Pleasure in Ruins: Pluscarden Abbey in Postcard and Print

Posted on November 1, 2014January 30, 2018 by James

‘Pluscardine Monastery’ engraved in 1790 by Samuel Sparrow, from Francis Grose’s ‘Antiquities of Scotland’ Vol.II, (London: S Hooper, 1797)

Mark how the Ivy with Luxuriance bends
Its winding Foliage through the cloister’d Space,
O’er the green Window’s mould’ring Height ascends,
And seems to clasp it with a fond Embrace – George Keate, The Ruins of Netley Abbey (1764)Sometimes I wonder if there is some curious kink in human psychology that makes the sight of a crumbling, ivy-clad ruin more appealing to our eyes than a similar structure in pristine condition. Poets, antiquarians and artists have found ruins an almost endless source of material for their studies and meditations, offering a frisson of Gothic terror by moonlight or a moral exemplar for the vanity of man and the transience of earthly glories. After some time looking at old prints and poems about ruined abbeys and churchyards, one starts to recognise the recurring themes – sprouting foliage, owls in moonlight, skeletal cloisters, lonely figures hemmed in by overhanging walls and shadows. Even as 18th century travellers give way to Victorian tourists, and engravings yield to Kodak prints and tuppenny postcards, the same picturesque conventions persist.Today’s blog presents a brief survey of images of Pluscarden Abbey, which was abandoned after the Reformation and remained in a ruinous state for some 350 years. Being somewhat off the beaten path it was never subjected to the intense scrutiny of monastic ruins such as Fountains or Rievaulx, but the 25 pictures below (all scanned from prints and postcards in my collection, apart from the Girtin watercolour) will hopefully offer some insight into the way in which a single structure has been depicted by artists and photographers over a period of 150 years.

John Claude Nattes was a founder member of the Society of Painters in Water Colours in 1804, two years after Girtin’s death. The Society broke away from the Royal Academy, who did not accept watercolour painting for its exhibitions. If Nattes ever executed watercolour paintings of Pluscarden, they have not survived, but the delicacy of these pencil sketches is still impressive.

‘Inside View of Pluscarden’, drawing made on 7 October 1799 by John Claude Nattes

Thomas Girtin’s watercolour shows the view from the opposite side, looking from the north west through the ruined cloisters towards the walled-up arch that would have connected to the nave. Before Girtin, watercolour had been regarded as suitable only for preliminary sketches and not a suitable medium for serious landscape painting, far less Academy exhibitions. Girtin changed all that with his evocative paintings of ruined monasteries, beginning the Romantic tradition of watercolour landscapes.

‘Pluscardine Abbey,Elgin’ (1793), watercolour by Thomas Girtin. The original painting is now in the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut.

This view of the ruined monastery from the SE takes a few liberties with both the setting and the structure, such as exaggerating the height of the hills. Grose wrote ‘This Priory stands on the North side of the River Lochty, about six miles South West from the town of Elgin, near the entry of the valley, at the foot of the North hill, which reverberating the sun beams, renders the place very warm.’ This sense of pleasant weather – the engraving is dated 13 August 1790, so presumably a summer’s day – is matched by the open aspect and bright airy feel of the view.

Another Nattes drawing from the same day, showing the undercroft which was later filled in.

‘Pluscardine Abbey’ engraved by James Fittler from a drawing by Nattes, from ‘Scotia Depicta’ (London: W.Miller, 1804)

Fittler’s engraving introduces various picturesque elements that are absent from Nattes’ more precise drawings: a gloomy sky, thick foliage not only framing the view on both sides but overhanging slightly to convey a sense of of nature’s ability to overpower the works of men, and some human interest in the form of a lone walker with a dog at his feet, leading his horse through the ruins.

The work of an unknown artist, published 1st February 1805 by Verner & Hood. This view shows the east end of the Lady Chapel, although its height has been exaggerated for dramatic effect.

From John Stoddart, ‘Remarks on Local Scenery and Manners in Scotland in the Years 1799 and 1800’, (Vol.II) London: John Miller, 1802

This print also introduces the figure of man and horse – a typical pastoral image. Pictures of ancient ruins often showed shepherds or cowherds grazing their animals – a reference to Biblical prophecies such as Isaiah 5:17 and 7:25, which warned that cultivated places would one day fall desolate and be fit only for animals.

