll

Music: Malcolm Arnold
Production company: Insignia
Cast: Dirk Bogarde (Frank Clements), Alexis Smith (Glenda Esmond), Alexander
Knox (Dr. Clive Esmond), Hugh Griffith (Inspector Simmons)
Running time: 89 min.

1955
A Man on the Beach
Producer: Anthony Hinds
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Jimmy Sangster, based on a story, ‘““Chance at the Wheel,” by Victor
Canning
Photography: Wilkie Cooper
Editor: Henry Richardson
Art director: Edward Marshall
Music: John Hotchkis
Production company: Hammer Films
Cast: Donald Wolfit (Carter), Michael Medwin (Max), Michael Ripper (chauffeur),
Alex de Gallier (casino manager)
Running time: 29 min.

1956
The Intimate Stranger (U.S. title: Finger of Guilt)
Producer: Alec C. Snowden
Director: Joseph Walton (British credit), Alec Snowden (U.S. credit) [Joseph Losey]
Screenplay: Peter Howard [Howard Koch]
Photography: Gerald Gibbs
Editor: Geoffrey Muller
Art director: Wilfred Arnold
Music: Trevor Duncan.
Production company: Anglo Guild

158
Cast: Richard Basehart (Reggie Wilson), Mary Murphy (Evelyn Stewart), Constance
Cummings (Kay Wallace), Roger Livesey (Ben Case), Mervyn Johns (Ernest Chaple)
16mm: Kit Parker Films
Running time: 95 min. (United States, 71 min.)

1957
Time Without Pity
Producers: John Arnold, Anthony Simmons
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Ben Barzman, based on the play Someone Waiting by Emlyn Williams
Photography: Freddie Francis
Editor: Alan Osbiston
Art director: Bernard Sarron
Music: Tristram Cary
Production company: Harlequin
Cast: Michael Redgrave (David Graham), Ann Todd (Honor Stanford), Leo McKern
(Robert Stanford), Peter Cushing (Jeremy Clayton), Alec McCowen (Alec Graham),
Joan Plowright (Agnes Cole)
16mm: Kit Parker Films
Running time: 88 min.

1958
The Gypsy and the Gentleman
Producer: Maurice Cowan
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Janet Green, based on the novel Darkness I Leave You by Nina Warner
Hooke
Photography: Jack Hildyard
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Ralph Brinton ©
Music: Hans May
Production company: Rank
Cast: Melina Mercouri (Belle), Keith Michell (Sir Paul Deverill), Patrick McGoohan
(Jess), Flora Robson (Mrs. Haggard)
Running time: 107 min. (United States, 90 min.)

1959
Blind Date (U.S. title: Chance Meeting)
Producer: David Deutsch
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Ben Barzman, Millard Lampell, based on the novel by Leigh Howard
Photography: Christopher Challis
Editor: Reginald Mills
Art director: Harry Pottle
Music: Richard Rodney Bennett
Production company: Independent Artists (a Julian Wintle—Leslie Parkyn Pro-
duction)

T$9
Cast: Hardy Kruger (Jan Van Rooyen), Stanley Baker (Inspector Morgan), Micheline
Presle (Lady Fenton, called Jacqueline Cousteau), Robert Flemyng (Sir Brian Lewis),
Gordon Jackson (Police Sergeant)
Running time: 95 min.

1960
The Criminal (U.S. title: The Concrete Jungle)
Producer: Jack Greenwood
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Alun Owen, based on an original story by Jimmy Sangster
Photography: Robert Krasker
Editor: Reginald Mills
Art director: Scott Macgregor
Music: Johnny Dankworth
Production company: Merton Parke Studios
Cast: Stanley Baker (Johnny Bannion), Sam Wanamaker (Mike Carter), Margit Saad
(Suzanne), Patrick Magee (Chief Warder Barrowes), Gregoire Aslan (Frank Saffron),
Jill Bennett (Maggie)
16mm: Corinth Films
Running time: 97 min. (United States, 86 min.)

1962
Eve
Producers: Robert Hakim, Raymond Hakim
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Hugo Butler, Evan Jones, based on the novel by James Hadley Chase
Photography: Gianni Di Venanzo
Editors: Reginald Beck, Franca Silvi
Art directors: Richard MacDonald, Luigi Scaccianoce
Music: Michel Legrand |
Production company: Paris Film/Interopa Film — Rome
Cast: Jeanne Moreau (Eve Olivier), Stanley Baker (Tyvian Jones), Virna Lisi (Fran-
cesca Ferrara), James Villiers (Arthur McCormick)
Running time: France: 100 min.; United States: 115 min.; originally 155 min.,
subsequently cut by Losey to 135 min.

