I LIVE IN GROSVENOR SQUARE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 365, 21 June 1946, Page 33

I LIVE IN GROSVENOR SQUARE

(British Empire Films)

T was, I suppose, unreasonable, but I was put in rather the wrong mood for seeing this film when, in the tram taking me

to the theatre, I glanced up and saw an advertising panel announcing / Live in Grosvenor Square as " the Greatest Picture to ever come from Britain." Well, in these days of splitting the atom I suppose it is a minor thing to split the infinitive, but as a traditionalist I felt a trifle jaundiced. Having recovered a little, I read on and learnt that this is "Not a War Film . . » Not Propaganda . . . But a Love Story which Bridges the Atlantic ... and the Pacific." "Not a War Film." Let’s examine that. The statement, as it happens, is roughly correct if you overlook the fact that the story is all about the American invasion of Britain (circa 1943); thet everybody in it is either in uniform or engaged in some form of patriotic enterprise; that one of the heroes (there are two). loses his life when a bomber crashes while returning from a raid over Germany; and that the other hero is last seen preparing to drop by parachute in a commando raid. Still, apart from the whole plot and atmosphere being dependent on the fact of war, it isn’t a war film. "Not Propaganda." Oh, come now. that won’t do. The whole picture swims in propaganda (and occasionally gets a little out of its depth). It is dedicated to the purpose of fostering the hands-across-the-Atlantic relationship of the English and the Americans (I don’t know exactly how the Pacific comes into it, but that may be a legitimate flight of the adman’s fancy). There is little doubt that the film achieves this highly commendable purpose, for it treats the behaviour of the Yanks in London not with resignation or condescension but with the utmost cordiality, and at the same time is warmly affectionate towards the foibles of the English, and full of praise for the forbearance with which they suffered the high-spirited strangers in their midst. In fact, Herbert Wilcox is to be congratulated both as a diplomat and as a businessman: he has produced a picture which is certain to make a lot of money as well as a lot of goodwill for Britain in the States (where it is being shown under the title of A Yank in Lon.

don). And very often-I was almost going to say "in spite of the propa-ganda"-there are flashes of shrewd and truthful observation; several scenes, particularly a conversation in a train between a couple of girls who are checking over their loot, will evoke vivid memories of our own American invasion. Bg %K ue N some other respects, however, I Live in Grosvenor Square is almost as much a parody of English life as Mrs. Miniver or Thé White Cliffs of Dover. Says Anna Neagle at one point, "I’m not an hysterical girl in a magazine story." Well, maybe she’s not hysterical, but she’s certainly in a magazine story. She plays the role of . Lady Patricia, the granddaughter of the dear old duke (Robert Morley), and she is a corporal in the Waafs. Lady Patricia is engaged to an officer in the Guards (Rex Harrison), but loses her heart to a waistgunner from Arizona (Dean Jagger) who is billeted in the ducal mansion. The American is pretty good at winning hearts; he even succeeds in capturing that of the flinty housekeeper, with the result that she is soon darning American socks in secret. The dear old duke, who has white side-whiskers and very liberal ideals, would put no obstacle in the way of an alliance between democratic America and aristocratic England, and. the Guards officer, stout fella, is prepared to grin and bear it (he has just been beaten by an Independent candidate in a by-election, so it’s doubly tough on him). However, the fortunes of war and the script-writer decree otherwise: the American is killed in a deliberate crash-landing to avoid destroying the ducal village-it’s strange that out of all England this spot should be chosen -and is given a movie hero’s funeral. Though this device leaves the duke’s granddaughter free to marry the Guards officer, and thus preserves the pure British blood-strain, American sentiment is doubtless satisfied by the handsome obsequies accorded the lad from Arizona; but I can’t help thinking that AngioAmerican relations might have been cemented even more firmly if the scriptwriter had taken his courage in both hands and killed off the Guardsman instead. If he had, this would still have been a good box-office film-by which, according to the definition of C. A. Lejeune, is always meant a film that confirms the customers in the tastes they already hold. And it is with this thought that we come to regretfully say good-bye to Grosvenor Square.