Conventional film theory and education dictates that information must be ‘shown’ rather than ‘told’ – the gatekeepers of narrative importance insists that exposition be seeded dramatically throughout the unfolding plot, whereas in reality the attitudes behind film production and distribution dictate that every individual narrative turn is signposted and underlined so that, in the words of one film producer, the end product is explainable to an eight year old. Modern media producers and students should take a leaf out of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s oeuvre: here the audience is able to consume and disseminate information that isn’t delivered through dialogue or example but offered as plainly as possible (e.g. a ten second insert of a telegram or letter), or incorporated into the action as part of a cinematic tableaux (in this example, the Minister’s visit to the titular research lab adds layers of relevance to the film’s internal relationships by allowing us to perceive, almost uninterrupted, the reactions and body language of everyone onscreen).
The Small Back Room offers a self-contained world as personal and relevant as the later, similarly-themed Juggernaut (1975; dir. Richard Lester), sublimating its themes of isolation and redemption with an unusual and circumvented narrative, wherein truth is as hidden as the mechanisms of a lethal booby-trap. Like Juggernaut, however, the film ends with an orthodox conclusion that belies the previous insight, and leaves the audience frustrated at the deception. (As an aside, it’s interesting to note that an urban myth currently circulates regarding the conclusion of Juggernaut, theorising that main character Richard Harris does indeed get blown to pieces. A perfect example of the audience (consciously or unconsciously) continuing the film making process after the viewing has ceased).
The films of Powell and Pressburger – known by their surnames now but as “The Archers” in their heyday – have long held a ‘classic’ stature in British cinema, championed by cinematic gadflies like Martin Scorsese or Jonathan Ross, but totally misunderstood and under-appreciated on an educational and vocational level. Powell was a much more insightful filmmaker than his advocates will allow – preferring to push the visual excesses of fantasies like The Red Shoes (1943) rather than the intimate nightmares of this or Peeping Tom (1963). Likewise, Pressburger’s innovative work as a screenwriter is ignored precisely because of its alternative methods to currently accepted narrative processes. His work on films such as Operation Crossbow (1964; dir. Michael Anderson) or They’re a Weird Mob (1969) presents the viewer with different approaches to complicated, multi-layered narratives rather than the conventional climax-and-resolution techniques adhered to by an alarming majority of modern filmmakers. A key text on the subtleties and alternative practices offered by both Powell and Pressburger is Ian Christie’s The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (London: Faber & Faber, 1994), and would better serve wannabe professionals than any number of cinematography and documentary production books currently featured on university and college courses.
The Small Back Room at the IMDb
The Small Back Room (1949; dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger)
Conventional film theory and education dictates that information must be ‘shown’ rather than ‘told’ – the gatekeepers of narrative importance insists that exposition be seeded dramatically throughout the unfolding plot, whereas in reality the attitudes behind film production and distribution dictate that every individual narrative turn is signposted and underlined so that, in the words of one film producer, the end product is explainable to an eight year old. Modern media producers and students should take a leaf out of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s oeuvre: here the audience is able to consume and disseminate information that isn’t delivered through dialogue or example but offered as plainly as possible (e.g. a ten second insert of a telegram or letter), or incorporated into the action as part of a cinematic tableaux (in this example, the Minister’s visit to the titular research lab adds layers of relevance to the film’s internal relationships by allowing us to perceive, almost uninterrupted, the reactions and body language of everyone onscreen).
The Small Back Room offers a self-contained world as personal and relevant as the later, similarly-themed Juggernaut (1975; dir. Richard Lester), sublimating its themes of isolation and redemption with an unusual and circumvented narrative, wherein truth is as hidden as the mechanisms of a lethal booby-trap. Like Juggernaut, however, the film ends with an orthodox conclusion that belies the previous insight, and leaves the audience frustrated at the deception. (As an aside, it’s interesting to note that an urban myth currently circulates regarding the conclusion of Juggernaut, theorising that main character Richard Harris does indeed get blown to pieces. A perfect example of the audience (consciously or unconsciously) continuing the film making process after the viewing has ceased).
The films of Powell and Pressburger – known by their surnames now but as “The Archers” in their heyday – have long held a ‘classic’ stature in British cinema, championed by cinematic gadflies like Martin Scorsese or Jonathan Ross, but totally misunderstood and under-appreciated on an educational and vocational level. Powell was a much more insightful filmmaker than his advocates will allow – preferring to push the visual excesses of fantasies like The Red Shoes (1943) rather than the intimate nightmares of this or Peeping Tom (1963). Likewise, Pressburger’s innovative work as a screenwriter is ignored precisely because of its alternative methods to currently accepted narrative processes. His work on films such as Operation Crossbow (1964; dir. Michael Anderson) or They’re a Weird Mob (1969) presents the viewer with different approaches to complicated, multi-layered narratives rather than the conventional climax-and-resolution techniques adhered to by an alarming majority of modern filmmakers. A key text on the subtleties and alternative practices offered by both Powell and Pressburger is Ian Christie’s The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (London: Faber & Faber, 1994), and would better serve wannabe professionals than any number of cinematography and documentary production books currently featured on university and college courses.
The Small Back Room at the IMDb
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