Maximum surrender

"Lawrence of Arabia" is back in the cinemas, bigger than ever

 

David Lean’s 1962 Lawrence of Arabia is back in cinemas this week in a new 4K restoration of the reconstructed version (first seen in its entirety in 1988). No, I didn’t know what 4K meant either so I had to draw on the wisdom of the oracles. (I used a search engine.) It’s the pixels, dummy. 4K  denotes a resolution of approximately 4,000 pixels wide and 2,000 pixels high, compared to the previous standard of 1,920 x 1,080 pixels. That’s more pixels than you’ve got popcorn in your Mega Meal Deal Bucket.

But we need not concern ourselves with pixels. What matters is the new clarity they provide, the familiar spectacles which they render with fresh vividness: Peter O’Toole’s eyes, which are now so alluringly blue that you feel you could dive right through the screen and into those azure peepers, leaving behind only a sand-splash; the tiny orange flame from which Lean cuts to the singed Arabian sunrise. When the wind ripples across the desert, you would swear now that you could make out each individual grain of sand shifting beneath it as if under the writhing of a vast invisible sidewinder.

I’d never seen Lawrence of Arabia on a cinema screen before. And though it’s a cliché to say that seeing it on television isn’t really seeing it all… well, it’s a cliché for a reason. The decades of respect and admiration lavished on Lean’s best-known and most-loved work (here is Steven Spielberg talking about the effect the movie had on him) has had the effect of interring it, as with most films regarded widely as masterpieces. Seeing it at the cinema can only rescue it from its reputation and bring it back to life. (I’d also recommend Kevin Jackson’s thorough and compelling study of the film, in the BFI Classics series, as an après-screening chaser.)

This is a film partly about depth of experience and depth of vision—both literally, in its most famous shot (of Omar Sharif as Sherif Ali riding toward the camera from afar), and figuratively, in its use of a flashback structure which purports, like Citizen Kane, to explain a man who turns out in the final analysis to be beyond mere explanation. So it feels only right that seeing it at the cinema takes a sizable chunk out of one’s own day: once you factor in the overture (how I love overtures, especially at the cinema, where they are now more of an anachronism than in the theatre), an entr’acte and an intermission, you’re looking at four hours, more or less, in the dark.

I’m a big fan of intermissions at the cinema. The ones stipulated by the filmmaker, I mean, rather than those imposed by the management. (I don’t know how widespread the practice was, but I remember the Odeon chain simply halting The Godfather Part III and Dances With Wolves so that one of their employees, who had clearly drawn the short straw that day, could flog some choc-ices from their wearable tray.) Intermissions are only commonplace now for Bollywood films, which are structured with that necessity in mind, but many other movies could really benefit from them. It suits Lawrence of Arabia to have that break approximately two-thirds of the way through; I feel it helps us to register more keenly the change in tone that’s marked by the arrival in the desert of the journalist Jackson Bentley (played by Arthur Kennedy), a fictionalised version of Lowell Thomas. With Bentley’s appearance comes an acknowledgement of the mythologizing process which T E Lawrence underwent, and a slight shift by the picture into a more analytical and contemplative sphere.

The theatrical engagement paves the way for the release of Lawrence of Arabia on Blu-ray. Blu-ray, schmu-ray: see it at the cinema for maximum impact, maximum surrender.

Lawrence of Arabia is on release from Friday.

A portrait of T E Lawrence

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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Man alive! Why the flaws of Inside No 9 only emphasise its brilliance

A man we’d thought destined for certain death reappeared, alive and kicking.​ ​Even as my brain raced, I was grinning.

At the risk of sounding like some awful, jargon-bound media studies lecturer – precisely the kind of person those I’m writing about might devote themselves to sending up – it seems to me that even the dissatisfactions of Inside No 9 (Tuesdays, 10pm) are, well, deeply satisfying. What I mean is that the occasional flaws in Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith’s cultish series, those unlooked-for moments when nothing quite makes sense, only serve to emphasise its surpassing brilliance.

At the end of the final episode of series three, for instance, there came a discombobulating twist. A man we’d thought destined for certain death reappeared, alive and kicking. How had this happened? Were the preceding 28 minutes only a dream? Even as my brain raced, I was grinning. That line about Ron Mueck! In a piece that seemed mostly to be paying topsy-turvy homage to the camp 1973 horror flick Theatre of Blood.

Pemberton and Shearsmith are all about homage: a bit of Doctor Who here, a touch of Seventies B-movie there. Inside No 9’s format of twisty one-offs is a direct descendant of ITV’s Tales of the Unexpected. And yet it is so absolutely its own thing. Only they could have written it; only they could ever do this much (stretch your arms as wide as they’ll go) in so little time (half an hour).

In the episode Private View, guests were invited to the Nine Gallery in somewhere Hoxtonish. This motley crew, handpicked to represent several of the more unedifying aspects of 21st-century Britain, comprised Carrie (Morgana Robinson), a reality-TV star; Patricia (Felicity Kendal), a smutty novelist; Kenneth (Pemberton), a health and safety nut; and Maurice (Shearsmith), an art critic. Hard on their heels came Jean (Fiona Shaw), a wittering Irishwoman with gimlet eyes. However, given that they were about to be bloodily picked off one by one, at least one of them was not what she seemed. “I’m due at Edwina Currie’s perfume launch later,” Carrie yelped, as it dawned on her that the pages of Grazia might soon be devoting a sidebar to what Towie’s Mark Wright wore to her funeral.

Private View satirised a certain kind of contemporary art, all bashed up mannequins and blindingly obvious metaphors. Admittedly, this isn’t hard to do. But at least Pemberton and Shearsmith take for granted the sophistication of their audience. “A bit derivative of Ron Mueck,” said Maurice, gazing coolly at one of the installations. “But I like the idea of a blood mirror.” The duo’s determination to transform themselves from episode to episode – new accent, new hair, new crazy mannerisms – calls Dick Emery to mind. They’re better actors than he was, of course; they’re fantastic actors. But in the context of Inside No 9, even as they disappear, they stick out like sore thumbs, just as he used to. They’re the suns around which their impressive guest stars orbit. They may not always have the biggest parts, but they nearly always get the best lines. You need to watch them. For clues. For signs. For the beady, unsettling way they reflect the world back at you.

What astonishes about this series, as with the two before it, is its ability to manage dramatic shifts in tone. Plotting is one thing, and they do that as beautifully as Roald Dahl (the third episode, The Riddle of the Sphinx, which revolved around a crossword setter, was a masterclass in structure). But to move from funny to plangent and back again is some trick, given the limitations of time and the confined spaces in which they set the stories. In Diddle Diddle Dumpling, Shearsmith’s character found a size-nine shoe in the street and became obsessed with finding its owner, which was very droll. But the real engine of the piece, slowly revealed, was grief, not madness (“Diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John”). You felt, in the end, bad for having sniggered at him.

If you missed it, proceed immediately to iPlayer, offering a thousand thanks for the usually lumbering and risk-averse BBC, which has commissioned a fourth series. One day people will write learned papers about these shows, at which point, jargon permitting, I might discover just how Maurice managed to live to fight another day.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution