Michael Caine and working-class stories in British cinema

In the 1950s, the emergence of ‘angry young men’ writers and kitchen sink dramas like ‘Look Back in Anger’, led to an increase in working-class representation.

By Aimee Ferrier

For many years, the lives of working-class British people were invisible on screen. Not only that, but actors from working-class backgrounds were hard to come by, thus meaning that a large chunk of Britain’s screen icons were privately educated or well-connected figures. This imbalance within the industry prevented authentic stories from being told, silencing the voices and experiences of a massive group of the British population.

Posh actors dominated the screens with their received pronunciation accents that asserted them as well-educated figures. “The working-class person always had to have an accent before, was often a joker, and peripheral,” actor Rita Tushingham told The Independent. Indeed, there were hardly any working-class protagonists or stories about the plight of poverty, unemployment, governmental disillusionment, or abortion.

Then, in the 1950s, the ‘angry young men’ movement emerged within the world of literature, theatre, and film, changing everything. Post-war, a new generation of young people were feeling dismayed by the widespread levels of unemployment and dead-end jobs that forced people to work to the bone for little money. Many people were unable to afford nice places to live, and countless individuals were suffering from PTSD, grief, and a sense of malaise.

People’s childhood towns and cities were now destroyed by bombs, leaving what was once a community in ruins, and this physical representation of destruction and emptiness mirrored the emotions many were feeling at the time. This disillusionment came to a boiling point in the mid-1950s as people struggled to move forward and prosper in a country still ravished by the effects of war and economic disparity.

However, with John Osborne’s play Look Back in Anger, a voice finally cut through. Michael Caine once discussed the play with The Guardian, explaining: “When it changed, it was all down to the writers. They started writing for working-class people and it made all the difference. Playwrights like Noël Coward, someone I later knew very well, wrote middle-class parts for the stage. If you had a cockney accent you were going to play the butler. But John Osborne wrote Look Back in Anger in 1956, and that, I believe, was the first major piece of theatre that had a working-class hero.”

Things were beginning to change, with the stories of working-class people making more of a dent in popular culture than ever before. Other writers that were dubbed part of the ‘angry young men’ movement (although most hated this term) included Kingsley Amis, Alan Sillitoe, and John Braine, whose stories really changed the game in regards to the representation of normal British people and their struggles.

At the same time, the Free Cinema documentary movement helped to pave the way for depictions of British working-class issues on screen. These filmmakers—including Lindsay Anderson, Tony Richardson, and Karel Reisz—used a cinema vérité style to cheaply chronicle elements of working-class life to great success.

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My favourite film: Kind Hearts and Coronets

Liese Spencer continues our writers’ favourite film series with the Ealing comedy that blew away her teenage funk

By Liese Spencer | first published in The Guardian, Dec 22 2011

Sat in front of the gas fire one Sunday afternoon during my neverending adolescence, I didn’t pay much attention to the black and white film starting on BBC2. As its lace-trimmed credits rolled I knew exactly what was coming: a comfortably dull period drama. A couple of hours later, as its neat ending was undercut by a final, fiendishly clever twist, my 14-year-old funk of know-it-all boredom had been blown away. How exhilarating to see a bunch of well-dressed, well-spoken grown-ups behaving despicably – and getting away with it. For a cosy Ealing comedy it was incredibly black. Unlikely as it seemed, apparently there were adults – even as far back as 1949 – who understood that most people were disgusting and the world sucked.

Set in 1900, Kind Hearts and Coronets tells the story of Louis Mazzini (Dennis Price), a Clapham draper’s assistant and distant heir to the D’Ascoyne dukedom who decides to murder everyone standing between him and the family title in revenge for their cruel treatment of his mother. From the opening scenes, in which a hangman frets about the “proper” execution of his titled victim (“the last execution of a duke was very badly bungled. That was in the days of the axe of course”), Robert Hamer and John Dighton’s whip-smart screenplay and economical direction sweep you up and speed you along.

We catch our first glimpse of the debonair Mazzini from behind – lustrous curls gleaming above the padded satin collar of his smoking jacket as he pens his memoirs in his well-appointed cell. We then follow him in flashback as he drinks port in country vicarages, punts along the Thames and takes tea on sunny home-county lawns, all the while killing off his relatives one by one.

Busy as he is “pruning” his family tree, Louis still finds time to conduct an adulterous affair with his equally worldly childhood sweetheart Sibella. (How fantastic, I thought, that she was allowed to be just as nasty as he was.) “Louis, I think I’ve married the most boring man in London,” she purrs about his better-off rival, Lionel. “In England,” he replies. “In Europe,” she sighs.

If Price’s beautifully modulated voiceover creates much of the film’s spell, then Joan Greenwood’s fruity delivery is also funny and seductive. Always pouting from beneath some complicated hat, Sibella is poison in petticoats. Louis describes her as: “Vain, selfish, cruel, deceitful. Adorable.”

The film is best known now as an early showcase for Alec Guinness, and his cameos as eight variously jolly, arrogant, mean and stupid D’Ascoynes are acting genius – I especially like the vim with which the suffragette Lady Agatha punches in shop windows with her brolly. In the famous funeral scene where we see the remaining D’Ascoynes together, Guinness inhabits each of his Edwardian establishment gargoyles completely – general, admiral, banker – before the camera finally comes to rest on the clergyman leading the funeral service (Guinness again) and Mazzini rounds off his inventory: “And in the pulpit, talking interminable nonsense, the Reverend Lord Henry D’Ascoyne.”

Kind Hearts and Coronets is a brilliantly sustained attack on what Hamer called “established, although not practiced, moral convention”. Silkily subversive, his amusing comedy of “20th-century homicide” not only makes you root for a serial killer but delight in the ingenuity with which he dispatches his victims. Its witty script can still feel disarmingly dark today. “I was sorry about the girl,” Louis muses coolly, after sending playboy Ascoyne D’Ascoyne and his mistress to their death over a weir, “but found some relief in the reflection that she had presumably, during the weekend, already undergone a fate worse than death.” In another he erases infant twins from the D’Ascoyne family tree – explaining that “fortunately, an epidemic of diphtheria had restored the status quo”.

From a fairly privileged background himself, Hamer won a scholarship to Cambridge before being sent down for a homosexual affair and going into films. This was his first as director, and his most perfect. (In different ways, drink does for two of the D’Ascoynes and it did for the alcoholic Hamer too, aged just 52.)

Knowing that backstory, his disgust at the callousness and hypocrisy of Britain’s class system seems more pronounced. Take the scene where the Duke finds a poacher caught in one of his mantraps and sends in his gamekeeper – to collect the bird; or the assassination of the general at his club with a booby-trapped tin of caviar: “If there’s one thing the Ruskies do well … ” the pompous old bore tells his dining companion before being obliterated by Mazzini’s homemade bomb. (The others, of course, being molotov cocktails and the communist overthrow of a feudal system.)

Kind Hearts and Coronets may not be the most cinematic film – there are others more spectacular, more thrilling, more moving, more romantic, – but watching it was such a delicious surprise to my 14-year-old self. Like hearing an elderly relative swear, its sophisticated cynicism shocked me awake

Source: My favourite film: Kind Hearts and Coronets | Film | The Guardian