The Red Balloon (1955), plus other shorts

This is a gem of a film, only three reels (30 minutes) long, but too brilliant to deny being included on this 100 list.

I'll admit it, I often cry when I watch movies: often it's not too difficult if the film is doing its job, and the intensity of feeling and focus on the emotions in the cinema is so much more suited than anywhere else.

A small boy (the director's 12-year old son) is given a red balloon for a companion, and it soon becomes a character in its own right, every bit as young, cheeky and innocent as the boy himself. He takes it around with him whenever he can, on the grimy atmospheric streets of Paris, to his delight but to the annoyance of his parents and crusty schoolteacher, and the vengeful jealousy of other boys (the scene where the balloon is punctured and gradually deflates, is unbearably sad.)

But then there is the finale that always has me tearful, where all the other balloons in Paris - of whatever colour - fly up into the sky and descend on the little boy and carry him heavenwards, accompanied by a sentimental but memorable score by Maurice le Roux. Technically this is quite an accomplishment, although you can probably see the wires dangling above the balloons from time to time, not that this really matters. It's not too difficult to see where Spielberg got some of his artistic inspiration for films such as E.T. and Schindler's List (the little girl in red) from.

The Red Balloon (or Le Balon Rouge if you want to be French) is, to put it simply, a masterpiece - and I use that term very rarely.

Other Shorts

While we're covering the subject of classic short films, I'll take the opportunity to shoehorn one or two more favourites into this blog. (In the case of Laurel & Hardy, see Way Out West.) I have to mention what is for me The Red Balloon's partner piece, THE SNOWMAN (1982), also a film about childhood innocence with a heartbreaking ending. It's hard to look at the film objectively nowadays as it's become such a cultural phenomenon since then, and strictly speaking it was made for television (a regular on Channel 4 every Christmas), but Diane Jackson's animation of Raymond Brigg's illustrated children's book does have a special cinematic magic about it.

I remembered seeing a film on television decades ago,
and later discovered it was called COSMIC ZOOM (1968), about a boy and a dog in a boat (again, the simplicity of childhood theme) at which point the camera zooms out - out of the lake in Montreal where the boat is travelling, out to the edge of the Earth, then beyond the Sun, to the outer reaches of the galaxy, to the furthest known point in outer space - and then it zooms in - back to the Earth, to the lake, the boy, and then further in towards the blood cells of a small mosquito bite on his arm, to its infinite micro organisms (DNA was not developed back in 1968) right down to the atom.

Probably the most startling and avant garde of all short films ever made is UN CHIEN ANDALOU (1938), conceived by Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali as a deliberately abstract piece of work which is nonetheless nightmarishly bizarre in its concept and execution, and most of all, the images are striking. Any cinematic history lesson would be incomplete without a viewing of it.

Nor indeed, is the first ever cinema film ever made, known under no particular title other than LEAVING THE LUMIERE FACTORY (1895) (La Sortie des Usines Lumiere), a simple but historical piece of film where the employees at the factory run by the Lumiere brothers (who considered moving pictures just a novelty) stand outside the factory door at closing time. It was the first of a programme of 1-minute unedited moving picture sensations at the Grand Cafe of the Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, in December 1895 - the birth of cinema.

If you notice a French theme running through most of these short films, well, they were practically the inventors of cinema after all (Edison and a few others notwithstanding), and I'll claim a little birthday connection with cinema history here: it was on 19th March 1895, that those employees were filmed leaving the Paris factory.

Taxi Driver (1976)

Of all the brilliant films made by Martin Scorsese, this one to me is his most potent and haunting in its effect. The setting is 1970's New York, but in truth it could be anywhere, as it really concerns one man's isolation into his own personal hell, created (in part) by the society around him.

At its centre is a definitively intense performance by Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle; in essence an ordinary man (as the poster suggests) but with that explosive element hidden underneath - even in his gentle moments you sense an uneasiness. The idea for the film was borne out of the mind - one might say the soul - of writer Paul Schrader, after a particularly desolate spell of isolation, out of which came this searing screenplay with an uncomfortably real feel to it.

