There came a time this past Sunday of watching FX’s Fargo when I was greeted with some strange news: they were about to adapt Black Narcissus (1947) into a television series. The idea immediately seemed confounding, and I personally wondered how anyone could expand upon the original. After all, the film is a Technicolor masterpiece, featuring a brilliant performance by Deborah Kerr, finding collaborators Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (known collectively as The Archers) producing this magical film that has only grown more extravagant with age. How do you possibly improve upon perfection?
As I took to various conversations, the topic eventually shifted from the “Why?” of this event to The Archers themselves. By all accounts, they’re one of the greatest directing duos in film history. How could they not be, especially after making the masterful ballet movie The Red Shoes (1948) that turned the very idea of dance into some wondrous hallucination? Everything in my limited knowledge would suggest that they were charismatic, worthy of further praise. And yet, when the conversation eventually turned to their third-biggest movie – The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) – I found myself at a loss for words.
I had never seen it for a variety of reasons. For starters, it’s difficult to figure out how you’re supposed to interpret a title like that. The name “Colonel Blimp” has a humorous ring to it, and there is this part of me that wondered if it was a humorous take on war. When I learned that it was named for a comic strip (but not adapted from), it became even more confusing. Why would I even want to watch this three-hour movie? What genuine substance was there even for this movie that made me predict that it was The Great Ziegfeld (1936) of war movies: a reverent treatment of its subject but overall a drag of dated spectacle.
I should know better than to tempt The Archers because they understand craft far better than I currently do. It’s a title with loaded meaning because it conveys so much that is constantly at odds with itself. It’s a war movie that can’t even acknowledge the name of its protagonist, Clive Wynne-Candy, opting for something comical. Even the opening credits suggest more of a fanciful affair and not some rugged, down in the muck experience. With an embroidered knitting, the credits roll and introduce the world to the audience. It’s delightful and maybe unassuming in the best ways possible. You’ll get five minutes in and still not fully understand the tone.
What should be stated up front is that the story of Candy is one that’s not actually rooted in combat. It’s like the “Peace” chapters of “War & Peace,” where the conversation is more attractive than any lifted gun. The biggest action comes from small scuffles around a table, eagerly trying to maintain their own form of peace while acknowledging what needs to be done to win the war. There’s an addiction to achieving that peace, but it only makes everyone more trigger-happy, capable of causing wars within themselves, losing at relationships even as their respect and ranks rise.
As a fan of symbolic opening scenes, I am immediately drawn in by what’s at play. As the credits fade, the camera finds Candy at a pool. Soldiers are entering announcing that they’re about to participate in a “mock battle.” Things get out of hand and soon one of them is wrestling Candy, whose bald, pudgy form looks unpleasant to him. With excellent delivery by Roger Livesey, he runs through a rather concise prelude. He accuses the man who is wrestling him to the ground that he doesn’t understand why Candy is fat, bald, or has a thick, bushy mustache. The appearance is important to him, capturing a legacy that begins to be explored as the elder Candy is dunked in the pool while a younger one emerges at the other end.
It’s trick photography at its best and gets the audience directly in the mood for what’s at stake. We’re about to watch this man move up the military ladder throughout the wars. On IMDb, it’s labeled (among other things) as a romantic drama, and that’s an interesting twist on what this field usually is. Then again, it’s the division in Candy’s own life that comes into play as suddenly he discovers that prolonging romance in favor of the war has only continued to hurt him.
At three different points, this is represented by Kerr. It’s probably the most heartbreaking detail in the whole story, and yet it so explains how Candy can lose sight of his own humanity. There’s Edith Hunter, Barbara Wynne, and Johnny Cannon. All three play different roles in his life, and yet you begin to understand what draws him to each. There is some symbolism of happiness that he once obtained, his own proverbial “Rosebud” to plagiarize Citizen Kane (1941). He keeps wanting to reach for it but, as time goes on, he realizes that his moment has passed.
One of the most difficult things about the film is that the whole thing is unassuming. Sure there’s plenty of humor and small memorable moments from various characters, but the first hour can be quite sluggish, especially for those who like heavy uses of conflict in their story. This is where flamboyance is rare, wit is achieved through conversation, and sometimes the meaning is so subliminal that you’ll be lucky to guess where it is at all.
There’s a mundanity that is intentional, itself subversive to the war genre. By reflecting Candy at his most immobile, it almost raises questions on the value of leadership when it’s not experienced firsthand. These people are essential to the war, and yet there is no shell shock in sight, no trenches or gunfire being shot their way. They are enjoying a feast and laughing about how they feel immortal. It’s a time where nothing is important and yet everything is. They just choose to ignore it, believing that they’ll eventually outgrow their foolish ways and settle into respectable citizens… once the war is over.
