Transformation and enhancement: film editors and theatrical adaptations in British cinema of the...

Adaptation Vol. 3, No. 1, pp. 1–20 doi: 10.1093/adaptation/app011 Advance Access publication 28 January 2010

© The Author 2010. Published by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. For permissions, please email: [email protected] 1

Transformation and Enhancement: Film Editors and Theatrical Adaptations in British Cinema of

the 1930s and 1940s

MARTIN STOLLERY *

Abstract This article explores the role of fi lm editors within adaptation. Specifi cally, it looks at the

contributions selected British editors made to a range of fi lm adaptations of lowbrow, middlebrow,

and highbrow stage plays during the 1930s and 1940s. The fi lms discussed in some detail are

Loyalties (1933), Dirty Work (1934), The Face at the Window (1939), and Henry V (1944). This ar-

ticle explores the work of two editors who sought to transform theatrical properties into fi lms that

conformed to different notions of the essentially cinematic. It also explores the work of another

two editors who were less concerned with medium specifi city and more focused on enhancing

the qualities of the theatrical source material. It argues that more historical work needs to be done

on how fi lmmakers have brought different understandings of the similarities and differences be-

tween cinema and theatre to bear upon their production practices.

Keywords British cinema , editors , theatre , adaptation , melodrama , performance .

The creative agents traditionally privileged within studies of adaptation are novelists, playwrights, fi lm directors, and screenwriters. This is a reasonable starting point, but in practice it has led to the marginalization of other collaborators within critical and his-torical accounts of literary adaptation. Linda Hutcheon, although she does not pursue this to any signifi cant extent herself, has recently suggested that we need to think more expansively about the roles of various adapters, such as actors, composers, and costume and set designers in fi lms and television (79 – 85). There is certainly scope for more re-search into how all of these creative agents contribute to adaptations. My aim here, in relation to selected British fi lm adaptations of stage plays during the 1930s and 1940s, is to explore the role of another of Hutcheon’s ‘ rarely considered candidate[s] for the role of adapter ’ , the fi lm editor (82).

From an academic perspective, essentialist distinctions between fi lm and theatre have long been passé. As Susan Sontag wrote in her classic essay, ‘ Film and Theatre ’ , ‘ no defi nition or characterization of theatre and cinema, even the most self-evident [can] be taken for granted ’ (36). Many contemporary academic writers on adaptation would reject arguments that denigrate anything within a fi lm that might be described as the-atrical, and which defi ne editing, close-ups, camera mobility, and other techniques as specifi cally cinematic. As Ben Brewster and Lea Jacobs have demonstrated in their study focused on the 1910s, histories of fi lm and theatre are too diverse and complexly

* The Open University. E-mail: [email protected]

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interrelated to support such stark distinctions. Essentialist oppositions between fi lm and theatre, nevertheless, remain historically signifi cant because they have impacted upon fi lm production and reception. Particularly in the years immediately after the coming of sound, notions of what was essentially cinematic informed some editors ’ creative contributions to the adaptations of stage plays.

Rather than posing the question of fi lm and literature, or fi lm and theatre, in abstract terms, a more productive alternative is to explore how fi lmmakers, in this case editors, have conceived of similarities and differences between the two mediums. This essay will initially explore the work of two editors who consciously sought to transform theatre into cinema through editing. For the fi rst editor, the alchemical formula was a mod-ernist montage aesthetic, whereas the second was guided primarily by Hollywood norms in his approach to the construction of narrative space. There are, however, other important dimensions of editing which relate very directly to common ground between many forms of theatre and cinema. These have received less attention because it is more diffi cult to incorporate them into arguments about essential differences between theatre and cinema. To redress the balance, this essay will also explore some contribu-tions British editors have made in this area.

EDITING AS TRANSFORMATION: DICKINSON AND ROOME British cinema has often been described pejoratively as excessively theatrical. Within British fi lm history, the few editors who have received some critical attention for their work on adaptations are those who can be located in relation to highbrow theoretical debates about medium specifi city. These debates took a particular turn within British culture where some commentators initially feared that new sound technology would entrench fi lm’s deference towards established theatrical traditions. An important text within this context was the 1928 English translation in the journal Close Up of Sergei Eisenstein’s, Vsevelod Pudovkin’s, and Grigori Alexandrov’s statement on sound fi lm. These proponents of Soviet montage cinema expressed concern that the use of sound would be limited primarily to synchronized dialogue. They predicted a coming epoch of fi lm history dominated by unimaginative adaptations of ‘ “ high cultural dramas ” and other photographic performances of a theatrical nature ’ (84). One legacy of this infl u-ential publication is that whereas fi delity has often been used in popular discourse as a criterion for judging fi lm adaptations of novels, fi lm’s ‘ emancipation from theatrical models ’ , to adopt Susan Sontag’s phrase, has frequently been valued more positively by commentators attuned to theoretical debates (24).

Thorold Dickinson categorically endorsed this stance when he wrote in 1932, while working as a fi lm editor, ‘ real cinema is the antithesis of theatre ’ (44). Dickinson has sometimes been cited by fi lm historians as an editor who put this belief into practice. Dickinson commented that fi lm producer and director Basil Dean, for whom he worked early in his career, ‘ was a theatre man, he made canned plays ’ (Badder and Baker 5). Dean’s production programme at the newly constructed Ealing sound stages included adaptations of works by respected contemporary middlebrow playwrights such as John Galsworthy. Dickinson earned himself an honourable mention in the annals of fi lm history with one of his contributions to the adaptation of Galsworthy’s 1922 play Loyalties (Basil Dean, 1933), which dealt with anti-Semitism. Jeffrey Richards, in an

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Film Editors and Theatrical Adaptations in British Cinema 3

account based partly upon interviews with Dickinson, describes how the play script’s stage direction of a relatively conventional suicide by shooting (offstage, with a pistol sound effect) was eventually transformed in the fi lm into an editing tour de force .

Dickinson fi lmed the climactic suicide of Captain Dancy, who throws himself from the window of his Park Lane fl at . . . . Dickinson had the outside of the window and the side of house built on an endless roller. He had a man tied to a trapeze and photographed him being dropped, as the side of the building revolved. Then he took a second unit to Park Lane, tied an Eyemo camera to a steel rope and dropped it from the roof, to capture the falling man’s whirling view of Park Lane as he fell. The two sequences were then intercut and Dickinson’s reward was the gasp of astonishment from 1200 people at the trade show at the Cambridge Theatre (28 – 29).