Scorsese's terrifying moodpiece is made that way by colourfully seedy photography by Michael Chapman and a brooding, menacing and typically eccentric score by the late Bernard Herrmann, whose last great contribution to cinema this was (passing away in 1975 before the film's release.) His score conveys not only the menace of the city streets, but also a nostalgia for that transitional era of 1960s/70s New York, with a lovely lingering jazz nighttime theme, ostensibly for the character of Betsy (as played by Cybill Shepherd), whom Travis adores from afar.

Like most elements of the city however, Bickle is set apart from her, as detached from the city and yet as much a part of it in the taxi he drives every night, with the various ill-assorted customers who sit in his back seat - including an aspiring politician (Leonard Harris), a homosexual pimp (a creepily hip performance by Harvey Keitel) and his 12-year old child prostitute Iris (the excellent Jodie Foster), whom Bickle takes on as a personal crusade as his state of mind becomes ever more intense and troubled. This provocative sub-plot hit a chord sufficiently for one young man, John Hinckley, to unsuccessfully assassinate President Ronald Reagan, out of his devotion to Jodie Foster in 1981.

Why Hinckley did this, or what motivates Bickle to want to kill his hero Charles Palantine never seems clear (there are also certain parallels with Bobby Kennedy's assassin); maybe it is just a general reflection of both men's frustrated desire to do something to change society.

Certainly Bickle's motives are more clearly felt when he unleashes his arsenal on the pimp's apartment where Iris is detained. Appropriately, it is Martin Scorsese himself who gives Travis the idea of using guns to solve his problems, in a scene-stealing cameo that's much more than just a Hitchcock-style director's appearance. That, and a later incident in a store where Travis just happens to be wandering in and shoots a burglar, and though he is shooed out of the shop before the police arrive, in his eyes the deed is a gesture of vigilante heroism to help clear up the streets.

The resulting bloodbath that comes at the film's climax, I remember well when I saw it in the autumn of 1989 at the sadly missed Ipswich Film Theatre; Scorsese had become a speciality there, ever since its gala opening with Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More in 1973. The film studies lecturer who introduced the film warned audiences how its violent conclusion might have a disturbing effect, and how it haunted me for some hours afterwards. Even by today's standards, when we are relatively attuned to violent images, this finale still packs a punch.

Bizarrely however, the story takes an unexpected turn when Bickle is cherished as a folk hero after his bloody rampage - with the unseen voice of Iris's father thanking Bickle for his actions. Continuity lets down the side a little here, as Bickle is seen back with the same long haircut he had from earlier in the film, and still doing his taxi round - almost as though nothing had happened. One of his passengers is Betsy, who has similarly warmed to him like the rest of the community, but Travis is wise to her aloofness now - or maybe just too far gone himself to engage in any normal relationship. The ending is unusually mellow for such a horrific climax preceding it, although it does offer a brief hint of the simmering violence underneath, as Travis adjusts his rear view mirror and a Walter Murch "backwards" sound effect conveys the state of the taxi driver's mind as he continues on his way.

A brilliant film, but one to be watched in the right frame of mind, for it preys upon loneliness and isolation and how they can bring one to the brink of despair, or in this case, violence.

Postcards from the Edge (1990)

Carrie Fisher has always entertained me, right from the time when I first saw her in Star Wars as the feisty Princess Leia to her occasional welcome appearances on TV chat shows or cameo roles in other films.

Since those halcyon days of the 1970s, I have often followed the fortunes of the three principal heroes of Star wars: Harrison Ford became the star he is today thanks to Han Solo and Indiana Jones, Mark Hamill's film career lived and died ultimately with the name of Luke Skywalker, and whilst Carrie Fisher similarly remains Princess Leia to most people, her alternative career path is perhaps the most interesting of the three.

