WAIT FOR THE MOMENT WHEN: Googie Withers…

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…puts her head in the gas oven at the climax of IT ALWAYS RAINS ON SUNDAY. Not that the act itself is shown – not in 1947 – but we see the well-known dreadful preparations, so that for years I believed I had actually seen Mrs Sandigate kneeling on the kitchen floor and resting her head on a shelf. It was the much-whispered-about preferred method of suicide in my childhood: my grandmother talked about people making their last minutes more comfortable with a velvet cushion on the rack and trying to take the family pet with them – “but the cat jumped out”. There’s just such a cushion in Googie’s kitchen.

Unluckily for her, poor Rose Sandigate is discovered in time: she’s been found out sheltering her convict ex-lover in her husband’s house and now faces two years’ hard labour for aiding and abetting as well as prosecution for the suicide attempt. It’s a bleak ending only partially softened by the sop of having the cuckolded George (Edward Chapman)¤ sitting supportively by her hospital bed (” how are we’re going to get along without you?”) – but the uncompromising closing shot of the Tube station grille superimposed on her face reminds us of Holloway looming. We saw this railing before, at the start of the film: all the hapless denizens of Bethnal Green are caught like rats in the tightest of traps.

Googie is, as usual, superb with her magnificent Marie Antoinette profile, rich roughened contralto and heaving bosom. She was thirty but plays at least ten years older with the aid not of make up but with an air of quiet dark desperation which turns to panic when Tommy Swann¤¤ turns up soaked and starving in the Anderson shelter. Her hoarse laconic grimness (“What’s for breakfast?” “Haddock” ) is contrasted by a short flashback showing her in the old days as the flowery blonde barmaid at “The Two Compasses” who slips on rotter Tommy’s undoubtedly stolen engagement ring. Then he’s nabbed for a smash and grab, flogged to “a lump of raw meat”¤¤¤ and banged up. Rose marries an elderly widower, takes on his two teenage daughters (one nice, one nasty) and has her own son, Alfie, who has to sleep in the parlour. Nowadays I think she’s faute de mieux enjoying the “How To Become a Virgin” syndrome outlined by Quentin Crisp: a Madonna and Child hangs over her marital bed, while through the partition the girls’ walls are pasted with snaps of Larry Olivier, Bing Crosby and the like.

This is the East End at the nadir of post-war austerity; everything’s on the ration and everyone’s on the make. “A dose of salts or a good hiding” is the answer to any domestic difficulty. The house seethes with frustrated female sexuality as Vi (Susan Shaw) comes home “stinking. Fella took me to a road house……didn’t get back till after 3!” She falls into bed in her dance frock, but is later up to paint her toenails in the kitchen. “Tarting yourself up to meet your boyfrends – nice way to spend a Sunday morning” snorts her stepmother. Indeed. And, by a horrid irony, in the very next shot Rose discovers her own lover lurking in the shelter. Whereas George – presumably impotent – sublimates himself in pub culture, food and darts: and, of course, the only time he scores a bullseye Rose is not there to see…

It Always Rains on Sunday

Other innuendoes are not so subtle. There’s a memorable exchange of rudery between Sidney Tafler as the saucy saxophonist – “the man with sax appeal” – and Susan Shaw who’s in want of a record*: “You come round to the shop in the morning and I’ll give you one….”. (The censor asleep again and much sniggering in the one and nines). Hermione Baddeley** indulges in a showy piece of bottom-scratching-acting as Mrs Spry, doss-house madam: worth noting because we see Maureen Delaney use exactly the same shtik in ODD MAN OUT (also 1947). I wonder which lady thought of it first.

The contemporary trailer for IT ALWAYS RAINS ON SUNDAYS is lurid in its implications to a degree, and of course once Tommy Swann is smuggled out of the shelter and up to the bedroom it is only a matter of time before Rose has sex with him. This is implied only by a lingering kiss, a fade out and the high-lighting of a sateen eiderdown. But then comes the poignancy of Rose bringing out that old cherished engagement ring and offering it to Tommy to fund his getaway. In a heartbreaking exchange reminiscent of Joan Fontaine’s fantasies in LETTER FROM AN UNKNOWN WOMAN (1948) Tommy fails entirely to recognise the ring or its significance:

“Nice stone – oughta fetch quite a bit. Where’d you get it?”

