![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Now let's listen to a conversation between two English actors on the subject of Warships Week
Doubtful as it may be under present conditions to find encouragement in anything of military origin unless it's the USS Princeton in 1844, about twenty-seven seconds into the two minutes' patriotism of Warship Week Appeal (1942) I cracked up.
Two hundred feet exactly of no-credits 35 mm, the object in question is a trailer produced for the Ministry of Information, essentially the same concept as the film tags of WWI: a micro-dose of propaganda appended to a newsreel as part of a larger campaign, in this case a sort of public information skit in which it is supposed that Noël Coward on the Denham sets of In Which We Serve (1942) is approached by Leslie Howard, slouching characteristically on with his hands in his pockets and his scarf twisted carelessly label-out, anxious to discuss a problem of National Savings. "How do you think we can make an appeal so it won't quite seem like an appeal?" With limited screen time to realize their meta conceit, the two actor-directors get briskly down to explaining the mechanics of the scheme to the British public with the shot-reverse-shot patter of a double act on the halls, but the trailer has already dropped its most memorable moment ahead of all its instructions and slogans, even the brief time it rhymes. Diffident as one end of his spectrum of nerd heroes, Howard apologizes for the interruption, excuses it with its relevance to naval business, and trails off with the usual form of words, "I'm sure you won't mind—" to which Coward responds smoothly, "I'm delighted to see you. And I know perfectly well—as we rehearsed it so carefully—that you've come to interview me about Warships Week." He doesn't even bother to hold for a laugh as Leslie snorts around his unlit cigarette. It doesn't all feel like a bit. The interjection may or may not have been scripted, but Coward's delivery is lethally demure and his scene partner's reaction looks genuine; for one, it's much less well-timed or dignified than the smile he uses to support a later, slightly obligatory joke about the income tax, which makes it that much more endearing. It's funny to me for a slant, secondhand reason, too, that has nothing to do with the long friendship between the two men or further proof of Noël's deadpan for the ages: a dancer with whom my mother once worked had been part of the company of Howard's 1936 Hamlet and like all the other small parts, whenever her back was to the audience and the Hollywood star was stuck facing the footlights, she tried to corpse him. One night she finally succeeded. Consequently and disproportionately, watching him need the length of a cigarette-lighting to get his face back, I thought of her story which I hadn't in years and may have laughed harder than Leslie Howard deserved. If it's any consolation to him, the way his eyes close right up like a cat's is beautiful, middle-aged and underslept. It promotes the illusion that a real person might say a phrase like "in these grim days when we've got our backs to the wall" outside of an address to the nation.
Not much consolation to the MOI, Warship Week Appeal accomplishes its goal in that while it doesn't mention for posterity that a community would adopt the ship it funded, the general idea of the dearth of "ships—more ships and still more ships" and the communal need to pay down for them as efficiently as possible comes through emphatically. It's so much more straightforward, in fact, than I associate with either of its differently masked actors, I'd love to know who wrote it, but the only other information immediately available is that the "Ronnie" whom Coward is conferring with when Howard courteously butts in is Ronald Neame. Given the production dates of their respective pictures, it's not difficult to pretend that Howard just popped over from the next sound stage where he was still shooting The First of the Few (1942), although he is clearly in star rather than director mode because even if he's in working clothes, he is conspicuously minus his glasses. What can I tell you? I got it from the Imperial War Museum and for two minutes and thirteen seconds it cheered me up. Lots of things to look at these days could do much, much worse. This interview brought to you by my appealing backers at Patreon.
Two hundred feet exactly of no-credits 35 mm, the object in question is a trailer produced for the Ministry of Information, essentially the same concept as the film tags of WWI: a micro-dose of propaganda appended to a newsreel as part of a larger campaign, in this case a sort of public information skit in which it is supposed that Noël Coward on the Denham sets of In Which We Serve (1942) is approached by Leslie Howard, slouching characteristically on with his hands in his pockets and his scarf twisted carelessly label-out, anxious to discuss a problem of National Savings. "How do you think we can make an appeal so it won't quite seem like an appeal?" With limited screen time to realize their meta conceit, the two actor-directors get briskly down to explaining the mechanics of the scheme to the British public with the shot-reverse-shot patter of a double act on the halls, but the trailer has already dropped its most memorable moment ahead of all its instructions and slogans, even the brief time it rhymes. Diffident as one end of his spectrum of nerd heroes, Howard apologizes for the interruption, excuses it with its relevance to naval business, and trails off with the usual form of words, "I'm sure you won't mind—" to which Coward responds smoothly, "I'm delighted to see you. And I know perfectly well—as we rehearsed it so carefully—that you've come to interview me about Warships Week." He doesn't even bother to hold for a laugh as Leslie snorts around his unlit cigarette. It doesn't all feel like a bit. The interjection may or may not have been scripted, but Coward's delivery is lethally demure and his scene partner's reaction looks genuine; for one, it's much less well-timed or dignified than the smile he uses to support a later, slightly obligatory joke about the income tax, which makes it that much more endearing. It's funny to me for a slant, secondhand reason, too, that has nothing to do with the long friendship between the two men or further proof of Noël's deadpan for the ages: a dancer with whom my mother once worked had been part of the company of Howard's 1936 Hamlet and like all the other small parts, whenever her back was to the audience and the Hollywood star was stuck facing the footlights, she tried to corpse him. One night she finally succeeded. Consequently and disproportionately, watching him need the length of a cigarette-lighting to get his face back, I thought of her story which I hadn't in years and may have laughed harder than Leslie Howard deserved. If it's any consolation to him, the way his eyes close right up like a cat's is beautiful, middle-aged and underslept. It promotes the illusion that a real person might say a phrase like "in these grim days when we've got our backs to the wall" outside of an address to the nation.