Her talents as an acerbic wit only really came to the fore, ironically, when she nearly put an end to her life after an overdose of drugs (the cause was later diagnosed as manic depression.) The resulting rehabilitation process formed the basis of the novel Postcards from the Edge, telling the story (through multiple narratives) of Suzanne Vale, a thinly veiled reworking of Carrie Fisher: a semi-successful but hardly self-fulfilled star actress, who sought to solve life's missing pieces by taking drugs.

The book's anecdotal and only partially conventional structure was too abstract for Carrie to adapt into a film, and so her screenplay of the novel concentrates instead on one incidental part of the story, namely the relationship between Suzanne Vale and her mother - an equally veiled version of Debbie Reynolds, played with perfect aplomb and sympathy by Shirley MacLaine, who gently steals the show from her on-screen daughter Meryl Streep - among many others in an impressive cast gathered together by Mike Nichols, including Gene Hackman, Dennis Quaid, Richard Dreyfuss (himself a fellow manic depressive), and others.

Streep is the consummate actress, whether playing big roles or small, and her recent enduring success thanks to the likes of Mama Mia and Julie and Julia just shows how well her talent (and self-determination) has lasted her out. If I have only one qualm with this particular film, it is that I find it hard to imagine Meryl Streep as a semi-successful actress with identity crises. That role is, to most intents and purposes, Carrie Fisher. And maybe, if drugs, celebrity fame and manic depression hadn't got in the way, then maybe Carrie Fisher would have been as distinguished as Meryl Streep.

As it is, I'm quite happy with both of them. And the film.

Postcards from the Edge premieres in the UK at Odeon Leicester Square (right), January 1991.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Cinema thrives on innovation: right from when audiences ducked in horror at the sight of the Lumiere brothers' steam train coming towards them; The Jazz Singer was as much about the introduction of sound as about the story of a Rabbi's son's rise to redemption; in 1952 audiences gazed in wonder when This is Cinerama introduced the wonders of widescreen cinema; most recently James Cameron's Avatar has showcased the latest in state-of-the-art 3D animation.

Cartoon animation in particular - most especially cartoon characters mixed with live actors - has also been one of cinema's little fascinations: in the 1910's American showman Winsor McCay animated himself into the adventures of Gertie the Dinosaur, and Max Fleischer's Out of the Inkwell cartoons frequently had the main characters dipping their toes into the live action photographic world. There were major feature film examples such as Disney's Three Caballeros, Dangerous When Wet and Anchors Aweigh (the last two featuring Tom & Jerry). Up until 1988 the most notable example of animation mixed with live action was the chalk drawing adventure in Mary Poppins - but all of these were used as novelty interludes, and never dared to make a whole feature film in the process.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit topped all these animation milestones, but was a very enjoyable film too, for all that. Innovation is its keynote, but there's a great deal of charm in the enterprise, right from the moment of its opening "Maroon Cartoon" prologue, a slightly over-imaginative pastiche of Tex Avery and Tom & Jerry, which is suddenly halted by an irate shout of "Cut! Cut!" from an angry director (played by film producer Joel Silver), because one of his cartoon actors (aka. "toons") is not following instructions in the script - he should be concussed with stars in his eyes, not birds! We are then instantly transported into another world, where cartoon characters intermingle in the real world of 1940's Hollywood, with all the town's trappings and dangers.

As a cinematic novelty as well as a rattling good entertainment, a great deal of the credit has to go to three men - or at rough count, four. The fourth in question is someone called Steven Spielberg, who enthused about the project as a semi-tribute to Walt Disney and suggested it to his friend and disciple Robert Zemeckis, after the pair were looking for something to top the highly successful Back to the Future.