My favorite detail of the whole film is the most jarring at first. While there’s comedy, a lot of it is derived from the score. It feels dissonant, and yet it’s essential. Allan Gray’s score is at times bombastic, contradicting any seriousness to a scene. And yet, it’s perfect for reflecting the own instability of Candy, who wants to be taken seriously but has issues focusing on that goal. Whether or not he has good intentions, the oaf is given comical theme music to reflect his own tragedy, of not being what he’s needed for at the right time. In that way, he’s no different from the comic strip. In fact, he begins to look like Colonel Blimp as he grows older, literally becoming that cartoon that’s playing on the score.
It’s a gorgeous movie and one that becomes more engrossing the longer that you stick with it. At first, it’s meaningless fun with plenty of sharp dialogue and character moments reflective of naïve youth. However, like all good epics, it becomes more matured as things continue on, and then scenes of war pave way for personal reflection. We’ve seen Candy through The Boer War, and then The First and Second World War. All of these moments are crucial for global politics in the early 20th century. It’s also so tumultuous that you can’t believe that a figure seen as significant spent most of it lounging about, laughing while others died.
Which is an issue unto itself. Candy is painfully immortal, making the “Death” of the title much more difficult to register. If anything, it’s a series of things in the film that is slowly taken away from him. The most noteworthy is his love, whom he keeps trying to replace and finds himself unable to fully get there. By the time that he gets to Johnny, she’s driving him around with this perky attitude. She’s more of a hallucination of what Edith or Barbara was. Still, the vague reminder of a former self brings a bittersweet touch, making you wonder how much regret lives permanently in his brain.
Did he change because of the war? Yes and no. He changed in the same way that all English people did, finding a continent riled in destruction and financial ruin. There would always be a need for militaristic safety, and it’s what kept him employed for so long. However, he never got to experience the love that he felt like he deserved. He only got to look at it, feeling distant in his most passionate moments, realizing that his youth had slipped and all that he could do was fantasize, looking from the back of a cab and wonder what life could’ve been if he had been a more conscientious man decades ago.
It’s the irreparable damage that you’d expect from a story like this. The only major difference is that it didn’t happen on a battlefield. It happened in his heart, finding the “mock battle” of his life reaching ridiculous tedium, feeling too complacent in uneventful tasks. What did his life truly mean when it was reduced to meetings that perfectly feel overbearing to the audience? By the time that the tone and pacing settle for the audience, it’s too late for good times. Like all nostalgic works, we’re looking backward and hoping to redo our own experiences.
By the end, Candy is cantankerous, going on news programs and complaining that those who didn’t fight in the war don’t understand what it’s like. In fact, Candy goes so far as to argue that he’s been at war longer than his interviewer has been alive. While that’s a brag on his part, it’s a painful reminder of how war never truly goes away sometimes. In the 21st century, The War on Terrorism is near clocking 20 years. That’s a horrifying sight and one that puts into perspective the idea of war veterans who feel like they’ll never escape their past, for better and worse.
It’s a sympathetic portrait brought to life with such grand detail. The Archers have this gift for making visually stunning experiences that draw the viewer in, managing to exist not in a genre often but of the human condition. They’re more observant towards the people whose lives have been put into even metaphorical peril, trying to understand the temptation that guides their life and how they ever seek to get out of it. Does Candy deserve redemption by the end? In some ways, you can buy into that read even if he’s an arrogant jerk at times who never quite becomes a better person. Sure we’ve come to tolerate him, in large part because there’s something in the atmosphere that makes these moments pop more.
Even without saying what that is, The Archers have helped us see time through the eyes of a man who has been passed by. It’s in their creative little twists, such as the recurring presence of Kerr or how Candy slowly looks more like Colonel Blimp with each passing segment. Still, there’s some hope at first that the war will end, and there’s a desire to grow a hearty mustache and be seen as a powerful leader. What happens when that comes and the war isn’t over? It’s frankly hard to say, and given that it’s symbolized by a lack of change in his life, it’s all the more impressive. A part of him is dead, though it may be too subtle to warrant the title to some.
While it’s my third-favorite of The Archers, it’s further evidence that they’re premiere directors on the British front. They’re artful, tasteful and full of constant wonder. Who knew that this story even needed to be told like this? The gimmick was enough to test, but for three hours it slowly peels back the armor to reveal how vulnerable of a person Candy is, and how we’re all a bit buffoonish when it comes to the passage of time. We want to believe that we’ll do better tomorrow. But what happens when tomorrow comes and your youth is completely gone? Was it worth it? It’s a bittersweet notion and one that perfectly summarizes this funny, compelling, and sometimes even sad epic that is unlike anything I’ve seen. It makes me want to see more of their work right away, which thanks to The Criterion Channel is a definite maybe. Thanks, guys.
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