Screenonline: Lost No More

Sean Connery and Dorothy Tutin in 'Colombe' (1960)Screenonline has just updated its homepage, the highlight being last year’s discovery of seventy previously missing BBC programmes at the Library of Congress (the picture is of Sean Connery and Dorothy Tutin in a 1960 production of Jean Anouilh’s Colombe). I contributed a piece about Much Ado About Nothing (1967), based on Franco Zeffirelli’s controversial 1965 National Theatre production with the soon-to-be-married Maggie Smith and Robert Stephens supported by Derek Jacobi and his Cornetto-salesman accent. I also wrote a short biography of Barry Ackroyd, Ken Loach’s regular cinematographer, recently Oscar-nominated for The Hurt Locker.

L’âge d’or

Cover of L'âge d'orToday sees the release of the BFI’s dual-format reissue of their 2004 DVD package containing both Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí film collaborations, Un chien andalou (1929) and L’âge d’or (1930), together with José Luis López-Linares and Javier Rioyo’s feature-length documentary A propósito de Buñuel (which is actually longer than the two main films put together). I contributed a short biography of Buñuel to the 2004 release, which has been reprinted in the booklet of the new one.

Here are the specs:

  • Presented in both High Definition and Standard Definition;
  • Selected scenes commentary for L’âge d’or by author and filmmaker Robert Short;
  • Un chien andalou (1929, 16 mins): the 1960 restoration of Buñuel and Dalí’s debut;
  • Alternative score for Un chien andalou by Mordant Music;
  • Commentary for Un chien andalou by Robert Short;
  • A propósito de Buñuel (2000, 99 mins, DVD only);
  • Filmed introduction by Robert Short (25 mins, DVD only);
  • 26-page illustrated booklet with essays, biographies and credits.

Originally, Un chien andalou was going to be the same standard-definition version as featured on the 2004 release, on the grounds that the BFI didn’t have anything better. Thankfully, and possibly as a result of discontented rumblings online (one person even pre-emptively gave the release a one-star Amazon review – since deleted – purely because of this), they were able to track down a duplicate 16mm negative of the 1960 restoration, which was the last one that Buñuel worked on directly. The result is a mixed bag – in many respects it’s a clear improvement on the older version, not least because there’s noticeably more detail visible, but the cropping is the same (impossible to ignore when it affects onscreen text) and the image clearly hasn’t undergone much if any proper restoration.

On the other hand, L’âge d’or looks magnificent. This needs a slight qualification, as a film of this age and lengthy history of suppression will never look pristine, as indeed this doesn’t. But simply reframing it at the correct 1.19:1 aspect ratio makes a significant difference over previous 1.33:1 versions (there’s much more visible headroom), meaning that even the DVD represents a marked advance over its predecessor. But the extra definition is where the upgrade really shines – clearly sourced not just from 35mm but from a cleaner print than anything I ever saw in cinemas (and I saw this film pretty regularly throughout the 1980s and 90s, as it would often get free screenings at places like the then Tate Gallery), it’s hard to imagine it coming across much more effectively.

Reviews

  • Cathode Ray Tube (Frank Collins);
  • The Digital Fix (Anthony Nield);
  • Mondo Digital (Nathaniel Thompson);
  • Rock! Shock! Pop! (Ian Jane).
  • Alice

    Cover of AliceThe BFI’s long-awaited dual-format edition of Jan Švankmajer’s Alice finally hits the streets today amid much anticipation and excitement: reviews so far have been mostly frothing raves. I’m credited as co-producer (though in truth my role was more of a consultant: Upekha Bandaranayake and technical supervisor James White deserve far more credit for the physical product) and also wrote several of the pieces in the booklet.

    The full specs:

    • Presented in both High Definition and Standard Definition;
    • Original Czech and alternative English-language audio;
    • Alice in Wonderland (1903, 9 mins): the first screen adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s classic;
    • Elsie and the Brown Bunny (1921, 8 mins, DVD only): early advertising film for Cadbury Bros. Ltd;
    • Alice in Label Land (1974, 12 mins): animated COI film explaining the 1973 food labelling laws;
    • Stille Nacht II: Are We Still Married? (1992, 3 mins): the Quay Brothers’ Alice-inspired music film;
    • Stille Nacht IV: Can’t Go Wrong Without You (1993, 4 mins): the white rabbit returns in the second of the Quay Brothers’ music films for His Name is Alive;
    • 34-page illustrated booklet with essays, film notes, biographies and credits.

    Although I’d been treated to glimpses of the new high-definition transfer during the production, it wasn’t until my own copy arrived a fortnight or so ago that I could appreciate the radical transformation. It’s not just the extra detail (though this makes a substantial difference in itself: Švankmajer has always been obsessed with texture and tactility) but the eye-poppingly punchy colours. Although it probably looked pretty similar back in 1988, when I first saw the film in 35mm, successive video editions have contrived to make it look as drab and battered as Švankmajer’s much-abused puppets. No longer.

    Being in the original Czech for what I think is the first time in an English-speaking country also makes a huge difference. Not so much for the language itself (both Czech and English soundtracks are pitched at children’s vocabulary level – my Czech is laughable, but I can follow much of it easily) as for the elimination of that jarring dislocation between the English soundtrack and the gigantic close-ups of Alice’s lip movements. In fact, since the girl in the closeups wasn’t even lead actress Krystyna Kohoutová (who lost a front tooth at a crucial moment), I can only assume that financial issues prevented splicing in clips of an English girl as an alternative, as that would have been far more aesthetically effective. Still, despite an obvious preference for the Czech, the BFI was absolutely right to retain the English soundtrack, and not just for nostalgia purposes – my six-year-old daughter loves the film, and there’s no way I’d have got her to sit through anything in subtitled Czech.

