Michael Powell
1905-1990
By William K. Everson
(Films in Review: May 1990)
There can be no doubt, states Everson, that the creativity and beauty
Powell brought to film will continue to inspire and encourage filmmakers,
film students and "ordinary" audiences for generations to come.
The last dozen years of Michael Powell's life were remarkably happy and
rewarding ones. Few major directors who have been shunted aside or
forgotten by the industry have lived to see their life's work
re-acclaimed to the degree that his was. Certainly Griffith didn't.
Some directors, like Herbert Brenton and Powell's own particular idol
Rex Ingram, never were really rediscovered, and remain in undeserved
obscurity. For Powell, the renaissance probably began at the Telluride
Festival in Colorado (significantly, not in his native country of England)
in 1977. Since then he lived to see his once vilified Peeping Tom
(the film that literally cost him his career) regarded as one of his
major works, to be honored with full scale retrospectives of his work at
the Museum of Modern Art, the national Film Theatre in London and elsewhere,
to be lionized with tributes at Festivals all over the world, to work
with young film-making students during his tenure as Artist-in-Residence
at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, and, even if only
tangentially, to be involved in production again.
During those years he was able to produce the literally monumental first
part of his autobiography and to see it published, and to finish most of
the work on its second volume. Best of all, in 1984, he married Thelma Schoonmaker
- Martin Scorsese's film editor, and a lady whose passion for film matched
his own - and their years together were incredibly happy ones. As Michael
himself stated in the moving introduction to his autobiography, he was quite
satisfied with the way life had treated him and with what he had been able
to contribute to life, and was quite willing to plunge into (even curious
about) whatever came after the final reel.
[Conductor 71 would be waiting for him of course <G> - to quote
Peter Pan "To die will be an awfully big adventure"]
But as so often happens, when death came, the timing was off - badly. Another
year would have given Michael the opportunity to direct one more film (there
was a very definite project in view
[The Tempest?]) and to see the second volume
of his autobiography in print. It might even have seen him recognized in
the New Year's Honors list, something his friends had been working toward.
Not that Michael was hungry for status or a title ... but he loved England
so passionately, and poured that love into his films, treating England's
flaws and foibles with as much affection as her greatness (particularly
in films like
A Canterbury Tale) that it would have meant a great deal to Michael
to see that dedication officially recognized by the country itself. The
story goes that Michael was denied a knighthood because of Churchill's wartime
opposition to The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. But while the
story might have has some basis in fact in the 40s, it certainly
doesn't hold water today. Churchill was not a vindictive man, and in any
case his power - even his life - was over well before true recognition came
to Powell. The probable truth is that Powell's own integrity caused the
slight. Many years ago he was indeed offered a decoration but declined it
unless his writer/collaborator Emeric Pressburger was likewise honored,
feeling that the work was so much the product of a team that to honor one
and not the other was both pointless and unfair. The offer was promptly
withdrawn, and British Royalty, not used to being snubbed, didn't make it
again. But with all the urgings from Michael's friends in high places -
urgings that were renewed when it was discovered that his illness was terminal
- there is a good chance that there might have been a change of heart for
1991's New Year's Honors. (And it might be added that Michael was very happy
with the various honors that were heaped on him in Britain over the
last few years, and the collection of photographs of Michael in a wide assortment
of ceremonial robes is most impressive, with the solemnity of the garb never
once diminishing that perpetual twinkle in his eye!)
For the last few years of his life Michael migrated between two homes and
(in New York) a series of temporary apartments. His wife, Thelma, rented
a charming house in the isolated community of San Quentin. It had once been
owned by the warden of the prison, and had a fine view of the bay. There
are very few houses there, and Michael liked it for being close as he could
get to the feeling of being in an English village. And within a few minutes
he could walk to the bay and be near the water and trees he loved so much.
San Francisco, with all it's filmic activity, and Berkley's Pacific Film
Archive, where Michael frequently introduced his films, were both conveniently
close. He was less happy in New York, although always comfortably ensconced
either in apartments loaned by film-making friends who were out of the country,
or in apartments leased on a short term basis. The last of these was a fairly
new building on the West side, in the mid-50s, and Michael was always dismayed
that he couldn't see a single tree from his 28th floor window. For a while
he could see the Hudson River - although his love of water really
meant a clear stream with a cow drinking from it and a duck or two quacking
as they foraged for watercress.
[Very picturesque, but do you get watercress in a clear, flowing stream
? If it's not flowing, it's unlikely to be very clear with that cow there
<G>]
But even the murky Hudson was cut off as new buildings went up around him.