That was back in 1985, around which time Britain's top emerging character star was Bob Hoskins - the second key player in the making of Roger Rabbit - who gives an acting masterclass in how to perform alongside special effects. Nowadays it is quite commonplace for actors to work with non-existent characters created by CGI, but few of them can do it so well. Hoskins' acting technique has always been based on simple essentials: for the adventurous challenge of acting in a film with "nothing", he simply studied how his two children would play games at home with imaginary friends. Together with Zemeckis's technical assistance (and the presence of Roger's voice on-set), Hoskins brought his kudos as a tough guy of British cinema (in films such as The Long Good Friday and Mona Lisa), giving the film that extra edge, and to my delight, making what was at the time a rare family-type film for his bullet-headed personality.

Like Bugsy Malone was an affectionate spoof of gangster films using children and ice cream guns, so Roger Rabbit is a nostalgic pastiche of the Philip Marlowe detective thriller with cartoon weasels for goons, and a very oversexed femme fatale in the shape of Mrs Jessica Rabbit ("I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way"), suitably voiced by a husky Kathleen Turner (and also sung seductively by Spielberg's ex-wife Amy Irving.) Her frankly improbable figure is already well celebrated on the Internet, so there's no need for me to go into any further details, suffice to say she makes Marilyn Monroe's distinctive hour glass figure look positively ample by comparison.

The only slight drawback to Who Framed Roger Rabbit really, is Roger Rabbit himself. Irritatingly voiced by Charles Fleischer, the character is something of an amalgam of styles - from Tex Avery to Looney Tunes - with no substantial identity of his own. It's interesting 20 years later to compare the relation Roger has in the film to Jar-Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace years later, where in both cases a tremendous amount of expertise and special effects were at work, and most of the effort was spent just making the character able to appear on screen - although in Roger's case what's going on around him is much more interesting - and nostalgic.

Roger and Valiant hide in a cinema (showing cartoons of course), filmed at the State cinema, Grays (below)

Detractors of the film have said that the plot is thin; far from it, it's just that the cartoon part is the "showpiece". Indeed, there's a good deal of Chinatown-style complexity to the corporate conspiracy sub-plot (the dismantling of the tramcars to make way for the freeways) that screenwriters Jeffrey Price and Peter Seaman added to Garry K. Wolf's original story ("Who Censored Roger Rabbit"), investing a nice element of whimsy for the bygone era of 1940's California, now long gone: the end of an era for the great detective thriller, but the beginning of the coming of age for cartoons.

Admittedly the intriguing plot settles down in the end to a simple case of Good versus Evil, of which it's pretty clear who the chief antagonist is: Christopher Lloyd was reunited with Robert Zemeckis after playing the likeably bonkers scientist Dr. Emmet Brown in Back to the Future, but his Judge Doom had very little sentiment and a great deal of Darth Vader-like menace about him. Younger audiences be warned: one scene where Doom dispatches a toon shoe using a sinister combination of chemicals - turpentine, acetone & benzine (used to remove paint from celluloid), nicknamed "Dip" - had some little kiddies weeping in their seats when I saw the film in cinemas in 1988.

The monumental technical challenge of filming an entire feature with the animated part still to follow, was akin to "making an Invisible Man movie" for Spielberg and Zemeckis (and Hoskins apparently suffered from hallucinations for weeks after shooting finished), but the 2-year wait while the animators got to work, was well worth it.

Some 700 people - a record number listed on the end credits - pooled together to create this amusing masterpiece of illusion. And not only were the names confined to those off-camera. As a unique coup of cartoon casting, Spielberg brought together the star toons from both the Disney and Warner Brothers studios (together with or two extra guests such as Betty Boop and Droopy). There they all are, littered through the film in guest cameos: Goofy, Dumbo, Pinocchio, Bugs Bunny (how interesting if the film had been about that rabbit instead), Tweetie Bird, Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, the broomsticks and hippos and ostriches from Fantasia, and of course Mickey Mouse, and my favourite of the bunch, Donald and Daffy Duck playing Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody at The Ink & Paint Club.

