THE REMAINS OF THE DAY (1993)
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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.
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