The monastery is roofless in all these views, but James Duff, the 4th Earl of Fife and owner of Pluscarden from 1811 to 1857, was the first to carry out major renovations. His concerns were domestic rather than religious: the dormitory was re-floored in the 1820s to allow dancing, and the ground floor rooms were fitted up for use by shooting parties. The local Presbyterian kirk began worshipping in the monks’ chapter house (below) where they installed a 17th century pulpit from Elgin.

The Chapter House, Engraved by Robert W. Billings and Engraved by John H Le Keux for Vol. IV (1852) of ‘The Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland’

Billings’ accurate and detailed drawings still retain elements of Romantic sensibility – note the lone figure with lowered head, his gaze directed towards the gravestones in the floor. Reflecting upon one’s own mortality and the inevitable passage of time was one purpose of visiting ruins.

View from the NE, showing the extent to which the ruin were clad in ivy. – Billings & Le Keux (1852)

View from the West Side, – Billings (1852), engraved this time by George Belles Smith

Interior of the North Transept, Billings & Smith (1852.) Here, the large rose window is shown entirely open, whereas the photographs below show that it was in fact partially bricked up.

Pluscarden remained in the hands of the Earls of Fife until the end of the 19th century, by which time they had moved further up the aristocratic scale: the 6th Earl became the 1st Duke of Fife after marrying Queen Victoria’s grand-daughter, Princess Louise, in 1889. By this time the ruined monastery had become a popular visitor attraction for daytrippers and Sunday picnics on the lawn, for which a small admission charge was paid at the gate.

Stereoview showing the interior of the north transept, taken from beneath the central tower. Published and photographed by H H Bennett, Kilbourn City, Wisconsin.

The print on this stereocard claims that this view was ‘published and photographed’ by Henry Hamilton Bennett (1843-1908), a pioneering photographer from Kilbourn City, (now Wisconsin Dells) in Wisconsin. At the other end of the card, the title ‘Wanderings among the Wonders and Beauties of Wisconsin Scenery’ – also printed in Gothic blackletter type – has been scored out, and ‘Interior View of Pluscarden Abbey, Scotland, No.8’ printed in a different typeface underneath.

This puzzled me, as I didn’t think Bennett had ever travelled to Scotland. Thankfully, Alan J Hanson, the Historic Site Co-ordinator of the Bennett Studio in Wisconsin (which has preserved Bennett’s studio and photographs) was able to help. It appears that Bennett’s mentor –
Milwaukee industrialist William Metcalf – came over to Scotland and either took the photo himself or commissioned a local photographer to do so, and then sent the negative back to Wisconsin for Bennett to print. These would then be sold alongside Bennett’s images of the scenery around Wisconsin Dells, which were very popular with tourists. The image is very similar to that taken by Henry Gordon (below.)

Pluscarden, 3rd September 1880. Heliogravure print by Armand Durand (1831-1905), possibly from an original pen drawing by Sir George Reid F.S.A. (1841-1913)

This print shows the view when approaching from Elgin, with Heldon Hill and the Monaughty Woods rising up on the north side of the monastery.

This little carte-de-visite was the work of by Aberdeen photographer Henry Gordon,.probably in the 1880s The view is from under the main tower, looking down from the dormitory staircase towards the north door.

Another cdv-sized photograph by Henry Gordon, who had premises at 3 Belmont Street (1876-1887), 92 Rosemont Place, (1883-1895), 45 School Hill, (1887-1890) and 38 St Nicholas Street (1893-1900), all Aberdeen. The carefully pruned shrub indicates how much the grounds had been domesticated and gentrified, in comparison with the appearance of the 18th century prints.

This view, taken around the same time with a camera set up in almost the same spot as Henry Gordon’s, was published by James S. Pozzi, author of a Guide to the Ruins of Elgin Cathedral (Elgin, 1892)

Frontispiece to ‘The History of the Religious House of Pluscardyn’ (Edinburgh: Oliphant, Anderson & Ferrier, 1881) by the Rev Simeon Ross Macphail.

The above picture is clearly derived from the photograph reproduced on Pozzi’s postcard, rather than Gordon’s which shows much thicker ivy. Macphail’s book was the first major study of the history of the monastery, and – despite being a Free Church minister with a strong antipathy towards Roman Catholicism – his work combined careful scholarship with a sense of deep affection for the place. It remains unsurpassed, notwithstanding the publication of Peter Anson’s A Monastery in Moray (London: SPCK, 1959.)

A nicely-coloured cigarette card, from the late 19th century: No.4 of ‘A Series of 50 Historic Buildings’ issued by Fairweather & Sons, a tobacco company founded in Dundee in 1835. Despite this constant reference to ‘Pluscarden Abbey’, the monastery was never more than a priory in medieval times. Its first ever abbot was not elected until 1974.

In 1897 the priory and estate of Pluscarden were purchased by John Patrick Crichton-Stuart, the Third Marquess of Bute (1847-1900.) A great patron of the art and a serious antiquarian scholar, he had plans to restore the priory over a ten-year period at a cost of around £200,000. Under the direction of architect John Kinross, excavations were undertaken, work began on the church, and a team of artists, craftsmen and masons were hired.

These two postcards were has taken from more or less the same spot, at slightly different times of year, and show the first stages of restoration: the removal of the dense layers of ivy which had been regarded as so picturesque by past generations. Nothing of course, was quite as romantic as viewing the ruins by moonlight….

Pluscarden by Moonlight. A tinted version of one of the view above

The death of the Marquess in 1900 brought work to an abrupt halt.

Nevertheless, the grounds were now in excellent condition, and this postcard shows the neatness of the pathways leading around the ruins. Prior to the Reformation, construction of the monastery had continued over three centuries, incorporating a variety of historical styles; this archway is actually a later medieval imitation of an earlier architectural style. Going for the ‘retro’ look is nothing new.

Another postcard view of the rose window and north door

From the same set ca.1900 looking towards the entrance door to the Lady Chapel

Another postcard view, this time taken from inside the calefactory and looking out into what would have been the cloister garth

The same doorway from the other side, showing the neat gravel paths and hedges that had been laid out in the priory grounds. The Norman archway is visible at the end of the path.

Pluscarden Priory from the SE. Postcard printed by Valentine & Sons Ltd

This picture has been taken from the SE, a short distance from the Elgin road, and uses a typical ‘picturesque’ technique of framing the view through foliage. Founded by photographer James Valentine in 1851, Valentine’s was probably the largest manufacturer of picture postcards in Britain by the end of the 19th century.

Pencil sketch of Pluscarden by Wilfrid Upson OSB, Abbot of Prinknash, in 1943, the year the priory was handed over to the monks of Prinknash Abbey

After the death of the Marquess of Bute, Pluscarden passed to his youngest son Lord Colum Crichton-Stuart. Ownership of the huge building was something of a burden – he was liable for the upkeep and had no wish to live there himself – and he was therefore keen to find a religious community who could take it over. Benedictine monks were the natural choice, as it was Benedictines who had lived here prior to the Reformation; he shared his father’s liking for ‘authenticity’.

Lord Colum visited Caldey in 1921 and made the offer to Abbot Aelred, who felt unable to accept. When Lord Colum repeated his offer in 1935, the community again declined. It was a case of third time lucky, as by 1943 Lord Colum had decided that if no monastic community was willing to take it on, he would have to hand Pluscarden over to the state. The above sketch was drawn in 1943, the year that Abbot Wilfrid finally agreed.

Practical moves had to be delayed until the end of the war, of course, but in 1945 arrangements began to be made. Architectural surveys were carried out, plans drawn up, historical research carried out. Five monks were sent in April 1948 to begin the work of restoration, and within four months the buildings were habitable enough to allow an official opening Mass on 8 September 1948.

By 1961 restoration work had made considerable progress, and as the buildings became less ruinous, they begin to drift beyond the scope of this post. There will come a moment – at some distant point in the far future – when the structure will once again crumble and fall, and its ruinous state will be restored. But by that time I will have long ago laid down my pen.

My heart’s in the Highlands

Posted on October 13, 2014February 1, 2018 by James

Much as I have come to love Devon, there are times when even its wildest places seem densely overpopulated, its most expansive moors hemmed in on every side, and its highest hills little more than dimples on the horizon.