“Had it given”

Director Robert Hamer (an old hand with Googie) and producer Michael Balcon (Daniel Day Lewis’s grandfather) pile on the detail almost too richly in this uniquely British flim noir/cinema realiste, the influence of which, I suppose, finally dwindled down to TV derivatives such as Queenie’s Castle, Dixon + East Enders. But British postwar cinema was able to surpass any of these for cold grimness and the blackest humour. A subplot about stolen roller skates has Tommy Handley beating an avaricious old fence** to death – his false teeth fly shockingly and comically into a puddle with the violence of the blow: the murderer is hauled off to begin the inevitable passage to the gallows. The terrible and wonderfully lit scene# in the shunting yards as Tommy Swann tries to decapitate himself under a rolling truck is strong meat. Two abortive suicide bids, the failures of the failed: neither Tommy not Rose are allowed to escape the law by leaving life as and when they choose. The trap motif, once again: like the hutched rabbit fattening for the pot in the back yard of 26 Coronet Grove.

There’s a vindictive pansy newspaper reporter; and, anticipating Julian and Sandy by 15 years, we hear a bit of Polari from John Slater. Then IT ALWAYS RAINS ON SUNDAY is also notable for its time in featuring explicitly Jewish characters, humour and and extensive expressive use of Yiddish to heighten the atmosphere. Youth Club organiser Bessie Hyams is the only character in the piece who seems to have any warmth for a Bethnal Green that everyone else is longing to get away from.

“What’s wrong with the East End anyway?”

“It smells”

“Certainly it smells – markets & fish shops & pubs….”

Of honest life and labour she means; and not of cheating, fleecing, dodging and fraud from infancy onwards. Sources of other odours are liberally scattered through the screenplay: the action takes place on March 23rd## so we see masses of daffodils which incidentally contribute to three plot devices. Roast beef (“bit overdone”) and Mrs Watson’s lamb (with mint sauce) are prepared for lunch; in her anguish, Rose leans too heavily on the pastry. Then there’s tea, coffee, bread & marge, cheese, Bessie’s strudel, sausage rolls, ham sandwiches, vegetables and gravy, beer, Guinness, Scotch, “rasher and bubble”: “just some grub, Rosie, that’s all I want”. 1947 audiences had not eaten well for eight years and were ravenous. We have talked already about the haddock. Imagine the redolence of that wafting through a damp bomb-damaged two-up, two-down on a wet Sunday morning.

“Greedy old bag!”

I’ll leave you with some more abiding olfactory images: the hung-over Vi crawling out of bed in that frock she’s danced and then slept in – and draping it on a hanger, ready for next time. (She washes her person and her undies in a bath in the kitchen). And then Sidney Tafler smoking and exhaling a cloud of tobacco preparatory to kissing Vi on the mouth. Finally, one can’t help think of George finding a very funny smell in his bed, what with Tommy having being in it all day after twelve hours on the run from Dartmoor and all that rain, sweat, sex and spilled gravy…

Disconcerting.

GOOGIE WITHERS 1917 – 2011

¤ once beaten up in a theatre dressing room by Olivier for slandering Gielgud.

¤¤ Australian actor John McCallum: Googie’s husband in real life. They were courted during filming, married in 1948 and died within months of one another in 2010 -11. Australia’s Golden Show Biz Couple – McCallum’s memoirs were endearingly entitled Life With Googie.

¤¤¤ it’s a nasty jolt to realise we were still giving prisoners a taste of the cat in 1947. More frivolously, McCallum’s naked torso as he shows off his scars reminds us very forcibly of a time when today’s universal gym phenonemon was entirely unknown.

* and guess what? When the credits roll we see this catchy tune is ‘Theme Without Words’, specially composed by Marlene’s old Berliner pal of the 1920’s, Mischa Spoliansky.

** the noisy maid in MARY POPPINS; the even noisier Ida in BRIGHTON ROCK.

*** the usually motherly Gladys Henson has a couple of lines as the victim’s tarty wife. She comes to the door on a Sunday afternoon in close-fitting satin and bracelets: hung with stolen jewellery.

#and the fabulous music by Georges Auric

# do you think there might be some Easter parable mixed up in this? There are certain clues…

Wait For the Moment When: James Cagney

James Cagney in The Public Enemy (1931)

James Cagney in The Public Enemy (1931)

…comes home to Ma in the final scene of prototype gangster movie THE PUBLIC ENEMY (1931). I won’t spoil the surprise but for sheer grotesque horror I’m prepared to equate this with the denouement of THE MONKEY’S PAW: it shocks me rigid, every time. But from start to finish this is a wholly nasty, stylishly sadistic movie – speeding along at 79 minutes (those were the days), but seeming even nippier: maybe because in its cynicism and attitudes it is so modern.

