David Lean

Melanie Williams

• Publisher: Manchester University Press
• Year: 2016
• Print ISBN: 9780719073854
• eBook ISBN: 9781526110848
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism in Poetry
• Index: Literature

'A rule of mine is this', said William Goldman in 1983, 'there are always three hot directors and one of them is always David Lean.' One of the best known and most admired of British film makers, David Lean had a directorial career that spanned five decades and encompassed everything from the intimate black-and-white romance of Brief Encounter (1945) to the spectacular Technicolor epic of Lawrence of Arabia (1962). This book offers comprehensive coverage of every feature film directed by Lean, yielding new insights on the established classics of his career as well as its lesser-known treasures. Its analysis prioritises questions of gender and emphasises the often-overlooked but highly significant recurrence of female-centred narratives throughout Lean's career. Drawing extensively on archival historical materials while also presenting nuanced close readings of individual films, David Lean offers a fascinating and original account of the work of a remarkable British film maker.

1

Introduction

When the critic Graham Fuller interviewed David Lean in 1985, his opening observation was that the director’s films were ‘not everyone’s cup of tea.’¹ Leaving aside the apposite Englishness of the metaphor, prompting recollection of all the cups of tea that punctuate Lean’s masterpiece Brief Encounter (1945), Fuller was quite right to detect a certain degree of critical ambivalence towards the work of David Lean. On one hand, Lean had an incredibly high standing in the industry and retained that reputation even during his long fallow period in the 1970s and early 1980s. ‘A rule of mine is this’, said William Goldman in 1983: ‘there are always three hot directors and one of them is always David Lean.’² Many of his films had been regarded as cinematic touchstones by his contemporaries, directors such as George Cukor, Billy Wilder and William Wyler, and continued to be highly influential among the next generation of filmmakers, with Steven Spielberg in particular crediting Lean with inspiring him to become a director. But while Lean had the admiration of his peers, a brace of Oscars and other awards, and could boast impressive box-office figures for many of his films, critical acclaim was often much harder to come by. As one journalist remarked in 1985: ‘The curious thing about Sir David Lean is that everyone likes him except the critics.’³ This imbalance of opinion was very clearly demonstrated by the 2002 results of Sight and Sound’s ten-yearly poll of the greatest films of all time. Lean enjoyed an extremely strong position in the list based solely on directors’ opinions: in their estimation, Lawrence of Arabia (1962) was the fourth greatest film and Lean the joint-ninth greatest director of all time. By contrast, in the equivalent lists compiled from the votes of critics, Lean and his films were absolutely nowhere to be seen.⁴

David Lean’s lesser reputation among critics is a legacy of the initial establishment of the auteur theory in Anglo-American critical circles. In Andrew Sarris’s founding text of English-speaking auteurism, The American Cinema, Lean was placed under the pejorative heading of ‘less than meets the eye’, a deliberately iconoclastic grouping into which Sarris decanted all the directors whose industry veneration he felt belied their essential emptiness of vision (admittedly Lean was in very good company there, next to the likes of John Huston, Elia Kazan, Carol Reed, and his admirers Billy Wilder and William Wyler).⁵ A few years earlier, the first issue of the influential British-based magazine Movie had included an infamous directorial histogram and editorial which denigrated British cinema for its ‘lack of what we would consider as talent’.⁶ David Lean was no exception to this general rule, placed in the category ‘competent or ambitious’ (an ambiguous pairing) with his most recent film The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) specifically singled out for exemplifying the bogus formula for the ‘quality’ picture.⁷ It is instructive to compare Lean’s reputation at this time with another British director who certainly was the object of auteurist adoration, Alfred Hitchcock. Whereas Hitchcock’s British work was characterised by the auteur critics as preliminary practice for a talent that reached full fruition within the Hollywood studio system, by comparison Lean’s early British work was generally seen as the highpoint of his career before it was swallowed up by overblown international epics.⁸ As Robert Horton points out, ‘Lean’s critical profile suffered from the timing’ of the auteurist moment; just at the point when ‘Hitchcock needed championing, Lean was busy winning Oscars’⁹ for his epic films, and appeared to be critically invulnerable. However, on a personal level, this was far from the truth. Lean was profoundly affected by critical disdain for his work, still able to quote word for word a slighting review from twenty years before. ‘The critics are the intellectuals. I’m always frightened of intellectuals’,¹⁰ he admitted in 1984, referring back to long-standing feelings of intellectual inferiority compounded by having been overshadowed at school by his academically gifted younger brother Edward. For that reason, when critics disapproved of a film, their judgement had a particular force: ‘There it is written down – The Times says so, the Daily Telegraph says so, the Daily Mail says so, all shades of opinion – and it must be true.’¹¹ Lean’s worst fears were realised by the excoriating reviews he received for Ryan’s Daughter (1970) and the blow they dealt to his confidence was a strong contributory factor in his fourteen-year absence from the screen thereafter.

