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BFI Film Classics
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, released in 1943, is regarded as one of the masterpieces of British cinema. In this interpretation of the film, A.L. Kennedy finds it to be a complex and richly ambiguous dissection of what it means to be English, and what it is to be "at home".
- GenresFilmNonfictionBiography
73 pages, Paperback
First published February 1, 1997
About the author
A.L. Kennedy
86 books298 followersAlison Louise Kennedy is a Scottish writer of novels, short stories and non-fiction. She is known for a characteristically dark tone, a blending of realism and fantasy, and for her serious approach to her work. She occasionally contributes columns and reviews to UK and European newspapers including the fictional diary of her pet parrot named Charlie.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
December 20, 2015
Amazon reviews say that this - one of a '33 1/3'-like series about films - is too autobiographical. But I like A.L. Kennedy as well as The Life & Death of Colonel Blimp, so that was going to be absolutely fine. (I appear to bother with 'BFI Film Classics' only when I like the author and have seen the film; the only other one I've read was in the late 90s, Camille Paglia's The Birds, whilst I was a big fan of hers.)
Most Powell & Pressburger fans I've met have one of three favourites: A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, or The Red Shoes. Kennedy - whose Guardian columns drily detail small miseries of [the writing] life - didn't seem like someone who'd count The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp among her favourite films; I probably don't either.
A film about Getting On With It, but showing the emotions behind the stiff upper lip, is how I'd characterise it; I was expecting something similar to be said here, fitting my impression of the writer - someone who has a respect for that way of being, but who personally just has to say more.
But I first saw the film in my thirties, Kennedy before the age of ten when her parents were getting divorced. For her its primary meaning is a search for somewhere that feels like home - an idea that's important to me too, although I hadn't consciously noticed it in the film. (Might be mentioned a touch too often in the book.) As the blurb says "she finds human worth in the film and the pathos of stifled emotions and unfulfilled lives"... I find the characters themselves more helpful than that; if you first encounter it at a time of compromise when you're having to accept you won't get what had been your idea of 'a fulfilled life', it's not a nice thing to express in words, but the characters - who have things to do regardless of their pain - are both poignant and paradigmatic. I like that Colonel Blimp doesn't put these things directly into words - that isn't always what you need - but it still expresses them: sometimes I found the book contradictory to my own idea of the spirit of the film. Nonetheless I liked the memoir, and the bits about historical context (which it would have been nice to see more of - e.g. history of the film's reception, whereas the attempts at censorship are already well-known). Although I generally have a lot of sympathy with Kennedy's columns, I disagreed with her again here, about the Deborah Kerr characters. She interprets Candy as having been obsessed with Edith, the first, and that he never cared for the others as themselves. I loved this succession of characters and saw them as an illustration of someone having a very specific type. (relatable ... and the books in the last couple of GR challenge boxes are my equivalent of his big game heads on the wall; whilst I obviously don't agree with shooting all the animals, I love unusual ways of marking the passage of time in art, and that suits the milieu perfectly ... anyway this is a film with far greater worth than just relatability). There is a beautifully phrased review quote on the back of the DVD: "No one else has so well captured English romanticism banked down beneath emotional reticence." His quiet waiting connects with this.
What the book did usefully bring out, among other things, was the idea of Candy as a sort of holy fool (a type I've read a lot about recently - it's those Russian books). Also reminder and explanation of what a lovely character Kretschmar-Schuldorff was. It always seemed unbelievable brave to have portrayed am individual nice German in a British film of 1942, more so when it's noted how touch-and-go the war seemed at the time. They really didn't know if Britain would stand, and Pressburger knew that if the Nazis had invaded, he would have been sent to a concentration camp. And he produced some great works with that cloud hanging over. Kennedy declares herself a pacifist, which perhaps leads her to highlight the thuggish tendencies of the British rank and file involved in the ostensibly jaunty exercise at the beginning - who would, as she points out, stoop almost to the level of the Nazis if they had their way. (This brought to mind a Danish novella I read recently, in which a brief scene mentions British soldiers raping German women in 1945 - but only when their officers are out of sight; British officers in that account were apparently more civilised than those of the other nations, who'd condone it and join in. British war crimes of WWII, that's something our stories usually shield us from, I thought - but Spud Wilson's assertion that 'real war' included just such things was in the original Blimp script before it got cut.)