The New York stays were necessitated by his wife's association with Martin
Scorsese, and were inevitably prolonged beyond expectations when Scorsese's
post-production schedule was delayed, as it always seemed to be.
[No change there then]
On these occasions Michael really chafed at the bit, longing to get back
to his own home in the little village of Avening, a lovely Cotswold cottage
in the side of a hill looking out over the valley. (His next door neighbor
was Princess Anne, and he frequently complained that she was not energetic
enough in cutting down the thistles on her side of the boundary. He was
also not happy about the noise of the whirring helicopter which announced
that the Queen was coming for tea, but these two Royalty-induced shortcomings
apart, he loved the area, one of the most beautiful in England). His decidedly
independent cat Sundance was also there - she loved Michael as much as he
loved her, but lived off the land (and friendly neighbors) quite happily
when he wasn't around. She also loved to show off her hunting prowess to
visitors by catching a mole or some other small and less agile animal and
crunching on it all night long right outside one's bedroom door. In the
morning there wouldn't be the trace of a bone or feather left, only Sundance
with a proud smile of triumph on her face.
But while Michael missed his Gloucestershire home, he made good use of his
time in New York - and not just on writing, or in cooking the elaborate
gourmet meals he was famous for. Over the past year alone he made several
appearances in New York (at the Public Library and at private clubs like
The Coffee House) introducing his films and talking about them. He also
was kind enough to come to many of my classes at New York University (specifically
those classes on Art Direction and British Film) where the students loved
him for his no-nonsense information and his ready wit. Luckily some of those
appearances were recorded on videotape, so that his input will continue
to inform (and entertain) students for many years to come.
[Do they still exist I wonder? I'd love to see them]
Being in New York also made him centrally available for film entrepreneurs
with both genuine and phony propositions, Michael being very adept at spotting
the latter. In his last years Abel Gance kept himself busy with "preparations"
for his "next" film, Christopher Columbus. It was excellent therapy
for him, but it was always fairly obvious that the film would never be made.
Although not all of the projects Michael became involved with came off,
most of them were genuine. Actually, had he not gone to so many exhausting
Film Festivals such as The Midnight Sun Festival in Finland (he loved
going to new places and meeting new people) and conserved his energy, he
might have got more of these projects off the ground. A new stage version
of The Red Shoes was proposed, and Michael spent a good deal of time
on it, and ultimately it might well have come off. In the filmic works was
an operatic version of
The Fall of the House of Usher which really interested him. His
association with the Russian-made Pavlova in 1982 was a disappointment
to him, although he enjoyed the lengthy location jaunt to Russia. Initially
he was supposed to co-direct, but he couldn't persuade the Russians that
their project was old fashioned and narrow. To Michael all art was inter-related,
and he wanted that to be stressed; the Russians wanted an homage to Pavlova
in which all art was subservient to hers. When the film was finally
finished it turned out exactly as Michael had predicted: long, solid, stodgy
and dull, despite it's sincerity and a huge budget. Michael's final role
in it was that of supervisor, acting as liaison in those (many) non-Russian
locales where the director (Emil Lotianou) who spoke no other languages
might have trouble. Powell undoubtedly smoothed the way a great deal, but
from some location shooting that I witnessed in a restaurant beneath the
Brooklyn Bridge it was obvious the Lotianou only took such advice that appealed
to him. He couldn't be dissuaded, for example, from using the impressive
lower Manhatten skyline as a massive backdrop, even though the Empire State
Building and the Trade Centre quite belied the 1929 period of that particular
sequence. And more than once the director issued detailed instructions to
his cameraman who immediately launched on a series of tracking shots, the
only problem being that the huge crowd of extras hadn't been informed as
to what they were expected to do and merely stood there bemused while
the excited Russian cinematographer swept by them! The film has not yet
been released in the U.S. but presumably because of it's prestige subject
matter eventually will be. A five-hour TV mini-series has also been prepared
and that too stands a chance of an American release.
Powell's close friendship with Martin Scorsese has resulted in recognizable
input on many of the Scorsese films, and indeed on New York Stories
Powell's participation extended to helping out in the solution of a major
story problem in the Woody Allen sequence. (Powell's association with France
Ford Coppola was less productive and less satisfying but Powell enjoyed
being involved in Hollywood studio work again ... especially since Coppola's
studio was the one where Powell shot many of the U.S. filmed scenes for
The Thief of Bagdad).
