ISSN 1466-4615



Joe Brooker

England's Screening





_Dissolving Views: Key Writings on British Cinema_

Edited by Andrew Higson

London: Cassell, 1996

ISBN 0-304-33528-2

264 pp.


There are those for whom 'British Cinema' has always been an oxymoron. Francois Truffaut's judgement of 'a certain incompatibility between the terms 'cinema' and 'Britain'' was already so widely-cited as to be 'tediously familiar' to Charles Barr, introducing the volume _All Our Yesterdays_ in 1986. [1] Barr added a slew of other comments to the same effect from both British and non-British observers, and his anthology set out to combat the amnesia behind this 'quasi-racist' line. It seems fair to say that ten years on, with the publication of Andrew Higson's _Dissolving Views_ in 1996, a good start had been made at addressing the problem. Courses in British Cinema were more widespread in Higher Education -- not least at the University of East Anglia where both Barr and Higson continue to be based. And British cinema would now appear to be a major area of writing and research, as _Dissolving Views_ seeks to demonstrate. Higson writes that the book was originally intended to collect 'a number of important discussions of British cinema history that had already been published elsewhere' (iv), but for some reason it became a mixture of old and new work. The most venerable essay, John Ellis's survey of mid-century British film criticism, is now over 20 years old, but, like several others, has been revised for inclusion; meanwhile there are five previously unpublished essays.


Higson admits in the Introduction that a collection like this must be selective, but he has selected contributions that cover the field with admirable comprehensiveness. There are useful narrative surveys of experimental film and Black British cinema, and contributions which manage to cover the important bases of Hitchcock, 1930s documentary, kitchen sink or 'New Wave' films, and recent heritage cinema. Specific areas of discussion include the role of German film technicians in Britain in the 1930s (Tim Bergfelder argues that the notion of a coherent 'Expressionist influence' is something of a myth); the variable treatment of gender in the uncertain years immediately after World War II; and the 'woman's film' in the 1980s. All of the essays contain useful information, and at their best provoke thought and argument about cinema and -- a major emphasis of the book -- the surrounding culture which cinema inhabits and influences. This even extends to contemporary Europe, in a wide-ranging essay by Colin MacCabe. MacCabe's reflections on the possibility of a European culture, and of the persistence of national cultures within it, become doubly potent when one considers that these questions were already implicit within his influential work in the 1970s, on continental theory and on the Irish European James Joyce.


But the book's subtitle is slightly questionable on two counts. First, and most importantly, are these really writings on 'British' cinema? National identity is understandably to the fore in this collection -- whether in relation to Grierson and the documentary movement, to critics of the 1940s, to the films of Derek Jarman, or to the heritage cinema of Merchant-Ivory -- but the one major omission (with the possible and partial exception of the documentary movement) is any reflection on the nations other than England within the United Kingdom. Perhaps Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish film deserve their own volumes. But I wonder why _Dissolving Views_ was not conceived and sold as a collection specifically on the diversity of *English* cinema -- which, in effect, it is. Could it be that 'England' retains a charge, a compound of connotations -- of empire and monarchy, gentlemen and players, beef, bulldogs and battleships -- which is thought of as best left alone? Certainly it seems a more emotionally resonant term than 'Britain', which is apt to call to mind immigration officers and athletics teams rather than Stratford and Nobby Stiles. But if so, a chance to engage with such associations and inhibitions has perhaps been missed in opting for the misleadingly capacious 'Britain'.


Secondly, and less importantly, 'Key Writings' is a hard tag to live up to at the best of times, but harder still when you've only just written your chapter. Of the fourteen essays here, John Ellis's 'The Quality Film Adventure: British Critics and the Cinema, 1942-1948' probably qualifies best as a 'Key Writing'. It has been around long enough (since 1978) to have had some influence, and deals with a large body of texts (the British Film Institute's collection of periodical material) authoritatively and usefully. Ellis takes as his raw material the journalistic output of such critics as Simon Harcourt-Smith, Joan Lester and Dilys Powell, 'recombining' their scattered statements into a kind of continuous body of thought. Ellis quotes liberally and succinctly, usually without naming the particular source (although these are given in the endnotes -- of which he has ten times as many as anyone else in _Dissolving Views_). In effect, the penchants of particular journalists are melted down into an impersonal 'discourse': Michel Foucault is surely the unnamed presiding spirit of Ellis's venture. The gain of Ellis's method -- 'a kind of attentive listening, trying to transcribe the various random comments and remarks of different individuals into the complete systematization that they were never given' (68) -- is to achieve a new totalization of what may indeed have appeared random, discovering the unrealized intellectual coherence of a period among its seemingly spontaneous voices. The concomitant risk is clearly that the specificity of particular critics, and the possibility of dispute between them, are dissolved in the name of a homogeneity over-zealously imagined. I don't know whether this accusation has been levelled at Ellis's article in the two decades since its first appearance, but if so, he has stuck to his guns: this 'carefully revised' version makes no concessions to critical individuality.