The author links these aggressive tendencies, of the younger soldiers who will supersede Clive Candy, with the eventual emergence of Thatcherism. (Candy is perhaps implied to be the old, more generous Macmillan style One Nation Tory.) Kennedy was no fan of any aspect of 80s culture - prefering old films like these - and the book was published a few months before the 1997 election; reading then-contemporary paragraphs brings back the weariness felt after 18 years of Tory government.
For readers who are happy with a personal, bloggish style of writing about film, this little book should be fine - as well as, pretty obviously, for others who like both author and picture (it was not dissimilar to reading a friend's extended blog about something you both like in different ways) - but those wanting something more analytical should look elsewhere.
Most Powell & Pressburger fans I've met have one of three favourites: A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, or The Red Shoes. Kennedy - whose Guardian columns drily detail small miseries of [the writing] life - didn't seem like someone who'd count The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp among her favourite films; I probably don't either.
A film about Getting On With It, but showing the emotions behind the stiff upper lip, is how I'd characterise it; I was expecting something similar to be said here, fitting my impression of the writer - someone who has a respect for that way of being, but who personally just has to say more.
But I first saw the film in my thirties, Kennedy before the age of ten when her parents were getting divorced. For her its primary meaning is a search for somewhere that feels like home - an idea that's important to me too, although I hadn't consciously noticed it in the film. (Might be mentioned a touch too often in the book.) As the blurb says "she finds human worth in the film and the pathos of stifled emotions and unfulfilled lives"... I find the characters themselves more helpful than that; if you first encounter it at a time of compromise when you're having to accept you won't get what had been your idea of 'a fulfilled life', it's not a nice thing to express in words, but the characters - who have things to do regardless of their pain - are both poignant and paradigmatic. I like that Colonel Blimp doesn't put these things directly into words - that isn't always what you need - but it still expresses them: sometimes I found the book contradictory to my own idea of the spirit of the film. Nonetheless I liked the memoir, and the bits about historical context (which it would have been nice to see more of - e.g. history of the film's reception, whereas the attempts at censorship are already well-known). Although I generally have a lot of sympathy with Kennedy's columns, I disagreed with her again here, about the Deborah Kerr characters. She interprets Candy as having been obsessed with Edith, the first, and that he never cared for the others as themselves. I loved this succession of characters and saw them as an illustration of someone having a very specific type. (relatable ... and the books in the last couple of GR challenge boxes are my equivalent of his big game heads on the wall; whilst I obviously don't agree with shooting all the animals, I love unusual ways of marking the passage of time in art, and that suits the milieu perfectly ... anyway this is a film with far greater worth than just relatability). There is a beautifully phrased review quote on the back of the DVD: "No one else has so well captured English romanticism banked down beneath emotional reticence." His quiet waiting connects with this.
What the book did usefully bring out, among other things, was the idea of Candy as a sort of holy fool (a type I've read a lot about recently - it's those Russian books). Also reminder and explanation of what a lovely character Kretschmar-Schuldorff was. It always seemed unbelievable brave to have portrayed am individual nice German in a British film of 1942, more so when it's noted how touch-and-go the war seemed at the time. They really didn't know if Britain would stand, and Pressburger knew that if the Nazis had invaded, he would have been sent to a concentration camp. And he produced some great works with that cloud hanging over. Kennedy declares herself a pacifist, which perhaps leads her to highlight the thuggish tendencies of the British rank and file involved in the ostensibly jaunty exercise at the beginning - who would, as she points out, stoop almost to the level of the Nazis if they had their way. (This brought to mind a Danish novella I read recently, in which a brief scene mentions British soldiers raping German women in 1945 - but only when their officers are out of sight; British officers in that account were apparently more civilised than those of the other nations, who'd condone it and join in. British war crimes of WWII, that's something our stories usually shield us from, I thought - but Spud Wilson's assertion that 'real war' included just such things was in the original Blimp script before it got cut.)
The author links these aggressive tendencies, of the younger soldiers who will supersede Clive Candy, with the eventual emergence of Thatcherism. (Candy is perhaps implied to be the old, more generous Macmillan style One Nation Tory.) Kennedy was no fan of any aspect of 80s culture - prefering old films like these - and the book was published a few months before the 1997 election; reading then-contemporary paragraphs brings back the weariness felt after 18 years of Tory government.
