History For Rent

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About a year and a half ago, I wrote a column lamenting the very small number of video cassettes available to those of us who like historical documentaries. That situation hasn’t improved much since, but 1 have found some consolation in the fact that video stores do carry a good many fiction films with historical settings, many of which never got the theatrical attention they deserved. Here are several rentable, small-scale films you may have missed and which especially interested me because of the way they portrayed the past:

Dreamchild (1985)

This lovely, little-noted British film manages to evoke equally convincingly not one but two historical periods. It concerns an eighty-year-old Englishwoman of considerable hauteur, Mrs. Alice Hargreaves, who is the little Alice all grown up to whom Lewis Carroll told his stories. In 1932 she comes to America for the first time to accept an honorary degree from Columbia University on the occasion of Carroll’s centenary. The scene shifts effortlessly back and forth between her pretty, pastoral Victorian childhood and the gritty bustle of Depression-era New York, and in and out as well of Mrs. Hargreaves’s troubled dreams. She has never fully understood the nature of her long-ago relationship with Carroll—a.k.a. the Reverend Charles Dodgson, played here with eerie power by the veteran character actor Ian Holm—and has done her best to shut it from her mind, believing, because her mother had burned all her letters from Dodgson, that there must somehow have been something furtive and wicked in it. Events conspire to make her finally see what happened whole, and to make her peace with the past. Potentially distasteful subjects are dealt with here in perfect taste—the heedless cruelty of children, the lonely, stuttering clergyman’s own misunderstood feelings toward his young charges—and, as Mrs. Hargreaves, the Australian actress Coral Browne is brilliant. In this beautifully wrought film even a cast of immense and singularly disturbing puppets that portray characters from the Alice books as they might appear in your worst nightmare—built by Jim Henson, the Muppet man—somehow seem to fit right in.

 

Quest for Fire (1981)

For obvious reasons Hollywood has always liked movies about cavemen: nobody wears many clothes, thus permitting reasonably full display of stars as various as Darryl Hannah and Victor Mature, and nobody has to worry much about dialogue. Like the future worlds conjured up by the makers of science fiction films, the look and feel of the prehistoric past is pretty much anybody’s guess, and this French-Canadian production, directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud, seemed to me to go astray now and again—a pair of very patient lions with spray-painted stripes and glued-in fangs make unpersuasive saber-toothed tigers, and elephants in woolly suits do not a herd of mammoths make. But its portrayal of our bug-eating, bone-sucking ancestors seemed plausible enough. Desmond Morris coached the actors on how to caper like the Neanderthal’s close relatives, the great apes; Anthony Burgess provided them with the rudiments of language; and the sight of their lonely little band wandering across the empty Kenyan vastness in search of a fire with which to keep their clan alive during the coming winter is genuinely moving. Most memorable, though, is Rae Dawn Chong as the lithe, progressive Cro-Magnon who brings to the slow but grateful Neanderthal the twin blessings of laughter and the missionary position.

Harry Tracy, Desperado (1982)

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid spawned a good many films about the decline and fall of Western outlaws, most of them second-rate. This one is better than most, thanks largely to a shrewd performance by Bruce Dern, whose aging bandit—the last survivor of Cassidy’s Wild Bunch—finds the prospect of a future without bank jobs and train holdups downright un-American. Despite a stunningly inane title song, written and sung by Gordon Lightfoot, I felt genuine regret when the old outlaw met his defiant, inevitable end.

The Grey Fox (1983)

Built around the same theme, but a good deal more grown-up, is this gentle, underplayed portrait of Bill Miner, a courtly stagecoach robber—known as the Gentleman Bandit in his brief heyday —released in 1901 after thirty-three years in San Quentin. He makes a game try at civilian life but finds oyster digging and working in a sawmill intolerable and finally turns to robbing trains along what is left of the frontier in British Columbia, with distinctly mixed results. Directed by Phillip Borsos, this film seemed pretty nearly flawless to me. The performers are superb: Miner is played by Richard Farnsworth, a veteran stunt man who became a bankable star with this single, graceful performance; his redhaired fiancée, a strong-minded photographer named Kate Flynn, is played by Jackie Burroughs, and she is just as good. So are the images: the boyish excitement on the old man’s face as he watches his first movie— The Great Train Robbery —in a nickelodeon; steam trains slamming through the Canadian Rockies beneath endless pennants of smoke; the sad discovery of the frozen body of a Chinese settler driven to despair and rage by the cold and loneliness of the Canadian winter, who has killed himself after murdering his family.

The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez (1982)