Andrew Higson writes that Ellis's piece has been 'very influential' (4), and it may get a new lease of influence through its reappearance here. In a sense, the 'discourse' that Ellis seeks to discern is also a target for a number of other contributors, whose essays inveigh against what is perceived as a prevailing 'consensus' about British cinema. Considering this will bring us to a theme which runs persistently through the book, and on which I shall concentrate here: the association of British cinema with realism. This association was cogently explored, in fact, in Andrew Higson's own contribution to _All Our Yesterdays_, which takes as its starting point the prevailing view that documentary and realism together form the closest thing to a native tradition in film. [2] In a sense, therefore, it is not surprising that some of the contributors to _Dissolving Views_ beg to differ, and seek to put the association in question. [3]


Pam Cook's essay covers a similar period to Ellis, and the interface of their arguments typifies the effective way in which the book's chapters frequently seem to speak to and support each other. According to Cook,


'discussion of national identity in wartime British cinema has tended to focus on what might be called the consensus films -- that is, those on which an uneasy alliance of opinion between producers and critics (mainly from the quality press) and official bodies . . . conferred the status of quality British cinema' (52).


The consensual aesthetic, avers Cook, 'was defined in terms of opposition to Hollywood spectacle in favour of an austere realism. Visual and acting styles were to be restrained, the emphasis was to be on ordinary people in ordinary settings' (53). Realism was also at the heart of the notion of the 'quality film', according to John Ellis: 'the moral imperative for the quality film is that of representing the world correctly' (79). Indeed, Ellis identifies no fewer than three levels of realism to which the quality film might aspire: a surface level of background 'duplication'; a deeper 'authenticity'; and a rather mysterious 'faithfulness to the very spirit of the real' (84).


It is against such an aesthetic that Cook asserts the value of Gainsborough costume drama of the 1940s, as a form which has suffered critical neglect and condescension. With their spectacular, but surprisingly cost-effective use of costume and setting, and their blithely eclectic, pick-and-mix attitude to the iconography of the past, films like _Madonna of the Seven Moons_ (1944) and _The Wicked Lady_ (1945) offended the sensibilities of 'quality' British film culture, whose predilection for realism was overdetermined and amplified by wartime austerity. Yet Cook argues that the Gainsborough films 'are central to any discussion of national identity in 1940s British cinema' (64). She is not the only one to speak up for them. Sue Harper likewise claims that they were 'oriented towards women and the working class' (facts which seem, in this context, to bear a value), 'offered a powerful form of identification to their female viewers', and 'contained heroines who engaged actively in their own destinies' (104). And Justine King, in a discussion of the contemporary 'woman's picture', argues that Gainsborough films offered a 'liminal space' for women (230).


The revaluation of Gainsborough thus exemplifies the revisionist tendency of _Dissolving Views_, as a putative national aesthetic of mimesis and moderation is challenged by spectacle and show. Sue Harper frowns on the post-war development of Gainsborough studios, whose new heads of production were 'convinced that realist methods were more appropriate'. After 1946, 'there is an almost exclusive interest in contemporary life', and the effect is a shift 'from being a studio which celebrated female desire to one which repressed it' (104-5). Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger are unusual in emerging well out of Harper's post-war picture, in a brief but convincing analysis. They 'proposed a different sexual politics' in which woman was granted a 'high place in the chivalric order' (109-10), and their _Black Narcissus_ (1948) 'argued that elite groups which outlawed desire could not survive' (110). Pam Cook proposes an honourable lineage for her evaluation of Gainsborough, which applies as well if not even better to the Archers:


'the documentary-realist option is not necessarily the most obvious or natural route to take in defining a quality British cinema. There are rich traditions of fantasy in British culture, manifest in our Gothic literature, for example; and decorative and anti-realist traditions in British architecture, painting and theatre.' (54)


Charles Barr's essay on Hitchcock, first written in 1980, hints at a parallel case. The 'critical attitude', he writes,


'that uses the words dreamlike, fantastic, escapist, romantic, unrealistic, fabricated, as terms of dispraise, putting them *ipso facto* lower than 'realistic' stories and films with a 'documentary' base, has . . . been overturned' (11).


