For some time now Michael Powell has been fashionably dismissed by critics
as a "technician's director", a virtuoso of the special effect, with a joltingly-uneven
story sense, for whom, indeed, a narrative was only an invisible thread
permitting the startling juxtaposition of visual beads.
To observers of the simplistic distinction between "style" and "content",
he seemed a stylist and a rhetorician, camouflaging an absence of idea by
a weakness for the grandiose, out-of-context effect.
There is indeed a sense in which he can be described as Britain's answer
to Abel Gance (and it won't be very long before he, too, has his N.F.T.
season).
Both directors have a weakness for patriotic sentiment (Powell's more veiled
than Gance's), both have a weakness for optical shocks.
(Gance's "the camera becomes a snowball" could be paraphrased by "the camera
becomes an eyeball", when the pink-and-mauve eyelid-lining closes over the
screen in
A Matter of Life and Death).
And both seek to ornament
melodrama by visual style rather than by re-thinking the
drama.
The myth of Powell as a "mindless eye" was challenged when Raymond Durgnat
established what he labelled the "High Tory" moral of
A Matter of Life and Death.
The film then ceases to be an assemblage of technical effects and of metaphysical
tags: whatever its weaknesses (which themselves indicate the spirit of its
time and class) it has a consistent theme and "body", and its various episodes
and ingredients appear as spokes radiating from a central hub.
An inability to think in terms of "content" must be attributed, not to Powell,
but to his critics, who didn't see that the film was as political as
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp.
It's ironic that the fiercest attack on the film (as decadent, sadistic,
Fascist, and what-have-you) came, not from left-wing critics, who didn't
even see that it was an anti-Socialist film, but from E.W. and M.M. Robson
whose ideological position was very near Powell's own.
But though "High Tory" morals and atmospheres are clearly discernible in
other Powell films such as
I Know Where I'm Going, and
The Queen's Guards, our concern here is not with any similarities
between Michael and Enoch.
Indeed, the heroine of
I Know Where I'm Going renounces the materialistic marriage offered
her by the tycoon, to embrace values more traditional more rural, more spiritual,
and more mysterious.
The director's 'typical hero' is a 'country gentleman'; he takes a romantic
view of the military life;
and, as Richard Winnington remarked at the time of it's release, a basic
idea of
A Canterbury Tale was "to endow an accidental wartime excursion to
Canterbury with the hushed bated magic of the Pilgrim's Way, to link in
mystic suggestion the past and the present ...
"In mystic suggestion ..." It would be a pity if the political interpretation
however correct, of Powell's films obscured another source of his inspiration,
a source whose mixture of strengths and weaknesses if the subject of this
article-an article making no claim to be the exhaustive survey which his
work deserves.
For, if Michael Powell is an "eccentric, technician", it is in the sense
of that proverbially English phenomenon, an eccentric Colonel.
When stiff-upper-lip Colonels retire from such matter-of-fact activities
as strategy and gunnery, they proverbially embrace strange, soggy systems
of mystical belief.
This type of hard-edged soft-centred mysticism is not exclusively English
and commoner than one might think: Doris Lessing described her father's
in "In pursuit of the English"; the Amberson family patriarch is another
specimen; and so is General de Gaulle.
Similarly, when the brilliant technician Powell leaves off, there begins
a man who dabbles in mysticisms and romantic emotions of every kind: not
only the "Kiplingism" of his English officers and countryside, but in his
fable for the Celtic fringe
(The Edge of the World,
I Know Where I'm Going!,
Gone to Earth),
in pagan spiritual forces repelling Christian nuns from Himalayan peaks
in
Black Narcissus, in the fate-time warp of
A Matter of Life and Death, in the hothouse world of opera-ballet
(The Red Shoes,
Tales of Hoffmann,
Oh Rosalinda,
Honeymoon), in the
hallucinated soul
(The Small Back Room,
Peeping Tom).
Indeed, his adaptation of Nigel Balchin's novel illustrates his penchant
for opening up the romantic veins of his "sober" subjects, by blossoming
into an (ill-advised) expressionist sequence as David Farrar, in grip of
the D.T.s, sees himself trying to scramble the sheer smooth sides of a Kong-sized
Whisky bottle.
The most powerful passage in
The Battle of the River Plate is the of the battleship's grey, silent
mass, a vast, complex killing-city, a technological Moby Dick, conspicuously
invested with a Satanic nobility.
