The Man Who Would Be King

Posted to coincide with Sir Sean Connery’s 80th birthday.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they're starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

These lines from Rudyard Kipling’s bitterly expressive poem ‘Tommy’ are something you can easily imagine Peachy Carnehan (Michael Caine) or Daniel Dravot (Sean Connery) muttering vehemently to themselves, ex-serviceman with a grudge against the Forces and a healthy disrespect for the politicians they feel have let them down; men, it has to be said, who were just as petulant when they were in uniform, the majority of their time spent up on a charge or doing jankers.

No wonder, then, that Carnehan is introduced to us picking someone’s pocket in the crowds at Marwar Station, or that Dravot makes his first appearance dozing in a railway carriage and lambasting the individual who disturbs him with a message from his old mucker Peachey. The victim of Carnehan’s wandering fingers and the receipt in Dravot’s tongue-lashing is one and the same person: journalist and aspiring writer Rudyard Kipling (Christopher Plummer). His interaction with our (anti) heroes provides the framing device for John Huston’s enjoyably cynical epic.

Carnehan returns Kipling’s stolen pocket-watch when he recognizes the symbol on the watch-chain as Masonic; passing himself off as a Mason, he inveigles Kipling into passing a message to Dravot. Tipped off by Dravot as to a blackmail scheme he and Carnehan are planning, Kipling reluctantly passes the information along to the British consul. In the first of many uproarious scenes where Connery and Caine play off each other like a music hall double-act, they troop into the consul’s office, cock a snook at authority, and troop right out again.

They next cross paths with Kipling when they gain access to the newspaper offices he works at to consult maps and documents in the planning of their latest head-in-the-clouds scheme: travel to the far country of Kafiristan (the last white man to successfully mount an incursion: Alexander the Great), back some local tribal leader, defeat his enemies, install him as monarch, overthrow the poor bugger and reign as kings.

The extended mid-section of ‘The Man Who Would Be King’ details their arduous journey and the means by which they set about conquering Kafiristan. It’s a shaggy dog story of the highest order, riddled with coincidences, twists of fate, broad (and borderline xenophobic) humour, sweepingly epic set-pieces and two rip-roaring lead performances. The final stretch of the film, when the deus ex machina of Kipling’s watch-chain (presented to Dravot as a gift at the commencement of their lunatic odyssey) compounds a misapprehension by the locals that sees Dravot hailed as a god – any implausibilities are easily excused by the fact that he’s played by Sean freakin’ Connery! – takes things into darker territory.

The friendship between Dravot and Carnehan – the characters’ jocular, bantering relationship and the actors’ palpable chemisty is the backbone without which the film would be little more than some pretty cinematography and a few impressive crowd scenes – is compromised by Dravot’s burgeoning egomania, his to-the-manner-born assimilation of absolute power culminating in his suggestion that Carnehan demonstrate subservience in order to continue the façade. Then Dravot takes a fancy to a local woman, Roxanne (Shakira Caine), whom he believes the reincarnation of the bride his spiritual predecessor, Alexander the Great, took when he ruled Kafiristan two and half thousand years before.

This righteously pisses off the country’s holy men and the scene is set for the film’s justly famous denouement.

‘The Man Who Would Be King’ is bustling, colourful and ultimately poignant. It begins as a Flashman-like romp, occupies buddy-movie territory for most of its running time, delivers a couple of sweeping battle scenes reminiscent of Caine’s earlier turn in ‘Zulu’, and finally becomes a cautionary tale of the wages of greed and the price of hubris capped off with an almost affirmative moment of reconciliation. It’s a high point in the careers of both Connery and Caine, as well as nestling in the top tier of Huston’s filmography. It’s the kind of Sunday afternoon movie that reminds you – with a glint in its eye, a swagger in its step and a dash of ballsy attitude beneath its seemingly breezy exterior – that Sunday afternoon movies can actually be good.

Music in Film

My thanks to Viv Apple for this nostalgic and evocative piece:

Whenever I hear mention of the film ‘Dr Zhivago’, or even see the title in print, my brain immediately replays Lara’s Theme through my mind as if an automatic switch has been thrown. Such is the power of the film music written by Maurice Jarre, who died on 29th March. Jarre composed for more than 150 films, won three Oscars, two Baftas, four Golden Globes and a Grammy. He was given a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and in February this year received a lifetime achievement award at the Berlin Film Festival.