All were presided over by the third and by no means last and least hero of Roger Rabbit: the sanguine figure of Richard Williams had been animating countless commercials and short films in Britain as well as imaginative title sequences for the Pink Panther films and The Charge of the Light Brigade among others. With Roger Rabbit, his consistently brilliant animation was deservedly given a wider audience (and also enabled him to pursue his cherished dream of finishing his own epic feature film, The Thief and the Cobbler).

Director Zemeckis, skilfully aided by Dean Cundey who photographed with an eye for the missing pieces (in much the same way as he later did with Jurassic Park), gave Williams the perfect canvas with which to weave his magic. Who Framed Roger Rabbit will be his lasting legacy. Not a bad one to have either.

The Third Man (1949)

In Vienna's main cemetery lies an area dedicated to Stalin's soldiers who died in the violent two weeks that it took to overcome the city from the Nazis. The victory was hard-earned, and the city was made to pay in the most unpleasant of ways, with the second wave of the Red Army raping and/or looting the citizens; as some embittered voices put it, "Austria could take a third world war, but it could never endure another liberation."

By chance it is near this Russian cemetery where the Harry Lime funeral scenes were filmed for The Third Man (coincidentally a family grave lies there now named "Grun" - Green) and it seems a suitable spot for one who delved into the murky underworld of a Vienna riddled with the Black Market. It is this climate of post-Russian occupation (by the Four Powers) that so dominates the city and the lingering menace of the film, so brilliantly conveyed by Graham Greene and Carol Reed - with some notable fellow collaborators.

The story, one of Graham Greene's quintessential "entertainments", began from a single line thought up and scribbled down on the back of an envelope:

"I had paid my last farewell to Harry a week ago, when his coffin was lowered into the frozen February ground, so that it was with incredulity that I saw him pass by, without a sign of recognition, among the host of strangers in the Strand."

From this first genesis, it was the inspiration of arguably British cinema's greatest producer, Alexander Korda (fresh from his own adventures across Europe) to suggest the setting of Vienna for Greene's premise as a post-war thriller, working once again with director Carol Reed after their recent successful collaboration The Fallen Idol.

With all the Allied involvement in Vienna, it required a suitable element of international collaboration to put across the story in its proper political context, so Korda looked across the Atlantic to the equally renowned Hollywood producer David O. Selznick to secure the services of two of his contract stars, Joseph Cotten and Alida Valli (then billed as just "Valli" in those days.) In return, Selznick took all American publicity and distribution rights, and was also allowed to have a say in the making of the film - which led as a result to a good deal of trans-Atlantic quarreling over how romantic and dramatic the film should be.

Neither gentleman's first choice - probably - was Orson Welles to play Harry Lime (Noel Coward was one name in mind for the role), but with persistence, and perhaps a good deal of cinematic providence, Welles was in the end the natural choice.

Harry Lime may well have been the star, but the film is anchored by Welles's old Mercury Theatre pal Joseph Cotten as Holly Martins, a writer of pulp Westerns (amusingly mistaken by Wilfrid Hyde-White's cultural attache for a serious writer), who finds himself delving into far murkier plots than those of his Westerns.

Mourners at Vienna's Zentralfriedhof (filmed in between the "Eichinger" and the later "Grun" family graves)

To those coming fresh to The Third Man, it comes as something of a jolt when the film begins with a funeral - of its main character! But nothing in this Vienna is ever quite what it seems - not even the leather-jacketed, staunchly British figure of Trevor Howard, who turns out to be the British head of the International Police, Major Calloway, immediately depicted in a suspicious light (using Reed's tilted camera angles) once Martins discovers after the third drink that he is a policeman. Only a discreet ushering followed by a necessary slug on the jaw from his junior sergeant prevents Martins from taking a swing at Calloway - a great supporting role for Bernard Lee.

Undeterred, Martins delves into the Vienna underworld of Harry Lime's outwardly ingratiating but secretly ruthless black market friends - and then there is the enigmatic beauty Anna Schmidt (Valli), who like everyone else, has her secrets; her romance with Martins lasts only as long as he reminds her of Harry.