And its naval battles catch, visually, the gaudy fervours of the battle
paintings in regimental messes.
Powell's interest in technological devices enables him to transpose into
contemporary terms this underlying romanticism.
The veteran officer of,
The Queen's Guards hauls his crippled frame about the room on a complex
rig-cum-cradle.
Peeping Tom's movie-camera has two very optional extras: the front leg of
the tripod conceals a blade with which he bayonets sufficiently beautiful
subjects, and, as he photographs their dying agonies, a distorting mirror
replacing the reflector enables them to share the show, and re-infect them
with their own fear, squared.
Cinéma-vérité cuts to the quick ... Here Powell's
sense of apparatus attains a convulsive poetry.
Somehow, Powell'seems born into the wrong period.
Had he, and the cinemas and Technicolor, been born during any of the periods
celebrated in Mario Praz's "The Romantic Agony", he might have been working
with the cultural grain instead of against it.
Admittedly his "romantic expressionist" films chime in with a post-war English
nostalgia for period exoticism The multi-millionaire (Eric Portman) of
Terence Young's
Corridor of Mirrors openly felt he was born in the wrong century
and, built Renaissance Venice in his grounds to prove it.
Thorold Dickinson's
The Queen of Spades, Michael Relph and Basil Dearden's,
Saraband for Dead Lovers, Lean's Dickenses, Korda's
An Ideal Husband and Olivier's Shakespeare, all register this middlebrow
escapism from '40s austerity.
But Powell's craving is more audacious, more interesting, more constant,
more uncertain, as he turns this way and that, restlessly seeking out different
genres, styles, symbols.
*
Its (Tory) political overtones apart,
I Know Where I'm Going asserts the antagonism of the orderly, money-based
world of the heroine (Wendy Hiller) to the irrational but wise worldliness
of Celtic myth.
Paganism overwhelms Christianity-the heroine tries to say her usual prayers,
but the real occult force is making a wish while counting the roofbeams
of the eerie cottage.
The bluestocking heroine's Shavian brashness about money is queered by wayward
Celtic winds-and-waves.
She is worked upon by a group of Celtic females (Pamela Brown, Sybil Thorndike)
whose "wisdom" is disturbing rather than reassuring.
They have the glances of eagles-indeed, the hero (Roger Livesey) has an
eagle's nose and an elderly "Major" is training a golden eagle which bears
the young man's name.
Altogether the film neatly, nicely dovetails the "magic" world with that
of ration books and faulty telephone-cabins, maintaining a nice ambiguity-the
curious British blend of knowledge that the romantic-occult isn't true,
with a wish to believe that somehow it might be.
Only at one point is the Celtic myth debased to the domesticated whimsy
of middle-class romanticism.
The young laird finally braves a family curse forbidding him from entering
his ancestors' keep - and finds the curse was actually a challenge, ambiguously
concealing from all but the first to defy it a liberation from its reputation.
A legend about lovers chained together to drown "parallels" a modern story
about lovers being "chained" together in marriage.
Maybe Powell intends to stress that country-gentry Toryism mustn't be too
traditional, must continue tradition by defying it, and be more like brain
surgeons than Blimps: all three characters, incidentally, are played by
Roger Livesey.
One might suspect that Powell is merely exploiting the myths to provide
a little "local colour".
But, if he (disbelieves the specific myths, his fondness for myth reveals
a serious belief in the wayward natural forces which myths maintain against
our too-tidy reason.
He has never quite managed to bring their full power into his films.
There are constantly hints, jabs of it: a close-up of the eagle tearing
a rabbit's ear off; nature, for Powell, is not just an inspirational calendar,
but also a Nietzschean whirl of blood and death.
The heroine bribes a foolish young boatman to defy the storm; but the hero
sails the boat through the treacherous whirlpool, overcoming those forces
with a protective manliness, which, like those of the Hebridean islanders
who dwell on
The Edge of the World, is itself a force of wild nature.
Even the defensive comic relief about Tory-Celtic "eccentricity" has a sharpness
of its own-as the women kiss their kin on the mouth, as the peppery old
eagle-tamer dodders about with a feather duster and a hairnet, looking mildly
like Oliver Hardy in drag, and calling the hero "potty" for considering
marriage.