The transformation of the end of this play should not lead to general conclusions about essential differences between fi lm and theatre. Experimental dramatists in Soviet and Weimar theatre, for example, explored different techniques for achieving height-ened visceral impact and rapidly changing dynamic viewpoints on stage action in the decades prior to Dickinson’s editing of Loyalties . Consequently, it is entirely possible to speak of various forms of montage in theatre, as Eisenstein did in his infl uential 1923 essay ‘ The Montage of Attractions ’ (Pavis 220 – 1; Eisenstein). Nevertheless, the repeti-tion by several fi lm historians of Dickinson’s account of his contribution to the conclu-sion of Loyalties suggests the enduring appeal of essentialist notions of cinema and theatre (Brown 154; Low 154 ).

The validation of Dickinson’s editing in this example belongs to a minority strand within British fi lm culture. This strand can be traced back to the reception of the Soviet fi lmmakers ’ statement on sound, and the Soviet montage fi lms screened most famously at the (London) Film Society, of which Dickinson was a leading member. Dean, on the other hand, pointed with pride in his autobiography to a positive New York Times review of Loyalties that described the fi lm as a ‘ transcription ’ which ‘ more than caught the spirit of the play ’ (183). The New York Times review briefl y compared the endings of The Merchant

of Venice and Loyalties and made no distinction between the stage and fi lm versions of the latter (F.S.N.). This serves as a useful reminder that Dickinson’s advocacy of a histori-cally specifi c, modernist concept of ‘ real cinema ’ antithetical to theatre was never a widely shared criterion.

Alfred Roome, a British editor less familiar to fi lm historians, is a more typical case study as far as notions of cinematic essentialism during the 1930s are concerned. Roome, who entered the industry in the mid-1920s immediately after leaving school, was not affi liated to highbrow fi lm culture. He described Dickinson as ‘ very studious, very academic ’ (Roome). Roome consolidated his career editing a cycle of fi lm farces during the 1930s. These were initially adapted from the series of plays that began with the staging of A Cuckoo in the Nest at the Aldwych Theatre in 1925. The core production team for both the stage and fi lm versions of the Aldwych farces included playwright Ben Travers and stars Tom Walls and Ralph Lynn. Walls also directed. The popular and profi table fi lm cycle, beginning with Rookery Nook (1930) [novel 1923, play 1926], was initially produced by Herbert Wilcox at the British and Dominions studios. Roome’s fi rst editing credit was on Wilcox’s production of the Aldwych farce Thark (1932) [play 1927]. The Aldwych team moved to Gaumont-British/Gainsborough for A Cuckoo in the

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4 MARTIN STOLLERY

Nest (1933) [novel 1922, play 1925] and continued making fi lms there until 1936. Roome was considered an important enough team member to reunite with the others shortly after their move to Gaumont-British/Gainsborough where he edited the ma-jority of their fi lms at this studio.

One strand of commentary on the Aldwych farces adopted a similar approach to the New York Times ’ assessment of Loyalties . Debates about medium specifi city were not relevant to critical judgements that praised the fi lms for preserving the ‘ verbal inanities ’ and ‘ various complications ’ of the Aldwych tradition ‘ even more perfectly on the screen than on the stage ’ (Rookery Nook). However, another strand of commentary drew upon diffuse, wide-spread assumptions about essential differences between fi lm and theatre, to describe the style of the fi lmed Aldwych farces as slow, stagebound, and not properly cinematic. These assumptions tended to be loosely derived from contemporaneous classical Hollywood norms, rather than the self-consciously modernist aesthetic Dickinson espoused.

These two strands of commentary about the style of the fi lmed Aldwych farces in-formed the development of the cycle through the 1930s. As an early British sound fi lm, Rookery Nook was shot with cameras in soundproof booths and with limited facility for editing sound or dubbing in post-production ( Low 85 – 7 ). These technological factors reinforced a tendency in the fi lmed Aldwych farces towards shots of relatively lengthy duration. Walls and his actors found this congenial because it enabled them to build performances that sometimes included elements of improvization within a single shot. This aspect of the Aldwych aesthetic persisted across the transition from theatre to fi lm and across other stylistic changes as the fi lm cycle developed.

By the time Roome joined the production team in 1932, dubbing in post-production was a well-established practice within both the British and Dominions and Gaumont-British/Gainsborough studios (Hankinson). Roome was therefore able to infl uence sty-listic change in the direction of greater scene dissection and more propulsive editing to make the fi lmed Aldwych farces, in his view, ‘ more like the old movies . . . with cuts here and there and people walking around ’ (Roome). Roome had previously worked on si-lent fi lms directed by Alfred Hitchcock, so he had fi rst-hand experience of what Charles Barr describes as their ‘ systematic editing, controlling very tightly and purposefully the perceptions of the spectator ’ , which applied classical Hollywood norms with a ‘ distinc-tive intensity ’ (29). It is tempting to construct an opposition between director Walls ’ ‘ theatrical ’ and editor Roome’s ‘ cinematic ’ approaches. A more nuanced historical analysis could, however, just as convincingly characterize them as alternative concep-tions of cinema, rooted respectively in the early sound and late silent periods, which reached an accommodation as the cycle developed.

As Sue Harper has pointed out, concern about the perceived theatricality of the fi lmed Aldwych farces was taken seriously enough to be addressed in studio press books and by Walls and other production team members in interviews and articles throughout the 1930s (83). John Oliver has analyzed the style of A Night Like This (1932) [play 1930] in relation to Walls ’ statement, just before the fi lm’s premiere, that he had ‘ abandoned the photographed play method ’ to concentrate ‘ on the new technique which assures a fast-moving story ’ (25). The camera is often positioned closer to the actors in A Night

Like This than in previous fi lmed Aldwych farces, but there is still relatively limited scene dissection in dialogue sequences.