As it is also in its lechery. Tiny (he was just under 5’5″) tough mad-eyed grinning Cagney is a sexy little psychopath. There’s a hint of the mother-fixation in THE PUBLIC ENEMY that was later to be worked out so thoroughly and disturbingly in WHITE HEAT, two decades later. And look out for the remarkable scene – now restored on DVD after being cut for the film’s re-release in the more prudish 1940’s – where Jimmy is painstakingly measured by an ogling and lascivious male outfitter. Even creepier than the creature who waits on Bill Holden in SUNSET BOULEVARD, the tailor whips out his tape & announces a waist of 31 and a half ¤. ( “O sir! Here’s where you need the room…such a muscle!”). Exactly as you’d imagine in this compact little ex-dancer and off-screen equestrian, who then goes off to shove a grapefruit into Mae Clark’s face before picking up the whorish Gwen (Jean Harlow, 2nd billed) while kerb crawling the highway.

James Cagney and Tailor in The Public Enemy

The lascivious male outfitter

 

Cagney was highly attractive to female audiences and appeared opposite a string of glamorous – and esoterically sexy – leading ladies including Rita Hayworth, Barbara Stanwyck and Mary Astor. His own off-screen marriage was a 64 year idyll. But was Cagney also a coded and unconscious gay icon in his time, as was reputedly his British contemporary, King George V? Gangsters were certainly a big turn-on for their contemporaries of both sexes and there’s a lot of evident homo-eroticism in these early “social realism” movies. The “endearing frog face of Edward G Robinson” appears as Rico in LITTLE CAESAR which premiered just 4 months before PUBLIC ENEMY. Here’s another miniature monster, this time in a satin dressing gown and spats: Rico has no time for girls, but hangs around with fawning guys who loll on the bed with the boss, or strike the sort of leggy poses Dietrich was just then making the acme of eroticism.

Edward G. Robinson as Little Caesar (1931)

Edward G. Robinson as Little Caesar (1931)

Cagney’s contemporary, Billy Wilder, full of the worldly wisdom of old Europe, picked up on all these cross currents when he made SOME LIKE IT HOT nearly thirty years later. Not only does he reference explicit scenes and shots from the Warners classics, but he goes further and makes female impersonation, sexual ambiguity and satyriasis v. impotence the main themes of his own picture. Yet for all its risky riffs ( the heavy drinking, priapic & presumably under-age bell boy; Joe E Brown’s preoccupation with his mama; and Marilyn’s astonishingly rude nude souffle dress) SOME LIKE IT HOT is an essentially innocent comedy, despite the killings and the gangster menace. “You couldn’t take offence”. To use an awful phrase, it’s a feel-good picture. THE PUBLIC ENEMY is most emphatically not a feel-good movie: it is seamy, sinister, misogynistic, heartless and very frightening. Look out for the rude song of a dirty old man at the piano; the voyeuristic touch of Joan Blondell and Edward Woods having noisy intimacy just out of shot; the inaudible but clearly lascivious whispering (“..whispery and obscene…”); and the first screen example of a horse’s head in a bag. And meantime – as in Ken Russell’s WOMEN IN LOVE decades later – the infantile, haunting “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” reprises on the soundtrack, the moans of trampled Depression innocence.

Danny Richards Jr as the Bellboy in Some Like It Hot (1959)

Danny Richards Jr as the Bellboy in Some Like It Hot (1959)

Needless to say, no one is seen applying scent: that really would be beyond the pale, of a piece with Fatty Arbuckle’s parties and Valentino’s pink face powder. Cagney expert John McCabe tells us that in private life Jimmy was addicted to heliotrope, having been entranced as a child by a teacher who smelled of this sweet powdery almondy scent. Heliotrope is a mauve floral oil, a whiff of the Edwardian era: tranquil, soft, maybe faintly fruity, slightly triste, the colour of half-mourning. Ambiguous and stylish, it sits well on both sexes. Try it at Les Senteurs, striking a chord in Secrete Datura, L’Eau d’Hiver, Un Bateau Pour Capri, Gris Clair and perhaps most intriguingly and prominently in Mona di Orio’s extraordinary Musc.

JAMES CAGNEY 1899 – 1986

¤ inside leg comes in at “33 and a half”. Poetic licence. Hips are “37 and a half”: the sequence is the titillating aural equivalent of Marlene posing beside the nude statue of herself in SONG OF SONGS or Valentino being dressed like a doll in MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE .

Wait For The Moment When: Mae West

Mae-West_SheDoneHimWrong

…manifests on screen. Her film debut (she’d been on the New York stage for 20 years) was a supporting role in Night After Night in 1932, a film remembered now only for Mae and the exchange:

“Goodness, what beautiful diamonds!”

“Goodness had nothing to do with it dearie!”

The more you think about it the funnier it is; with its lilting scansion it is also poetically simple. Maybe that’s why the line is so frequently garbled and misquoted – as with Marilyn needing 58 takes to recite “where’s that bourbon?” while simultaneously opening a drawer. Less is more. Legendary theatrical turns of a century ago were by modern standards basic, even nugatory, but nonetheless radiated a concentrated energy (Sarah Bernhardt expected nightly to die on stage). Mae undulated an indolent shimmy, yowled suggestive songs, rotated her hips and delivered startling innuendo in that curious voice, part nasal, part mashed potato, that veered between New York brashness and tom cat purr. It was an old music hall persona but brand new to the screen: Hollywood kept Miss West on ice till the talkies arrived. Despite her extraordinary appearance she was also a creature of aurality as her notoriety on the wireless testifies.

Once she appears, you can’t take your eyes off her: the only definition of a true star. Like Garbo – quite unlike, say, Davis, Crawford or Rita Hayworth – she ignores everyone else in the picture: they are laid on merely as feeds and props. Far larger and stranger than life, entirely self-obsessed, Mae loves Mae. While appearing so transparently lubricious and blatantly arousing she is in fact a complete enigma. Presenting nothing but sex, is she in fact sexy?

Entirely the wrong figure and silhouette for her era, she dresses in a parody of the styles of the 1890’s. Her sweeping spangled gowns conceal the 8″ inch heels and soles that, with pompadours and plumes, transform her from petite to Statue of Liberty dimensions. The legs are rarely glimpsed. Never a beauty, Mae was 40 before she filmed, with an odd little face which Cecil Beaton later likened to that of an ape. Was she laughing at herself or was she deadly serious? Was she really a man, as has often been suggested? Was she the experienced voluptuary she implied or a sexually neurotic woman who avoided intimacy, preferring (like Somerset Maugham) “to be touched only by prior arrangement”.

From increasingly bizarre interviews and memoirs over the decades it’s impossible to tell. I always liked the account of one interview where she generated electricity from the nylon carpet to transmit a shock on shaking hands. Why did Billy Wilder have Mae down as his first choice for Norma Desmond? Had he got her number right off?

Yet one of Mae’s most endearing features is that on film she always appears to be enjoying herself: another aspect of the star persona. This is so even in the movie mistakes of her old age, Myra Breckinridge and Sextette, despite microphones hidden in her false hair to feed her dialogue, and with technicians kneeling on the floor propelling her around the set. There is on You Tube a sweet interview with Mae talking to Dick Cavett – her vast bosom is corseted and tightly upholstered in black velvet, and she comes over as a darling and slightly raffish old lady who has spent a jolly life in saloon bars (needless to say, she was in fact strictly teetotal). She looks fun and – as was once said of Swanson – she is fun to think about, too.

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Rochas took Mae at face value when he and Edmond Roudnistka created FEMME towards the end of World War Two. Couturier Marcel Rochas had known West for years as a client: he now designed the flacon as a surreal vision of the celebrated hips. Naturally it feels wonderful to hold. The box was patterned with the black lace panels that Rochas used to create the optical illusion of a slimmer figure. So maybe the sweet and fruity (prunes, but crystallised) chypre has a touch of tongue in cheek. Today – if you can find a bottle – it is still gorgeous and fascinating despite the passage of 70 years; and so, on celluloid, is Mae.

‘Oh, Beulah…’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Peel me a grape.’

MAE WEST 1893 – 1980

Hello, Twins!

Olivia de Havilland in The Dark Mirror.

Olivia de Havilland in The Dark Mirror.

Last night I went in search of diversion down my favourite road – the always perfumed Memory Lane, where the trees are perpetually in flower, even though the cherry blossom be made of tissue. I went not to Manderley again but looked at beautiful and fascinating Olivia de Havilland in the 1946 psychological thriller The Dark Mirror. Her co-star here (apart from herself) is a worn-looking Lew Ayres, once the second Mr Ginger Rogers, whose career suffered from his wartime pacifist stance. I hadn’t seen this movie for decades, in fact I think my previous viewing was a dubbed version on German tv over 30 years ago.