At such times I indulge myself in digging out old postcards such as these from my collection, gazing over scenes that were once familiar to my feet as well as my my memory.

If memory serves me well, the Talisker distillery, which featured in a recent post, lies beyond the horizon here. A body would deserve a dram after such a climb. For the time being, however, I’ll just have to content myself with a nostalgic wander through the postcards. Wish you were here? I wish I was there…

Devil Girl from Mars (1954)

Posted on July 14, 2014January 30, 2018 by James

Thirteen years before Mars Needs Women, the red planet was apparently running drastically low on the other sex. To balance the numbers, a female Martian named Nyah – clad in black leather and accompanied by a giant robot – travels to earth on a mission to round-up suitable males for breeding…

This is the premise of Devil Girl from Mars (David Macdonald, 1954), a curious movie that certainly fits the ‘accidentally hilarious’ category, but also one that possesses some unusual quirks which set it apart from other science fiction B-movies of the decade. Distinctly British in its approach and execution, Devil Girl from Mars is played with a seriousness that contrasts starkly with its low-budget effects and stage set.

The basic concept was by no means unique, for the early 1950s saw a wave of Hollywood movies about alien intruders, including The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), The Man from Planet X (1951), The Thing from Another World (1951), Invaders from Mars (1953) and The War of the Worlds (1953.) Without denying that these films may have had some influence, Devil Girl from Mars was a British production and feels very different from the American science-fiction movies it might have imitated. There are elements of the ‘country house mystery’ in the way disparate characters are drawn to the remote inn, a concern for matters like social class, moral behaviour, justice and redemption – plus a very British appreciation for tea and other beverages. Some of these elements betray the film’s radio play origins, although I have been unable as yet to trace any broadcast details. In structure and pacing the film remains stagebound, with its limited locations, excessive speechifying and over-reliance on dramatic entries and exits.

None of this can be anticipated from the film’s opening shots, however, in which an aircraft is mysteriously destroyed in mid-air. The mystery is not just in the mode of destruction, but also in its relevance to the story: it is never explained what this has to do with Nyah’s mission.

Following the plane explosion and the title credits, the scene switches to the Bonnie Charlie Inn ‘in a lonely part of Inverness-shire,’ which will be the setting for the rest of the film. Despite being closed for the winter, there are four staff in residence – Mr and Mrs Jamieson (John Laurie and Sophie Stewart), barmaid Doris (Adrienne Corri) and handyman David (James Edmond) plus Mrs Jamieson’s young nephew Tommy (Anthony Richmond). They have only one guest, glamorous model Ellen Prestwick (Hazel Court), who has come here to hide from her married lover.

This small household is soon bolstered by the arrival of escaped convict Robert Justin (Peter Reynolds), who was actually Doris’s lover before he was jailed for killing his wife, although her death appears to have been accidental: (and as Doris points out in his defence, ‘she was bad’.) Doris took the job at the Bonnie Charlie in order to be nearer Robert, although one wonders why she didn’t choose a pub nearer Stirling, which must be at least a hundred miles away. She might have been safer too, given the apparent pickpocketing powers of fish in the Highlands:

Isn’t it awful, Mrs Jamieson? He’s lost his wallet, he’s just been telling me…There he was crossing the stream, and he..he looks over to see a fish that’s in the water, and the next thing he knows…his wallet’s gone.

Mrs Jamieson will not withhold the Highland tradition of hospitality, but she gives Robert a suspicious look and warns him, ‘I’m counting the spoons.’

Next to arrive are Professor of Astrophysics Arnold Hennessy (Joseph Tomelty) and reporter Michael Carter (Hugh McDermott) from the Daily Messenger, who got lost in their car on their way to investigate reports of a meteor.

With all the characters now assembled, it is time for the Devil Girl to arrive. The spaceship lands right outside the inn in a cloud of fire and smoke, disturbing the group just as Carter reveals Robert’s real identity. Mr Jamieson declares that the craft ‘looks like a flying saucer’, using the term that had become popular since Kenneth Arnold’s encounter with UFOs seven years earlier. Professor Hennessy is reluctant to believe it could be a spaceship, but he and Carter head off to try and find a phone to inform the Home Office.

