I was just about to go home when I heard the news via Twitter that special effects wizard Ray Harryhausen died today. Ray Harryhausen was most famous for creating a form of stop-motion animation called Dynamation. Although some of the effects he created appear very dated compared to modern techniques involving computer graphics, some of his creations have stood the test of time so well that they have become classics of the art. The film Jason and the Argonauts features a swordfight involving seven animated skeletons, which is rightly held up as a shining example of his technical mastery, but my favourite sequence from that film is the following excerpt, in which the stop-motion technique works superbly well at conveying the colossal scale and supernatural presence of the giant Talos. It certainly had me on the edge of my seat when I first saw it.
This clip is rendered even more evocative by the fact that the sound the metallic scraping sound the Talos makes is exactly the same as that generated by the turntable in my microwave oven when it goes round…
Last night I watched the classic 1947 film of Graham Greene‘s novel Brighton Rock. Well, I thought I should get into practice for my tough guy role as Head of School when I move down to the South coast next year. Anyway, this great film is worth watching for many reasons, including a superb performance by Richard Attenborough as the young gangster, Pinkie. But what struck me watching it last night is that this is a rare example of an authentic British Film Noir, not only in terms of the nihilistic central character but also because of the expressionistic use of lighting, deep shadows, and strangely disorienting camera angles, as exemplified in this scene.
Taking a break from lecture preparations last night I decided to have a look through my collection of DVDs and found a box of old films made by Ealing Studios, among which was The Cruel Sea. The central character in the film is Lieutenant Commander George Ericson (played by Jack Hawkins), officer in command of the corvette HMS Compass Rose as it carries out its duties as a convoy escort vessel during World War II. Made in 1953, this is a war film, of course, but it stands out from many films of that genre because it is not only utterly convincing in its stark depiction of life on the Atlantic (and, later, Arctic) convoys during World War II but also extremely bleak in what it says about the dehumanising effect of the psychological and moral stresses that arise in armed conflict.
The outstanding sequence in the film is the following, in which HMS Compass Rose is attempting to hunt down a suspected U-boat. There’s a strong signal on the ASDIC (sonar) which convinces Sub-lieutenant Lockhart (played by a young Donald Sinden) that they have made contact with a U-boat. Ericson guides his ship towards the target, only to find that there are men in the water – survivors of a merchant vessel previously sunk by a U-boat’s torpedo – precisely where he must drop his depth charges. Does he attack, and kill the men in the water? Or does he spare them, and risk the U-boat killing hundreds more if it escapes? Such are the horrible decisions that have to be made in wartime, and the burden of having to make them must be intolerable.
I think what I admire most about this sequence is that it avoids giving a clear resolution. Was there actually a U-boat? Lockhart was convinced the signal represented a submarine, but ASDIC was known to produce false detections from, e.g. shoals of fish or even interfaces between regions of cold and warmer water.
Early in the war, escort vessels only had depth charges with which to attack submarines. That meant that they had to be directly above the target in order to strike and that, in turn, meant losing the ASDIC contact during the attack. The limited capability of the escorts to actually destroy submarines did not render them useless, as they could keep an individual U-boat submerged and occupied for hours on end. However, when U-boats became more numerous they began to attack in packs, outnumbering the escorts and causing carnage among the merchant vessels. Allied shipping losses reached disastrous levels, especially in 1943 when Britain was close to losing the war by strangulation of supply across the Atlantic.
Later on, the Royal Navy developed a forward throwing weapon (“The Hedgehog”) which allowed ships to attack U-boats while maintaining sonar contact and thus drastically improved their effectiveness during a deliberate attack. This together, with improvements in radar and provision of long range aircraft gradually turned the tide and disaster was averted.
Hunting a U-boat involved a great deal of guesswork and anticipation, hugely helped by knowing something about submarine tactics gained through intelligence work; at one level it was a relentless game of cat-and-mouse – absorbingly depicted in the film – but also of course no kind of “game” at all.