It’s very good! Olivia plays twins – Terry and Ruth. “One of them is insane” and has stabbed a man to death. But which one? Doctor Lew Ayres has to find out. The special effects when the girls are on-screen together are remarkably adroit and convincing, and de Havilland’s characterisations are highly accomplished and subtle. Even with identical clothes, hair and make-up the viewer can soon tell the girls apart – or thinks he can.

Reader, here’s where I had to keep putting the film back for another look – and another. Towards the climax the now clearly psychopathic Terry dolls up for a late-night appointment with Dr Ayres, posing as her own sister. In black satin and sequins she nips into the bathroom and dabs on perfume – the finishing touch. A discreet little bottle – we can’t tell what it is – but it lurks beneath the cabinet containing sleeping pills, the pills with which she is fuddling her poor sister Ruth. We take the hint that director Robert Siodmak has already cast perfume as a murderess’s accomplice: but then when Terry arrives at Ayres’ apartment he kisses her – and the camera catches his face as he smells her fragrance.

Such a wry grimace! Such scorn and contempt! He turns away, repelled. He knows already he’s kissing Terry: the scent does not reveal her deception. He is revolted either by the idea that the Good and Evil twin should share the same perfume, or (and I think this more likely) perceives the use of scent as final proof that the wearer is depraved. Old Hollywood was always puritanical and reactionary in her attitudes: any mention of perfume in the movies usually heralds trouble. But, take a look sometime – ‘judge for yourselves’ as Lillian Gish once said.

Kiss me, my fool.

ThedaBarawikimedia

To celebrate the centenary of its release I sat down and watched ‘A Fool There Was’ on the You Tube: the great sex shocker of 1914 which propelled Theda Bara upon the world, the first screen femme fatale: The Vamp. Hard to believe that an almost mythic movie has played for 100 years. Bara (nee Goodman) died, not old, the year I was born. Refused a certificate in Great Britain, the movie still retains the power to shock, not by its prurience but in the final shots of a man reduced to human wreckage and total physical & psychological degradation. I squeaked aloud in my chair. ‘Some of him lived / but the most of him died’ reads the title card. It’s a theme that von Sternberg and Dietrich returned to with even greater effect some 15 years later: a pillar of society reduced by sex to a baying, dying beast.

Theda Bara has less to do in the film than I had imagined: she is taller, too, and rather more attractive. She was probably the cinema’s first brunette leading lady, the original wicked dark-haired temptress, a creature of the Night destroying the daughters of Light and their lawful wedded husbands. Her wide mouth is covered in lip rouge which photographs as black, and her huge inky eyes are liberally smeared with Vaseline and candle smoke. She is heaped with clothes in the especially hideous styles of the day; in one sequence her feet become entangled in her fish tail train. I can’t decide whether this is a cute device to give the viewer an eyeful of her ankles or whether the director either didn’t notice or couldn’t be bothered to cut.

Roses, cruelly used, are her leit motif. We first see the Vamp smelling two flowers, then tearing them to pieces: the destruction of her prey, the denial of her own femininity, the end of innocence. In one sequence of startling phaliic symbolism she disarms a rejected admirer who draws a gun on her by stroking the the revolver – now detumescent and redundant – with the rose she carries. Whereat the wretched man shoots himself.

The Vamp and her confreres play cards, loll around half-dressed, let down their back hair and indulge in a lot of what my mother used to call ‘posturing’. But interestingly perfume is not part of the picture. Scent does not appear though the viewer rather anticipates shots of atomisers and drenching showers of musky fragrance as an additional sign of shameless sin. After all this film was made in a Golden Age of perfume: L’Heure Bleue, Jicky, Quelques Fleurs, Narcisse Noir, Phul Nana, Shem-El-Nessim and the early Coty repertoire were all by then on the dressing tables of the rich & fashionable.

Maybe Theda Bara’s director – Frank Powell – felt that his Vamp should exude her own seductive and noxious aroma, like a night-blooming flesh-eating flower; that she should lure men to their doom by an involuntarily secreted deadly & delectable unnatural odour. Writings and novels of this period describe scent as being emitted by hair, clothing, furs, fabrics and furnishings rather than by the skin …” a faint delicious fragrance hung about her..”. But perfume actually poured onto the skin? Or oozing from it? A subject then ‘too difficult even to talk about’ as the adverts used to say. Too animal, too raw, too downright carnal: ideal for Theda Bara.

Now all you have to do is run the movie!

