The Whistle Blower
(1987)
The appearance of Michael Caine’s name in a
film’s billing has never been an indication of quality. He’s always been known
for somewhat arbitrary tastes, and it’s only really since his second Oscar that
there has been an upswing from the 50/50 chance that he’d appear in something
decent. Much of that is down to Christopher Nolan, who positions him in each new
film as a lucky charm. Appreciation of the actor was probably at a low point
for much of the ‘80s. He received (justified) plaudits for Educating Rita and Hannah and
Her Sisters (and his first Oscar for the latter), but the perception was
that he didn’t really care about material; just cash the cheque. This reached
its nadir with Jaws IV: The Revenge,
which Caine’s much-quoted anecdotalisation that it paid for a house.
Like most such perceptions, there’s a fair
amount of exaggeration involved in this. Maybe I’m a sucker for Caine, but I’ve
never regarded him as phoning it in; even in some of his worst choices. I’m
more dubious about an Oscar winning performance led by a distractingly ropey
accent (The Cider House Rules) than
much of the work that is generally regarded as forgettable. When it comes to
mangling regionalities, he can’t quite carry off the blithe indifference to be
found in his pal Sean Connery.
And the worst damage he did to his stock
came in the late ‘70s, rather than the ‘80s, with the likes of The Swarm (a mesmerising performance, if
only because there’s nothing else to focus on), Ashanti and Beyond the Poseidon
Adventure suggesting a perverse pleasure in making awful movies. But the next
decade was the period when he had absconded from the UK for tax reasons
(ironically, since the incoming Tories would have made the situation much more
appealing to him), and it went to reinforce the view that Caine was only about
cash-grab cynicism. If most of his films
from this decade are far from great, their general lack of profile also makes
them ripe for rediscovery and reevaluation. It seemed at this time that his films
were expected to be bad and reviews might include a few qualifiers at best
concerning Caine giving an acceptable performacce.
He kicked off the decade with a
horror-tinged triptych of Dressed to Kill,
The Island and The Hand, and received the dubious honour of dual Golden Razzie
nominations in the same year for the first two. But The Hand is the stinker of the three, The Island a not-without-merit curiousity and Dressed to Kill something of a minor classic (even if it Caine’s
role is one of the most bizarre of his career). That, and several good choices
highlighting his comic chops in the last half of the decade, aside we find a
preponderance of espionage/conspiracy movies that tend to merge into one (they
certainly did in my mind). Since his signature role as Harry Palmer during the
‘60s he had rarely set foot in the genre, but now we had The Honorary Consul, The
Jigsaw Man, The Holcroft Covenant,
Half Moon Street, The Fourth Protocol and, right at the
end of this five-year cycle, The Whistle
Blower. None of them even come close to the besmirching of Palmer’s good
memory, when Caine donned the NHS spectacles for a couple of crappy reruns of
his iconic ‘60s role (this is the point where Caine claims he quit acting until
Jack Nicholson came-a-calling; certainly his roles in the late ‘90s are
uncharacteristically sparse). And, a few of them are actually quite good.
As something of a self-styled class
warrior, it’s possible that Caine identified with his character here more than
most; a working class ex-serviceman, struggling to make ends meet, who uncovers
the corruption of the privileged peers he trusted without question.
The
Whistle Blower’s failings are not ones of premise.
Julian Bond adapted John Hale’s novel about a father (Frank Jones, played by Caine)
investigating the death of his son (Robert, Nigel Havers), a translator working
for British Intelligence. The lead in to this sees Robert voice increasing
concerns over the behaviour of the agency following the apprehension of a Russian
mole. It appears the CIA is increasingly unconvinced that Britain has any grip
on their secrets and may cut off the flow of information. A flustered British
Intelligence is encouraging an atmosphere of distrust and reporting on
colleagues. After Robert is found dead, apparently having fallen from his roof,
Frank learns that he was due to talk to a journalist about his concerns.
Revisiting
a number of ‘80s productions recently, its very noticeable how strongly the
British/US relationship of the period inspired negative commentary. The much
mooted latter day conspiracy relating to Tony Blair and WMD (at the behest of
his “special relationship” with Bush) seems to have provoked barely a ripple of
creative discourse, such is the apathy of the age. The ‘80s was defined by protest
and, in retrospect, it is interesting how cynicism towards the actions of the
powers that be feeds into even the least antagonistic material (come on, it’s
just a cheap spy movie with Michael Caine?) But, for superior British
conspiracy fare, check out Defence of the
Realm, A Very British Coup and Edge of Darkness, all of which have not
very nice things to say about the relationship with our American cousins.