Less dated than
Brief Encounter,
I Know Where I'm Going isn't dissimilar in theme and tone.
Its story enables Powell to integrate his somewhat centrifugal qualities
in a way which doesn't recur until
Peeping Tom.
In each film of Powell's, this romantic urge sports a different livery -
co-existing with the everyday and with an only mildly pusillanimous humour
(the Heavenly Messenger is always heralded by the smell of fried onions).
Its recurrent forms are political Toryism ("Country Gentry Freedom Works"),
professional soldiering (especially our gallant Prussian foes
**), and ballet-opera - suggesting
that it is these forms that seem to Powell to survive the hard headed tests
which he does in fact apply.
His central problem as an artist has been his tendency to fall between the
two stools of romanticism and realism, to "escape from" (or schematise)
the latter, yet only "play with" the former.
The two aspects of his vision remain flawed and, as it were, unconvinced-leading
to a third besetting vice, a summary way with human emotion.
Romantic in potentiality is his daring way with technical effects - a huge
Technicolor close-up of an eyelid closing, seen from within, or the camera
panning to and fro with a ping-pong ball until Time stops and players and
balls stand transfixed.
Yet, all too often, the technical fireworks are frittered on merely decorative
details: in
The Elusive Pimpernel abstract patterns appear, but only to give
us visual equivalents of a sneeze.
And yet Powell never deigns to give such patterns a deeper pretext and add
"abstract expressionism" to his repertoire of artistic effects.
His weaknesses are displayed in his four ventures into opera-ballet.
The Red Shoes revived the Rouben Mamoulian tradition.
Banal in its view of ballet-life, schematic in its romantic view of art
as that blend of the sublime and the diabolical which Bergman propounded
with vastly greater sophistication and force in
Summer Interlude and
The Face,
The Red Shoes has suffered the fate usually endured by
works of art which, otherwise uninspired, show a new stylistic flexibility
(in colour palette); instantly over praised, they appear infuriatingly pretentious
for years afterward before finding their own level-an honourable one.
It survives for some lyrically coloured scenes and for a climactic ballet
which, despite some ugh touches perpetrated by Powell's notoriously erratic
taste, blends, by and large, an effective simplicity á la Kelly-Donen
with an expressionism which was Powell's and Heckroth's own - drifting pieces
of sad, sickly cellophane suggesting gaiety's futility, some sharp colour
discords.
It's to Powell's credit that, seemingly bored with this simplicity, he banked
everything on an all-stops-out expressionistic clutter for
Tales of Hoffmann.
This gallimaufry of Gothicisms, this pantechnicon of palettical paroxysms,
this meddle-muddle of media, this olla podrida of oddsbodikins, this massive
accumulation of mighty midcult Wurlitzerisms, follows Offenbach's operetta
faithfully and fills in filmically by ballet, decor and by-play, seeking,
moreover, an operatic visual style with a total disdain of plausibility.
The artists have turned their back on current "interpretative" fashions
and sought to recapture the full blown romantic surge.
To object to the overloading, to the clutter
per se, is like objecting to the "thickness" of Keats, of Poe.
It cocktails up many of nineteenth century romanticism's idioms: the Greek,
the Gothic, Balzacian Courtesans, doppelgangers, the devil, sexual oddities
(Pamela Brown in drag), and, over and over, art as diabolical.
It's not courage this film lacks; it's taste, in the sense of economy of
means; it's ugly, in an inexpressive way, ugly even when the theme requires
beauty.
One need only compare the awkward way in which humans and puppets are symbolically
mingled in a quadrille with the similar mixture in the nightclub scene in
Marcel L'Herbier's
La Nuit Fantastique, a film made by an academic who, however, had
grown up within a climate infected by Surrealism, by the sombre, toughly
Marxist poetry of Prévert-Carné, by Delluc, by Vigo.
Powell-Heckroth have as inspirational heritage and trampoline the visual
culture of Ye Olde Junke Shoppe.
Unreservedly successful are those sequences whose embellishments are photographic
rather than architectural - Moira Shearer in dragonfly tights, photographed
through a smudged green filter; or a split screen showing four elevations
of Moira Shearer in white with a black-cloaked porteur who emerges into
a black background.