For readers who are happy with a personal, bloggish style of writing about film, this little book should be fine - as well as, pretty obviously, for others who like both author and picture (it was not dissimilar to reading a friend's extended blog about something you both like in different ways) - but those wanting something more analytical should look elsewhere.
December 3, 2008
Minimal discussion of the film other than what you see when you watch it. Minimal insight. What you get is a mini autobiography of A.L. Kennedy and what the film made her think about. There are good BFI Film Classics out there, this isn't one of them.
October 11, 2012
"I am certain that Powell and Pressburger and THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP are firmly a part of the Home I carry with me -- of that need for more and better which I think is part of being alive. Although they can bring me close to despair when I think of all they represent and how much of it is now lost, they also provide encouragement, constructive anger and hope, as good art should."
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October 31, 2016While this is a nice personal reflection on the film, it doesn't discuss what I find most geopolitically interesting about the movie: it's willingness to take a moderately long view (the length of a human life) of war, which is enough to make even the biggest conflicts (WWI, WWII) look small.
November 4, 2014
Too autobiographical for my liking but the stills from the film were great.
March 22, 2016
Too much AL Kennedy, not enough Col. Blimp.
May 21, 2025
I first read this soon after it was published – in the late nineties – and all I remembered was that the author had made some kind of mistake about Deborah Kerr. Having recently rewatched Blimp, and loved it all over again, I wanted to prolong and deepen my connection, and so dug out this slim volume. A quarter of a century ago, A.L. Kennedy was a familiar face on arts review programmes, but I haven’t seen her on television in a long time; by which I mean that her stock was higher then, and perhaps her personal reminiscences were considered interesting enough to slightly crowd out the filmic analysis her readers were surely entitled to expect in what is really only a longish essay.
As a novelist, she approaches the film via Emeric Pressburger’s screenplay; Michael Powell as the director is scarcely mentioned. (I don’t particularly object, since I think he has had the greater share of attention for the joint work of The Archers.) I wasn’t particularly enlightened by the discussion of home/Home she weaves throughout. I didn’t dislike the book, but I think somebody else could have done a better job. Kennedy’s mode of criticism is the type that obscures rather than illuminates.
Regardless, she gives us some nice details. Winston Churchill, who was vehemently opposed to the project, refused to release Laurence Olivier from the armed forces to play Clive Candy (thank goodness), and it’s funny to learn that Churchill’s well-publicized interference resulted in a boost to the box office: ‘a wonderful advertisement from the Government,’ notes a Ministry of Information memorandum quoted here: ‘It is now enjoying an extensive run in the suburbs and in all sorts of places there are notices – “see the banned film!”’
Incidentally, the mistake Kennedy makes about Deborah Kerr is in thinking that ‘an unnamed First World War nurse’ and Barbara Wynne (who marries Clive) are two different characters, rather than the same person whom Candy tracks down and identifies once they are both back in England. Kennedy also talks about Jack Cardiff being responsible for the cinematography, but that was Georges Perinal; Cardiff is credited as one of three Technicolor cameramen.
As a novelist, she approaches the film via Emeric Pressburger’s screenplay; Michael Powell as the director is scarcely mentioned. (I don’t particularly object, since I think he has had the greater share of attention for the joint work of The Archers.) I wasn’t particularly enlightened by the discussion of home/Home she weaves throughout. I didn’t dislike the book, but I think somebody else could have done a better job. Kennedy’s mode of criticism is the type that obscures rather than illuminates.
Regardless, she gives us some nice details. Winston Churchill, who was vehemently opposed to the project, refused to release Laurence Olivier from the armed forces to play Clive Candy (thank goodness), and it’s funny to learn that Churchill’s well-publicized interference resulted in a boost to the box office: ‘a wonderful advertisement from the Government,’ notes a Ministry of Information memorandum quoted here: ‘It is now enjoying an extensive run in the suburbs and in all sorts of places there are notices – “see the banned film!”’
Incidentally, the mistake Kennedy makes about Deborah Kerr is in thinking that ‘an unnamed First World War nurse’ and Barbara Wynne (who marries Clive) are two different characters, rather than the same person whom Candy tracks down and identifies once they are both back in England. Kennedy also talks about Jack Cardiff being responsible for the cinematography, but that was Georges Perinal; Cardiff is credited as one of three Technicolor cameramen.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews