Dir. Alfred Hitchcock, UK, 1938, 96 mins, B/W
Cast: Margaret Lockwood, Michael Redgrave, Paul Lukas, Dame May Whitty
Review by Dave Hall
A 70th anniversary reissue of this Hitchcock classic, jam-packed full of giddy thrills and sardonic humour, all interweaved with a twisty plot and anchored by a relationship of real chemistry between Lockwood and Redgrave.
Most of the action takes place on a trans-European train where a disparate bunch of characters are involved in either solving, concealing or perpetrating the disappearance of an apparently harmless English governess, Miss Froy (Whitty). A prelude in a snowbound hotel introduces the main characters, and sets up the initially antagonistic relationship between Lockwood’s wealthy socialite Iris Henderson, and Redgrave’s musical folklorist Gilbert Redman. A shootout at the film’s climax ups the ante, as the fluid mix of thrills, laughs and fizzy romance that has characterised proceedings up to this point is temporarily abandoned in favour of something more serious; this being 1938, it is clear that the impending war was in the minds of Hitchcock, and the film’s writer’s, Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat. The buffoonish double act of Caldicott (Naunton Wayne) and Charters (Basil Radford) may turn out to be talking cricket when they refer to England being “on the brink” and “in a time of crisis”, but soon they, like the rest of the passengers, will have to choose sides.
This dose of realism is all the more striking because up to that point the film has had a dream-like quality, with Iris repeatedly losing consciousness and reawakening, until she eventually begins to doubt her own senses. Even when awake, she finds herself in surreal situations, such as searching a boxcar full of magician’s equipment where she too vanishes momentarily and finally begins to warm to Gilbert amidst the visual and verbal slapstick. This playfulness extends to undercutting the social mores of the time: Iris questions the wisdom of embarking on a comfortable but dull marriage; Gilbert bursts into her hotel room and almost into her bed in the middle of the night; there are extra-marital affairs and even a nun in high heels (Launder and Gilliat went on to script the St. Trinian’s films of the 50s and 60s).
In the midst of all this, Hitchcock is working his own subliminal magic. The rhythmic rumble of the train conveys both excitement and suspense, its shrill whistle raising alarm bells as points on the line muffle key dialogue and tunnels obscure clues. Meanwhile, the conventions of the thriller are being deconstructed and toyed with even as they lead us on; the intricately detailed description given by Iris of Miss Froy is met with a dry put-down by Gilbert, and the poisoned drinks routine is given a new twist by the two giant brandy glasses placed in the foreground at a key moment.
This was almost the last British film made by Hitchcock - its success brought him to the attention of Hollywood, and his first American film was released less than two years later. With intrigue and suspense, dark comedy and skewed romance, MacGuffins and trains, The Lady Vanishes remains as entertaining and compelling as anything Hitchcock directed.
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