Jarre won his first Oscar for his score in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. After that success he was much in demand from directors including Alfred Hitchcock, William Wyler, Luchino Visconti and John Huston. He always maintained that music should be a central part of any film and not just used to underline a piece of action or a love scene, and thus he, along with other composers in the field, succeeded in making great films glorious.

I was a small child when my friend Judy and I leaned out of her bedroom window one afternoon and sang at the tops of our voices, Somewhere Over the Rainbow - à la Judy Garland. It wasn’t that we didn’t have anything better to do - although, actually, we didn’t. The real reason why we let rip over the rooftops of Streatham was that we’d discovered the joy and the power of film music. ‘The Wizard of Oz’ was, and still is, a film full of extraordinary ideas and wonderful images, but would its magic have been powerful enough to capture both adults and children in its spell without the music of Harold Arlen and lyrics of E.Y. Harburg?

That’s the kind of rhetorical question which lasts throughout a lifetime of movie-going. Musicals, by definition built around their music scores, have come a long way since Busby Berkeley’s girls on winding staircases first bored the pants off small boys waiting for their cowboy features in the 1940s. ‘The Glenn Miller Story’(1953), was among the first musicals to bring realism to the genre, separating story from musical numbers whilst still using music in the development of the scenario. The film was about Glenn Miller whose life story was about his music, just as the brilliant 2005 film ‘Walk the Line’ was about Johnny Cash, whose life was about his music.

It might appear more difficult to use music in a ‘straight’ film, but the evidence is to the contrary. A good composer can conjure up excitement, sadness, fear, elation and passion in his music; a great composer can match these emotions with what is happening on the screen so exactly that we cannot see the join. Even ‘serious’ classical composers have been attracted to the art. Shostakovich composed 34 film scores, including ‘Hamlet’ (1964) and ‘King Lear’ (1970).

Vaughan Williams wrote music for about ten films, including ‘49th Parallel’ (1941), ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ (1948) and the 1941 war documentary ‘Coastal Command’ - a ‘stiff-upper-lip’ collection which might seem to belie the love of folk music for which he was better known. Eric Coates was another quintessentially English composer, and his fondness for marches came in handy when he was asked in 1955 to write the score for ‘The Dam Busters’, the story of Barnes Wallis’s bouncing bomb. His work proved to be uplifting - an inspiration to accompany 617 Squadron on their flight over the Rhur valley.

By contrast, I defy anyone to listen to Rachmaninov’s Second piano concerto without recalling that most famous 1946 screen love story, ‘Brief Encounter’. Its pent-up passion is woven into the music, which truly tugs at the heart and gives permission for the tears to flow. And in 1995, Nigel Westlake broke new ground by arranging Saint-Saens’ Third Symphony to bring tears of joy to kids and animal-loving adults in ‘Babe’ - based on Dick King-Smith’s book, “The Sheep-Pig”, the story of a small pig’s triumph over the limitations of being a pig.

But could all this be a form of manipulation, a distortion of the truth? This is dangerous ground, but I don’t believe there is anything sinister in the enhancement of a story by way of music, which in itself cannot tell a different story. The score for the 1981 film ‘Chariots of Fire’ won an Academy Award for its composer, Vangelis. Later, there were murmurs that the movie was carried to its triumphal success primarily because of its inspirational music, without which the simple story of rivalry between runners Harold Abrahams and Eric Liddle in 1920 would not have aroused much interest. But to argue this would not only be a disservice to the film, but would also be a denial of something more fundamental, to do with connections in the human brain. When that connection is made, our understanding is enhanced.

The marriage of music and film must be one of passion, the partners locked into an emotional bond from which there is no escape. As cinema-goers we feel this to be true, but it may have been proved in practical terms recently, when Bernard Herman’s score for the 1960 Hitchcock film, ‘Psycho’ was put up for sale at the auction house Bonham’s. It was expected to go for about £40,000 - but there were no takers!

Hitchcock was unsure about the movie and wanted to cut it drastically, but Herman knew that with the application of music he could turn it into something special. And he was proved right. Hitch told Herman he wanted NO music for the shower scene, only the sound of water - and he then went away on a short break. When he returned, Herman had sneakily written the music which became perhaps the most famous horror scene theme in film history. But on its own, divorced from that horrific murder, was it just a string of notes? In this particular case, it seems so. And yet other factors, such as the present economic climate or simply the natural fluctuations of the market, may be just as much to blame here.

Would I pay £40,000 for the original score of ‘Dr Zhivago’? No. But then why should I, when I already have it in my head for ever?

by Viv Apple



in memoriam Maurice Jarre, 13th September 1924 – 29 March 2009