Miss Prestwick looking forlorn when Carter leaves the room. ‘I know it sounds silly, but I don’t like to be left here on my own.’

Viewers might agree that Ellen’s anxiety was justified when they receive their first sight of the ‘flying saucer’ pilot. After a dramatic stride down the landing ramp and a close-up of her face, the Devil Girl meets David and is unimpressed by his poor sight and limping gait.

All that is left of what Nyah judged ‘a hopeless specimen’

The Devil Girl’s agenda is not yet apparent, but this scene leaves no doubt as to her ruthlessness and capacity for cruelty. However, most viewers were probably still goggle-eyed at Nyah’s costume, with her skin tight helmet and full length cloak of black PVC. Once she enters the inn, the inner part of the costume is revealed as a black mini-skirt and tights.

Nyah explains her mission to Hennessy and Carter: on Mars, ‘the war of the sexes’ was literal, and after a bloody conflict the women emerged victorious, leaving only a handful of enfeebled male survivors with which to breed. Faced with the demise of their race, the Martians have sent Nyah to earth to bring back some virile men to help repopulate their planet. Before anyone asks why the Martians chose a remote part of Inverness-shire for their harvest of men, Nyah blames it on her sat nav: her spaceship was programmed to land in London, but having underestimated the thickness of the earth’s atmosphere (i.e. Scottish weather?), the spaceship was damaged on entry and forced to land in the Highlands for repair.

Nyah’s explanation of the repair process introduces the first of several technical discussions: we learn that the spaceship is made of organic metal that repairs itself by regeneration. The concept of a ‘living spacecraft’ was, I think, quite original at this time. A short while later Professor Hennessy quizzes Nyah on her spaceship’s power source:

N: A form of nuclear fission, on a static negative condensity
H: A negative condensity?
N: Exactly. Your atomic bomb is positive, it can cause an explosion to expand upwards and evaporate; our force is negative and explodes atomic forces into each other, thereby magnifying the power a thousand fold.
H: And the fuel?
N: Self-propagating

The science may be flaky in the extreme (don’t ask about the ‘perpetual motion chain reactor beam’), but there is something impressive in the deadpan seriousness with which it is presented. Despite its campy and unintentionally comic elements, this is an ambitious little film.

How many earth men could Nyah have fitted in here?

The notion of the self-repairing spaceship is crucial to the plot. Nyah is stranded at the Bonnie Charlie for ‘four earth hours’ until her ship is ready to fly again, forcing her to kill time with the inn’s residents while she waits. Viewers of the film start to feel much the same way, as an inordinate amount of time is spent watching characters wander backwards and forwards between the spaceship and the inn. Did Nyah travel 200 million kilometres for this?

The purpose of her one-woman invasion of earth is really to test the capabilities of the organic spacecraft, in preparation for a much larger ‘man-hunt’ that will follow shortly. Nyah therefore shows little interest in kidnapping any of the five males at the inn. She takes little Tommy, but then is persuaded by Carter to let him swap with the boy. After Carter has wandered back to the inn, Hennessy strolls out for a look around the spaceship and offers to accompany Nyah to London to act as a guide. She agrees, but he is soon back in the Bonnie Charlie as well. When the ship is repaired and she is ready to leave, everyone is hiding down in the cellar except Robert….

The three women may not be at risk of being whisked back to Mars, but they are as determined as the men are about stopping Nyah’s mission. When Carter introduces the Devil Girl to Mrs Jamieson, the landlady is given one of the best lines in the film:

– ‘Mrs Jamieson, may I introduce your latest guest, Miss Nyah. She comes from Mars.’
– ‘Oh, well, that’ll mean another bed.’

The earthlings face the alien threat with the sort of stiff upper lip and cheeriness typical of British wartime movies. Mrs Jamieson exemplifies the spirit of the Blitz with her down to earth remark:
‘While we’re still alive, we might as well have a cup of tea.’
Tea is not the only beverage drunk at the inn, and copious amounts of alcohol are drunk by Mr Jamieson and Carter in particular. I find it quite refreshing when films of this era depict heavy drinking in such a matter of fact way, without either moral judgment or any suggestion that large and frequent tipples are indicative of a problem.