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Woman in a Dressing Gown

From http://notreallyworking.co.uk

A universal cliche holds it as a truth that you cannot portray or even talk about perfume on film or tv without extreme difficulty: ” they can’t smell it, don’t you see?”. I don’t at all agree, holding with that apocryphal but accurate endorsement of radio that the pictures on the wireless are better. I believe that imaginary smells may be more pungent if the correct stimuli are applied to the senses. Do you remember that gruesome children’s game – was it Murderer in the Dark?  – when we all sat in a circle with the lights off while peeled grapes, lumps of meat, pickled onions and egg yolks were passed from hand to hand, purporting to be parts of a dismembered corpse? (Childhood still retained its innocence in the 1950’s). Parents worked very hard preparing the objects for this tableau vivant and there’s no doubt it left a lasting impact on the players and the development of their imaginations.

If you think about it, film has always been able to suggest smell and scent; using them as part of the holistic mood of a movie. I don’t mean that handful of novelty features which pumped smells into the auditorium or used scratch cards to release odours on cue.(“Smell-o-vision” being one such process). No. I’m talking about aromas released in the viewer’s head via the screenplay, the dialogue, the camera. “Out of the character comes the movement; and out of the movement comes the dialogue”, Louise Brooks used to say. Maybe out of the camera comes the perfume.

And out of the vision of a gifted director. Think of Germany’s first talkie, Dietrich’s breakthrough picture The Blue Angel. Setting the action mainly in schoolrooms and the backstage of  tavern cabarets Von Sternberg enhances his banal and sordid theme with a battery of smells, mostly unsavoury, implied by sets, characters and action. A dead canary thrown into the stove, a performing bear, Marlene’s knickers repeatedly gloated over by the camera, face powder blown in Emil Jannings’ face, tatty costumes, beer, cheap champagne,coffee, smoke, tobacco, broken eggs, a pineapple, chalk dust, old books, sweaty wigs…well, see for yourselves sometime. Then take a deep breath on Sunset Boulevard. I don’t know whether (as Caron used to claim) Billy Wilder really sprayed the sets with Narcisse Noir but there’s certainly the dead monkey, the decaying house and pool, the Isotta Fraschini upholstered in leopard in the damp garage, Norma’s Egyptian cigarettes (“Abdullahs”), her tuberose perfume, her “half an inch of makeup”, the rats, the untouched buffet at her New Year party. Plus, what is she smoking in that curious wire holder on her finger? I’m now on series 4 of Mad Men and a holder just like Norma’s is used to puff marijuana at a wild club. And we all used to think it was the champagne making her talk so silly.

But the olfactory movie par excellence must be the more modest Woman In A Dressing Gown, Ted Willis’s 1957 British slice of kitchen sink: Amy (Yvonne Mitchell) in the throes of unrecognised undiagnosed depression, surrounded by her ghastly menfolk and her own hopeless mess at 23 Nightingale House. She’s past bothering to dress, just throws on the eponymous dressing gown.  Her first appearance is accompanied by an beast-like snuffling and sniffing as the breakfast toast burns, followed by a huge close-up of the charred slice shot from under the grill. We’re off!

The camera lingers obsessively over Amy’s dreadful cooking – the blackened bacon and eggs, soaked in fat and the plate wiped on her gown; the burned fillet of plaice and chips (“Smells Good!” – doesn’t taste it though); and yet another supper treat, “cold ham, cold veal, cold pork”. All are served with a battery of bottled sauces, and everything smells of confusion, anxiety and a desperate longing to nurture and please. (Jimbo’s mistress, of course, cooks like an angel in the kitchen: a beautifully presented Sunday roast to mirror her skill in quite a different room).

From breakfast we cut to Jimbo shaving in a steamy bathroom and segue into laundry, hot irons, baby-minding, pawnshops (an old old coat being popped), timber yards, the river, raucous pubs, a hairdressing salon run by Olga Lindo, Tallulah’s understudy in the 1920’s and now a gruff dragon-manageress with a golden heart. And the rain pours down: black, mucky, sooty city rain – used as so often in old cinema as a metaphor for sex, a symbol of illicit passion. Wasn’t film so much more interesting when we had to familiarise ourselves with all these codes and ciphers which faded away so quickly with the collapse of censorship? The film ends with the saddest “happy ending” you ever saw and a threat that the dressing gown may be discarded, even washed. Like dogs, the characters have returned to their own vomit, reassured by the smells of their own debris and failure, safe if not happy in their soiled bedding.

Image from: http://notreallyworking.co.uk