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Roome did not comment publicly in the 1930s about the style of the farces. How-ever, when interviewed in retirement for the Broadcasting Entertainment Cinemato-graph and Theatre Union (BECTU) oral history project, he commented:

Our scriptwriters . . . at that time, were largely ex-playwrights, novelist, or journalist-turned-writer, but they weren’t really fi lm people. The chap I worked with quite a bit was the writer of the Aldwych farces, Ben Travers. Now . . . after they’d done Thark . . . I think he was a bit worried about some of it, he came into the cutting room and chatted with me a lot on how fi lms were constructed and how to cut up the scenes, and how you needn’t have a great long wodge of anything . . . So he altered his way of scripting from then on . . . (Roome) 1

Dirty Work (1934) [play 1932], produced when Roome was a fi rmly established team member, is a good example of this. The play script licensed by the Lord Chamberlain’s Offi ce consists of three acts with fi ve scenes which unfold successively at two locations. The copy of the fi lm script held by the BFI library, on the other hand, although not a detailed shooting script, moves more fl uidly between different locations and specifi es some parallel editing between separate but related lines of narrative action. In one example, jewelry store employees Jimmy Milligan (Ralph Lynn) and Nettle (Gordon Harker) dis-cuss a harebrained plan to trap some thieves at the same time as it is discussed elsewhere by the thieves who have manoeuvred them into hatching the plan. The thieves, of course, intend to frame Milligan and Nettle for the crimes they have committed. The transition between different locations is effected around the thieves describing Milligan and Nettle as ‘ prize mugs . . . the two biggest in London ’ , followed in the fi lm by a cut to a shot of the unsuspecting duo. These differences between the play script and the fi lm suggest a con-sensus within the production team around Roome’s view that ‘ it was often better to do a bit, then to cut away to the other story, then to cut back to that bit ’ (Roome).

In addition to working with Travers on the overarching narrative structure of the Aldwych farces, Roome also claimed he was ‘ able to have infl uence on Tom Walls to suggest how he did his set-ups and so forth . . . so that it gradually became more mobile and less solid ’ (Roome). Roome employed a repertoire of classical editing techniques, including cutting from establishing to closer shots, shot/reverse shot, close-ups for sig-nifi cant dialogue, eyeline matches, and matches on action, to cut together footage that had been shot with this type of construction in mind. He achieved a greater degree of scene dissection in Dirty Work ’ s dialogue sequences than was the case in earlier fi lms in the cycle such as A Night Like This . In the fi nal analysis, however, the classical editing advocated by Roome can be seen as an infl ection of theatrical precedents as well as a departure from them. For example, as Brewster and Jacobs argue in their historical analysis of the emergence of classical editing norms, ‘ the idea that a scene was a ‘ stage ’ ’ was perpetuated in some respects, insofar as ‘ the inclusive long shot prevailed as the principal framing of a scene, and most closer shots were axial cut-ins to a detail locat-able by reference to that broader framing ’ (213).

For some contemporary reviewers, Dirty Work was ‘ one of the best screen adaptations of a Ben Travers farce ’ , which ‘ as a piece of screen work . . . [was] good ’ (R.M.F.). For other commentators, even Roome’s best efforts did not succeed in making Dirty Work properly cinematic. In their eyes, it remained ‘ a theatrical farce the joints of which have been lamentably stretched on the rack of a fi lm studio ’ ( Dirty Work ). Dirty Work ’ s average

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6 MARTIN STOLLERY

shot length is 10.2 seconds, higher than the eight seconds recorded by Barry Salt as the average for his sample of British fi lms between 1934 and 1939 (216). Dirty Work has fewer shots lasting between one and one and a half minutes than in the earlier A Night

Like This . Dirty Work , nevertheless, contains a fair number in the thirty to forty second range, with the actors often elaborating comic dialogue and comedy business, as Roome put it, ‘ in a half-circle like they do on the stage ’ (McFarlane 497). The scenes that these lengthy shots form part of are frequently leavened with what Brewster and Jacobs describe as axial cut-ins. One example is brief close-ups, not indicated in the script, of Milligan (Lynn) declaring, ‘ But personally, I think my face is much crookeder than yours ’ , and Nettle (Harker) responding, ‘ Don’t be silly, my face is much crookeder than yours ’ ( Figures 1 and 2 ). These are interpolated into a scene framed by long shot dia-logue exchanges, one of which lasts fi fty seconds.

The ensemble playing of Tom Walls, Ralph Lynn, George Harker, and other famil-iar actors was one of the primary attractions of these farces. Lynn described, from an actor’s perspective, the performance and improvization process in a short article, ‘ How a Comedy Scene Grows ’ , published around the time of release of Dirty Work . Lynn concurred with Roome’s dual emphasis upon ‘ keeping the pace going and seeing that [the fi lms] were funny ’ when he wrote ‘ our job is to build up a scene for just as long as it remains funny. Whatever good jokes we may still have in hand, we must cut them ruthlessly and get on to building up the next sequence. ’ (Roome; Lynn 18) The ideal for Lynn was to integrate dynamic editing with freedom for actors to build up a scene. Nevertheless, his description of this ideal also implies the potential for perceiving a tension between these two imperatives. Even in a later fi lm in the cycle, such as Dirty

Work , the process of building up a scene involved shots of relatively lengthy duration that showcased the primary attractions of comedy performance, ensemble playing, and improvization. This left the fi lmed Aldwych farces open to criticisms of theatricality

Figure 1 Ralph Lynn’s crooked face. Dirty Work (1934), fi lm grab .

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from reviewers who subscribed to assumptions about essential differences between the-atre and cinema.

Contemporary fi lm historians are less inclined to rely upon categorical oppositions when discussing the fi lmed Aldwych farces. David Sutton, for example, has argued that ‘ the fi lms, relying on not just pre-existent material, but pre-existent audience expectations about that material . . . don’t actually have to reinvent theatre for the cinema to be extremely pleasurable or funny, to be, indeed, cinema ’ (160). Whatever our current view of the complex historical relationships between cinema and theatre and whatever our aesthetic judgements of the fi lmed Aldwych farces, there is evi-dence of stylistic change, particularly in terms of editing, as the cycle continued during the 1930s. Roome was a signifi cant contributor to this change, which arose partly in response to wider critical discussions of the theatrical versus cinematic qual-ities of these fi lms.

Dickinson’s and Roome’s attitudes towards adaptation relate in part to their wider fi lm cultural affi liations and the power, status, and infl uence they brought to bear upon specifi c projects. 2 Dickinson built up a reputation during the 1930s as an increasingly experienced features editor while also signaling his credentials, to those in the know, as a modernist fi lm intellectual antipathetic to theatricality in cinema. He achieved this through his Film Society activities, writing, and occasional moments in the fi lms he worked on such as the end of Loyalties . Roome’s fi lm industry experience, compared to other members of the Aldwych team, would have given him the confi dence and au-thority within his fi eld of expertise to press his views on what he considered a properly cinematic style for these low- to middlebrow comedies. Other editors exerted a similarly signifi cant creative infl uence on the projects they worked on but adopted different stances on adaptation. Rather than the attainment of medium specifi city, the three editors in the next section of this essay were more concerned, in the particular projects

Figure 2 Gordon Harker’s crookeder face. Dirty Work (1934), fi lm grab .

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8 MARTIN STOLLERY

discussed, with enhancing dimensions of cinema that very clearly overlap with theatre.

EDITING AS ENHANCEMENT: HARRIS, BECK, AND CRANSTON Dialogue editing has attracted less academic attention than montage or continuity edit-ing because, as Sarah Kozloff has pointed out, dialogue has traditionally been the vic-tim of cinema studies ’ ‘ long-standing antipathy to speech in fi lm ’ (6). One of the reasons for this, Kozloff argues, is that dialogue in fi lm is tainted with theatrical associations. This lack of critical attention from academics and fi lm historians contrasts with the prominent status given to dialogue editing in publications written by or for practitioners. For example, in the British context, Karel Reisz’s The Technique of Film Editing , compiled with assistance from several notable British editors, devotes considerable space to this topic (87 – 101).

Jack Harris was one of the experts who contributed to The Technique of Film Editing . Like Roome, he was a British fi lm industry veteran who by the end of the 1930s was widely regarded as a leading editor, second only to David Lean. Reisz, in a rare 1951 profi le of Harris, declared him ‘ completely unaffected by fashionable views or mere technical brilliance ’ . Like many editors, Harris saw his role as serving the fi lm by augmenting the material he was given. In 1939, Harris edited The Face at the Window , part of a cycle of fi lms, often based upon nineteenth century melodramas, starring Tod Slaughter. This was a strictly routine assignment. Slaughter was associated with ‘ quota quickies ’ , and the fi lm did not warrant a special mention in Reisz’s profi le of Harris, which focused more upon the prestigious work he did with David Lean during the mid-1940s. Nevertheless, The Face at the Window involved a talented British editor enhancing dialogue derived from a well-established, albeit denigrated theatrical tradition.

The Face at the Window , licensed by the Lord Chamberlain’s Offi ce in August 1897, was a popular late Victorian melodrama described by its author F. Brooke Warren as ‘ a weird sensation play in four acts ’ (Warren). 3 The narrative revolves around a diabolical master criminal, Chevalier Del Gardo (aka Le Loup), and a wrongly accused innocent, Lucien Cortier. Slaughter and his acting troupe, the Barnstormers, revived the play during his residency at the Elephant and Castle theatre in south London during the 1920s, and broadcast a BBC radio version in 1938. Earlier fi lm versions of The Face at

the Window were produced in 1919, 1920, and 1932. The 1939 Slaughter version, fi nanced by MGM-British with a view to distribution in the American as well as British market, quickly establishes Cortier in the classical Hollywood manner as a goal-orientated protagonist who is also motivated by heterosexual romance. The 1897 text of the play is structured differently. The specifi c content of the dialogue also differs. Brooke Warren was not a canonical author whose status was reinforced by an authori-tative text of his play. This allowed A.R. Rawlinson and Ronald Fayre, the writers of the 1939 fi lm version, more licence with the dialogue. Nevertheless, producer and director George King, the actors, and editor Harris stay securely within the broad melodramatic tradition to which both play and fi lm belong.

The Face at the Window ’ s ‘ fi ne fi rm traditional dialogue ’ , as Graham Greene put it, is enhanced by what Monthly Film Bulletin described as Slaughter’s ‘ very melodramatic ’ acting, ‘ full of starts, gnashing teeth and villainous smiles ’ (Greene 333; A.R.). It is also

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enhanced by Harris ’ editing. An initial indication of the cutting points in the fi rst en-counter between Cortier and Del Gardo may have been included in the shooting script, which unfortunately is not extant. Some may have been decided upon by King. British shooting scripts of the late 1930s varied, however, in terms of the extent to which cut-ting points were indicated. Even if they were indicated, shooting coverage during pro-duction would allow editors some latitude as to where exactly to cut. Similarly, producers and directors were not necessarily closely involved in editing. Even if directors were closely involved, respected editors could still have considerable input into the fi nal shape of a fi lm (Perkins and Stollery; Stollery). Ian Dalrymple, supervising editor at Gaumont-British studios during the mid-1930s, wrote that directors might typically commence shooting with a ‘ very rough idea ’ about cutting points, ‘ but as the fi lm works out [their] scheme is often impossible ’ (171). An editor of Harris ’ standing is therefore likely to have had a signifi cant and quite possibly a determining infl uence upon the dialogue editing of The Face at the Window .

Prior to his fi rst encounter with Del Gardo/Le Loup (Tod Slaughter), lowly bank clerk Lucien Cortier (John Warwick) animatedly discusses with the woman he hopes to marry, Cecile De Brisson (Marjorie Taylor), how he intends to track down Le Loup. The master criminal has, the night before, murdered another clerk and stolen her father’s bank’s money. The dialogue proceeds as follows ( Figure 3 ):

Lucien: ‘ Darling I could almost bless the wolf ’ . Cecile: ‘ Oh Lucien what are you saying? ’ Lucien: ‘ Don’t you see? It’s given me my chance. Your father said, if I was successful, I could name my own reward ’ .

Harris cuts on the second syllable of ‘ reward ’ to a long shot of Del Gardo/Le Loup about to enter the room, unseen by Lucien or Cecile ( Figure 4 ).

Figure 3 The Face at the Window , fi lm grab.

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10 MARTIN STOLLERY

A Manichaean opposition between the virtuous couple and Del Gardo’s/Le Loup’s malevolence is immediately established. Given that his stage and fi lm stardom was built upon playing villains, contemporary audiences would instantly have ascribed evil intent to Slaughter’s character. The editing adds a further dimension to the dialogue by mate-rializing the star who will do everything in his power to prevent the couple from obtain-ing their just (conjugal and fi nancial) reward. The cut between the two shots is the equivalent of a carefully timed stage entrance on a signifi cant line of dialogue.

The next shot in the sequence reverts to the earlier set-up (see Figure 3 ) of Lucien and Cecile in medium close-up. The dialogue continues:

Cecile: ‘ What are you going to do? Lucien: ‘ Get onto the track . . . [Harris cuts to the earlier set-up of Del Gardo/Le Loup standing in the doorway — see Figure 4 ] . . . of the wolf and stay on it until I identify him ’ .

Harris ’ editing of pivotal dialogue sequences in The Face at the Window contributes to what Peter Brooks has described as the ‘ repeated clarifi cations and acknowledgements ’ that are integral to the classical melodrama’s ‘ moral legibility ’ (28). The dialogue edit-ing in these shots contributes to a suspenseful, excessively signifi ed disparity between the viewer’s recognition of morally opposed forces and the hero and heroine’s initial lack of awareness. This is compounded slightly later in the sequence in a shot/reverse shot exchange between Lucien and Del Gardo ( Figures 5 and 6 ):

Del Gardo: ‘ You’re not by any chance the gentleman associated with last night’s tragic affair ’ . Lucien: ‘ Yes I was at the bank last night ’ . Del Gardo: ‘ A terrible calamity. Let us hope the criminal . . . [Slaughter raises his eyebrows and Harris cuts to the next shot ( Figure 6 ).] . . . will be brought to justice ’ .