Carter orders ‘A very large Scotch and a very small soda’

‘Has the tomato juice girl got any Scotch?’ ‘No, but I have some brandy.’

The free-flowing whisky and the Highland setting are not the only Scottish elements in the film; the director and four of the main actors were Scottish. The name of the inn might even be a subtle joke – ‘Bonnie Charlie’ refers to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, who landed in the Western Highlands in 1745 seeking to gather an army of men to support his cause – Nyah might have done well to reflect on how well that turned out.

Patricia Laffan was best known at this time for playing Nero’s vixenish wife, Queen Poppaea, in Quo Vadis? (1951), a film in which Adrienne Corri had a minor role. Laffan excelled in long-legged imperious arrogance.

Devil Girl from Mars actually has a pretty good cast compared to similar B-movies of the era:

The lovely Hazel Court had enjoyed starring roles in several dramas and thrillers during the 1940s, and was even considered for the role of Vicky in The Red Shoes (1948), but following Devil Girl she moved into horror after playing Peter Cushing’s young fiancee in The Curse of Frankenstein (1957.) Her ‘scream queen’ career saw her appear in a number of Hammer horrors and Roger Corman adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe tales. In 1990 she said of Devil Girl: ‘I think it only took about two weeks to shoot and it was made on a shoestring. We got paid next to nothing.’

Shades of Dad’s Army – ‘Shoot, man, shoot!’

Although he is best known for his role as Private Frazer in Dad’s Army, John Laurie’s distinguished film career began way back in 1929 and he appeared in two Anton Walbrook films as well as Fanny by Gaslight (1944.) Sophie Stewart had appeared in two H.G. Wells adaptations, Things to Come (1936) and The Man who could Work Miracles (also 1936) while Hugh McDermott had a role in another Wells tale of space travel, First Men in the Moon (1964).

Experienced, talented actors like these deserved a better script, but unlike many B-movies in the genre, the film appears to take itself quite seriously, and the cast do their best with the cornier lines and contrived situations. There is, unfortunately, one stand-out leaden performance, and that is from Nyah’s companion Chani.

‘I can control power beyond your wildest dreams! Come, come and you shall see! Now earthmen look, watch the power of another world…’

Chani is Nyah’s robot companion, whom she parades before the inn’s residents after Carter’s ill-advised attempt to shoot her with Jamieson’s revolver. The robot is operated by a handheld remote control device, and Nyah clearly enjoys demonstrating her robot’s powers as he destroys a tree, broken-down tractor and a barn using a light beam fired from his head. The muskets used at Culloden were probably quicker to aim and fire than Chani’s head-beam, but Nyah is blind to his flaws; the only time she shows any emotion in the film is while watching her robot perform before the awestruck earthlings.

Proud mum. Nyah is clearly bursting with pride as she shows off Chani’s abilities at walking and blowing up tractors. Such human touches give the film a curious charm.

Mind that branch… Chani may not be the most frightening robot in cinema history, but for entertainment value he beats anything in the Transformers franchise

Devil Girl from Mars is probably best remembered for two costumes: Nyah’s black PVC dominatrix uniform and Chani’s cardboard fridge & styrofoam coffee-cup arms. These Martian invaders make an odd couple, and though they were clearly inspired by the pairing of Klaatu and the robot Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still, they fall far short in terms of effective teamwork and combined resources. Despite her impressive robot, powers of hypnosis and ability to enter the fourth dimension, Nyah’s mission turns out a spectacular failure. At the end of the film, is there a moral as to why?

The inability of the Martian women to procreate is symbolised by Nyah’s pairing with the mechanical Chani; furthermore both of them show a total absence of feeling throughout the film. In contrast, the Bonnie Charlie is a hotbed of romance and warm emotions, even in the depths of winter: Doris and Robert are reunited and both show willingness to sacrifice everything to protect the other; Ellen falls for Carter, finding the strength to break away from her married lover while succeeding in breaking through Carter’s cynicism and gruff exterior. Behind the Jamiesons’ constant bickering banter, there seems to be a steadfast relationship and a tender devotion to their young nephew. The cheesy dialogue and over–wrought domestic dramas may well amuse modern viewers, but they show that Devil Girl from Mars was looking in the opposite direction from most of its contemporaries. This is not another Cold War metaphor or guilt-ridden nightmare about atomic power. Devil Girl borrows the trappings of 1950s science fiction while exploring some fairly old-fashioned British themes about love, duty, altruism and moral principles. The similarity between Nyah’s black-booted outfit and the Nazi uniform is surely no coincidence; this is a flying saucer movie that looks to the past as much as the future.