Not much consolation to the MOI, Warship Week Appeal accomplishes its goal in that while it doesn't mention for posterity that a community would adopt the ship it funded, the general idea of the dearth of "ships—more ships and still more ships" and the communal need to pay down for them as efficiently as possible comes through emphatically. It's so much more straightforward, in fact, than I associate with either of its differently masked actors, I'd love to know who wrote it, but the only other information immediately available is that the "Ronnie" whom Coward is conferring with when Howard courteously butts in is Ronald Neame. Given the production dates of their respective pictures, it's not difficult to pretend that Howard just popped over from the next sound stage where he was still shooting The First of the Few (1942), although he is clearly in star rather than director mode because even if he's in working clothes, he is conspicuously minus his glasses. What can I tell you? I got it from the Imperial War Museum and for two minutes and thirteen seconds it cheered me up. Lots of things to look at these days could do much, much worse. This interview brought to you by my appealing backers at Patreon.
no subject
no subject
"And make your money fight!"
no subject
no subject
Leslie Howard slightly corpsing: the pick-me-up I didn't know I needed.
neat propaganda
WW2 propaganda can be really fascinating, from Capra's "take the enemies footage and use it against them" approach in the "Why We Fight" series, to weird way Japan's first feature length animated film Momotaro: Sacred Sailors was commissioned by Imperial Navy, seen by almost no one because it wasn't released until the cities were evacuated, ordered destroyed the Allied occupation, and was still insanely influential because one of the few people who did see it was Osamu Tezuka, who grew up to the "god of manga"
I'm assuming you've had the chance to read to few bits of Lord Peter propaganda that Sayer's wrote?
Re: neat propaganda
I'm glad it was worth bringing to other people's attention!
WW2 propaganda can be really fascinating, from Capra's "take the enemies footage and use it against them" approach in the "Why We Fight" series, to weird way Japan's first feature length animated film Momotaro: Sacred Sailors was commissioned by Imperial Navy, seen by almost no one because it wasn't released until the cities were evacuated, ordered destroyed the Allied occupation, and was still insanely influential because one of the few people who did see it was Osamu Tezuka, who grew up to the "god of manga"
I've heard of Momotaro: Sacred Sailors: I've never seen it! How does it play to a viewer who is not in the middle of the Japanese perspective on WWII? Agreed that propaganda of this era can run the gamut from programmatic to imaginative to deeply weird, which is where I tend to gravitate.
I'm assuming you've had the chance to read to few bits of Lord Peter propaganda that Sayer's wrote?
Yes! I know Jill Paton Walsh used The Wimsey Papers as part of the skeleton for one of her authorized fan novels, too, but that I have not read.
Re: neat propaganda
On the other hand, almost no kids actually saw the film, because they were evacuated as the result of indiscriminate Allied bombing of their cities. Also, I guess it was nice that Imperial Navy spent very scarce resources at the end of the war on this rather than, you know, munitions.
I'm sure it's even more surreal if you're Japanese, given how central the actual Momotaro story and song is in their culture, and how it is used to teach real values to kids growing up. I mean, my wife is Taiwanese, and she can still sing Momotaro in Japanese, having learnt it from her grandmother who was child when the island was a colony.
And then, from a technical experience, it feels like something out of time. Despite being the very first attempt in the country at an animated feature, it feels like something that might have been made in the 1950s.
It's not a "fun" film, but it is a fascinating one.
Re: neat propaganda
Fortunately, "fun" was not what I was expecting you to report back, but I appreciate the explication of some of the ways in which it was fascinating. Mostly I know of it through the link to Tezuka, which is the same reason I mostly know about Princess Iron Fan (1941), since I don't actually watch that much animation from any country, but one of my husbands is academic-level anime-conversant.
no subject
no subject
Yay!
I am definitely not as charmed by a title card that just tells me to buy war bonds.
no subject
Coward's delivery is lethally demure Oh man, new life goal: be lethally demure!
What does it mean to try to corpse someone?
no subject
The double act writes itself! I'm so glad you enjoyed it.
What does it mean to try to corpse someone?
Make them laugh on stage! It can also be used intransitively, as when you are the person with the inappropriate attack of giggles. I genuinely don't know the origin: folk-etymologically, because your character is supposed to be dead and not lying there in a suppressed fit of hysteria, dammit, but so much theatrical slang is in-jokes from the nineteenth century or branched off Polari or something, I'm not sure if that's the real answer or just sounds good.