Figure 4 Tod Slaughter’s entrance. The Face at the Window , fi lm grab.

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In narrative terms, the dialogue editing here foreshadows Del Gardo’s efforts to frame Lucien for the murder of the other bank clerk. On a more symbolic level, it also crys-tallizes an instance of what Brooks describes as melodrama’s ‘ repeated obfuscations and refusals ’ of ‘ moral legibility ’ ; in this case, Del Gardo’s brazen attempt to paint Lucien as the villain (28).

The cut on Slaughter’s raised eyebrows is an example of how fi lm editing often takes its cue from performance. Editing that supports and enhances actors ’ performances is often overlooked in academic literature, partly because performance is part of the common ground between many forms of theatre and cinema, while editing has often been considered a defi ning feature of the latter. Like dialogue editing, a lack of critical attention from academics and fi lm historians contrasts with the prominent status given



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to editing performance in publications written by or for practitioners. Sidney Cole, for example, published a pamphlet on editing in 1944 where he said that he always made ‘ every endeavour to preserve the tempo and character of a good performance ’ which ‘ may dictate the whole approach of the editor ’ (15). For editors working on British fea-ture or indeed Hollywood fi lms, this would not have been a controversial statement.

As Michael Anderegg has pointed out, the Shakespeare fi lm is often ‘ a special in-stance of the ‘ star vehicle ’ , a type of fi lm that foregrounds, or centers on, the perfor-mance of a particular actor ’ (2). The preeminent example is Laurence Olivier. Editor Reginald Beck worked with him on Henry V (1944) and Hamlet (1948). Beck, a lifelong freelancer rather than studio employee, was independent-minded enough to walk off the production of In Which We Serve (1942) because director David Lean made some editorial changes without consulting him fi rst (Brownlow 165 – 6). Beck said that novice director Olivier later selected him for the Two Cities fi lm of Henry V because he ‘ wanted some experienced character to help him . . . . I was working on [an earlier Two Cities production, The Demi-Paradise (Anthony Asquith, 1943)], in which [Olivier] was appear-ing as the lead, [so he] approached me ’ ( Beck 1987 ). 4

Beck’s work on Henry V (1944) received the most prominent acknowledgement yet afforded to a British editor for his or her contribution to adapting a stage play. The fi lm’s end credits read: ‘ Produced and Directed by LAURENCE OLIVIER in close association with the editor REGINALD BECK ’ , followed by the names of other key production team members. Subsequent Oliver scholarship has sometimes underplayed the extent of Beck’s contributions as the editor of Henry V and associate producer of Hamlet . Anthony Holden, for example, quotes from Beck’s comments about working with Olivier on Hamlet . Beck praised Olivier for challenging technicians ‘ to sweep away the dust of established prejudice with the impelling question ‘ Why? ’ ( Beck 1948 , 28; Holden 269 ). Holden omits Beck’s balancing statement from the same source: ‘ It cuts both ways, of course. Sometimes we [technicians] were right ’ ( Beck 1948 , 28).

Some commentators believed that rendering intricately built-up speeches or long passages of rhetoric on fi lm presented an insuperable problem for Shakespeare adaptations. Two years before Henry V was released, author and scriptwriter Margaret Kennedy’s pragmatic advice was that ‘ a screenwriter should not ask too much of the boys in the cutting-room. If he fi nds that more than half of ‘ To be or not to be ’ is gone, he must not jump to the conclusion that this is because they do not appreciate poetry. They may appreciate it so well that they shrink from the task of breaking it into shots ’ . Continuity editing, designed to transcend the fl atness of the cinema screen, required shots ‘ so skilfully strung together that the audience is hardly aware of them; but they interrupt the rhythm of long speeches ’ (37). Kennedy’s argument assumes essential differences between cinema and theatre. It does not admit the possibility that fi lm-makers could be resourceful enough to fi nd ways of effectively showcasing virtuoso performances of Shakespearean verse on fi lm. One way Henry V attempts to reconcile perceived differences between cinema and theatre is by emphasizing the artifi ce and the need for imaginative engagement from audiences common to both. As the Chorus (Leslie Banks) says of the siege of Harfl eur, much of which is not visually represented in the fi lm (as is the case in many stage productions): ‘ work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege ’ .

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As far as Olivier’s specifi c performance style is concerned, Kenneth Tynan in 1965 listed the qualities he considered made him a great Shakespearean actor: ‘ complete physical relaxation . . . . powerful physical magnetism . . . the ability to make verse swing . . . the ability to communicate a sense of danger ’ (204). Olivier was, as producer and director of three 1940s and 1950s Shakespeare fi lms, able to require his collaborators to work around his preferred performance style. Helga Cranston, who edited Hamlet (1948) and Richard III (1955), recalled a conversation where Olivier, ‘ explained to me that, con-trary to fi lm actors who would exploit the camera’s ability to underline a dramatic cli-max in close-up, he had to be far away from the camera for his most dramatic moments and be able to act with his whole body ’ (110). Cranston also worked from the premise that ‘ the rhythm of Shakespeare’s lines sets the pace for cutting ’ . She often preserved lengthy takes in her editing ‘ so as not to distract the onlooker’s ear by his eye ’ (108). This general approach was adopted in Henry V as well. As Kinematograph Weekly reported in November 1943, a stylistic decision was taken that ‘ camera movement should be “ fl uid ” in order to avoid sharp cuts ’ (Picturesque). The average shot length in Henry V is 20.6 seconds and in Hamlet 21.1 seconds. The longest individual shot in the former fi lm is held for just over four minutes and in the latter for two minutes and fi fty seconds. Wider shots tend to predominate and both fi lms feature a signifi cant amount of camera movement.