But what of Harry himself?

The light from an angry resident's window shines down, outside Schreyvogelgasse near Molker Bastei.

As the story goes on, the audience gradually cottons on to the fact that there's more to this tale than meets the eye, and the sting in the tail, though delightfully teased (with a typical Reed device of a tabby cat), is still a surprise.

Harry's shadow runs off, along the Schulhofplatz towards Am Hof.

Once Welles makes his belated famous entrance, his character takes over the film and more than lives up to expectation in the brief but brilliant Ferris Wheel sequence (filmed mostly at Shepperton but re-creating the Riesenrad), where Martins realises not only that his elusive friend is a deadly black marketeer, but also quite relishes in the task with a good deal of Machiavellian charm, and puts the story into a different perspective, as you realise how simple and seductive things are on the other side of the coin.

Debates may rage among cineastes over how much involvement Orson Welles had in the making of The Third Man, as the style Carol Reed adopted was very symptomatic of black-and-white thrillers of the 1940's, and of Orson Welles films in particular. Welles however, was hardly around the city of Vienna or the film set for a good many weeks, in the midst of his own ramblings around Europe trying to raise money making Othello - in that sense Welles was just as elusive as the character he was playing. So Reed was very much working on his own initiative (Assistant Director Guy Hamilton stood in for many of Harry Lime's appearances on the street), and the only definite contribution that Orson Welles can said to have made was the famous and amusing anecdote about Italy under the Borgias and cuckoo clocks in Switzerland - Graham Greene felt there was no need to "explain" the evil of Harry Lime, but Welles gave it that extra touch.

Once Harry reappears, all previous bets are off and a new game of hunting down the black marketeer is soon underway, with the battle lines quickly drawn: upon discovering that Harry is alive, Anna almost totally switches to his side in spite of her own helplessness, while the disillusioned Martins agrees to reluctantly help the police bring him in. The only weak point of the film for me is the sequence in a children's hospital where Calloway takes Martins to see some of the victims of Lime's penicillin racket, as if to redress the balance - when the rest of the film is quietly revelling in the wickedness.

The police give chase down the steps beside St. Ruprecht's Church.

With the Ferris Wheel sequence having set the pace, the film goes into second gear with the striking chase through the sewers, which Greene climaxes with an ironic take on the Western shoot-out: Martins has a gun, and only he can bring justice to the corrupt town by shooting the bad guy - his best friend.

Orson Welles races for the sewers (some of the time), where the Vienna Kanal section of The Third Man Tour begins, near Friedrichstrasse (below)

The sewer chase wisely keeps the soundtrack down to just the tense echoes of footsteps and shouting through the tunnels of the underground Vienna Canal, although there is ever such a small undertone of Anton Karas's famous Harry Lime Theme (which became a huge hit), when Martins corners Harry, who has a look of reckoning on his face.

A last grasp for freedom, outside the Minoriten Church in Minoritenplatz.

Come the end and we're back at the cemetery, where the real Harry Lime (we suppose) is being buried, and Anna discards Holly by calmly walking by without acknowledging him - a suggestion of Selznick's, which Reed enthusiastically supported - the original treatment by Greene had the two of them walking off together.

The unhappy but reflective ending set the seal on what was perhaps a uniquely atmospheric film, where sentimental romanticism is supplanted by cynical acceptance of life, accompanied by a lyrical zither theme to counterbalance the gloom; a glorious mixture of elements, a British film in beautiful, decayed surroundings, with American star power to raise it up a level - an international effort of true proportions.

Kings Road, Chelsea (left)

Critics and cinema buffs rejoice in Citizen Kane (which this resembles in some ways) but The Third Man for me goes one better because it involves the socio-political atmosphere of the period, within an all-too real setting for the Vienna of the time. The rest of Carol Reed's career never topped this (and why should it?), and for all his own brilliance in front of and behind the camera, Orson Welles is immortalized as Harry Lime - to paraphrase, probably the Best Role in the World.

