MAGNET contributing writer Jud Cost is sharing some of the wealth of classic films he’s been lucky enough to see over the past 40 years. Trolling the backwaters of cinema, he has worked up a list of more than 100 titles—from the ’20s through the ’80s—that you may have missed. A new selection, all currently available on DVD, appears every week.
Tunes Of Glory (1960, 106 minutes)
Acting Colonel Jock Sinclair, a rough-hewn yet popular commanding officer of a Scottish highland regiment in the post-World War II days, drinks, sings and dances with his men, sometimes to excess. Sinclair, played to the hilt by Alec Guinness sporting a flaming red military brush-cut and mustache, has called in two of the regiment’s best pipers to liven things up in the officer’s mess. He singles out one young subaltern (second lieutenant) who’s attempting to smoke a cigarette. “For God’s sake, MacKinnon, smoke that thing like a man! Stop puffing at it like a ruddy debutante. Go on, laddie, draw it in.” When MacKinnon coughs violently after inhaling, the rest of the officers laugh heartily.
To everyone’s surprise, Sinclair announces he’s about to be replaced by Colonel Basil Barrow, Oxford-educated and, apparently, a stickler for regulations. A man who’s pulled himself up by his bootstraps through the ranks, Sinclair makes it perfectly clear that the officer he already refers to as “the Barrow boy” (a street peddler who sells goods from a wheelbarrow) is the wrong choice to command this storied unit.
When Barrow (John Mills) arrives a day early at his new posting, he’s surprised to walk in on an unruly, all-male traditional dance session whose war whoops and rowdy behavior can be heard from outside the barracks. “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Barrow,” says the new Colonel, dressed like a college professor, as the raucous dancing grinds to a sudden halt. “He might have given us some warning,” mutters one officer. “Do you fancy the waistcoat?” whispers another.
“And now, Colonel, may we have permission to resume the dance that was interrupted? There’s nay carrying on like this every night. This is my farewell party,” says Sinclair, although he’s not going anywhere. “Oh, please, I’m not here officially until tomorrow,” says Barrow, good-naturedly. “You’ll join us in a drink?” says Sinclair as he escorts Barrow into the officers’ lounge. “Straight or with water?” asks Sinclair of Barrow’s whiskey preference. “I’d rather have a soft drink, if I may,” says Barrow. “Not a whiskey? But we all drink whiskey in this battalion,” replies Sinclair. “I’m afraid whiskey doesn’t agree with me,” says Barrow. “A lemonade for the colonel,” says a disappointed Sinclair to an orderly.
Sinclair lets the thin veil of courtesy slip when his new commander mentions his university connections. “Well, I came in the other way: boot boy, band boy and Barlinnie Jail. Armistice night, 1933, dead drunk and disorderly. And what did you say you did before?” asks Sinclair, turning the screw. “I didn’t. Like you, Sinclair, I was in jail,” replies the Colonel. “A prisoner of war camp, eh? Officers’ privileges and amateur dramatics,” smirks Sinclair. “I think I would have preferred Barlinnie Jail,” snaps Barrow. “Good night!”