1963
The Damned (U.S. title: These Are the Damned [1965])
Producer: Anthony Hinds
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Evan Jones, based on the novel The Children of Light by H. L. Lawrence
Photography: Arthur Grant
Editor: Reginald Mills
Art director: Don Mingaye
Music: James Bernard
Production company: Hammer/Swallow
Cast: MacDonald Carey (Simon Wells), Shirley Ann Field (Joan), Viveca Lindfors
160
(Freya Neilson), Alexander Knox (Bernard), Oliver Reed (King), James Villiers (Cap-
tain Gregory)
16mm: Kit Parker Films; Swank Motion Pictures
Running time: 87 min. (United States: 77 min.)

1963
The Servant
Producers: Joseph Losey, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Harold Pinter, based on the novel by Robin Maugham
Photography: Douglas Slocombe
Editor: Reginald Mills

Art Director: Ted Clements |

Production designer: Richard MacDonald

Music: John Dankworth

Production company: Springbok/Elstree
Cast: Dirk Bogarde (Hugo Barrett), James Fox (Tony), Wendy Craig (Susan), Sarah
Miles (Vera)
16mm: Films, Inc.
Video: HBO Video
Running time: 115 min.

1964
King and Country
Producers: Joseph Losey, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Evan Jones, from the play Hamp by John Wilson, based on a story by
James Lansdale Hodson
Photography: Denys Coop
Editor: Reginald Mills
Design consultant: Richard MacDonald
Art director: Peter Mullins
Music: Larry Adler
Production company: B.H.E. Productions
Cast: Dirk Bogarde (Capt. Hargreaves), Tom Courtenay (Pvt. Hamp), Leo McKern
(Capt. O’Sullivan), Barry Foster (Lt. Webb), James Villiers (Capt. Midgley), Peter
Copley (Colonel), Vivian Matalon (Padre), Jeremy Spenser (Pvt. Sparrow)

Running time: 86 min.

16mm: Films, Inc.; Ivy Films

1966
Modesty Blaise
Producer: Joseph Janni
Director: Joseph Losey |
Screenplay: Evan Jones, based on the comic strip created by Peter O’Donnell and
Jim Holdaway
Photography: Jack Hildyard :
161
Editor: Reginald Beck
Production designer: Richard MacDonald
Music: John Dankworth
Production company: Modesty Blaise, Ltd.
Cast: Monica Vitti (Modesty), Terence Stamp (Willie Garvin), Dirk Bogarde (Ga-
briel), Harry Andrews (Sir Gerald Tarrant)
Running time: 119 min.

1967
Accident
Producers: Joseph Losey, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Harold Pinter, based on the novel by Nicholas Mosley
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Carmen Dillon
Music: John Dankworth
Production company: Royal Avenue Chelsea
Cast: Dirk Bogarde (Stephen), Stanley Baker (Charley), Jacqueline Sassard (Anna),
Michael York (William), Vivien Merchant (Rosalind), Delphine Seyrig (Francesca),
Alexander Knox (Provost), Ann Firbank (Laura), Harold Pinter (Mr. Bell), Nicholas
Mosley (a don)

Video: HBO Video ,

16mm: Films, Inc.

Running time: 10§ min.

1968
Boom!
Producers: John Heyman, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey |
Screenplay: Tennessee Williams, based on his play The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop
Here Anymore
Photography: Douglas Slocombe
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Richard MacDonald
Music: John Barry
Production company: World Film Services/Moon Lake Productions
Cast: Elizabeth Taylor (Flora Goforth), Richard Burton (Chris Flanders), Noel Cow-
ard (Witch of Capri), Joanna Shimkus (Blackie), Michael Dunn (Rudy)
16mm: Swank Motion Pictures
Running time: 110 min.

1968 ,
Secret Ceremony
Producers: John Heyman, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: George Tabori, from a novel by Marco Denevi
162 _
 Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Production designer: Richard MacDonald
Art director: John Clark
Music: Richard Rodney Bennett
Production company: World Film Services/Universal Pictures
Cast: Elizabeth Taylor (Leonora), Mia Farrow (Cenci), Robert Mitchum (Albert),
Peggy Ashcroft (Hannah), Pamela Brown (Hilda)
16mm: Swank Motion Pictures
Video: KVC Videos
Running time: 109 min.

1970
Figures in a Landscape
Producer: John Kohn
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Robert Shaw, based on a novel by Barry England
Photography: Henri Alekan
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Ted Tester
Music: Richard Rodney Bennett
Production company: Cinema Center Films
Cast: Robert Shaw (MacConnachie), Malcolm McDowell (Ansell)
16mm: Kit Parker Films
Running time: 109 min.

1971
The Go-Between
Producers: John Heyman, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Harold Pinter, based on the novel by L. P. Hartley
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Carmen Dillon
Music: Michel Legrand
Production company: EMI/World Film Services
Cast: Julie Christie (Marian Maudsley), Alan Bates (Ted Burgess), Dominic Guard
(Leo Colston as a boy), Michael Redgrave (Leo as a man), Margaret Leighton (Mrs.
Maudsley), Michael Gough (Mr. Maudsley), Edward Fox (Hugh Trimingham), Rich-
ard Gibson (Marcus)
- 16mm: Films, Inc.; Swank Motion Pictures
Running time: 116 min.

1972
The Assassination of Trotsky
Producers: Joseph Losey, Norman Priggen
Director: Joseph Losey

163
Screenplay: Nicholas Mosley, Masolino d’Amico
Photography: Pasquale de Santis
Editor: Reginald Beck
Production designer: Richard MacDonald
Art director: Arrigo Equini
Music: Egisto Macchi
Production company: Cinetel/Dino de Laurentiis
Cast: Richard Burton (Leon Trotsky), Alain Delon (Frank Jacson), Romy Schneider
(Gita), Valentina Cortese (Natalya)
Video: Facets Video; Republic Pictures Home Video
Running time: 103 min.

1973
A Doll’s House
Producer: Joseph Losey
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: David Mercer, based on the play by Henrik Ibsen, translated into English
by Michael Meyer
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Eileen Diss
Music: Michel Legrand
Production company: World Film Services (shown in U.S. on ABC-TV)
Cast: Jane Fonda (Nora), David Warner (Torvald), Trevor Howard (Dr. Rank),
Delphine Seyrig (Kristine Linde), Edward Fox (Nils Krogstad)
16mm: Kit Parker Films; Swank Motion Pictures
Video: Prism Entertainment
Running time: 106 min.

1974
Galileo
Producer: Ely Landau
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Barbara Bray and Joseph Losey, from the play Life of Galileo by Bertolt
Brecht, translated into English by Charles Laughton
Photography: Michael Reed
Editor: Reginald Beck
Production designer: Richard MacDonald
Music: Hans Eisler
Production company: Ely Landau Organization
Cast: Topol (Galileo Galilei), Edward Fox (Cardinal Inquisitor), Colin Blakeley
(Priuli), Clive Revill (ballad singer), Georgia Brown (ballad singer’s wife), Margaret
Leighton (court lady), John Gielgud (old cardinal), Michael Gough (Sagredo), Michel
Lonsdale (Cardinal Barberini/Pope)
Running time: 145 min.

164
1975
The Romantic
Producer: Englishwoman
Daniel M. Angel |,
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Tom Stoppard, Thomas Wiseman, based on Wiseman’s novel
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Richard MacDonald
Music: Richard Hartley
Production company: Dial Films/Meric Matalon
Cast: Glenda Jackson (Elizabeth Fielding), Michael Caine (Lewis Fielding), Helmut
Berger (Thomas Hursa), Kate Nelligan (Isabel), Rene Kolldehof (Herman), Michel
Lonsdale (Swan)
Video: Warner Home Video
Running time: 116 min.

1976
Mr. Klein
Producers: Raymond Danon, Alain Delon
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Franco Solinas
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Henri Lanoé
Art director: Alexandre Trauner
Music: Egisto Macchi, Pierre Porte
Production company: Basil Films
Cast: Alain Delon (Robert Klein), Jeanne Moreau (Florence), Suzanne Flon (con-
cierge), Michel Lonsdale (Pierre), Juliet Berto (Janine)
Video: RCA/Columbia Pictures Home Video
Running time: 122 min.

1978
Les Routes du Sud
Producer: Yves Rousset-Rouard
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Jorge Semprun
Photography: Gerry Fisher
Editor: Reginald Beck
Art director: Alexandre Trauner
Music: Michel Legrand
Production company: Société francaise de production, Tinacra Films, FR 3 [Paris]/
Profilmes [Barcelona]
Cast: Yves Montand (Jean Larrea), Miou Miou (Julia), Laurent Malet (Laurent
Larrea)
Video: Connoisseur Video Collection
Running time: 97 min.

165
 1979
Don Giovanni
Producers: Luciano De Feo, Michel Seydoux, Robert Nador
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni with libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte
Adaptation: Joseph Losey, Patricia Losey, Frantz Salieri
Photography: Gerry Fisher, Carlo Poletti
Editors: Reginald Beck, Emma Menenti, Marie Castro Vazquez
Art director: Alexandre Trauner
Music: Mozart, performed by the Orchestra and Chorus of the Paris Opera, directed
by Lorin Maazel
Production company: Opera Film Produzione [Rome]; Gaumont/Camera One/An-
tenna-2 [Paris]; Janus Films [Frankfurt]
Cast: Ruggero Raimondi (Don Giovanni), John Macurdy (commendatore), Edda
Moser (Donna Anna), Kiri te Kanawa (Donna Elvira)
16mm: New Yorker Films
Running time: 176 min.

1982
La Truite
Producer: Yves Rousset-Rouard
Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Joseph Losey, Monique Lange, based on the novel by Roger Vailland
Photography: Henri Alekan
Editor: Marie Castro Vazquez
Art director: Alexandre Trauner
Music: Richard Hartley
Production company: Gaumont-TF1-SFPC
Cast: Isabelle Huppert (Frédérique), Jean-Pierre Cassel (Rampert), Jeanne Moreau
(Lou), Jacques Spiesser (Galuchat), Isao Yamagata (Daigo)
Video: RCA/Columbia Pictures Home Video
Running time: 105 min.

