Monitor - Always on Sunday [1965] Ken Russell (request)

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"Monitor" Always on Sunday (1965)


http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0058900/

Original Air Date: 29 June 1965

Director: Ken Russell

Writers:
Melvyn Bragg (writer)
Ken Russell (writer)

640 x 464 pixels
45:10
128kbps
MPEG3
DivX
12bit




Oliver Reed ... Narrator
James Lloyd ... Henri Rousseau
Annette Robertson ... Alfred Jarry
Bryan Pringle ... Pere Ubu
Jacqueline Cooke ... Mere Ubu
Jacqui Cook ... Mere Ubu (as Jacqueline Cook)
Roland MacLeod ... Apollinaire
Iza Teller ... Josephine (as Isa Teller)
Dorothy-Rose Gribble ... Eugenie
Sheila Van Bloemen ... Neighbour
Ann Mitchell ... Neighbour
Joanna Rigby ... Daughter
Michael Van Bloemen ... Picture dealer
Kenneth Goodare ... Musician
Paul Cameron ... Musician

Plot: After the death of his wife, former civil servant Henri Rousseau takes up painting full time. Coming across as a rarified boob, Russell's version of Rousseau could best be described as an accidental master. Most of his canvases are crackpot versions of reality as seen through the eyes of a naïve painter, and his loneliness and lack of worldly perspective really amplifies his applied amateurishness. Russell treats this tale as sadly comic, and there are many jokes and jibes as Rousseau's expense. In fact, there is such a lighthearted atmosphere here that when we finally view the artist's best known masterpiece - "The Sleeping Gypsy" - it comes as quite a shock. Indeed, many of Russell's films purposely demystify the legendary, showing them just as capable of flaws and foibles as us mere humans. Indeed, as he continued on in his career, the filmmaker would make such an approach his main raison d'etra. Much of his work here can be seen as the basis for Women in Love, Tommy, and his ultimate classical rock god goof, Listzomania.

A dramatised portrait of the painter Henri Rousseau (1844-1910), known popularly as 'Le Douanier' because of his day job as a Customs clerk (he never reached the level implied by the nickname), both the film's best-known title and the one that actually appears on screen (Henri Rousseau: Sunday Painter) refer to the fact that his art had to be produced in his spare time, even after retirement.

Rousseau is played by the painter James Lloyd, the subject of an earlier Ken Russell Monitor documentary whose own career as a misunderstood naïve painter had many similarities. As Russell later told his biographer John Baxter, "He helped a lot with the atmosphere and the actors, because professionals have to adopt a different attitude when they're with someone like that. They can't do their 'acting' bit."

It was Russell's first fully dramatised biopic, without either the restrictions imposed by Monitor's former editor Huw Wheldon or the complex film-within-a-film framework of The Debussy Film. Here, the actors use their own voices (Lloyd's Cheshire accent neatly paralleling Rousseau's provincial Breton) or, in Annette Robertson's case, are dubbed by a male voice to create an unsettlingly androgynous Alfred Jarry. The film also reunited Russell with Melvyn Bragg and Oliver Reed, who wrote and delivered the understated commentary.

Given Russell's own battles with both critics and producers, it's tempting to assume that Always on Sunday is exorcising personal demons, as the film is both by and about artists who operate on instinct, frequently puting them at odds with the expectations of the mainstream establishment. Although Russell had had a much easier ride than Rousseau (at least up to this point), his work had already undergone much criticism and creative interference.

Ironically, despite the greater artistic freedom that Russell now enjoyed as his own producer, Always on Sunday ultimately fell victim to contemporary television technology. While the black-and-white images of Elgar and Bela Bartok matched their subjects perfectly, the lack of colour here denies Rousseau's paintings their most distinctive feature. While those familiar with the gloriously vibrant originals can fill in the missing elements, those who aren't might be justified in siding with Rousseau's original critics. This is a pity, as the film is otherwise one of Russell's most delightful documentaries, his infectious love of its subject illuminating every frame.