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Terence Rattigan's one-act play about the outwardly dislikable but inwardly
intensely vulnerable classics teacher Andrew Crocker-Harris was regarded as one
of the writer's major works from the moment of its 1948 premiere. Though
adapted for film twice and television four times in English alone (there have
also been several foreign-language broadcasts), by general consent the most
successful version is the first, expanded by Rattigan himself, directed by
regular collaborator Anthony Asquith, and featuring one of Michael Redgrave's
career-best performances. It premiered in competition at the Cannes Film
Festival, winning Best Actor and Best Screenplay.
When we first meet Crocker-Harris, it's easy to see why he's nicknamed 'the
crock' by pupils and colleagues alike. A pedantic, humourless dullard, his
lessons lack the faintest spark of inspiration, which in any case would be
snuffed out by his obsession with discipline and conformity. But these are
what's lacking in his private life: ill-health is pushing his career towards a
premature end (with serious repercussions for his hoped-for pension), while his
wife is having an affair with a colleague.
There are deliberate but unforced parallels here with the story of Agamemnon
and Clytemnestra, and the film's title refers to a 19th-century translation of
Aeschylus's 'Agamemnon' by the poet Robert Browning. This comes to symbolise the
emotional focus of the relationship between Crocker-Harris and his pupil Taplow,
the only one of his charges who senses that there might be more to this
desiccated husk of a man than his reputation as 'the Himmler of the Lower Fifth'
might indicate.
The subtle characterisation defies stereotype: Millie Crocker-Harris is
clearly behaving appallingly towards her husband, but it's equally clear that
her attraction to his colleague Hunter stems more from intense sexual
frustration than any innate wickedness. Since Rattigan, Asquith and indeed
Redgrave were closeted homosexuals, it's not hard to guess what might lie at the
root of these marital difficulties, though it would have been unthinkable for
the film to spell it out. Though Hunter seduces Millie, his subsequent guilt is
palpable.
Appropriately for a film about extreme reticence, Asquith's direction is
understated, lacking even incidental music that isn't performed onscreen. The
major addition to the original stage version is the climactic speech in which
Redgrave unbuttons himself, finally giving his pupils a hint of the brilliant
scholar he once had been, combined with a warning about letting early promise
wither and die.
Michael Brooke
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1. A melancholy dissonance (3:32)
