A familiar sense of cynicism pervades one of the best British spy thrillers
of the 1980s, Defence Of The Realm
(1986). As with many films of the era, it’s not so much concerned with typical
‘spies’, as they might have been previously defined, as with people caught in a
world where dangerous secrets are suppressed and where watching eyes are round
every comer. Except that high‑tech has now superseded human facilities: when
the unsuspecting hero clambers out of bed in the morning, there are electronic
cameras and microphones recording each movement and sound. The political
ramifications of the plot bear similarities with High Treason, though here the
problems have worsened. There are no clear‑cut lines, no obvious factions
seeking to uproot democracy - the threat is present already.
The story tells of a newspaper reporter Nick Mullen (Gabriel Byrne),
whose latest scoop involves an established MP and his mistress, suggested links
with the KGB, and how this might be connected to the recent, mysterious death
of a young man who escaped from prison in eastern England. What initially
appears a simple assignment begins to grow into something more complicated and
deadly, far beyond his control: the MP dies, a fellow journalist is murdered
and Byrne finds his life under threat, fighting his way through a jungle of
deceit and cover-ups. Director David Drury commented whilst shooting: ‘It's not
a tub-thumping film by any stretch of the imagination. What we’ve tried to do
is get a happy balance between pure entertainment and something that is fairly
pithy... It’s all a conundrum essentially - a puzzle. The audience is put in
the mind of the leading character, and he effectively takes us through the
whole mystery.’
It was enthusiastically received by both audiences and critics,
managing to garner a British Academy Award in the category of Best Supporting
Actor for Denholm Elliot (in the role of an old-time, alcoholic journalist) and
have a special presentation at the 1986 Cannes Film Festival as a Director’s
Fortnight selection. Both Drury and Byrne made their cinema debuts in the film,
and it was perhaps their fresh talent (allowed scope after a background in
television) that brought such verve and drama to the topics involved. For as
well as taking a swipe at political hypocrisy, it similarly critiques the murky
cynicism of tabloid newspapers. To do background research, Drury and Byrne
visited the Sunday Express in Fleet Street and met the editor, Sir John Junor,
so as to try and capture the atmosphere. But owing to the critical light in
which they intended to show a newspaper, they dared not present the real script
- and decided instead to say they
were in the process of developing a new musical.
One of the finest cinema spy stories is undoubtedly The 39 Steps which has now been filmed
some three different times for the cinema - it is one of that rare breed of
stories that is able to transcend the limitations of any given time period and
appeal to audiences across five decades, oblivious of trends and fashions that
might limit an inferior plot. The films are separated by roughly twenty years, and
they obviously reflect radically different styles of filmmaking, yet what
remains the single, dominating factor linking them is a sense of fun and adventure
that is wholly infectious. Not even the pressures and worries of our
angst-ridden modern society can diminish that.
The curious paradox is that the original book by John Buchan was
actually a rather stolid affair, with none of the films taking much notice of
it other than as a basic outline. The most obvious example is with the title
itself. In the book it refers to the number of steps leading down from the cliff
to the landing place for enemy spies, but each of the films have their own
different theory: in the 1970s Robert Powell vehicle they were the number of
steps leading up to the clock room in Big Ben; in the 1950s Kenneth More
version, they were steps at a certain point along the Thames; and in the
original Robert Donat film, they more simply signified the name of the
threatening foreign gang.
Of course it is the first version that remains deservedly best known,
especially since Hitchcock’s 1935 movie was not just a landmark piece of
British cinema in its own right, but also still retains all the humour excitement
and surprises that it must have had on its initial release. It was also a personal
favourite of the director (even if he slept through the premiere at the New
Gallery Theatre), something which is clearly shown by the fact that he
virtually remade it twice during his period in America: both Saboteur (1942) and North By Northwest (1959) pick up the same theme of a young man
innocently on the run for a murder he didn’t commit, forced to chase after the
real culprits in order to clear himself.
In fact. the narrative of The
39 Steps is patently ridiculous, and even by the end the audience is left
with little inkling of what is going on. It starts with Richard Hannay (Donat) approached
by a mysterious woman (Lucy Mannheim) who informs him that she is a spy and begs
for a place to stay for the night. Before dawn, however, she is dead, stumbling
into Donat’s bedroom, a knife firmly embedded in her back, mumbling the
chilling words: ‘Watch out Hannay… they’ll get you next!’ From then on it’s a
madcap chase that takes Donat from London to Scotland and back again, until he
proves his innocence in the music hall where the film began. Hitchcock manipulates
our empathy towards the beleaguered Donat beautifully, playing on our emotional
response to an ordinary man suddenly thrown into the confused and violent world
of spies. Indeed it's a regular Hitchcock theme ‑ the intrusion of a violent
outside world upon the quiet, normal ways of everyday life.
