What's it like to live on a treeless rock in the middle of the roiling north Atlantic. We get a pretty good idea from master film-maker Michael Powell who set up his camera in such a place with a few actors, a scant script, and actual residents as extras. And a heck-of-a movie it is. The result looks like something from the neolithic era, with its crude rock huts, long barren vistas, and a few hunkered-down plants, along with jagged cliffs rising out of the sea like the face of God. One thing for sure -- there's no lack of fresh air .
I can't imagine the movie was made for commercial potential. It resembles Robert Flaherty's gripping documentary of life in the Irish Sea, Man of Aran, which may be why Powell distinguished his effort with a story-line. But the visuals are quite similar. And that's fine, because the craggy vistas are unforgettable. This is close to movie making at its purest and most visual. In fact, on another viewing, I think I'll turn off the sound and simply gasp at the other-world imagery.
The story may be secondary, but it's appropriate. The few remaining islanders are leaving after centuries of habitation because of deteriorating conditions. There's a romantic complication, but thankfully it doesn't get in the way. A few scenes etch themselves in my memory-- the sheep dogs lined-up outside the crude church, the tiny mail-carrying boats tossed into the sea like wishes, but most of all, the overawing sea cliffs, endless in their poetry and power. It's got to be here that the earth meets the sky or whatever it is that's above.
Rather hard for me to believe that this spartan black and white was made by the same artist who made the splashy Technicolors of The Red Shoes and Peeping Tom. But Powell excelled at cinema regardless of format, putting him in the same league as the few other British masters like Alfred Hitchcock. But whatever the pedigree, this 80 minutes of air, rock and water remains a really compelling oddity.
I can't imagine the movie was made for commercial potential. It resembles Robert Flaherty's gripping documentary of life in the Irish Sea, Man of Aran, which may be why Powell distinguished his effort with a story-line. But the visuals are quite similar. And that's fine, because the craggy vistas are unforgettable. This is close to movie making at its purest and most visual. In fact, on another viewing, I think I'll turn off the sound and simply gasp at the other-world imagery.
The story may be secondary, but it's appropriate. The few remaining islanders are leaving after centuries of habitation because of deteriorating conditions. There's a romantic complication, but thankfully it doesn't get in the way. A few scenes etch themselves in my memory-- the sheep dogs lined-up outside the crude church, the tiny mail-carrying boats tossed into the sea like wishes, but most of all, the overawing sea cliffs, endless in their poetry and power. It's got to be here that the earth meets the sky or whatever it is that's above.
Rather hard for me to believe that this spartan black and white was made by the same artist who made the splashy Technicolors of The Red Shoes and Peeping Tom. But Powell excelled at cinema regardless of format, putting him in the same league as the few other British masters like Alfred Hitchcock. But whatever the pedigree, this 80 minutes of air, rock and water remains a really compelling oddity.