A Canterbury Tale is a remarkable film, in which Michael Powell, the writer,
has given Michael Powell, the director a pretty shabby story, and the second
Powell has almost managed to get away with it. A Canterbury Tale is about
a Kentish J.P. (Eric Portman) who believes so deeply in the study of his
native soil that he pours glue on girls' heads in the black-out lest they
seduce the local soldiery from his archaeological lectures. That's the
theme, and to my mind, nothing will make it either an sensible or a pleasant
one. This fellow may be a mystagogue, with the love of England in his blood,
but he is also [plainly a crackpot of a rather unpleasant type, with bees
in his bonnet and blue-bottles in his belfry.]
And yet, on this horrid foundation, director Powell has built up a film
that is in parts moving and even dignified. A man of Kent himself, he has
taken his cameras exulting in the green spring of Kent on a sunny April
morning. His Canterbury is a place loved and understood; his dialogue often
simple and true. His three young people -a land-girl (Sheila Sim), a British
soldier (Dennis Price), and an American soldier (Sergeant John Sweet, a
bit of real talent from the US army) - who are all in some way influenced
by the mystagogue's enthusiasm, have for the most part an unaffected charm,
and do suggest pilgrims undergoing an emotional experience, rather than
actors working their way through the sticky shooting script. The piece is
an odd example. I should say, of a film that might have reached great heights,
but hasn't; a story that might easily have gone to the devil, but didn't.
Possibly a case of Dr Powyll and Mr. Hyde.
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