If there was indeed a U-boat in the scene shown above, it might have been destroyed (although one might expect oil and debris to rise to the surface in that case) or it might have escaped. This uncertainty adds another dimension to the moral dilemma of whether or not to attack: if you’re certain it’s a U-boat then you might attack, but what if it’s a probability of 90%? 50%? 10%? What form of calculus can be used in the seconds you have to make your decision?
Well, that’s the meeting over with. Now I’m off for a bit of sightseeing before going back to Phoenix for the evening flight back to London. I might be able to post some pictures when I get back, but for the mean time I’ll sign off with this clip which Michael Way used to end the last talk of the meeting!
Last week’s post about Vincent Price reminded me of the film that really established him as a movie actor, the classic film noir Laura, in which he played the parasitic boyfriend of the eponymous heroine. If you’ve never seen the film, you should because in my opinion it hasn’t dated at all even though it was made in 1944. A song with the same name written for the film in 1945 (after the filming was completed) became a popular hit at the time as well as a favourite for jazz musicians, spawning numerous cover versions including one by the great Charlie Parker. Those of you who associate Bird with jagged bebop tunes played at a frenetic pace might be surprised to hear his take on this romantic ballad, particularly as it involves him playing with strings. The Charlie Parker with Stringssession recorded in 1950 received mixed reviews from the critics, primarily because many of the arrangements are a bit bland, but while I don’t like all these tracks, I do think Parker’s version of Laura is a gem in which he reveals a sensitive side to his music-making that isn’t often appreciated.
I’ve been meaning for a while to post a little tribute to British composer James Bernard, and this Bank Holiday Weekend has left me with a bit of time to do so now. Most of you are probably wondering who James Bernard is (or was; he died in 2001), but many of you will have heard his music many times without realising it, for he was the composer who wrote most of the music for the classic British horror movies made by Hammer Film Productions from the late 1950s through to the 1970s.
I’m by no means an aficionado of horror films – or films of any sort for that matter, as I rarely go to the cinema these days – but I do enjoy the opera, which is probably why I find these films so interesting. I don’t think they would have established themselves as the classics there without the unique atmosphere conjured up by James Bernard’s scores. Nor without such fine actors as Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, of course. The reason for this is that’s not much in these films in terms of purely visual horror – they work so well by creating an undertone of dread and impending terror so that the viewers’ own imaginations frighten them more than what’s shown on the screen. Viewed without the music, most of these films look pretty tame although I have to say I think The Devil Rides Out would have had me hiding behind the sofa even without the music!
Here is a little taste of what is probably his most famous score, for The Horror of Dracula (1958) which starred the inimitable Christopher Lee in the title role.
I think there are two things worth mentioning about this particular piece. The first is that the main theme is built around a three-note motif inspired by the three syllables of the name “Dra-cu-la”. Even more interestingly, Bernard doubles that line in the orchestra a whole tone higher, the resulting clash of harmonies producing that jarring sound that ratchets up the psychological tension. It’s a simple device, but remarkably effective, especially when combined with the unusual percussion.
The second thing that struck me listening to this just now is how reminiscent the entry of the high strings (about 0:49) is of the orchestration of the sea interludes from Benjamin Britten’s opera Peter Grimes. That’s not a surprise at all, because James Bernard was a childhood friend of Britten, and they worked together at various times in later life. Bernard’s music is often atonal and sometimes puts me in mind of Britten’s gripping opera A Turn of the Screw, based on the famous ghost story by Henry James, which also uses atonal techniques to produce an unsettling musical undercurrent. Alban Berg’s opera Lulu (a performance of which I reviewed here) also springs to mind as one in which the lack of a tonal centre in the music produces an atmosphere of disorientation and inner dread.
I’ve been meaning to post about this for some time, but never seemed to get around to it. Tonight I’m skipping dinner because I have to fast before yet another blood test tomorrow morning so I’ve got a bit of time on my hands to have a go.
Anyway, the topic for tonight’s dissertation is the following clip featuring Anthony Hopkins as the serial killer Hannibal Lecter from the film The Silence of the Lambs (1991), specifically the “quotation” from the Meditationsof Roman Emperor and stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius.