He accordingly offers a reading of early Hitchcock in which dream and trance are dominant metaphors. 'Hypnagogia' is the term which Barr proposes to describe the British Hitchcock: 'the state *between* sleeping and waking', in which images are 'seen in a heightened trance-like state' (14).


For Cook, Harper, and Barr (in their different ways) an oppressively normative realist aesthetic is to be challenged or circumvented, by the appeal to a neglected strain in British culture -- cinematic or otherwise. Fantasy, spectacle, trance, masquerade are the watchwords of this alternative canon. In a related move, Kathryn Dodd and Philip Dodd argue that the documentary movement of which John Grierson was the leading theorist and practitioner can be understood as a defensive reaction to the 'feminization' of English culture between the wars. The documentarists' search for the working class in the North of England can be understood as a quest for a British masculinity losing its grip on the culture of the South. The authors stress that they intend no 'simple condescension' towards the documentary movement (50), but their historical resituation of the project nonetheless seems to undercut and render suspicious its claims. If realism and documentary are associated with masculinity, then their cinematic alternatives -- fantasy, display, and so on -- might by association be seen as feminine, or even proto-feminist, forms.


The recovery and revaluation of neglected strands in film history can contribute to a more pluralistic and open conception of national cinema. In Andrew Higson's words, 'the indigenous is actually forever in flux. There is no core identity to British cinema -- it is far too diverse, far too rich to be reduced to a fixed essence' (2). Few could begrudge the generous pluralism announced here, unless perhaps they be Scottish nationalists out to establish the even more diverse and rich flux of their own national cinema. Yet the sense lingers of a hierarchy being reversed, with Gainsborough replacing Grierson at the top of the aesthetic pile. Terry Lovell makes this explicit in her essay on the British New Wave, when she reflects on the changes in academic taste which took place in the 1980s. While the New Wave and other forms of realism were dismantled and distrusted, Lovell notes,


'Popular forms which had been dismissed within orthodox criticism, such as the Hammer horror, Gainsborough melodramas, or even the ubiquitous _Carry On_ comedies, and the quirky idiosyncrasies of Powell and Pressburger, fared rather better in this critical reassessment of British cinema.' (169)


This is well observed, and indicates the diversity of the new consensus which -- I begin to suspect -- has been displacing the old one. Clearly one might not willingly sign up to every item in this package: the Archers devotee might not be so enamoured of Hammer. Personally, I am delighted to report that, despite the presence of Andy Medhurst, there is no essay on the _Carry On_ films in _Dissolving Views_. (Medhurst's contribution is, in fact, another of those which might earn the epithet 'key', as an early foray into gay or queer film study. His contextualization of _Victim_ in the sexual climate of the early 1960s remains punchy and convincing, and is one of the most readable essays in the collection.) For the most part, though, the book does not belie Lovell's sense that film studies' centres of value have shifted.


But could it not be that these new evaluations, as much as the older ones of documentary and 'quality film', have their own historical roots? For one thing, the suspicion of cinematic realism is surely related to a far-reaching scepticism about realism in general, in both its aesthetic and epistemological branches. Few fields of the academic Humanities have been untouched by the philosophical anti-realism associated with the 'linguistic turn', and with post-structuralism in particular. The discipline of historiography, for instance, has been one of the more robust redoubts of an older empiricism, but even among historians there is now less faith in the self-evident legibility of texts and objects, and a greater sense of the formative power of narrative, metaphor, the observer's own contextualizing role, and so on. Pam Cook, who applauds Pierre Sorlin for 'challenging the authority of history as 'truth'' (56), implicitly situates her reading of Gainsborough in this context with her flamboyant, not to say melodramatic, assertion that the melodramas 'are an uncomfortable reminder that history is always masquerade' (57). In literary studies, the arrival of 'theory' has long since made such precepts into virtual articles of faith in their own right. And such academic developments occur in the context of a wider culture which sometimes seems to be becoming less 'realistic' by the day. From special effects and drama-documentary to spin doctors and virtual reality, the incessant consciousness of mediation and simulation which already seemed to be terminal in the 1980s can hardly be said to have diminished through the 1990s. The over-familiar catchword for all this is, of course, postmodernism.