The unusually detailed shooting script which Beck developed in collaboration with Olivier indicated that most of King Henry’s ‘ Once more unto the breach ’ speech during the siege should be delivered in one crane shot (Hutton 34 – 5; Olivier 134; Olivier and Beck 44 – 6). 5 Beck recalled that the speech was recorded on a wild track, after which he ‘ had to fi t it to mouth movements which took a long time, a hell of a long time, but it worked well ’ (1987). The shot in which Olivier delivers most of the speech lasts for nearly a minute and a half. The shot’s painted backdrop, with what Edward Carrick described as its ‘ naïve perspective ’ , is part of art director Paul Sherriff’s stylized produc-tion design, reportedly based upon fi fteenth century illustrations and paintings such as Paulo Ucello’s Niccolo Mauruzi da Tolentino at the Battle of San Romano (1438 – 40) (Carrick 114; ‘ Agincourt ’ ). The crane shot orchestrated by cinematographer Robert Krasker slowly moves back and up from Olivier to an overhead shot incorporating massed English sol-diers, standing quietly around him, drawing inspiration from his words ( Figure 7a and 7b ). The camera movement, gradually revealing more soldiers, adds some depth to this space by bringing new planes of action into the background and foreground.

The crane shot involves an alternative but not radically different organization of cinematic space that is no more or less intrinsic to the medium than the strictly classical approach advocated by Roome. Camera and character movement supplement the minimal depth cues in the production design, providing a platform for showcasing Olivier’s speech without ‘ interrupting ’ it with cuts. The camera movement underscores the collective reception of this rousing public performance, staged not only for the sol-diers gathered around Olivier within the shot but also for the Globe theatre audience seen at the beginning of the fi lm, and for wartime cinema audiences as well.

The reverb on Olivier’s dialogue in the Harfl eur speech, his central, forward facing position within the frame, surveying his audience while keeping the top half of his body and his face visible, enables viewers and listeners, in Mary Pat Klimek’s words, to ‘ savor the richness of the spoken word as it resounds through space ’ and to enjoy ‘ the matching of

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14 MARTIN STOLLERY

voice to the movement of lips so we may revel in the actor’s skill ’ (207, 212). Olivier is given free rein to make the verse swing, although Beck may have slightly altered the timing and eliminated some pauses to maintain synchronization and sustain the speech’s rhythm.

The crane shot is likely to have required the most pre-planning because it would have been the most challenging to achieve in technical terms. Consequently, this shot con-forms most closely to the details specifi ed in the shooting script. Other shots in this sequence appear to have been approached more fl exibly. The shooting script indicates that the fi rst two lines of King Henry’s speech:

‘ Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead! ’

Figure 7 (a) The beginning of the crane shot. Henry V , fi lm grab. (b) Later in the crane shot. Henry V , fi lm grab.

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should be delivered in a medium shot preceding the lengthy crane shot (Olivier and Beck 44 – 6; Hutton 35). Olivier’s performance of the speech begins emphatically, com-manding attention with the rallying cry in the fi rst two lines, before calming and then building again during the crane shot. Unlike the shooting script, however, which envis-aged the fi rst two lines being delivered in a single medium shot, they are split across two shots in the fi lm. In the fi rst of these, Olivier’s horse canters to screen right ( Figure 8 ). In the second, the horse continues rightwards, then Olivier steers it around to exit screen left ( Figure 9 ). The blocking is consistent with the directions in the shooting

Figure 8 Henry V , fi lm grab.


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script, but splitting it into two brief shots gives the movement more dynamism than a single, more elegantly orchestrated shot would have done. Close examination of the spatial matching in relation to the backdrop reveals a discontinuity in the positioning of Olivier and his horse. They move through a space in the second shot that they have already crossed in the fi rst. This lends a slight jumpiness to the editing that is partly mitigated by a strong match on action. Similarly, as far as dialogue is concerned, the cut is not made neatly at the end of the fi rst line of verse but before it, between ‘ dear friends ’ and ‘ once more ’ .

The difference between the shooting script and the edited fi lm in this sequence prob-ably arose in part from the vagaries of production and resultant judgements about the technical qualities of shots, including effective blocking and lighting. For example, there may have been diffi culties during shooting in getting Olivier’s horse to hit all of its marks, which would have impacted upon Krasker’s lighting set ups. The two shots of Olivier riding the horse, taken from slightly different camera angles, are likely to have been shot as coverage, similar camera set ups intended to provide footage to lead up to the crane shot. The decision to cut between selected parts of the coverage, rather than use a single shot as indicated in the shooting script, may have been motivated on one level by a judgement that none of the shots actually taken during shooting was satisfac-tory enough to run in its entirety. The challenge would then have been for Beck to achieve the best possible effects out of the available material.

Since strictly classical spatial continuity was not an overriding priority in Henry V , Beck was freer to use the available material to hint at the ‘ sense of danger ’ , the possibility that ‘ at any moment he may do something utterly unpredictable; something explosive ’ which Tynan described as a key component of Olivier’s performance style (204). 6 The unorthodox editing of the two brief shots containing the fi rst two lines of verse contrasts with the more controlled, slowly mounting intensity of Olivier’s speech in the crane shot, as does the shot that follows it. The crane shot, as indicated in the shooting script, is cut on the fi nal word of the fi nal line of the speech, ‘ Cry ‘ God for Harry, England, and Saint George! ’ . The exact timing of the succeeding, very brief low-angle shot of Olivier rearing up his horse and turning round to lead the charge into battle ( Figure 10 ), cut just before he completes the turn, to match on action with an overhead shot of the soldiers charging, is something that could only be judged by an editor once the shot had been obtained. The brevity of this shot, its selection of the most dynamic phases of a sudden movement, augments the physical energy of Olivier’s performance. It rapidly translates the climax of a big speech into action, as befi ts a fi lm made to boost wartime morale.

COMPARATIVE APPROACHES TO EDITORS ’ CONTRIBUTIONS TO ADAPTATIONS Thomas Leitch has recently emphasized the need for adaptation studies to move be-yond a stultifying ‘ dependence on one-to-one comparisons between specifi c adapta-tions and works of literature ’ , which generates ‘ the same essay over and over and over with only the names of novels and their fi lm adaptations changed ’ (69, 65). Simone Murray employs similar rhetoric in describing a ‘ seemingly endless stream of compar-ative case studies . . . which give rise to the frankly unilluminating fi nding that there are similarities between the two mediums, but also differences ’ (4). The main critical target

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of Leitch and Murray is comparisons of fi lm and literature (understood primarily as the novel), but their strictures presumably apply to comparative studies of fi lm and theatre as well. Leitch and Murray both argue persuasively that fi lm theorists and his-torians need to move beyond approaches to adaptation studies that simply repeat these gestures. Yet a properly historical approach to the study of adaptation should not en-tirely jettison the comparative dimension that has featured so centrally not only in aca-demics ’ but also in fi lmmakers ’ discussions of this subject. Rather than posing the question of fi lm and literature, or fi lm and theatre, in abstract terms, this essay has suggested that a more productive alternative is to explore how fi lmmakers, in this case editors, have conceived of similarities and differences between the two mediums in historically specifi c contexts.

