White Mischief

March 13, 2020

whitemischiefIt is Kenya, during World War II, and the wealthy British landowners are playing the games of the idle rich. The winds of war barely touch them, and they can indulge in unusually decadent behavior, including a good deal of sexual ’round-the-rosie.

The center of this group – of this film, White Mischief – is handsome Lord Errol (Charles Dance, from The Jewel in the Crown), a blithe spirit who seems to have laid claim to most of the women in colonial East Africa. But Errol becomes fascinated even more than usual with a beautiful new arrival (Greta Scacchi); she is gorgeous, playful, and he even sees in her a kindred promiscuous spirit.

There is a slight problem. She has a husband (Joss Ackland), a rich ranch-owner who is many years her senior. (But age was not a deterrent: “I like older men,” she says. “They have more money.”) Still, the mutual lust is not to be denied, and the two young lovers begin taking moonlit swims and lounging under mosquito nets together. The uncovering of this not­ very-discreet affair drives the husband to an act of violence that reverberates throughout the second half of the film. White Mischief is apparently based on a true incident, although some of it is conjecture. As directed by Michael Radford, the story becomes an excuse for some sweaty melodrama and a good dose of social criticism.

The melodrama comes courtesy of the characters’ utter cravenness, which would not be out of place in a nighttime soap opera. Ah, these rich are very different indeed – cuddling snakes, holding transvestite parties, swapping wives. The social comment, of course, comes from the same source. The implication is that the depravity of these white settlers is an outgrowth of the fact that they don’t belong in Africa in the first place.

Radford is an intriguing director; I liked his previous films, Another Time, Another Place, and 1984. He’s attempting a strange mix of moods here, and White Mischief is one of those movies that never quite gets all its gears working at once. Even when it’s not working, though, it’s almost always … well, interesting.

At the very least, Radford serves up a seductive-looking film, with many casually stunning views of the African landscape. And he uses a batch of watchable actors, including Sarah Miles (back into decadence after her fling with respectability in Hope and Glory), Geraldine Chaplin, John Hurt, and Trevor Howard.

Howard, in one of his final roles, is the embodiment of British misplacement. He sits, old and decrepit, on his African farm, taking potshots at beautiful tropical fruit as a servant sidesteps the bullets.

First published in the Herald, May 1988

Roger Deakins, whose first feature films were with Radford, was the cinematographer. Hugh Grant is somewhere in the cast, although I don’t remember him. Radford’s next film was Il Postino, a substantial success story that did not deliver him to the A-list somehow.


Plenty

April 24, 2012

After the kind of moronic cinematic summer we’ve just suffered through, almost anything halfway intelligent ought to be greeted with boundless gratitude.

And Plenty, the first film of a fall season highlighting seriousness (it’s the time Hollywood likes to roll out its potential Oscar nominees), is so ambitious and thoughtful, one is tempted to applaud it without objection.

That reaction may not be appropriate, because I suspect Plenty has some problems. But overall, it’s a bracing tonic for any moviegoer interested in something other than the travails of a pimply-faced teenager’s introduction to sex.

Plenty is adapted by British playwright David Hare from his hit play. It chronicles about 15 years in the life of an Englishwoman (Meryl Streep), from her war service as a spy in occupied France, through her unsatisfying existence in postwar London, an unhappy marriage to a diplomat (Charles Dance), and her increasing disability and mental illness.

The film is elliptical in development; there’s no indication of the jumps in time, except for what we catch through a news report or dialogue references. And there’s no attempt to glamorize its complex main character—she’s hardly a heroine in the traditional mold.

She spends her life trying to find meaning through a series of incidents: a handful of uninteresting jobs, a weekends-only affair with the diplomat, a purely sexual attempt to have a child without marriage (assisted by a lower-class acquaintance, well played by rock star Sting).

As she goes on, she shows a growing tendency to lose control—to indulge in behavior that simply won’t stay within the bounds of British decorum.

She seems to be searching for a heightened form of living that she knew only during the idealistic war years—and especially an intense one-night encounter with an English paratrooper (Sam Neill) behind enemy lines.

Hare has a playwright’s bent for overstating his thesis; but the vibrancy of the character he and Streep have created (the role was played on stage by Kate Nelligan) outweighs the occasional obviousness.

And although Australian Fred Schepisi would seem to be the last sort of director for this kind of material (he did Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith and Barbarosa—both Westerns, of a kind), he turns out to be a superb choice.

Schepisi and cameraman Ian Baker have created a powerful visual scheme; in their widescreen frames, the characters are often seen as helplessly dwarfed by landscape, or separated and isolated by architecture. These images say as much as Hare’s words about the sterility and tragedy of these stunted lives.

Schepisi gets good work from a diverse cast. Tracey Ullman, another English rock star, gives her character a warmth that Streep’s character cannot approach.

And John Gielgud is outstanding as a diplomat whose traditional Britain he sees crumbling. Gielgud gets most of the good lines, and you can’t blame Hare for that—who could resist, when Gielgud can toss out drollness that puts most “comic” actors to shame.

Plenty is an odd film, with strange rhythms unlike any other movie (excepting possibly Hare’s equally bizarre Wetherby, which hasn’t opened here yet). I suppose a lot of people won’t like it—it’s hard to get a handle on.

But by the time its luminous final scene came on, it certainly had a handle on me. For anyone who thinks movies can be something more than a colorful accompaniment to popcorn-eating, it must be seen.

First published in the Herald, September 1985

You don’t hear much talk about Schepisi (pronounced skep-see, if you do talk about him) these days, but he displayed a very distinctive eye and sensibility back then; The Devil’s Playground and The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith were stunning entries in the Australian New Wave, and his first decade in Hollywood produced some fine results. A turn toward comedy in the last 20 years has resulted in very peculiar choices, and not very many funny movies (although he lent a nice touch to the HBO adaptation of Richard Russo’s Empire Falls). As for Tracey Ullmann, as far as I knew she was a rock singer then, and not primarily famed as a comedian, so lay off.