Though frequently overblown to the point of gruesomeness, the film is incessantly
breathtaking, an effect which survives repeated viewings; perhaps, after
all, it's a bad taste classic, and the predominant word there is "classic";
in his autobiography Joseph von Sternberg pays a generous tribute to the
haunting quality of its visuals.
The next film in the series,
Oh, Rosalinda!
is a four-power "Fledermaus", a weird and, to my mind,
rather wet blend of opera bouffe and topical satire, with The Bat topically
metamorphosed into a sort of Harry Lime of love.
Powell lovingly adds absurdities of his own to the operatic convention-a
duet sung over the telephone is interspersed with short snatches of dance.
Made relatively cheaply (the sets are painted rather than built) it oddly
misuses its high-voltage battery of talents - Michael Redgrave has more
dancing to do than Ludmilla Tcherina.
As for
Honeymoon, which floated into only a few cinemas here, despite its
inclusion of La Tcherina's stunning "total-theatre" - type-ballet, "Les
Amants de Teruel", criticism cannot speak fairly of a film so hacked by
its distributors.
Since then Powell has abandoned the field of filmed opera-ballet.
Black Narcissus,
The Elusive Pimpernel and
Gone To Earth represent Powell's Lyceum streak.
The first contrasts the Anglican nuns (Mother Superiored by Deborah Kerr)
in their lofty Tibetan convent whose spiritual serenity is rudely disrupted
by the Himalayan heights, by local superstitions, by the silent and immoveable
"holy man" whose superhuman asceticism shames them, by the cynical Oriental
wisdom of the local ruler (Esmond Knight), by the earthy physicality of
David Farrar, who rides on a donkey with his hairy, sexy legs dangling,
and typifies
l'homme moyen sensuel, by homesickness, by jewel-in-nosed dancing
girl Jean Simmons, symbolising Oriental sensuality, and by Kathleen Byron
as the sex-maddened sister who, trying to murder the Mother Superior, only
falls to her death in her sinful scarlet dress from the very bell which
dared challenge the sullen, deep tone of the Tibetan mountain-horns.
Alas not even Jack Cardiff's glittering colour photography of Jean Simmon's
tawny-and-green eyes can redeem Rumer Godden's story from its fatal defect
(shared by
The Greengage Summer), a clumsy chopping to-and-fro between a basically
"naice" idea of English life, a tourist's idea of the exotic and
screaming-and-strangling melodrama.
Similarly,
The Elusive Pimpernel is sapped by the naivety of the Baroness elements,
which P and P accept but endeavour to camouflage by their pictorial virtuosity
- quite "hand-held", in its effect is a dazzling game of Blind Man's Buff
where the aristocratic ladies blindfold George III with a black scarf from
under one corner of which he and we can see a whirling circle of sumptuously
creamy bosoms.
Attempts are made to liven up that stock and static scene where a lady alone
at her dressing table receives and reads an important note - here, she finds
it on the floor and stretches herself out at full length in order to read
it.
Powell has certainly escaped the visual stuffiness of Korda's
Lady Hamilton.
But why take Orczyism on its own terms in the period of Burt Lancaster,
Kirk Douglas and Robert Mitchum?
As a result of Korda's hook up with Selznick, P and P find themselves struggling
with sultry passion in
Gone to Earth (or
The Wild Heart in the U.S.A.
and on BBC T.V.), with Jennifer Jones as Shropshire's answer to Pearl Chavez.
Duel in the Sun is a bad taste masterpiece which is also a good taste
masterpiece, for its vulgarity is that of its conviction.
Throughout the British film the American star seems yearning for someone
to make a passionate film round her to whirl her into it.
From King Vidor's film she remembers, postures, gestures, but Powell, stilted
or shy, so many compatriots of his generation, in the presence of erotic
intensity, fears embarrassment and ridicule, cuts away to "local colour"
(harpists, landscapes) and
faux-naif cliché; (the bad squire's black boot stamps on the
girl's rosy posy).
Powell's respect for unfashionable
genres is in itself admirable but so often he accepts what is worst,
rather than what is best in them.
A schematic colour symbolism proves for dramatic hollowness; the red of
the huntsman contrasts with the black of the churchgoing middlegroups, both
groups being concerned, in their different ways to hunt down the fey fox
heroine.
The result is neither Selznick nor Mary Webb, for romanticism is passion
creating it's own universe, or it is nothing.