The depiction of the spy craft here is
nothing if not prosaic, lacking even the nostalgic melancholy of George
Smiley’s television outings. To an extent, the sight of the unvarnished, banal
world in which Robert works is refreshing, and as a result believable (how
often do you hear GCHQ referred to in movies?) But director Simon Langton, a
television veteran making his first feature, seems tonally uncertain. One might
think his work on Smiley’s People
made him an ideal choice for further spy fare, but the leap from slow burn
atmospherics to more standard dramatics leaves him at a loss. His grey,
depressing England is authentic enough, but he has no feel for the material and
how to present it; the film flounder’s under a TV director’s approach to
pacing, and is further dampened down by unengaging visual palate. The latter is
no impediment in itself, but you need a strong guiding presence to make the
results cinematic; David Drury’s Defence
of the Realm is a resolute success in this regard even though, if you strip
away the mystery and paranoia, it has a much less compelling plot.
During the first half, until Caine takes
centre stage, the various plot threads lack definition; Bond and Langton fail to
interweave them coherently. Compare the surveillance scenes here to the spooky spying
on Gabriel Byrne in Defence of the Realm.
An elaborate ploy to extract information from the mole is rendered
matter-of-factly, such that when the reveal comes it has the air of Mission: Impossible silliness.
Some have defended The Whistle Blower by suggesting it has been mislabelled as a
thriller, but it is definitely of that genre. Langton just hasn’t balanced the
elements, such that Caine’s affecting grief makes the father’s response the
only dramatically engaging element. When
scenes are strong, it is invariably down to two veteran thesps sparring with
each other (conversely, some of the less experienced actors don’t fare very
well). One can only assume Langton had a
dissatisfying experience making the film, as he returned to TV and has not
worked in cinema since (on the upside, his BBC Pride and Prejudice has a claim to being the definitive adaptation
of the book).
While the latter stages are dramatically
superior, they are the more problematic in terms of verisimilitude. Frank’s
meeting with a high-level Russian spy (John Gielgud) provides an opportunity
for some familiar exposition concerning the motivation for the upper classes
(of the Anthony Blunt type) to betray their country. Caine and Gielgud are
fine, but the scene doesn’t work; the dialogue is clumsy and the need for
fireworks is shoehorned in. And that’s not mentioning the ease with which Frank
accesses this man’s house.
In contrast, the matter-of-fact manner with
which Frank is informed that any attempts to expose the actions of British
Intelligence will be effortlessly quashed (including having him sectioned) is
extremely effective. James Fox, in particular, makes an impression as a
towering shit. But the Cold War hyperbole (nuclear Armageddon is inevitable;
it’s just a matter of when, which is why it is essential to keep the US on
side) is out-of-place in a film that is so low-key elsewhere. In the masterful Edge of Darkness, a couple of years
earlier, it did seem inevitable. But
you need to imbed that fear into the core of the piece, and into the tone of
its production, to make it believable.
Bond’s script frequently over-indulges in
expository dialogue and undermines his characters with stodgy or florid verbiage
(“Their secret world, has put out the
light of the ordinary world”, protests Robert; even given his dreamer credentials,
it’s a bit much). It’s never too clear how much the mixed results are down to
the book (which I’ve not read) surviving Bond’s best efforts to hobble it or
the director’s ineffectiveness in translating it to screen. Probably a bit of
both.
John Scott’s score is poor, even at odds
with the drama. He does little to convince that anyone involved thinks they are
making something special, ineffectually hitting only the most formulaic notes.
Of the cast, Caine convincingly runs the gamut from clipped disappointment with his son's choices, to weary grief and then spitting rage. Havers is reasonably
convincing as a naïve intellectual with his head in the clouds. But you never
once buy that he’s Michael Caine’s son. Havers was an ‘80s TV fixture (The Charmer, anyone?), attempting to
branch out into a movie career at the time, something that never really took.
Gielgud and Fox are dependably professional, as are Kenneth Colley and Caine’s The Ipcress File co-star Gordon Jackson,
in his final film role.
The supporting player laurels go to Barry
Foster as Charles Greig, the MI6 friend Frank served with in Korea. Foster had
appeared in Langton’s Smiley’s People,
but his most memorable role is probably the serial killer in Hitchock’s Frenzy. Whenever he and Caine share a
scene, The Whistle Blower is at its
most effective, Caine gamely acting the straight man to Foster’s slightly
effete familiarity. The scene where Frank extracts the truth from Charles by
getting him drunk is easily the highlight of the film.
Unfortunately, it’s a full 45 minutes before
Caine starts snarling. Once he’s in gimlet-eyed, raging mode there’s a level at
which it’s easy to just sit back and enjoy. But it’s a shame to recognise there
was potential for this to be much more memorable.
***
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