Wednesday 15 July 2020

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY (1993)
«««««
Merchant Ivory Productions

Some films you can watch again and again. More than a ‘familiar friend’ they have new things to offer dependent on any shift of your point of reference. For me, The Remains of the Day, one of the best from the Merchant Ivory stable, and directed by James Ivory, is an example. Based on Kazuo Ishiguro’s prize-winning novel; its hauntological screenplay a tightly cohesive effort by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala.

Maintaining a façade often plays out as a farce. The game of trying to pretend that everything’s fine when it isn’t. The humour in the film is overridden by the sadness that its two protagonists possess nothing but the time they have together and are unable to sustain it. Lost within the English countryside, lost within a stately pile, it is Head Butler Mr Stevens’ desire to manage a prim and proper existence. This is, of course, constantly felled by the truths which disrupt our peace. On the greater scheme, it plays out via the desperately misguided desire to not disrupt a falsely constructed world peace.

Parallel narratives reflect and mirror the other. In not wishing to accommodate let alone acknowledge reality, Stevens renders himself as pompous and supercilious as the gentry he mindlessly serves. There is nevertheless dark hilarity, including His Lordship’s desire to communicate the facts of life to his nephew. Then asking the butler to do so. As if you’d expect an answerphone not to play muzak.

Another example is when an American congressman seeks consultation with his French counterpart. The latter is only ever concerned with his swollen and aching feet. It is the loud note of truth from the American, aptly portrayed by Christopher Reeve, that rings like a bell. Stevens appears more concerned with the self-pitying ambassador’s feet than his own father’s mortality. His attitude equals that towards his besotted housekeeper. A chilling psychological deflection, wholly embodied by Antony Hopkins. The dying father’s revelation of his wife’s infidelities (Stevens’ mother) hints at his son’s self-induced confinement. This is a strikingly affecting moment portrayed by Peter Vaughan.

Miss Kenton, the housekeeper, an unforgettable characterisation by Emma Thompson, is also unable to deal with her truth. However, she is honest and open enough to admit it. A pity she is not proven wrong. From the safety of his private quarters, it is to her future husband that Stevens confides “I’d be lost without her.” Outward humiliation follows when the Lord of the Manor’s cronies reveal themselves as deluded as anyone. They believe that a Head Butler of a stately home is representative of the working masses. This scene, as with much of the film, represents a world changed forever by war.


Stevens prises his father’s fingers from a work trolley. Miss Kenton prises Stephen’s fingers from a tome of romantic fiction. These are equally quietened moments of horror. The denial of life; the denial of love; the denial of all that makes us human. It is the servants not the masters who are more connected, who see beyond the fake constructs of tradition and propriety.

Hugh Grant as Lord Darlington’s nephew offers one of his best performances attempting to talk sense to the stoic butler. It opposes their previous discourse in every sense. It also matches its lack of sense and discourse. Darlington, in a subtle and nuanced personification by James Fox, although held in affection by his associates, embroils himself in the most ignoble appeasement negotiations. The ‘faction’ is strikingly real: the passions and desires and repressions are real.

For me, the unforgettable image is the housekeeper’s face diminishing into the cast of a doorway. It nears the close of the film which throws-up memorable scenes within post-war provincial tearooms. The careworn housekeeper reunites with the eternally middle-aged Stevens, in as human a manner as ever they are able. Distance and time form a buffer. Sentiment remains like an onion skin peeling layers of loss. The loss of time, most of all. Everything different but everything the same. It is in this sense that ugly neon lights illuminating the sleepy-town pier are magical yet tragic.

The beautiful camerawork of Tony Pierce-Roberts supports the balance of the narrative which is further complimented by Richard Robbins' deceptively simple and hypnotic score. The editing by Andrew Marcus, alongside the underplayed and clever use of cross-fades, nears perfection.

At times in life we waste ourselves attempting to find what was never there. Attempting to know a person when there never was anyone home. Stevens is a clean page upon which we write ourselves. We recognise it is not who we want to be. His only contentment, to raise his hat to the woman who loves him; her face, again fading, crushed by tears and rain. Both are lost to their fates. The deluge cascades against his car and its headlights glare.

We close the doors of the cages we create for ourselves.