If we ponder the history of film studies and its privileged aesthetics, it is clear that, in some influential quarters at least, 'realism' was already becoming a dirty word in the early 1970s. British film studies was among the first academic domains outside France to receive and disseminate the claims of Parisian theory, and one of the results was a sometimes strident denunciation of the invisible conventions of Hollywood and of popular narrative cinema in general. It is widely agreed -- by Andrew Higson here, for instance (238) -- that the aesthetic offspring of what is now dubbed '_Screen_ Theory' was a kind of *modernism*, in which narrative, representation, and illusion were eschewed in favour of a sometimes austere commitment to 'the specifically filmic' (238). Michael O'Pray's useful essay on avant-garde and art cinema reminds us of the prominence in the 1970s both of the Godardian 'counter-cinema' of Peter Wollen and Laura Mulvey, and of the so-called structural-materialist cinema of Peter Gidal and Malcolm LeGrice, which 'sought to avoid what it saw as the illusionism of films which attempted in whatever way to represent or document something outside the filmic process itself' (181). O'Pray does well to point out the existence of other kinds of alternative cinema in Britain in this period, but these strands were nonetheless among the main aesthetic corollaries of the strenuous theorizing of the 1970s. What is striking in the present context is that such filmic modernism seems at once profoundly to agree and disagree with the turn to spectacle and fantasy that I have extrapolated from some of the essays in _Dissolving Views_. On one hand, both moments affirm a dissatisfaction with traditional claims to visual realism. Faith in the capacity of the camera to record the pro-filmic event -- housing problems, holiday camps, kitchen sinks -- for undistorted posterity is supplanted by a self-consciousness about the process of representation. On the other hand, the avant-gardes of the 1970s betray an earnestness about this project which is absent from, for instance, the contemporary celebration of Gainsborough, let alone the melodramas themselves. The former case involves an attack on 'illusionism' in the name of a confrontation with something more profoundly real: 'the flatness of the filmic image, grain, light, movement, and so on' (182). As Peter Wollen pointed out in 'The Two Avant-Gardes', an essay of 1975, the Gidalian brand of anti-realism could actually be seen as a kind of hyper-realism:


'Ironically, anti-illusionist, anti-realist film has ended up sharing many preoccupations in common with its worst enemies. A theorist like Andre Bazin, for instance, committed to realism and representationalism, based his commitment on an argument about cinematic ontology and essence that he saw in the photographic reproduction of the natural world. We now have, so to speak, both an extroverted and an introverted ontology of film, one seeking the soul of cinema in the nature of the pro-filmic event, the other in the nature of the cinematic process, the cone of light or the grain of silver.' [4]


Despite the distinction that Wollen drew between Gidal and Godard, an analogous anti-illusionism can clearly be discerned in the political wing of the avant-garde, as Wollen himself acutely pointed out in 1972. [5] The anti-realism of the 1990s, on the other hand, seems to have renounced or forgotten this paradoxical desire for a realism beyond realism, a subversion of 'realism' in the name of the *real*. The taste for spectacle and fantasy which I mentioned earlier appears, in a complex movement, to reject *both* an initial drive to documentary or to what Ellis identifies as 'the very spirit of the real' (84), *and* the frequently ascetic quest for a reality beyond 'realism' which characterized the avant-garde(s). The latest renunciation of realism results in a new relaxation about representation, in which a mimetic if historically implausible melodrama displaces the anguished anti-mimeticism of 'pure film'. Indeed this corresponds convincingly enough with the trajectory of art cinema which Michael O'Pray traces, in which 'minority' or hitherto under-represented (female, gay, non-white) film cultures eventually break up the institutional homogeneity of the 1970s avant-garde. At the culmination of this process, with Derek Jarman directing videos for pop hits, O'Pray observes, 'few of the distinctions . . . any longer seemed meaningful, with the avant-garde itself barely recognizable' (181). The dialectic might thus be sketched in three stages: documentary and classical realism (denounced as illusionistic); avant-garde anti-realism (actually seeking a purer fidelity to the real); post-realist eclecticism (in which mimesis is so discredited as to be harmlessly re-incorporated, and the ultra-realist ambitions of the avant-garde are likewise dispelled).