Another typical Hitchcock motif ‑ used for the first time in this film
‑ was the blonde, ice‑cool heroine. Later examples included Ingrid Bergman, Kim
Novak, Grace Kelly, and Eva‑Marie Saint, but the initial personification was by
Madeleine Carroll. Some of the most memorable scenes in the film occur when she
is, much to her horror, handcuffed to Robert Donat. When shooting began on 11 January,
1935, the first takes were to be of the scenes where the couple escape from the
enemy agents whilst still wearing the cuffs; it gave Hitchcock the perfect
excuse to play one of his infamous (and cruel) practical jokes. As the two
actors arrived on the set, he rushed up to them and slapped the cuffs on,
saying he wanted to let them get used to the feel before filming. What he did then
was hide the key with the studio security guard, claim it was lost, and proceed
to film insert shots of the sixty‑two Scottish sheep which had been brought
over from Hertfordshire for the day. His purpose was to embarrass the actors
thoroughly, making sure they were stuck together for the whole day until he
suddenly ‘found’ the key at around six o'clock. They didn’t even shoot the
handcuff scenes till the following morning.
The screen‑writer of The 39
Steps, Charles Bennett, said of' Hitchcock: ‘He was the biggest bully in
the world; one of the kindest men I have ever met in my life.’ In fact,
Hitchcock’s meddling later led on to common gossip on the set (whether it was
true or not) that Carroll and Donat were having an affair. What is certain is that
on the screen together the two stars are electric as they progress from
animosity, through friendship, to eventual love, the last scene ending as they
tenderly hold hands.
Hitchcock was in total command of his productions, right down to a
despotic attitude he displayed in front of the crew and cast. The start of each
take was not signalled by calling ‘action’, but by throwing a piece of china
and smashing it on the floor – on The 39
Steps he was at his tea-cup-throwing best.
The 1959 re-make, by utter contrast, was made by a British
producer-director team who were anything but dictatorial in their approach to
filmmaking. During the 1950s and 1960s, Betty Box and Ralph Thomas made some of
the most successful British-based films, their output for Rank being roughly
two a year: they were perhaps not the most critically acclaimed of partnerships
yet the product was always professional and reliable entertainment. One of the
most impressive features of their work was an adaptability in terms of content,
ranging from social drama to high comedy. It included Appointment With Venus (1951), Campbell’s
Kingdom (1957), A Tale Of Two Cities
(1958) and No Love for Johnnie
(1961). Perhaps their most commercial venture was Doctor In The House (1954), and it was the re-teaming with its
star, Kenneth More, that heralded the remake of The 39 Steps. This fact is significant because their version was
predominantly played for laughs, and is such (even though, scene for scene, it
matches Hitchcock’s version) probably explained why it lacked the suspense of
the original. Still, it had compensations, especially in More and co-star Tania
Elg. It also extended the Hitchcockian theme of violence and mystery coming
from the most unlikely places: Hannay (More) finds that in this film, even a
nanny walking a baby-carriage through Hyde Park can turn out to be a spy.
By a macabre coincidence, on the day the 1978 version of The 39 Steps belatedly arrived for its
first showing in New York, Alfred Hitchcock died. But he would have approved of
the interpretation, directed by Don Sharp. Made on a budget of 950,000, it had
a raw vitality that recalled the 1930s film. The writer, Michael Robson,
cleverly relocated the story to the time of the novel, with England on the brink
of the First World War, and thanks to some marvellously evocative camerawork by
John Coquillon, it was an unusual and fresh setting. Robson stated before it
opened: ‘The date gave us wonderful currency with which to play, the collision
of old and new worlds. as the hansom cab gives way to the car.’ In fact,
placing the story in 1914 posed a lot of problems as the art department scoured
the country for authentic cars, furniture and even newspapers of the period.
Similarly, the train adventures that supposedly take place on the journey to
Scotland actually had to be relocated on the Severn Valley Railway, where the
only available steam train could be found. In the end the film was part-Buchan,
part-Hitchcock and part-new. It was all good fun though.
The best, and closing, sequence takes place as Hannay (Robert Powell)
hangs from the minute hand atop Big Ben. It sums up the appeal of spy films,
their ability to mix the incredible with the commonplace, the ability to take
the audience into a new world yet one that is taking place in everyday life.
They thrive on our willingness to believe the worst is happening, The problem
is it’s probably true.