Anna silently walks away out of the Zentralfriedhof.

The Cruel Sea (1953)

"This is the story - the long and true story - of one ocean, two ships, and about a hundred and fifty men. It is a long story because it deals with a long and brutal battle, the worst of any war. It has two ships because one was sunk, and had to be replaced. It has a hundred and fifty men because that is a manageable number to tell a story about. Above all, it is a true story because that is the only kind worth telling."

Nicolas Monsarrat's prelude to his novel The Cruel Sea

During its grimmest phase, the Second World War was won - not on the fields of Normandy, or in the skies of the Battle of Britain, or even the pivotal Siege of Stalingrad - but on the North Atlantic, where the supply lines had to be kept going. Without them, none of those victorious battles would have taken place. It is this period of grim observance of duty that covers this classic Ealing war drama, a big success in its day, perhaps because it came at just about the right time to be able to look back at WWII with a certain amount of perspective.

The studio was perhaps the ideal choice for this kind of material. Ever since the war itself, Ealing had presented earnest, well-crafted war films with a sentimental thought for the honest, hard-working average soldier, sailor or airman. Eric Ambler's brilliant screenplay turned Nicolas Monsarrat's sometimes bleak but honest and entertaining bestseller into a carefully downplayed expressionist drama about facing the horrors of war and its occasional mixed blessings, and trying to treat it all like routine hard work.

At its centre was a towering performance by Jack Hawkins as Captain Ericson, containing all of his best attributes. Providing excellent support was a young Donald Sinden as Lockhart (the novel's narrator), a former freelance journalist and something of a free, aimless individual, until the war and his shared experiences with Ericson quickly harden his resolve. After surviving the uncomfortable early stages of Navy life with loudmouth bully Bennett (Stanley Baker) whom luckily Lockhart replaces as First Lieutenant, there is the greater challenge of the unseen enemy underwater, and the daily toil of seeing ships sunk, and having to cope with death, and/or the survivors to be brought in to safety - whilst also at the same trying to sink U-Boats, when they find them.

Helping them along in this case are the likes of Lockhart's nervous friend Ferraby (John Stratton) whose pretty wife (June Thorburn) and Lockhart are his two main sources of strength (especially against the brutal Bennett), and smooth-talking ex-barrister Morell - a young Denholm Elliott, showing early signs of his palatable talent for scene stealing.

Other members of the crew of HMS Compass Rose (some of them Ealing regulars) were splendid examples of the British carrying on in the face of adversity, such as Chief Engineer Watts (Liam Redmond) and his friend Coxswain Tallow (Bruce Seton), whose widowed sister (Megs Jenkins) provides welcome relief from the toil of long Atlantic convoys.


Lockhart finds that war brings its comforts in the shape of delectable WREN Julie Hallam (Virginia Mckenna).

Charles Frend's understated direction tones down some of the grimness of the original novel but still plays up the drama to the full, especially in scenes such as the tragic killing of survivors when a submarine is underneath them in the water, or when the crew of Compass Rose have to fend for themselves in lifeboats to survive the harsh Atlantic weather. In some perversely comic moments that are as dark as anything Ealing ever dared, Lockhart bullies his surviving crew into singing silly nursery rhymes in order to keep themselves alive.

The Cruel Sea was the first war film I'd seen which stripped away the jingoism of war, and told the truth in a very simple, honest, low-key manner, only shoving home the anti-war message when necessary. It had enough small traces of Ealing humour to entertain audiences whilst at the same time being able to mix in the darker elements, and its authenticity for depicting the war at sea was probably the decisive factor in its success - and in Jack Hawkins it found the ideal officer for all seasons (with dimensions too) who, like John Mills, could easily have gone into service as an officer of distinction and no-one would question his suitability. In a better world, Hawkins would have won an Oscar for the performance.

Devonport harbour, which deputised for Merseyside in The Cruel Sea.