With the respectful and celebratory reception of Lean’s final film, A Passage to India (1984) – ‘An old master’s new triumph’¹² announced the cover of Time magazine – and the ‘chorus of awe-struck hosannas’¹³ that greeted the 1989 restoration of Lawrence of Arabia, it might appear that the critical battle had been won, and that Lean’s advocates now outnumbered his detractors. No longer would the director be disparaged as ‘safely schematic, blandly middlebrow and British, the sort of artist for whom knighthoods in the arts were invented’.¹⁴ Even those who had, in Kevin Jackson’s words, ‘lavish[ed] praise on his early British films – particularly the Dickens adaptations – the better to disdain his international epics’¹⁵, would have to revise their opinion of Lean’s later achievements in the light of the reappraisal of Lawrence. Up to a point this is true, and the publication in the mid-1990s of Kevin Brownlow’s brilliant and definitive biography of David Lean certainly helped to consolidate the growing sense that he was a filmmaker worth taking seriously.¹⁶ Even so, there still remain notable pockets of that critical ambivalence towards his work detected by Fuller. There was a striking example in Sight and Sound’s coverage of David Lean’s centenary in 2008, for instance. A series of articles on Lean as film editor, on his representation of empire and on the restoration of his films was prefaced with a short introduction by the magazine’s editor Nick James in which he acknowledges that Sight and Sound had been ‘routinely dismissive’ of Lean’s work in the past and goes on to explain:

If that seems absurd in retrospect, then we must yet acknowledge that Lean’s films are more complex in their craftsmanship than in their conception. That he made enduringly gripping and entertaining films is because he believed in a critically unfashionable kind of total cinema, one in which every moment counts towards the primacy of thrilling the audience … that’s what he was: a hugely successful populist director with no Boswell on hand to raise his reputation, as Truffaut did with Hitch-cock. We’re not aiming to laud Lean in quite that way here, but we do want to give him his due.¹⁷

Somewhat damning Lean with faint praise, James admits the popularity and stylistic verve of Lean’s films but still insists that technical craft outpaced conceptual complexity, echoing critiques first made back in the 1960s. The tone suggests that obligation rather than enthusiasm may have driven the editorial decision to devote space to the director, culminating in the final statement on giving Lean no more than ‘his due’, declining any suggestion that they might ‘laud’ him – even on the occasion of his centenary.

In contrast, this book aims to give Lean his due and laud him; indeed, it would be impossible for me to do the former without doing the latter. David Lean remains one of the outstanding directors of British as well as world cinema, and thus an essential addition to a book series dedicated to British filmmakers. As Peter Hutchings has noted, scholarship on British cinema has exhibited a tendency ‘to shy away from making evaluative judgements’, to claim the significance of particular texts on the grounds that they are ‘interesting’ rather than because they are ‘good’.¹⁸ There is very cogent reasoning behind the valorisation of ‘the interesting’ as equally worthy of attention as ‘the good’ and a retreat from a purely evaluative agenda of film studies in favour of more pluralistic concerns. However, Hutchings suggests that ‘despite all the new work being done on British film, evaluative claims are not being made nearly enough’¹⁹, an argument with which I fully concur. So while this book gives full consideration to the many ways in which Lean’s body of work is interesting, it also aims to demonstrate the ways in which it ‘deploys the resources of cinema in an imaginative, intelligent and distinctive manner’;²⁰ in short, why these are also good films. To argue that David Lean made good films might seem to be pushing at an open door. But, as I’ve shown, the fact remains that Lean still occupies a strangely subaltern position within British film’s critical culture. It is telling, for example, that this is the first full-length study of all the director’s films to originate from a British author and press, nearly all previous scholarly overviews of that kind having come from the United States. What the journalist Hollis Alpert observed in 1965 still seems surprisingly true: that Lean is somehow ‘less honoured in his own country than anywhere else’.²¹ Yet his films offer one of the most triumphantly affirmative and convincing answers I can think of to Peter Wollen’s question to British cinema scholars, ‘Which are the films that really count, the ones we wouldn’t mind seeing again and again? … The British cinema that interests me is a cinema which produces great films – films which are masterpieces.’²²

The original auteurist grounds for dismissing Lean frequently rested on his perceived impersonality as a filmmaker, a criticism which perplexed Lean: ‘they tell me that I am not a personal filmmaker. I don’t know what they mean by this. Everything goes through me from script to final print, and nothing is done which is not a part of me.’²³ The archival materials available attest to his full involvement in all aspects of his films, with notes pertaining to every single stage of production from the initial germ of an idea right through to the tiniest of final editorial tweaks. Sometimes this attention to infinitesimal detail was presented as the cornerstone of Lean’s achievement, as with George Stevens Jr’s quotation from Dickens – ‘Genius is the infinite capacity for taking pains’ – at the gala presentation of Lean’s American Film Institute lifetime achievement award. However, the director’s total commitment to the film in hand could equally be presented in a negative light as suffocatingly perfectionist, ‘like being made to build the Taj Mahal out of toothpicks’²⁴ as Robert Mitchum memorably remarked. This is the David Lean of the icy stare and the long impenetrable silence, of whom a technician on Kwai allegedly complained: ‘The bloody perfectionist!

He shot thirty seconds of film a day and then sat on a rock and stared at his goddamn bridge!’²⁵ Some of those kinds of stories are undoubtedly apocryphal exaggerations but Lean’s commitment once a film was under way was ind...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• List of Plates
• Series Editors’ Foreword
• Acknowledgements
• 1 Introduction
• 2 Cutting and Coward: David Lean’s early career and In Which We Serve (1942), This Happy Breed (1944) and Blithe Spirit (1945)
• 3 Nineteenth-century blues: Great Expectations (1946), Oliver Twist (1948), Madeleine (1950) and Hobson’s Choice (1954)
• 4 Women in love: Brief Encounter (1945), The Passionate Friends (1949) and Summer Madness (1955)
• 5 Men of vision: The Sound Barrier (1952), The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) and Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
• 6 Feminising the epic: Doctor Zhivago (1965), Ryan’s Daughter (1970) and A Passage to India (1984)
• Filmography as Director
• Bibliography
• Index