1985
Steaming
Producer: Paul Mills
Director: Joseph Losey
_ Screenplay: Patricia Losey, based on the play by Nell Dunn
Photography: Christopher Challis
Art director: Michael Pickwoad
Production company: Columbia
Cast: Vanessa Redgrave (Nancy), Sarah Miles (Sarah), Dianna Dors (Violet), Patti
Love (Josie)
Video: New World Video
Running time: 95 min.

166
 Additional Films Cited

All Quiet on the Western Front, dir. Lewis Milestone (Universal, USA, 1930)
All Quiet on the Western Front, dir. Delbert Mann (Norman Rosemont Productions,
USA, 1979)
Breaker Morant, dir. Bruce Beresford (Australia, 1979)
Charade, dir. Stanley Donen (Universal, USA, 1963)
Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, The, dir. Luis Bunuel (France, 1972)
Double Indemnity, dir. Billy Wilder (Paramount, USA, 1944)
Execution of Private Slovik, The, dir. Lamont Johnson (Universal, USA, 1974)
400 Blows, The (Les quatre cents coups), dir. Francois Truffaut (France, 1959)
Hiroshima mon amour, dir. Alain Resnais (France, 1959)
How Many Miles to Babylon? dir. Moira Armstrong (Great Britain, 1982)
Jane Eyre, dir. Robert Stevenson (Twentieth Century-Fox, USA, 1944)
La guerre est finie, dir. Alain Resnais (France, 1966)
Mother, dir. V. I. Pudovkin (USSR, 1926)
Now, Voyager, dir. Irving Rapper (Warners, USA, 1942)
Paths of Glory, dir. Stanley Kubrick (United Artists, USA, 1957)
Rack, The, dir. Arnold Lavin (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, USA, 1956)
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, dir. Karel Reisz (Great Britain, 1961)
To Catch a Thief, dir. Alfred Hitchcock (Paramount, USA, 1954)

167
Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: The Free Press, 1973.
Black, David Alan. ‘“‘“Genette and Film: Narrative Level in the Fiction Cinema.”
Wide Angle 8, nos. 3-4 (1986): 19-26. |
Bonitzer, Pascal. ““Here: The Notion of the Shot and Subject in Cinema.” Film
Reader 4 (1979): 108—19.
Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison: University of Wisconsin
Press, 1985.
Bourne, J. M. Britain and the Great War, 1914-1918. London: Arnold, 1989.
Branigan, Edward R. Point of View in the Cinema: A Theory of Narration and
Subjectivity in Classical Film. Berlin: Mouton Publishers, 1984.
“Point of View in the Fiction Film.” Wide Angle 8, nos. 3-4 (1986): 4-7.
Bresson, Robert. Notes on Cinematography. New York: Urizen, 1977.
Browne, Nick. The Rhetoric of Filmic Narration. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press,
1982.
“Introduction.” Film Reader 4 (1979): 105-7.
Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. 2d ed. Bollingen Series XVII.
Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1968.
Chatman, Seymour. Review of Narration in the Fiction Film. Wide Angle 8, nos.
3-4 (1986): 139-41.
Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca, N.Y.:
Cornell University Press, 1978.
Ciment, Michel. Conversations with Losey. London: Methuen, 1985.
Combs, Richard. “‘Losey, Galileo and The Romantic Englishwoman.” Sight and
Sound 44 (Summer 1975): 139-43.
Doane, Mary Ann. The Desire to Desire: The Woman’s Film of the 1940s. Bloom-
ington: Indiana University Press, 1987.
Fussell, Paul. The Great War and Modern Memory. Oxford University Press, 1977.