The quotation by Lecter reads
First principles, Clarice. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?
I always felt this would make a good preface to a book on particle physics, playing on the word “particular”, but of course one has to worry about using part of a film script without paying the necessary copyright fee, and there’s also the small matter of writing the book in the first place.
Anyway, I keep the Penguin Popular Classics paperback English translation of the Meditations with me when I go travelling; I can’t read Greek, the language it was originally written in. It is one the greatest works of classical philosophy, but it’s also a collection of very personal thoughts by someone who managed to be an uncompromisingly authoritarian Emperor of Rome at the same time as being a humble and introspective person. Not that I have ever in practice managed to obey his exhortations to self-denial!
Anyway, the first point I wanted to make is that Lecter’s quote is not a direct quote from the Meditations, at least not in any English translation I have found. The nearest I could find in the version I own is Book 8, Meditation X:
This, what is it in itself, and by itself, according to its proper constitution? What is the substance of it? What is the matter, or proper use? What is the form, or efficient cause? What is it for in this world, and how long will it abide? Thus must thou examine all things that present themselves unto thee.
Or possibly, later on in the same Book, Meditation XII:
As every fancy and imagination presents itself to unto thee, consider (if it be possible) the true nature, and the proper qualities of it, and reason with thyself about it.
There are other translated versions to be found on the net (e.g. here), all similar. Thus Lecter’s reference is a paraphrase, but by no means a misleading one.
A more interesting comment, perhaps, relates to the logical structure of Lecter’s quote. He starts by asking about a thing “in itself”, which recalls the ding an sich of Immanuel Kant. I suspect the Greek word used by Marcus Aurelius is noumenon, which refers to an object that can be known independently of the senses. The point is that Kant argued that the “thing in itself” is ultimately unknowable. Lecter continues by asking not what the thing (in this case a man) is in itself but what it (he) does, which is not the same question at all.
It has long struck me that this is similar to the way we work in physics. For example, we might think we understand a bit about what an electron is, but actually what we learn about is how it interacts with other things, i.e. what it does. From such behaviour we learn about what attributes we can assign to it, such as charge, mass and spin but we know these only through their interactions with other entities. The electron-in-itself remains a mystery.
If the reference to physics all sounds a bit nerdy, then I’ll make the obvious point that it also works with people. Do we ever really know what another person is in himself or herself? It’s only through interacting with people that we discover anything. They may say kind or nasty things and perform good or evil deeds, or act in some other way that leads us to draw conclusions about their inner nature. But we never really know for sure. They might be lying, or have ulterior motives. We have to trust our judgement to some extent otherwise we’re forced to live in a world in which we don’t trust anyone, and that’s not a world that most of us are prepared to countenance.
Even that is similar to physics (or any other science) because we have to believe that, say, electrons (or rather the experiments we carry out to probe their properties) don’t lie. This takes us to an axiom upon which all science depends, that nature doesn’t play tricks on us, that the world runs according to rules which it never breaks.
Anyway, that’s enough of physics, philosophy, Marcus Aurelius and Hannibal Lecter. I’m off to read a book while I fast for the rest of the evening. No fava beans and nice Chianti for me…
I chanced upon this the other day and couldn’t resist posting it here. It’s a short (52-minute) film featuring the wonderful Vincent Price in a one-man show consisting of dramatic recitations of stories by Edgar Allen Poe: “The Tell-Tale Heart“, “The Sphinx“, “The Cask of Amontillado” and “The Pit and the Pendulum“. As a huge fan of both Price and Poe I don’t really understand why I’ve never seen this before. This film was made in 1972, by which time his acting roles were largely self-parodying, playing camp villains in hammy horror films, roles I might add that he played with matchless gusto despite the often low quality of the scripts. But in this movie, filmed in front of a live audience, reminds us what a fine actor he was, his theatricality perfectly appropriate for Poe’s writing.
The whole movie’s a bit longer than I’d usually post in a blog item, but at least watch all of the first story which starts
TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?
Hmm.
Anyway, they just don’t make them like Vincent Prince any more…
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In the Dark 