My suggestion is simply that the aversion to realism has a history, can be differentially periodized, and is liable to have certain historical roots beyond film studies or the cinema itself. It seems plausible to surmise -- as an empirical observation rather than an inevitable logical consequence -- that the surge of theoretical and practical interest in spectacle, melodrama, costume and fantasy have corresponded to the greater importance and prominence of 'social movements' or 'liberation' politics -- feminism, gay rights, anti-racism -- in the 1980s and 1990s, as against the visibility and plausibility of class discourses and politics in the 1970s and earlier. One wonders, indeed, whether there is something inherently anti-spectacular in class politics, which -- in contrast to the alternative political struggles just mentioned -- are so frequently identified with naturalism, documentary forms, or (at the most adventurous) Godardian counter-cinema.


We have seen that realism, its variants and its alternatives form a central line of concern in _Dissolving Views_. In fact, perhaps the two most interesting contributions to the question are those of Higson and Lovell on one particular brand and moment of realism: the New Wave films of the early 1960s. What marks the essays out is the slightly unpredictable or unorthodox ways in which they approach the films. Higson not only returns to their initial reception but offers a close textual analysis of certain types of shot which recur across these films -- notably what one commentator called 'That Long Shot of Our Town from That Hill' (133). Such close analysis is fairly rare in _Dissolving Views_, perhaps because of the tendency to focus on a broader 'film culture'. But Higson's sense of the shot-by-shot texture of the New Wave films, like Charles Barr's of early Hitchcock (12-13), finds a level of significance which might otherwise be missed. Higson demonstrates that the New Wave's 'realism' was a fissured and contradictory entity, an amalgam of different styles and intentions. For instance, it differed from classical cinema not only in its depiction of industrial landscapes but in a kind of narrative inertia, with 'weak enigmas' and 'episodic structure' standing in for the well-oiled storytelling machines of Hollywood (149, 154). At the heart of the New Wave and the texts that informed it, Higson also reveals a certain romanticism, somewhat submerged by the reputation of true documentary grit. The cinematographer Walter Lassally remarked that the films' key feature was not their realism but their 'romantic atmosphere' and 'poetic view' of Northern life (133). Central to this attempt at visual poetry is the panoramic shot of the town. But this shot is found to imply a different class perspective from the rest of the New Wave film:


'It is only from a class position outside the city that the city can appear beautiful . . . pictorialism can only really be achieved by placing the camera in the room at the top of the hill; that is, in the house which belongs to the factory owner' (151).


This is a trenchant point, but questionable. Working-class characters do, as Higson himself shows, scale to the vista of 'Our Town', in a kind of liminal space between country and city. An example that's not mentioned here is Billy Fisher on Stradhoughton Moor, who in Keith Waterhouse's novel explains:


'I enjoyed walking here. Given a quiet day I could always talk to myself, and it was easy to picture the clifflike, craggy boundaries of the Moor as the borders of Ambrosia. The sun was still out, in a watery sort of way, and there was a hard, grey-metal shine on the afternoon. The faint waves of shouting, and all other noises, sounded remote and not very real, as though heard through a sheet of glass.' [6]


To an extent, of course, Waterhouse is looking back in the languor of nostalgia. But he points us to the possibility of a kind of aestheticization of the everyday which might just occur in Dewsbury as well as Bloomsbury. _Billy Liar_ marks one place where the distinction between workaday realism and extravagant fantasy starts to flicker and blur.


Something similar might be said of _A Taste of Honey_, the key text for Terry Lovell. Her opening conjugation of Hoggart, Sillitoe and _Coronation Street_ feels familiar enough, but she adds a twist by focusing on the place of women in such texts, and particularly in Tony Richardson's film. Lovell deftly draws out the way in which the young female protagonist, and the off-beat environments through which she moves, make the film a kitchen sinker with a difference. Visually, for instance, 'the pleasures of spectacle -- townscapes made picturesque, squalor aestheticized' -- are found to take up a lot of screen time (170). And the film's characters stand askew from the usual New Wave cast: a teenage girl, her flamboyant, immature single mother, a black cook and a gay art student. The potency of _A Taste of Honey_ perhaps lies in the way it inhabits yet inverts the New Wave cycle. Inside yet outside the kitchen sink mode, it seems even now to signal an alternative tradition shadowing the male bravado of one vision of the North. That much was corroborated in the 1980s by the play's appeal to the singer Morrissey, whose early work borrowed from the text so blithely that one half-expected to see Shelagh Delaney involved in the recent court battle over The Smiths' royalties. [7]


What both Higson and Lovell alert us to, then, is the complexity and diversity of the 'realist' canon itself. In the end, the pluralism avowed by Higson seems the best prospect, in which we might try to avoid promoting 'one or other aspect as the truly national cinema' and marginalizing 'those other traditions which least fit the model' (2). Whatever one might think of the anti-realist thrust of some contemporary film studies, we are all indebted to those critics who have taken up the cudgels for _A Matter of Life and Death_ or _Yellow Submarine_, against the Blue Meanies of a consensus too rigidly policed. Still, as the reader may have guessed, I finished _Dissolving Views_ feeling slightly less, not more, sceptical about realism in British cinema. 'Realism', Bertolt Brecht once wrote, 'is not a pure question of form' [8] -- but rather a kind of cognitive attitude which could turn up in many guises. In this sense it is far from clear that the realist project is all washed up, in British or any other cinema. The last few years have provided two examples on British screens -- one cinematic, one televisual -- both of which in their different ways make use of a documentary style. But the vigour, originality and political charge of BBC2's _The Cops_ (1998) and Patrick Keiller's _London_ (1993) and _Robinson in Space_ (1996) suggest that the conventions of documentary still represent an outstanding resource for visual culture. Like any other, however, this resource needs to be deployed with craft and intelligence. One more docusoap and even the ghost of John Grierson might, well, give up the ghost.


Birkbeck College, London, England





1. Charles Barr, 'Introduction: Amnesia and Schizophrenia', in _All Our Yesterdays_, p. 1.


2. Andrew Higson, ''Britain's Outstanding Contribution to the Film': The Documentary-Realist Tradition', in _All Our Yesterdays_, pp. 72-97.


3. A venture adumbrated with some relish by Julian Petley's essay in _All Our Yesterdays_, which immediately followed Higson's (pp. 98-119).


4. Peter Wollen, 'The Two Avant-Gardes', in _Readings and Writings_, p. 97.


5. Wollen, 'Godard's Counter-Cinema: _Vent d'Est_', in _Readings and Writings_, pp. 89-90.


6. Keith Waterhouse, _Billy Liar_, pp. 86-7.


7. See Johnny Rogan, _Morrissey and Marr_, p. 176.


8. Bertolt Brecht, 'The Popular and the Realistic', in _Brecht on Theatre_, p. 110.





Barr, Charles, ed., _All Our Yesterdays: 90 Years of British Cinema_ (London: British Film Institute, 1986).


Brecht, Bertolt, _Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic_, ed. John Willett (London: Methuen, 1986; first pub. 1964).


Higson, Andrew, ''Britain's Outstanding Contribution to the Film': The Documentary-Realist Tradition', in _All Our Yesterdays_, pp. 72-97.


Petley, Julian, 'The Lost Continent', in _All Our Yesterdays_, pp. 98-119.


Rogan, Johnny, _Morrissey and Marr: The Severed Alliance_ (London: Omnibus, 1992).


Waterhouse, Keith, _Billy Liar_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962; first pub. 1959).


Wollen, Peter, _Readings and Writings: Semiotic Counter-Strategies_ (London: Verso, 1982).





_Billy Liar_ (1963) dir. John Schlesinger.

_Black Narcissus_ (1947) dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.

_London_ (1993) dir. Patrick Keiller.

_Madonna of the Seven Moons_ (1944) dir. Arthur Crabtree.

_A Matter of Life and Death_ (1946) dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.

_Robinson in Space_ (1996) dir. Patrick Keiller.

_A Taste of Honey_ (1961) dir. Tony Richardson.

_The Wicked Lady_ (1945) dir. Leslie Arliss.

_Victim_ (1961) dir. Basil Dearden.

_Yellow Submarine_ (1968) dir. George Dunning.



Joe Brooker, 'England's Screening',  _Film-Philosophy_, vol. 3 no. 10, March 1999 <>.


Copyright © _Film-Philosophy_ 1999



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