Just about three months before his death Michael was offered a project which
he seriously planned on doing. Luxembourg, an ancient country, has a specific
landmark celebration coming up, and one of the things it planned to do was
to make a composite film in which key directors from all over the world
would be invited to make a short film in some way related to Luxembourg,
the choice of subject matter and style of film-making (subject to an economical
budget) to be entirely theirs. Michael was very excited by the project,
especially since a 20-minute film would not be beyond the capabilities of
his frail health, and from the moment he heard about it was mentally conjuring
up plots and ideas. While it would not have been a very personal film (for
all the directors involved) and it's sad that he didn't get the chance to
make this one swansong film.
Although Michael had suffered a stroke in recent years and had certainly
had to slow his pace somewhat, his mind was as sharp as ever. Then at the
end of 1989 came the tragic news that an old cancer thought cured, had re-activated
itself and was now terminal. Not only that, it was accelerating rapidly.
Thelma, his wife, was engaged in the crucial editing stages of The Good
Fellas,
(sic)
the new Scorsese film, and since it promises to be as "difficult" and controversial
as The Last Temptation of Christ
[well, maybe not quite as controversial]
it needed her editorial expertise for as long as she was able to give it.
The first few weeks of 1990 became a desperate race against time so that
Thelma could finish her work and take Michael back to his beloved Cotswold
home. In the meantime, one of Michael's two sons, Columba, came over from
England to be with him. Those final weeks were perhaps sadder for Michael's
friends than for Michael himself, who was heavily sedated. Because of failing
eyesight, Michael had been unable to read for some time, but he loved the
feel and smell of books, and surrounded himself with them. He enjoyed having
friends read to him, even though he knew his favorite books by heart. Cherished
mementos filled the apartment, particularly photographs with Emeric Pressburger
and a signed sketch from Orson Welles, a great admirer of his. In these
weeks due to the heavy sedation, Michael slept a lot and wasn't always sure
of where he was, but his mind and wit were totally unimpaired. Bring
up a topic and he'd immediately launch into a learned and absolutely lucid
discussion of it; if somebody mentioned a film or a personality that had
failed, his description of why, and his proffered solutions made perfect
sense. If the whole situation hadn't been so tragic, some of his time warps
in this period would have been funny. At one point he had mentally transported
himself back to the World War II period, and all of his (quite accurate)
references were to those years. It was particularly important to him to
find the exact wording of the Adolf Hitler quote ("Give me Hollywood,
and you give me the world!") and he asked me to check it out for him. "Ask
Churchill," he suggested. "He won't talk to me but he'll talk to you!"
Fortunately these painful weeks came to a conclusion at the end of January.
Warner Bros. very kindly placed a private plane at his disposal, and he
was rushed back to England. Before the end, he had four weeks in his beautiful
Cotswold home, with his wife, his friends, and cat Sundance. He died on
the morning of Monday, February 19th. The world wide tributes were almost
unprecedented, and the British press outdid itself in honoring a man it
had virtually destroyed some 30 years ago when Peeping Tom premiered.
Martin Scorsese and David Puttnam were among the mourners at the funeral
on February 21st. Puttnam paid a moving tribute to him, while Scorsese read
Michael's favorite passage from the Old Testament. The hymns, which must
have been chosen by Michael himself, included "Onward Christian Soldiers",
"Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory" and "He Who Would Valient Be" - all of them
hymns which seem to reflect not only Michael's own philosophy but the spirit
of his films too.
One likes to think of a version of Michael marching up that giant stairway
from A Matter Of Life And Death to be greeted by Emeric, David Niven
and Rex Ingram. But while that is wishful fantasy, there can be no doubt
that the creativity and beauty that Michael brought to film will
go "marching on" ... to stimulate, encourage and inspire filmmakers, film
students and "ordinary" audiences for generations to come. Typically, when
funeral arrangements were made, it was suggested that instead of flowers
donations be made to the film preservation funds of the National Film Archive,
the body that has done so much in recent years to restore Michael's films
to their full state - especially those where Technicolor was so important.
Few men in any field of art have left behind such an outstanding
legacy. By rights, Michael Powell should be buried in Westminster Abbey
along with England's other great writers and poets, but he'd have found
that stuffy and wouldn't have wanted it.
Instead, as he wished, Michael sleeps in the lovely little cemetery at the
Holy Cross Church in Avening, where he was married - just across the valley
and in sight of his home, within the sound of running water that was a lifetime
love of his. (There's a lovely little brook running just by the entrance
to the churchyard). The gentle sound of that water, and the soothing murmurings
of sheep and cows, together with the churchbells echoing across the green
hills are the only sounds one hears there at twilight. Just as D.W. Griffith
was laid to rest on a hillside overlooking the Kentucky hills that he so
loved as a boy, so has Michael Powell found a particularly felicitous final
resting place.
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