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Genette, Gerard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Trans. Jane E. Lewin.
Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1980.
Gill, Brendan. Review of King and Country, by Joseph Losey. New Yorker, 5
February 1966, p. 124.
Gow, Gordon. ““Weapons: Joseph Losey in an Interview with Gordon Gow.” Films
and Filming 18, no. 1 (October 1971): 37—41.
Gussow, Mel. “‘A Conversation (Pause): From an Interview with Harold Pinter.”
Performing Arts 6 (June 1972): 25-6.
Hartley, L. P. The Go-Between. New York: Stein & Day, 1984.
Henderson, Brian. ‘“Tense, Mood, and Voice in Film: Notes after Genette.”’ Film
Quarterly 36 (Summer 1983): 4-7.
Hirsch, Foster. Joseph Losey. Boston: Twayne, 1980.
Housman, A. E. More Poems. New York: Knopf, 1936.
Houston, Beverle, and Marsha Kinder. ‘““The Losey—Pinter Collaboration.” Film
Ouarterly 32 (Fall 1978): 17-30.
Jacob, Gilles. “Joseph Losey, or the Camera Calls.” Sight and Sound 35 (Spring
1966): 62—7.
Kawin, Bruce. Mindscreen: Bergman, Godard, and First-Person Film. Princeton,
N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1978.
“An Outline of Film Voices.” Film Quarterly 38 (Winter 1984): 38—46.
Klein, Joanne. Making Pictures: The Pinter Screenplays. Columbus: Ohio State
University Press, 1985.
Kozloff, Sarah. Invisible Storytellers: Voice-Over Narration in American Fiction
Film. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988.
Review of Narration in the Fiction Film. Film Quarterly 40 (Fall 1986): 43-5.
Leahy, James. The Cinema of Joseph Losey. New York: Barnes, 1967.
Losey, Joseph. “‘Dialogue on Film.” American Film 6 (November 1980): 53—60.
“Speak, Think, Stand Up.” Film Culture 50—1 (Fall & Winter 1970): 53—61.
Maugham, Robin. The Servant. New York: Avon, 1964.
Milne, Tom, ed. Losey on Losey. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1968.
Mosley, Nicholas. Accident. New York: New American Library, 1967.
Navasky, Victor. Naming Names. New York: Penguin, 1980.
Phillips, Gene D. “(Hollywood Exile: An Interview with Joseph Losey.” Journal of
Popular Film 5, no. 1 (1976): 29-35.
Pinter, Harold. Five Screenplays. London: Methuen, 1971.
Pipolo, Tony. ““The Aptness of Terminology: Point of View, Consciousness, and
Letter from an Unknown Woman.” Film Reader 4 (1979): 166-79.
Rush, Jeffrey S. “Lyric Oneness: The Free Syntactical Indirect and the Boundary
Between Narrative and Narration.” Wide Angle 8, nos. 3-4 (1986):
27-33.
Scholes, Robert. ‘‘Narration and Narrativity in Film.” In Film Theory and Criticism
2d ed., edited by Gerald Mast and Marshall Cohen, 417—33. Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1979.
Simon, William. ‘An Approach to Point of View.” Film Reader 4 (1979): 145-51.
Taylor, John Russell. “Accident.” Sight and Sound 35 (Autumn 1966): 179—84.
“Dateline: Report on The Go-Between.” Sight and Sound 39 (Autumn 1970):
202-3.
Tomasulo, Frank P. “‘Narrate and Describe?: Point of View in Citizen Kane’s
Thatcher Sequence.” Wide Angle 8 nos. 3—4 (1986): 45—52.
Walker, Alexander. Hollywood U.K.: The British Film Industry in the Sixties. New
York: Stein & Day, 1974.

169
Ward, John. Alain Resnais, or the Theme of Time. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday,
1968.
Wilson, George M. Narration in Light: Studies in Cinematic Point of View. Balti-
more: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986.
Wiseman, Thomas. The Romantic Englishwoman. New York: Putnam, 1972.
Young, Vernon. On Film: Unpopular Essays on a Popular Art. New York: Quad-
rangle, 1972.

