White Mischief
(1987)
There is surely a great film to be made from
the incident that precipitated the demise of Kenya’s “Happy Valley” set, but White Mischief misses the boat. Here is
a murder mystery amidst against a backdrop of supreme aristocratic decadence,
so why is all so tame and respectful?
Michael Radford has to take the lion’s
share of the blame as director and co-author of the screenplay. He injects the
film with all the vigour of a TV movie (apologies to DP Roger Deakins), with
only the occasional spillage of bare breasts or murmur of discreet outrage to
indicate otherwise. That and the presence of Greta Scacchi, contractually obliged
to disrobe for every role at this point.
The film is based on events surrounding the
murder of the Earl of Erroll, Josslyn Hay (Charles Dance), in 1941. The
consummate cavalier ladies man, Joss is fully immersed in the wife-swapping,
drug-fuelled debauchery of his peer group. He begins an affair with the newly
arrived Lady Diana Broughton (Scacchi). Her husband Sir John “Jock” Broughton
(Joss Ackland) is resigned to the relationship but objects to the very public
manner in which it is conducted. However, he and Diana appears to end their
relationship in a conciliatory fashion and wishes the couple well. Soon after,
Joss is shot dead in his car. Jock comes under immediate suspicion, leading to
a murder trial.
Since the trial does not form the climax to
the film, and as it’s a matter of historical record, it’s not spoiling things
too much to reveal that Jock was acquitted. This in itself caused something of
an outrage as he was regarded as clearly responsible (the evidence was
insubstantial, although there have been revelations recently that appear to confirm his culpability). Radford points suspicion but
demurs from putting Jock clearly at the scene (he also alters his fate for
dramatic effect). But the director pulls
his punches throughout, so that shouldn’t be too surprising. Perversely, his
approach reflects the closed-ranks attitudes of the group he presumably wants
to dissect; it’s not even that he is seduced by their debauchery (Radford is
far too reserved). He’s just unable to muster the fire to say anything about
them beyond fingering them as a terribly naughty bunch, don’t you know.
I thought a number of times watching this
again (I’d last seen the film more than 20 years ago) how much better suited to
the material someone like Nic Roeg would have been. Although, I tend to think
that most movies could be improved by Roeg’s involvement. Eureka came to mind particularly, with its wealthy husband
cuckolded by a younger man (the not un-Charles Dance-like Rutger Hauer). Or how
about someone who would revel gleefully in their filthy lifestyles; Paul
Verhoeven, perhaps?
There’s a scene where Sarah Miles’ character
Alice (who was Joss’ lover until Diana came along) smears her vaginal
secretions over the face of her ex’s corpse. It’s as daring as Radford gets,
and even then there’s an air of very English reserve present. Earlier we see
her syringe, but there’s no graphic mainlining. A transvestite party proves to
be distressingly formal. Trevor Howard engages in a spot of voyeurism, but it’s
nothing to get worked up about. And the sordid wife-swapping amounts to little
more than a naked Jacqueline Pearce offering herself to any takers. The
dampened spirit of Fellini seems to come over Radford during a graveside party
climax but he’s not wholehearted enough about it.
The director also seems to have little interest
in encouraging his audience to empathise with these characters, which is surely
necessary on some level. As a result it’s left to the actors to do most of the
heavy-lifting. Ackland and Dance are as dependable as you’d expect, while
Scacchi proves surprisingly strong as the centre of attention (I say this only as
she seems so much more sure of herself here than in Defence of the Realm, only two years earlier). Miles has probably
the most relishable part, and makes the most of it, while John Hurt is
amusingly curt as the gone-native Gilbert Colvile (the end credits inform us of
what he did next).
If Radford doesn’t appear quite sure of how
to present the natural Kenyan population, who appear invariably in a menial
capacity, that’s an understandable consequence of the artificial, detached lifestyle
of his characters. Occasionally there’s a touch that says it all; a shot fired
too close for the comfort of a servant replacing a pineapple for target
practice, who just seems resigned to that kind of thing. But the problem is a
broader one in that Radford hasn’t sufficiently defined the bubble that this
rich white enclave lives within; by the time Hurt is asked to provide some
reference points it is too late.
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