IF… (1968)
Early
in 1968, whilst France and America were in the grip of different youth riots,
counter-culture director Lindsay Anderson made his brilliant rebellious film IF
in England. Set in a fictional boys’ public school, it’s a partly dream-based
attack on societal institutions, traditions and imperialism and caught the anti-establishment
themes not only of the period but timelessly for every generation that follows.
‘College
School’ here is used as a microcosm of British and western society as a whole,
serving the same role of a complacent training ground for obedient cogs in the
machine of the adult world in the film as public schools do in real life. Here
the set-up though is not to sentimentalise them favourably like in GOODBYE MR
CHIPS, but to brand them as outmoded breeding grounds of discontent within
their aged fabric. There are boys of all
ages from pre-pubescent to circa eighteen, each level having its own
restrictions and privileges as you earn your way up through seniority of age
and merit. The very youngest are treated as servants to their elders, barked at
to run at speed through the corridors to perform their duties of meal-fetching
and toilet-seat warming among other indignities. This is an accepted
rite-of-passsage, tolerable only because later you will pass on the same
serfdom role to your own juniors. This is just one of the traditions Anderson
keenly observes in the screenplay based upon David Shewin’s own experience at
Tonbridge School.
This
is an enclosed world of ‘rugger’, cold showers and endless rules punishable by
beatings for infractions. The casting and performances are excellent at clearly
showing how this world shapes the next generation of, for example, cabinet
ministers and civil servants’ behaviours, frames of reference and resentments.
Robert Swann is terrific as Rowntree, the imperious Head Prefect of the sixth
form. When he pontificates about the mission statement of “this house” he may just as easily be speaking about the House of
Commons. Also, Hugh Thomas’s Denson is an effectively sour prefect
counterpoint, seemingly loathing everything and everyone including Rowntree’s “homosexual flirtation – so adolescent”,
he snorts.
The
nucleus of the cast is made up of three winning portrayals. Richard Warwick is
a decent, warm-hearted and athletic Wallace, concealing a discreet, tasteful
homo-erotic relationship with Philips (Rubert Webster). David Wood is an
affable and clubbable Johnny.
Together
they support the firebrand of the ‘Crusaders’ as they are known, Michael
McDowall, in a spell-binding performance that would make him a name and bring
him to the attention of Stanley Kubrick to play the perfect Alex in CLOCKWORK
ORANGE. He is Mick Travis, a radical schoolboy idealist possessed by a death
complex and a fascination for untamed revolutionary zeal in all its forms. His
walls are full of magazine cut-outs of gun-toting African freedom-fighters and
he regularly plays the ‘Missa Luba’, the Congolese re-setting of the Latin
Mass. For him, Africa seems to represent a primal vision of man and armed
insurrection. When he and Johnny bike it to the cafĂ© in the second half, it’s
no coincidence that Mick’s tussle with the sexy waitress is to the sound of
tigers fighting. There is a lovely touch when as Mick goes to put the Missa Luba on
the jukebox (a highly unlikely selection in a transport caff!), Johnny genially places
Mick’s saucer over his cup to keep it warm, knowing his friend will be lost,
transported by the reverie of far-off exotic revolution. Mick dreams of a
rebellion, hinting at the film’s climax: “War
is the last possible creative act”.
Mick
also has the soul of a romantic poet; when his pals lust over a nude model’s
photo, he declaims that the only thing to do with a girl like her is to “Walk naked into the sea together, make love
once…then die”. He also elegantly dismisses Rowntree’s tyranny by referring
to the bullying from his “..frigid
fingers for the rest of your frigid life”
Mick
invites trouble in school, his insouciant attitude continually conflicting with
the established order designed to crush individuality, to inculcate a team
spirit at all costs. Everywhere, the system seeks to reinforce the need for
loyalty and tradition, all staff having drunk the communal Koolaid of
conformity. Even Matron on the sidelines at the rugby match hollers: “Fight fight fight college!”. Mick,
however, constantly provokes the rigid, preposterous hierarchy, deriding the
badges of petty authority conferred on the ruling year above him: “You mean that bit of wool on your tit?” he
scoffs at Denson. Inevitably, a sound thrashing is given to him in the gym.
McDowell wonderfully brasses it out to begin with, opening the doors with a
grand sweep before entering. After a series of whips to the arse accompanied by
absurdly long run-ups by Rowntree, the scene is accorded a strangely touching
ending; Rowntree extends his hand in the quaintly formal gentleman’s
hand-shake. Mick takes it, quietly shattered and tear-streaked. There is no heroic
gesture of defiance here - he is cowed containment – for now.
It’s
not only Mick that seethes with repressed emotion. Amongst glimpses of the
private lives of the staff, we see Mrs Kemp, wife of the Housemaster, whose
sexual frustration is almost palpably boiling over. When the boys are out on
military training exercises, she wanders dreamily through their bathroom stark
naked, savouring the wickedness of private abandonment while she can. Her
husband (Arthur Lowe, in a rare and welcome woolly and kindly part) has a
penchant for singing dull hymns in his pyjamas before bed while she accompanies
him on a flute. . No wonder she has flights of erotic fantasy.
The
rest of the school staff are superb character portrayals of smug authority and
cruel/benevolent dictatorship. Graham Crowden is a delightfully breezy history
master, cycling into the classroom singing ‘To Be a Pilgrim’, throwing open the
classroom windows, tossing the boys’ essays to them like a dismissive postman
then immediately sitting back and orating forth on auto-pilot with his hands
behind his head. He is probably the only affectionately detailed teacher in the
place. The most disturbingly well-played one is Geoffrey Chater as the
Chaplain, a man of largely religiously-suppressed sadistic urges who
nevertheless indiscriminately smacks boys about the head and rummages under
Jute’s blazer to adjust his tie. (At least I think that’s what he was doing. Even
after re-winding it, disconcertingly I still wasn’t sure…).
Ultimately,
after a blood oath between the Crusaders, “Death
to the oppressor!”, there is a blistering climactic siege with the three
friends and Philips massacring all and sundry with machine-gun fire from the
rooftops on Founder’s Day. The possibility that this is all a dream sequence is
hinted at in an earlier surreal scene of the non-fatal shooting of one of the
masters by Mick during military manoeuvres. The master is shown later alive and
well rising up out of a drawer in the Headmaster’s study. The stylised shoot-out
involving seemingly everyone suggests it is part of Mick’s fantasy insurrection
daydreams, but whether or not it is reality doesn’t actually matter. It happens
for us and him and is a great rousing finale to a thought-provoking and
exciting anti-establishment crowd-pleaser.
Structurally,
it’s worth mentioning the interesting segmentation of the film into titled
chapters (for me this gives a feeling of momentum towards the final battle) and
also the use of black and white for certain scenes, albeit without clear
reasons why. Anderson was inspired in the style and themes for his film by Jean
Vigo’s 1933 French classic ZERO DE CONDUITE (ZERO FOR CONDUCT).
IF
spawned two follow-ons rather than sequels teaming up Lindsay Anderson and
Malcolm McDowell again, in 1973 with O LUCKY MAN! and BRITANNIA HOSPITAL (1982)
the first of which I’ll also cover here in the blog. The former in particular
centres once again around the further adventures of Mick Travis into adulthood
but this is the only real connection between the three films.
No comments:
Post a Comment