Some recent historical work has begun to explore the relationships between impor-tant British directors such as Alfred Hitchcock and Anthony Asquith and theatrical traditions (Barr; Ryall). Previously, the tendency has been for fi lm historians to minimize or ignore these connections in favour of what were seen as purely cinematic infl uences on major directors. Now this threshold has been passed, it is apposite to widen the scope beyond directors about whom auteurist claims have been made, and beyond directors per se, to also consider how British editors have contributed to adaptations of stage plays directed by fi gures such as Dean, Walls, and Olivier, affi liated to a diverse range of low-, middle-, and highbrow stage traditions. At one end of the spectrum, Dickinson’s allegiance to early modernist fi lm theory prompted him to attempt the transformation of the fi nal moments of Loyalties , an otherwise stolidly middlebrow project. At the other end of the spectrum, Beck and Cranston contributed what André Bazin might call an ‘ added measure of the theatrical ’ to prestigious works of highbrow populism (93). More specifi cally, the remit of Beck and Cranston involved showcasing and enhancing Olivier’s particular star performance style, developed in earlier Shakespeare


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18 MARTIN STOLLERY

productions such as the Old Vic Henry V in 1937, Coriolanus in 1938, and British radio broadcasts of Henry V in 1942.

This essay has adopted a comparative approach to selected case studies to high-light some general issues arising from certain editors ’ views of essential differences between fi lm and theatre. It has contrasted these with examples of dialogue and performance editing in adaptations where establishing such differences was seen as less important. There is scope for further historically or thematically focused studies, for example, of British fi lmmakers and debates about fi lm, theatre, and editing in the few years immediately after the coming of sound. Whichever way particular re-search projects in this area are focused, one general point is clear. Film historians, such as Ben Brewster and Lea Jacobs, who have systematically analyzed the relation-ships between emergent classical Hollywood norms and theatrical precedents, have moved away from the idea that editing provides a basis upon which the history of cinema as an autonomous art form can be written. Supposedly transformative ap-proaches to editing such as those practised by Dickinson and Roome are signifi cant but are not the only ones worth exploring. Abandoning the view that editing distin-guishes cinema from theatre should lead to a better understanding of what fi lm editors actually do.

NOTES 1 The collaboration between Travers and Roome is an early example of an often overlooked practice within British fi lm history of interaction between playwrights, novelists, and editors when the former turn their hand to cinema. The clash between Harold Pinter and editor Reginald Mills in the early 1960s, and the more harmonious collaboration between Michael Ondaatje and Walter Murch in the 1990s, are later examples of this (Ondaatje; Perkins and Stollery 216). 2 I discuss elsewhere some of the issues involved in assessing technicians ’ creative contributions to fi lm production (Stollery). 3 Tom Gunning has identifi ed the emergence of a distinct sensation-based trend in stage melodrama at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. Gunning argues ‘ Brooks ’ melodramatic dramaturgy cannot function without a moral order. The effect of the sensation scene need not contradict such an order, but it does not depend upon it ’ (52). The Face at the Window ’ s sensation scenes do not obscure ‘ moral legibility ’ , except in the sense that the villain played by Slaughter in the cycle of fi lms to which it belongs is the undisputed star of each one. 4 Beck appears to have worked uncredited on The Demi-Paradise which is credited to Jack Harris and Renee Woods. 5 Russell Jackson provides a careful account of the various Henry V fi lm scripts (90 – 1). 6 The consonance between Olivier’s performance style and Beck’s editing becomes even clearer if one applies what John O Thompson calls the ‘ commutation test ’ and imagines another actor, for example, John Gielgud, in the Henry V role.

REFERENCES “Agincourt Refought in Eire.” Kinematograph Weekly 3 June 1943 : 34 . Anderegg , Michael A. Cinematic Shakespeare . Lanham, MD : Rowman and Littlefi eld , 2004 . A.R . “The Face at the Window.” Monthly Film Bulletin 6 , 66 ( June 1939 ): 111 . Badder , David , and Bob Baker . “Interview with Thorold Dickinson.” Film Dope ( 11 January 1977 ): 1 – 21 ,

38 – 39 . Barr , Charles . English Hitchcock . Moffat : Cameron and Hollis , 1999 . Bazin , André . What is Cinema? vol. 1 . Berkeley, CA : California UP , 2005 . Beck , Reginald . Interview. BECTU History Project Interview 10 , 22 July 1987 .

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Beck , Reginald . “Insuring Olivier.” The Film Hamlet: A Record of Its Production . ed. Brenda Cross . London : Saturn , 1948 : 27 – 28 .

Brooks , Peter . The Melodramatic Imagination . New Haven, CT : Yale UP , 1976 . Brown , Geoff . ““Sister of the Stage”: British Film and British Theatre.” All Our Yesterdays . ed. Charles Barr .

London : BFI , 1986 : 143 – 167 . Brownlow , Kevin . David Lean . London : Faber , 1997 . Carrick , Edward . Art and Design in the British Film . London : Dobson , 1948 . Cole , Sidney . Film Editing . London : BFI , 1944 . Cranston , Helga . “ Richard III .” BFI Special Collections . London : BFI Library , 2007 . Dalrymple , Ian . “Commercial Cutting.” Film Craft . Adrian Brunel . London : Newnes , 1933 : 169 – 177 . Dean , Basil . Mind’s Eye: An Autobiography 1927 – 1972 . London : Hutchinson , 1973 . Dickinson , Thorold (writing as Richard Barron). “Sound and the Film.” Thorold Dickinson: A World of Film

eds. Philip Horne and Peter Swaab . Manchester : Manchester UP , 2008 : 44 – 46 . “Dirty Work.” The Tribune . 14 Jan. 1935 . Eisenstein , Sergei . “The Montage of Attractions.” The Eisenstein Reader . ed. Richard Taylor . London : BFI ,

1998 : 29 – 34 . Eisenstein , Sergei , Vsevelod Pudovkin and Grigori Alexandrov . “The Sound Film: A Statement from

USSR.” Close-Up 1927 – 1933: Cinema and Modernism . eds. James Donald , Anne Friedberg and Laura Marcus . Princeton, NJ : Princeton UP , 1998 : 83 – 84 .