The recent deluge of Technicolor horror might have offered Powell a congenial
climate for
his lyrical propensities, and its characteristic of his ever-astonishing
mixture of gifts that his near-miss to a masterpiece,
Peeping Tom a very different kettle of fishiness.
The storyline is excessive enough to carry any amount of dramatic weakness,
and still be breath-taking; in a sense, it needs a "cool" style, for the
Peeping Tom cameraman (Carl Boehm) is secretive, passionless, lonely.
As appropriate to a study in repressions and inhibitions, the film is built
on symbols and references, admirably schematised by Ian Johnson.
The eye-mirror-camera motif recalls the brain surgeon with his
camera obscura in
A Matter of Life and Death (another "cutting
voyeur"), and reminds us that P & P's trademark as "The Archers"
was a close-up of an arrow smacking into a bulls-eye.
Little need to dwell on the erectility of the bayonet-tripod, while Mark
Lewis's job as a
focus-puller underlines the voyeur's association of seeing with sexual
protuberance.
The old woman who "sees through" the quiet young man to his real nastiness
is blind.
(Indeed, she's related to the Celtic women with their "second sight"; for
Anna Massey, playing her daughter, looks like Pamela Brown in
I Know Where I'm Going.)
Mark has his tripod, the old woman has her stick.
He has his mirrors, she has her wisdom.
The Oedipal situation is lovingly elaborated.
Mark paraphrases on his "models" the experiments his father, a world-famous
psychologist, inflicted on him - experiments on the effect of fear - throwing
a lizard (cold-eyed phallic "snake') onto his bed, shining a bright light
in his eyes, showing him his own films.
Mark has kept his father's films of the experiments; also shots taken by
his father of his stepmother, a bosomy young thing whom he married six weeks
after Mark's mother's death and who looks like the nude Models whom Mark
earns pocket-money by photographing (notably Pamela Green, here garnished
with a disfigured lip).
The film abounds in films-within-films (opening with Mark's new film of
a murder, and taking in it's stride both the film on which Mark is working
at the studio and Mark's father's films of the young Mark).
The film's plethora of in-jokes out-Cahiers
Cahiers.
Mark's father is played by Michael Powell; the director of the feature film
is played by Esmond Knight, who is blind; the hero is called Mark Lewis,
presumably after the writer, who is Louis Marks;
the Esmond Knight character is called Arthur Baden,
Baden-Powell being the man who looks after little boys and trained
their characters.
Mark gets involved mainly with red-headed women - most Powell heroines are
redheads too - Mark describes himself as a correspondent from
The Observer and his father tells him to "Look at the sea" - "Look
at the see" being what his victims do in the mirror which replaces the
reflector.
The black-and-white flashbacks to "clinical" child-torture relate to the
coloured present in a way reminiscent of Resnais's
Nuit et Buillard.
This film is built on refusing to allow the audience to hate the torturer,
on a cold hysteria of frustrated indignation, stoked up by such a sacrilegious
idea as casting Moira Shearer as a bitch, fit fodder for a sensitive sex
murderer.
In the last split-second, Mark, in a dying hallucination, is reconciled
with his long-dead father.
Here art reveals, again, its diabolic root, and reconciliation with the
diabolic is an underlying
leitmotif in Powell - in the close association between the gallant
Prussian soldier and the Nazi cause, in the cruel paganism of
I Know Where I'm Going.
The hero, there, subdues nature, or rather survives it, because he has nature's
intensity.
Indeed, Powell has a fondness for leading men with a certain sharp, hard
intensity about them - Roger Livesey, Marius Goring, Anton Walbrook, and,
in a different modality, David Farrar, just as his women are often half-witches.
Yet, ironically, the one film in which he needed to explore emotional intensity
in depth -
Peeping Tom - depends on what is, in effect, the deadpan pleasantness
of Carl Boehm, and the dimension therefore lacking is more vividly asserted
in
Repulsion, by the confluence of Catherine Deneuve's nervous tension
and Roman Polanski's eye for the eerie.
In this game of hide-and-seek between the inhibited and the diabolical,
the patriotic and the exotic, the traditional and the technological, the
Tory and the pagan, Powell's work finds much of its fascination and its
disquiet.
His two most satisfying films are, perhaps,
Peeping Tom and the child's Arabian Nights fantasy
The Thief of Bagdad (1940), for which he shares directorial credit
with Ludwig Berger (German specialist in trick and-costume films) and Tim
Whelan (an efficient Hollywood craftsman).
