THE FARMER'S WIFE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 6, Issue 150, 8 May 1942, Page 14

THE FARMER'S WIFE

Pathe-B.E.

F.

HERE was a time, ‘way back in the pre-Korda era, when good English films were like angel’s visits, short and far between (I hope my lit-

erary critics will concede that I have got that quotation right anyway) and a Grade A show was something for the reviewer to throw his hat in the air about. Then Alexander the Great came along and Good English Films became, if not a commonplace, at least familiar enough for one to accept them more casually. To-day, the critic feels again a return of that pristine enthusiasm, for while one can no longer be surprised at the good work which the English studios are capable of turning out, one must concede that the appearance of a film at all is itself something of an achievement these days. That, in part, is why our little friend above has been brought to his feet, but if he weren’t a phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon he’d be standing on the seat, with his hat in the air. The Farmer’s Wife (which will never be confused with The Farmer Takes a Wife by anyone who hag seen both) is a sheer delight from the first shot, showing the village constable free-wheeling down-hill on his bicycle, to the final fade-out-and I'll be hanged if I don’t think it’s better even than Quiet Wedding. For one thing it has Wilfred Lawson (remember the howling success he made of Doolittle in Pygmalion?) and such other fine players as Basil Sydney, Michael Wilding, and Enid Stamp-Taylor and, like all other Good English Films, the minor characters are a non-stop variety show in themselves. (Somebody, someday, will write something about the influence of Dickens on the English cinema). Most important of all, the cast has, thanks to Eden plot and dialogue appropriate to their talents. I might add that the dialogue in many places reminded me of Cold Comfort Farm, so those of my readers who know their Stella Gibbons will appreciate how delightfully earthy it is. The photography, which is at times (but not always) excellent, is almost (Continued on next page)

(Continued from previous page) invariably splendid when Lawson is the subject. Long after you leave the theatre you will remember glimpses of Lawson, the poaching farmhand. Lawson peeping in slyly at the window of the farm dairy, dipping his finger in a pan of cream; Lawson with the sunlight glistening on every bristle on his stubbly chin; Lawson, tankard in hand, singing impudently in the village pub; Lawson drawing good belly-laughs from a matinee audience with his salty comments on marriage-"Matrimony be a_ proper steam-roller for flattening the joy out of a man." And those of you who know matinee audiences will appreciate what is needed to provoke one to healthy roars of laughter. The whole show is the richest comedy imaginable. Briefly, the story tells of the efforts of Basil Sydney (a widower gentlemanfarmer with two sprightly daughters and an attractive housekeeper) to marry again. There are, in his opinion, three possible starters in the matrimonial stakes, so he puts them down in order of favouritism and lays siege to each in turn, starting with the horsey widow who owns the adjoining property, and finishing with the barmaid of the local pub, whom he describes as a rose growing on a dungheap and gets pelted with the bar-parlour bric-a-brac for his pains. Three refusals, however, don’t damp his determination ("ardour" is hardly the right word), nor end the story, but it might spoil some of the fun if I went further and I should hate to mar anyone’s enjoyment of this film. I found The Farmer’s Wife reminding me of all sorts of things. As I have mentioned, the dialogue often recalled Cold Comfort Farm, though there was nothing Starkadderish about Farmer Sweetlands himself. The interior and some of the portrait (close-up) photography in the early sequences took me back to Rembrandt, the outdoor scenes carried me even further back, to that old quasi-documentary, The Song of the Plough, and the delightful crowd of extras was reminiscent of Quiet Wedding, The Lady Vanishes, and Storm in a Teacup. And you will agree that those things of which I am reminded were all good things. The directors responsible for this little masterpiece are Norman Lee and Leslie Arliss. I know neither of them, though the latter’s name has a familiar ring about it-maybe he is related to the first Earl of Beaconsfield. At any rate, one feels he ought to have a peerage. They have been awarded for less.