    My only real regret about such a superlative package is that it’s spoilt me to the extent that I now want to see Švankmajer’s entire output in Blu-ray in similarly peerless transfers sourced from the best possible 35mm materials (the BFI had access to the camera negative and original 35mm interpositive – in other words the mother lode). But I fear that this may take some considerable time, if it ever comes close to happening at all.

    Reviews

    Screenonline in December

    Lotte ReinigerBFI Screenonline has just updated its homepage, continuing its coverage of the Shadows of Progress postwar documentary project, and highlighting Soap Opera, Newsreels and the films of exactly a century ago (the latter part of an ongoing series that has already tackled 1906, 1907, 1908 and 1909).

    I spent much of the month compiling soap opera credits, a task about as soul-destroying as it gets – but I did get the chance to write the main entry on EastEnders. I also took the opportunity of writing up Arctic London (1929, Topical Budget 912-1), a newsreel about weather conditions rather similar to our recent ones.

    Shadows of Progress: the book

    Cover of Shadows of ProgressToday sees the publication of the first instalment of a major new BFI project that will ultimately span a DVD box, a comprehensive big-screen retrospective and online coverage across various platforms (Mediatheque, Screenonline, YouTube), all dedicated to exploring the surprisingly unspoilt territory of the British postwar documentary film.

    Two-and-a-half years ago, Land of Progress traced the history from 1931 to 1950, in the process covering what as far as most people are concerned was the golden age of British documentary. Since then, despite no drop in output (quite the reverse, in fact), serious critical study of later documentaries has generally been restricted to the more critically-favoured likes of the Free Cinema movement and the easily accessible output of British Transport Films. Meanwhile, the bulk of British documentary output from the period (roughly 1950-77) remained in the vaults of their production companies, sponsors or the BFI National Archive.

    So when the Shadows of Progress project was formally approved, part of the challenge was to contextualise this material. Though the forthcoming DVD box (a four-disc set, like its predecessor) would also include a 100-page book, it was felt that this wasn’t nearly enough, and that the project should also encompass a far more extensive 400-page survey of the entire postwar documentary scene. Overseen by Patrick Russell (the BFI’s Senior Curator of Non-Fiction) and James Piers Taylor, the book’s first half presents an overall history of the period, with particular focus on the various production companies and major sponsors and how they interacted. The second, longer, half focuses on individual filmmakers, with chapters commissioned from BFI staff (mostly non-fiction curators) and external experts:

    • ‘People, Productivity and Change: Peter Bradford’ by Timothy Boon;
    • ‘The World Still Sings: Jack Howells’ by Dave Berry;
    • ”I Don’t Think He Did Anything After That’: Paul Dickson’ by Leo Enticknap;
    • ‘Conflict and Confluence: Michael Orrom’ by Katy McGahan;
    • ‘Documentary on the Move: Tony Thompson, Bill Mason, Geoffrey Jones’ by Steven Foxon;
    • ‘Pictures Should Be Steady: James Hill’ by James Piers Taylor;
    • ‘Less Film Society – More Fleet Street: Peter Hopkinson’ by James Piers Taylor;
    • ‘Science and Society: Peter de Normanville, Sarah Erulkar’ by Ros Cranston & Katy McGahan;
    • ‘Shooting the Message: John Krish’ by Patrick Russell;
    • ‘Who’s Driving?: Peter Pickering’ by Patrick Russell;
    • ‘The Passing Stranger: Anthony Simmons’ by Michael Brooke;
    • ‘Meet the Pioneers – Early Lindsay Anderson’ by Erik Hedling;
    • ‘A Person Apart: Guy Brenton’ by Ros Cranston;
    • ‘Tracts of Time: Derek Williams’ by Patrick Russell;
    • ‘Savage Voyages: Eric Marquis’ by Rebecca Vick;
    • ‘Between Two Worlds: Derrick Knight’ by Bert Hogenkamp;

    My own chapter looked at the career of Anthony Simmons, who was probably the most commercially successful of these filmmakers after Lindsay Anderson. Happily, he’s still alive and well and was only too glad to reminisce about his career. In addition to conducting two interviews myself (one on video for the DVD box, another much longer one in private) and having long chats over various lunches, I also had access to Rodney Giesler’s four-tape interview conducted in 1997 for the invaluable BECTU History Project – and, most crucially, was able to watch virtually all the films that I needed to see, including his unfinished and unreleased debut Bulgarian Village (1947). In fact, I think the only one that I couldn’t get hold of was his feature debut Your Money or Your Wife (1960), but both Tony and the contemporary reviews suggested that I wasn’t missing much (and in any case it wasn’t a documentary).

    When writing a project like this, there’s a huge weight of responsibility that comes with the knowledge that this will be the definitive resource for postwar documentary research for some time to come – and that any mistakes will duly find themselves reprinted in countless follow-ups. It’s now several months since I proofread my final draft, and I’m not aware of any mistakes that have crept into my own contribution, so fingers crossed that things stay that way. And I’m greatly looking forward to finding the time to read the rest of the book.

    Reviews

    YouTube: The Sea in Their Blood (1983)

    When I started exploring the BFI’s new Blu-ray release of Peter Greenaway’s A Zed and Two Noughts, I found this wonderfully bonkers surprise nestling in the extras (it wasn’t included on the DVD), and had to publish some of it on YouTube. It’s nominally a serious COI-funded documentary about various aspects of Britain’s coastline, but you’d guess its director and composer (Michael Nyman) in seconds.