F.S.N . “ Loyalties : A Well Done British Film.” New York Times 26 Oct. 1934 . Greene , Graham . Mornings in the Dark . Manchester : Carcanet , 1993 . Gunning , Tom . ‘The Horror of Opacity.’ Melodrama: Stage, Picture, Screen . eds. Jacky Bratton , Jim Cook ,

and Christine Gledhill . London : BFI , 1994 : 50 – 61 . Hankinson , Michael . “The Routine of Editing.” Film Craft . ed. Adrian Brunel . London : Newnes , 1933 :

222 – 7 . Harper , Sue . ““Nothing to Beat the Hay Diet”: Comedy at Gaumont and Gainsborough.” Gainsborough

Pictures . ed. Pam Cook . London : Cassell, , 1997 : 80 – 98 . Holden , Anthony . Olivier . London : Weidenfeld and Nicolson , 1988 . Hutcheon , Linda . A Theory of Adaptation . New York : Routledge , 2006 . Hutton , C. Clayton . The Making of Henry V . London : E J Day , 1944 . Jackson , Russell . Shakespeare Films in the Making . Cambridge : Cambridge UP , 2007 . Kennedy , Margaret . The Mechanised Muse . London : George Allen and Unwin , 1942 . Kozloff , Sarah . Overhearing Film Dialogue . Berkeley, CA : California UP , 2000 . Klimek , Mary Pat . “Imagining the Sound(s) of Shakespeare: Film Sound and Adaptation.” Sound Theory,

Sound Practice . ed. Rick Altman . London : Routledge , 1992 : 204 – 1 6 . Leitch , Thomas . “ Adaptation Studies at a Crossroads. ” Adaptation , 1 ( 2008 ): 63 – 77 . Low , Rachael . The History of the British Film 1929 – 1939 . London : Routledge , 1997 . Lynn , Ralph . “How a Comedy Scene Grows.” Film Weekly 7 Dec. 1934 . McFarlane , Brian . An Autobiography of British Cinema . London : Methuen , 1997 . Murray , Simone . “Materializing Adaptation Theory: The Adaptation Industry.” Literature/Film Quarterly

36 : 1 ( 2008 ): 4 – 20 . Oliver , John . “ A Night Like This.” The Cinema of Britain and Ireland . ed. Brian McFarlane . London : Wallfl ower ,

2005 : 21 – 29 . Olivier , Laurence . Confessions of an Actor . London : Weidenfeld and Nicolson , 1982 . Olivier , Laurence and Reginald Beck . Henry V Shooting Script, ts. BFI Special Collections script 106 .

London : BFI Library , 1944 . Ondaatje , Michael . The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film . London : Bloomsbury , 2002 . Pavis , Patrice . Dictionary of the Theatre . Toronto : Toronto UP , 1998 . Perkins , Roy and Martin Stollery . British Film Editors . London : BFI , 2004 . “ Picturesque Period Settings for Henry V . ” Kinematograph Weekly . 11 Nov. 1943 . Reisz , Karel . “The Editor: Jack Harris.” Sight and Sound 19 : 10 suppl ( Spring 1951 ): 16 . Reisz , Karel . The Technique of Film Editing . London : Focal , 1953 . Richards , Jeffrey . Thorold Dickinson . London : Croom Helm , 1984 . R.M.F . “Dirty Work.” Monthly Film Bulletin 1 ( 12 Jan. 1935 ): 101 .

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“Rookery Nook : Film of Mr Ben Travers’s Farce.” The Times 12 Feb. 1930 : 12 . Roome , Alfred . Interview . BECTU History Project Interview 14, 20 Aug., 15 and 29 Sep. 1987 . Ryall , Tom . Anthony Asquith . Manchester : Manchester UP , 2005 . Salt , Barry . Film Style and Technology: History and Analysis . London : Starword , 1983 . Sontag , Susan . “Film and Theatre.” Tulane Drama Review 11:1 ( Autumn 1966 ): 24 – 37 . Stollery , Martin . “Technicians of the Unknown Cinema. ” Film History 21 : 4 ( 2009 ): 373 – 393 . Sutton , David . A Chorus of Raspberries . Exeter : Exeter UP , 2000 . Thompson , John O. “Screen Acting and the Commutation Test.” Movie Acting, the Film Reader . ed. Pamela

Robertson Wojcik . London : Routledge , 2004 : 37 – 48 . Travers , Ben . Dirty Work Film Script, ts. BFI Special Collections . London : BFI Library, n.d . Travers , Ben . Dirty Work Play Text, ts. The Lord Chamberlain’s Plays Collection . London : British Library ,

8 Mar. 1932 . Tynan , Kenneth . Profi les . London : Nick Hern Books , 1990 . Warren , F. Brooke . The Face at the Window Play Text, ms. The Lord Chamberlain’s Plays Collection .

London : British Library , 11 Aug. 1897 .

FILMOGRAPHY A Cuckoo in the Nest . Dir. Tom Walls. Ed. Helen Lewis. UK. 1933 . The Demi-Paradise Dir. Anthony Asquith. Ed. Jack Harris, Renee Woods. UK. 1943 . Dirty Work . Dir. Tom Walls. Ed. Alfred Roome. UK. 1934 . The Face at the Window . Dir. George King. Ed. Jack Harris. UK. 1939 . Hamlet . Dir. Laurence Olivier. Ed. Helga Cranston. UK. 1948 . Henry V . Dir. Laurence Olivier. Ed. Reginald Beck. UK. 1944 . In Which We Serve . Dir. Noel Coward, David Lean. Ed. Thelma Connell. UK 1942 . Loyalties . Dir. Basil Dean. Ed. Thorold Dickinson. UK. 1933 . A Night Like This . Dir. Tom Walls. Ed. Maclean Rogers. UK. 1932 . Richard III . Dir Laurence Olivier. Ed. Helga Cranston. UK. 1955 . Rookery Nook . Dir. Tom Walls. Ed. Maclean Rogers. UK. 1930 . Thark . Dir. Tom Walls. Ed. Alfred Roome. UK. 1932 .

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am grateful to Sue Malden and the BECTU History Project for facilitating access to their invaluable interviews. I would also like to thank Nathalie Morris and her colleagues at the BFI library for arranging access to the Helga Cranston special collection and the fi lm scripts cited in this essay. The Cinemetrics website at http :// www . cinemetrics . lv / provides free software for measuring fi lm editing and publishes the resulting data on the website for everyone to access. Further details of my analyses of Dirty Work , Henry V , and Hamlet are available on this site. Julian Hoxter offered some invaluable insights from a fi lmmaker’s perspective, as did Peter Kramer from an academic’s. This journal’s re-viewers provided helpful feedback on an earlier draft of this essay.

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