This too carries many distinctly Powellian notations - almost its first
shot
is of a painted eye on a boat's prow, surging up into close-up, its story
(by Miles Malleson) includes the theft of the all-seeing eye
(Peeping Tom!) from a Tibetan temple
(Black Narcissus!); the giant genie from the bottle (beautifully
prefigured by Rex Ingram, who played God the Father in
Green Pastures) prefigures the gigantic bottle in
The Small Back Room; its tricks with fate-and-time parallel
A Matter of Life and Death.
If it never quite transcends the sphere of children's film to become an
adult's fantasy too, it remains one of the classic screen fantasies, worthy
of Roy Rowland's
The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T and of Joseph Von Baky's
The Incredible Adventures of Baron Munchausen; its scope and audacity,
its morning freshness, reduce Cottafavi's
Hercules Conquers Atlantis to small beer.
It's characteristic of the Powell paradox that his two best films should
be an epic for grown-up children and a very queasy study of a tormented
childhood.
Whence this contrast, this centrifugality? The comparison with King Vidor
is pertinent.
Vidor, intellectually, perhaps, less sophisticated, or at least less cautious,
than Powell, has retained just that Wagnerian authenticity of emotional
excess which gives his films that genuine mysticism, their quality of that
strange thing, a Neitschzean pantheism.
But Powell lived in a class and a country which suspects, undermines, is
embarrassed by, emotion; his diversity of qualities rarely find their holding
context.
Between himself and Hoffmann he interposes the opera-ballet convention; whereas
(American) Corman-Crosby team, in their horror films, blend Poe, Wilde,
Freud and colour expressionism into a coherent verse.
It would not be altogether unreasonable to see Powell's indirectness as
Pirandellism of scepticism, to see Powell's ballet films as preludes to
an 8 1/2 which he hadn't the egotism to make.
One would dearly like to see him tackle those science-fiction subjects which
have a built-in excess - C.E. Moore's "Shambleau", Richard Matheson's "I
Am Legend", Daimon Knight's "The Analogue Men".
And he is the only director who could bring to screen
Fleming's James Bond.
He remains an upholder, through its years, of the Méliès tradition.
His films shed not a little light on English thought and English soul, in
its restraints
its pusillanimity, its nostalgia for a German expression its coy amorality.
At their least convincing they hold one's attention and give pleasure by
their very unexpectedness, in theme as in decoration, and, in this sense,
they relate to certain films of Quine, Godard, Va Demy, Cottafavi and others.
O.O. Green
With permission of the Raymond Durgnat estate.
Notes:
*
Emeric Pressburger, a Hungarian script-writer, shared joint producer-writer-director
credit with Michael Powell on all his films from "The Life and Death of
Colonel Blimp" until "Ill Met By Moonlight".
Their relative share and influence is impossible to determine, since Powell's
solo efforts before and after are -not markedly different from the tandems.
Possibly Pressburger abetted Powell's interest in less obviously commercial
subjects.
His solo -efforts since the break-up were "Twice Upon A Time" (1953) a pedestrian
"moppet-saves marriage" story, and "Miracle in Soho" (1957), a sickening
local-colour piece, directed by Julien Amyes.
Powell and Pressburger also produced a film, directed by Derek Twist, "The
End of the River" (1947) in which Sabu, a native who has come up the Amazon
to discover civilisation, beats a homicide rap by pleading "fate".
**
In "The Spy in Black" (gallant U-Boat Captain Conrad Veidt), "49th Parallel"
(the resourceful U-Boat crew), "The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp" (Blimp's
Prussian "oppo", Anton Walbrook), "The Battle of the River Plate" and "Ill
Met BY Moonlight".
THE FILMS OF MICHAEL POWELL
(1) in collaboration with Emeric Pressburger
(2) co-directed with Brian Desmond Hurst and Adrian Brunel
(3) co-directed with Ludwig Berger and Tim Whelan
| 1933
| The Night of the Party
|
|
| The Phantom Light
|
|
| Oh Daddy
|
| 1934
| Some Day
|
|
| Crown Vs Stephens
|
|
| Her Last Affair
|
| 1935
| U-Boat
|
| 1937
| The Edge of the World
|
| 1938
| Blackout
|
