An exceedingly
tough and very amusing self-described “propaganda picture” for rationing during
the war, the dame in the audience sees herself cadging a bit extra at the
butcher’s like a receiver of stolen goods abetting and indeed instigating the
crime by demand, a judge admonishes her directly from the screen.
A retrospective
of the prewar days when oranges were famously known, and of course the seaside,
followed by the experience to date.
Total
mobilization, total war, everything on the table, factory girls under air
raids, Popsy in the Home Guard, all of it.
British film
critics hardly seem aware even now that Launder and Gilliat created such a film
as stands with any on any terms at all.
For mastery of
the cinema in a work of art that has only peers (Wyler, Minnelli or Capra,
Powell & Pressburger), with nothing lacking to its psychological
understanding (that is to say, its portrayal of life), and criticism is wasted
on these points, the film is a masterpiece of the greatest importance because
it says why we’re here, because we’re here.
There can’t be
any doubt where the inspiration lies (Film4 says it’s lacking), the
comprehensive image of the “BIGGEST EVER MAIL TRAIN ROBBERY” and a swath of
government cash diverted to St. Trinian’s by a Labour Minister shutting down
public schools as a matter of principle ought to give a better picture than can
be found elsewhere, except that the St. Trinian’s headmistress is the
Minister’s mistress, and the school in its new digs has its own betting parlor,
professionally run by Flash Harry Hackett.
The lolly’s in
the basement, the robbers come to fetch it (Phase Two of Operation Windfall),
the belles fend them off in a train sequence admired by Variety and are
jolly well prepared to keep it, instead an M.B.E. is presented to each and
every one.
And so, the
headmistress, having ditched her guardsman for the Minister, has him in again.