170
Accident (Losey) Anderson, Maxwell, 4
Anna’s departure scene, 79—80 Angel, Daniel, 118
characterization, 66, 72, 83—4 Assassination of Trotsky, The (Losey), 142 |
consciousness, nature of, 66—7
critical response to, 72—3, 84-5, 88, 153n Baker, Stanley, 2, 9, 67, 78f
discourse, 67, 69 Bates, Alan, 91, 116
editing, 78 Beck, Reginald, 2
Francesca sequence, 80—2, 153n Becker, Ernest, 27
final scene, 83—4, 85f, 141 Berger, Helmut, 117, 130f
games, 86, 87-8 Bergson, Henri, 91, 102, 153n
lawn scene, 76—9, 78f, 80 Black, David Allen, 149
Losey on, 2, I1, 12, 65, 82, 88 Blind Date (Losey), 2, 9
male-centered film, 142 Bogarde, Dirk, 2—3
mystery, 63 in Accident, 67, 70f, 79f, 84f
narration, 14-15, 64—6, 68-76, 147 in King and Country, 17, 18, 324, 33f,
narration levels, interaction, 79-80, 81-4 39f, 150n
narration levels, transition, 67—72 Losey and, 9, 17, 42
Pinter, acting in, 80 as screenwriter, 17
Pinter on, 62, 64, 65, 82 in The Servant, 42, 48f, 58f
reflexivity, 76, 77, 80 Boom! (Losey), 1, 13
sexual obsession, 82 Bordwell, David, 133, 148n, 149—50n,
sound track, 80, 83, 84f 1§3n
subjectivity, 65—6 Bourne, J. M., 16-17, 39-40
Sunday sequence, 76—7 Boy with Green Hair, The (Losey), 5, 6-7,
time theme, 66, 88—9 143, 146
visual style, 13, 64 Branigan, Edward R., 69, 149n, I51n, 152n
women, 142 Breaker Morant (Beresford), 19
Accident (Mosley), 64—5, 85 Brecht, Bertolt, 5, 118
Alain Resnais, or the Theme of Time Bresson, Robert, 11
(Ward), 153n Britain and the Great War, 1914—1918
A la recherche du temps perdu (Proust), 3, (Bourne), 16—17, 39—40
14, 91, 148n British Film Institute, 148n
Alice in Wonderland (Carroll), 150n Browne, Nick, 148n
All Quiet on the Western Front (Milestone, Butler, Hugo, 7
Mann), 19, 37
ambiguity, 145—6 Caine, Michael, 117, 120, 125f, 131f
in The Servant, 62—3 Campbell, Joseph, 28
American Film (periodical), 2 Carroll, Lewis, 150n
171
Catleff, Walter, 7 Finger of Guilt (a.k.a. The Intimate
causality, 11 Stranger) (Losey), 9, 148
Caute, David, 148n Fisher, Gerry, 2
characterization, 11 Ford, Ford Madox, 4
place as, 12—13 Foreman, Carl, 9
Charade (Donen), 123 Foster, Barry, 30
Chatman, Seymour, 73, 148n, 149n 400 Blows, The (Truffant), 151—2n
Christie, Julie, 91, ro1f, 116 Fox, Edward, 97f, 99, 1o1f
Ciment, Michel, 3, 4, 6, 17, 42, 43, 53,65, | Fox, James, 42, 48f, 52f, 53f, 58f, sof
90, 114, 115, 118, 150n Fox, Robin, 42
Combs, Richard, 153n Fussell, Paul, r50—1n
Communist party, 4
Conrad, Joseph, 3 Galileo (Brecht), 5, 118
Conversations with Losey (Ciment), 3 games, 147
Copley, Peter, 19 in Accident, 86, 87-8
Courtenay, Tom, 18, 32f, 33f, 38f, 39f in The Servant, 53f, 55, 57-8, 59f, 60,
Craig, Wendy, 45, 52f, 151n 61
Criminal, The (Losey), 2, 9-10 Garland, Hamlin, 4
Crist, Judith, 153 Genette, Gerard, 148—9n
critical reputation, 1, 6—7, 20; see also indi- _—_‘ Gill, Brendan, 31
vidual films Go-Between, The (Hartley), 14, 90, 91-3,
characters, 11 102, II3
visual style, 12 Pinter on, 153n Go-Between, The (Losey)
Damned, The (Losey), 10 arrival scene, 96, 98—9, 104, 108
Dartmouth College, 4 art-cinema narration, 93
Denial of Death, The (Becker), 27 birthday party scene, 112
Desire to Desire: The Woman’s Film of the casting, L15—116
1940s (Doane), 15 4n causality, 93
discourse, definition, 13, 148n; see also in- characterization, 94
dividual films color, 99—100
Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, The discourse, 91, 95, 103
(Bunuel), 119 discovery scene, 11of, 112
disillusionment, 145—7 final section, 107-14
Doane, Mary Ann, 154 final sequence, r11f, 113-14
Doll’s House, A (Ibsen), 143 Losey on, 90, 115—16
Doll’s House, A (Losey), 143 Maudsley mansion (Brandham Hall), 95—
Donen, Stanley, 123 6, 97f, 98, rorf
Don Giovanni (Losey), 11, 14 memory, 102—3
Double Indemnity (Wilder), 8, 73, 152n mystery, 63
Douglas, Kirk, 20 narration, 14-15, 93—5, 105—7, 147
Dunn, Nell, 3, 143 narrational levels, interaction, 103—4,
107—II, 114
early films, 6, 7, 146 narration of time-past, 91-2, 94
Eisler, Hans, 5 narration of time-present, 94—5, 108
Eliot, T. S., 147 Norwich scene, 103—5
England, 9 opening shot, 95, 96f
Eve (Losey), 2, 6, 14, 142 Pinter on, 90
Losey on, 12 smoking room scene, 115
17 sorcery, 98—99, 1oof
Execution of Private Slovik, The (Johnson), social criticism, 115, 116
staircase scene, 97f, 98
Federal Theater, 4 subjectivity, 93—4
Figures in a Landscape (Losey), 12, 14, symbolism, 98—100
142,
film 1438time,
noir, time DT,
theme,93-45 114 95
Film Reader 4 (periodical), 148n tragedy, 114
172
 victim theme, 110f discourse, 26, 29, 34
visual style, 13 firing squad scene, 37—41, 39f
voice-over, 95, 100, 107—8, 109, III flash cuts, 22, 150n
Gow, Gordon, 62, 63 heroism theme, 28—9
Great War and Modern Memory, The (Fus- hypocrisy theme, 18—19, 34, 41
sell), r50n interrogation scene, 31-3, 32—3f
Guard, Dominic, 91, 97f, 110f Losey on, I1, 12, 16, 17, 22, 34, 36, 41.
Gun in His Hand, A (Losey), 4—5 150n
Gypsy and the Gentleman, The (Losey), 2 as male-centered film, 142
mock execution scene, 36—7, 38f
Hartley, L. P., 14, 90, 91-3, 102, 113 narration, 22—3, 31, 34
Heflin, Van, 8 prologue, 23-6, 25—6f
Henderson, Brian, 148n religion, 39—41
Hiroshima mon amour (Resnais), 91 ritual theme, 35—6, 37, 40
Hirsch, Foster, 1, 11, 72—3 screenplay, 17
Hitchcock, Alfred, 123 social criticism, 16—20
Hollywood Ten, 5 soundtrack, 23, 26
Hollywood U.K. (Walker), 44 victimization theme, 32, 41
House Committee on Un-American Activi- visual style, 22-6
ties, § Klein, Joanne, 93
houses, 12—13 Knox, Alexander, 87
in The Go-Between, 95—6, 97f, 98, Koch, Howard, 9
rorf Kozloff, Sarah, 149n, 152n
in The Servant, 45, 47-9, 50 Kubrick, Stanley, 20, 21
Housman, A. E., 26, r50n
Houston, Beverle, 73, 152n La guerre est finie (Resnais), 91
19 Landau, Ely, 118
How Many Miles to Babylon? (Armstrong), | Lampell, Millard, 9
Hubley, John, 2 landscapes, 12—13
Hughes, Howard, 5 La Truite (Losey), 2, 14, 119, 142-3
Huppert, Isabelle, 142 Laughton, Charles, 5
Lawless, The (Losey), 6, 7, 143, 146
Ibsen, Henrik, 143 Leighton, Margaret, 91, 110f
Intimate Stranger, The (a.k.a. Finger of Lewis, Sinclair, 4
Guilt) (Losey), 9 Living Newspaper, The, 4
intruder motif, 8, 131 Losey (Rissient), 6
Invisible Storytellers (Kozloff), 149n, Losey, Joseph
152n
Italy, background,
9 blacklisting, 1, 3—4
5—6, 9
as collaborator, 2-3, 9, 12, 134
Jackson, Glenda, 117, 124f, 125f, 130f, Hollywood period, 1, 4-9, 146
131f Pinter and, 13, 42—4, 114, 134, 147,
Jacob, Gilles, 1 148n, 151n
Jane Eyre (Stevenson), 73, 152—-3n pseudonyms, 9, 148n
Jones, Evan, 2 themes, 1, 6, 8, 1oO—-11, 13—15, 64, 116,
131, 145-7
Kauffmann, Stanley, 148 at Venice Film Festival, 53
152n Love, Patti, 143
Kawin, Bruce, 69, 73, 133, 148n, 151n, Losey, Patricia, 3, 143
Keyes, Evelyn, 8
Kinder, Marsha, 73, 152n M (Losey), 146
King and Country (Losey) MacDonald, Richard, 2, 12, 45
class conflict, 34—6, 39—41 Macready, George, 20
court-martial sequence, 19, 29-30, 34—5 Making Pictures: The Pinter Screenplays

173 |
critical response to, 18, 20, 31 (Klein), 93
death theme, 27 Masefield, John, 150n
didacticism, 19—20 Matalon, Vivian, 36, 38f
 Matter and Memory (Bergson), 153n Point of View in the Cinema (Branigan),
Maugham, Robin, 42, 43, 49, 55 r49n
Mayor of Casterbridge, The (Hardy), 3 Political Cabaret, 4
McKern, Leo, 34 Proust, Marcel, 3, 14, 91, 148n
Menjou, Adolphe, 20 Proust Screenplay, The (Pinter), 148n
Mercer, David, 2 Prowler, The (Losey), 2, 7-8, 14
message films, see social criticism
Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 4 Rack, The (Lavin), 19
MGM, 4 realism, subjective, see subjectivity
Miles, Sarah, 45, 143 Redgrave, Michael, 94, r11f
, Mills, Reginald, 2 Redgrave, Vanessa, 143
Milne, Tom, 7, 9, 10, 13, 16, 61, 63, 151n Rhetoric of Filmic Narration, The (Browne),
Mindscreen (Kawin), 148n, 149n, 152n 148n
mindscreen narration, definition, 69 Rissient, Pierre, 6
mirrors, 12 ritual, centrality of, 35-6
in The Romantic Englishwoman, 125f RKO, 5
in The Servant, 51, 526, 56 Romantic Englishwoman, The (Losey)
Mr. Klein (Losey), 8, 12-13, 142 Baden-Baden scene, 122—4
Modesty Blaise (Losey), 1 as comedy, 117, 120, 123
Mosley, Nicholas, 13, 64 defacing scene, 128—9, 130f
Mother (Pudovkin), 151-2n fantasy, 119—20, 128
mystery, 63, 147 fantasy scenes, 124f, 130f, 133—6
feminism, 127—9
Naming Names (Navasky), 6 final sequence, 129, 131f, 138-42
ual films irony, 126, 138
narration, 13—14, 148—9n; see also individ- interrogation scene, 121
art-cinema narration, 65, 149—5on lift scenes, 122~3, 136-7
character narration, 147 Losey on, 117, 118, 119, 132
classical narration, 65 murror shot, 12, 125f
mindscreen narration, definition, 69 narration, 14-15, 117, 119, 132-3, 136—
149n opening shot, 122
Narration in the Fiction Film (Bordwell), 7> 147
Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method production history, 118
(Genette), 148—9n reflexivity, I21, 124
narratology, 148n seduction scene, 136-7
Navasky, Victor, 6 as social criticism, 137—8, 141
NBG, 4 story and discourse, 120—1
Nelligan, Kate, 126 subjectivity, 119-20, 132
Nostromo (Conrad), 3 as thriller, 117, 123, 126, 138—40
Notes on Cinematography (Bresson), 11 train scene, 122—3 .
Now, Voyager (Rapper), 124 : Romantic Englishwoman, The (Wiseman),
13-14, 117, 118, 132, 138
O’Brien, Pat, 7 Russell, Ken, 12
3 ? Clifford,
Odets, 4 nussiasyan,4Robert,
b 7
Owen, Alun, 2, 10
Owen, Wilfred, 23 Sassard, Jacqueline, 67, 7of, 79f, 84
Sassoon, Siegfried, 23
Paths of Glory (Kubrick), 19, 20-1 Saturday Night and Sunday Morning
Phillips, Gene, 6 (Reisz), 44
Pinter, Harold, 14-15 Schary, Dore, 5
as actor, 80 Scholes, Robert, 93, 153n
background, 42-3 Scott, Adrian, 5
causality, 62-3 Secret Ceremony (Losey), 12
Losey and, 13, 42—4, 114, 134, 147, Servant, The (Losey)
148n, 151n ambiguity, 62—3
Losey on, 43-4 ball game scene, 53f, 53-4, 57
174
 causality, 62-3 story, definition, 13, 148n
class conflict, 44—5 Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in
critical response to, 42, 44, 51-3, 62—3 Fiction and Film
dinner scene, 56—7 (Chatman), 148n
discourse, 51, 67—72 Stranger on the Prowl (Losey), 9
discovery scene, 52 subjectivity, 13-14, 149—5on
expressionism, 57 in Accident, 65—6
“Faust scene,” 58f, 58, 60 in The Go-Between, 93-4
first sequence, 46—7, 48 in The Romantic Englishwoman, 119-20,
games, 53f, 55, 57-8, 59f, 60, 61 132
homosexuality, 57, 58, 62
house, role of, 45, 47-9, 50 Taylor, John Russell, 90, 153n
Losey on, 2, II, 12, 42, 45, 58, 61 time
mirrors, 12, 51, 52f, 62 Bergson, Henri, 91, 153n
+54 Losey on, 90-1
Mountset country house scene, 49f, 51, clock time vs. real time, 91
mystery, 63 Pinter on, 89, 90-1, 93
narration, 57, 61, 68, 7of, 71f, 72-7 theme of, 14, 88—9
orgy scene, 58, 59f, 60—1 Time and Free Will (Bergson), 153n
restaurant scene, 51, 53—4 Time Without Pity (Losey), 9, 10, 63
screenplay, 43—4 To Catch a Thief (Hitchcock), 123
seduction scene, 5o—1 Trauner, Alexandre, 2
squabbling-couple scene, 5 5—6 Trumbo, Dalton, 7
visual style, 46, 51-4, 57
women, 142 United War Relief, 4
Servant, The (Maugham), 42, 43, 49, 55
sexuality, Io—11 Villiers, James, 29
Seyrig, Delphine, 80 visual style, 12—13, 43
Sheen, Martin, 17 in Accident, 13, 64
Simon, John, 153n in King and Country, 22-6
Sleeping Tiger, The (Losey), 9, 11 in The Servant, 46, 51-4, 57
Slocombe, Douglas, 45 Waiting for Lefty (Odets), 4
Slovik, Eddie, 17 Walker, Alexander, 44, 53, 62, 63, 90
Snowden, Alec, 148n Ward, John, 153n
social criticism, 6, Io-11, 145 Wide Angle (periodical), 149n

141 138
in The Go-Between, 115, 116 Williams, Tennessee, 2
in King and Country, 17-20 Wilson, George, M., 149n
in Romantic Englishwoman, The, 137-8, | Wiseman, Thomas, 13—14, 117, 118, 132,

Spenser, Jeremy, 38f women, 85, 119, 127, 142—4

Steaming (Dunn), 3, 143 World War I, 17, 23, 39-40
Steaming (Losey), 3, 119, 142, 143-4
Stockwell, Dean, 7 York, Michael, 67, 71f, 78f
Stoppard, Tom, 14, 134, 137 Young, Vernon, 53

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