This blog post is part of the ‘Accidentally Hilarious’ blogathon, and there’s some brilliant pieces on other classic films – including silent movies, the work of Ed Wood, more monster/alien flicks and all sorts of wonderful weirdness – to be found here. Enjoy!

‘Pure Hepburn, and nothing else.’ ‘Mary of Scotland’ (1936)

Posted on May 10, 2014January 31, 2018 by James

Mary of Scotland was Kate’s tenth film, but the first in which she attempted to play the part of a mature woman. Typically, the project was her initiative: her interest in playing Queen Mary arose after she saw the Broadway hit of the 1933/34 season, Maxwell Anderson’s blank verse play Mary of Scotland. On stage, Mary Stuart had been played by Helen Hayes, who followed this up with another critically-acclaimed regal performance in Victoria Regina – but portraying famous monarchs, either on stage or screen, poses some unique challenges, and the role differed somewhat from those previously tackled by Kate. True, she had done two period films, one of which – The Little Minister (1934) – was set in 19th century Scotland: but the character of Babbie shared the same feisty spirit of many other Hepburn heroines, caring little for the solemn shackles of historical accuracy. How would she respond to this challenge?

Mary, Queen of Scots (Kate) with her future husband, the swashbuckling, roguish James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell (Fredric March.) Family legend claimed that Kate was a direct descendant of the Earl; throughout the film he is referred to as ‘Bothwell’, and never ‘Hepburn.’

Films about royalty – like the actual monarchs themselves – need to find a fine balance between public office and private personality. In Mary of Scotland the rival queens both get the balance wrong: Mary is tempted to follow her personal feelings over her state duties – ‘What’s my throne?’ she tells Bothwell, ‘I’d put a torch to it for any one of the days I’ve had with you.’ In complete contrast, as Mary tells Throckmorton, ‘Elizabeth has never taken a single step that wasn’t political.’ The film grinds home the connection between Elizabeth’s preoccupation with power and statecraft and her status as the ‘Virgin Queen.’ While Elizabeth is continually surrounded by her courtiers and cabinet, frequently seated behind a writing desk or large table, we see Mary in domestic settings, small intimate gatherings that feature music, needlework and gentle banter with her ladies-in-waiting.

Such a dichotomy between a women’s sexuality and her career fits better with the outlook of the ‘Thirties than with contemporary views on gender equality, but the film’s portrayal of the two queens was shaped by a number of factors.

Kate originally wanted the film directed by George Cukor, who enjoyed a reputation as a ‘women’s director’ due to his nuanced work with strong female leads. He worked with Hepburn on eight films, including her debut A Bill of Divorcement, and also found success with stars such as Bergman, Garbo, Crawford and Holliday. The box-office failure of cross-dressing Sylvia Scarlett (1935) meant that RKO producer Pandro Berman refused to hire Cukor, signing instead John Ford, regarded as a ‘man’s director’ – his output of 140-odd films is dominated by male stars, with only a handful of decent female roles.

Unsurprisingly, Ford placed less emphasis on the romantic aspects of the story than he did on the film’s historical pageantry and atmospheric set designs. Mary and Bothwell’s relationship develops against a backdrop of fog-shrouded castles, the courtyards of which are teeming with soldiers and animals; there are torchlit processions, massed bands of pipes and drums, plus the inevitable clashing of claymores and rearing horses.

The queen did not remain aloof from all the action, and in one scene Kate had to run down a flight of stone steps in her heavy costume before mounting her horse and galloping off. She did the stunt herself, as she would continue to do until her early seventies, despite the danger of tripping over the cumbersome dress with its flowing train.

Her costumes had once again been designed by Walter Plunkett, who excelled at recreating period dress and worked closely with Kate during her RKO years. One of these, a dress of crimson silk, decorated with gold thistle emblems, was displayed at the V&A’s Hollywood Costumes exhibition (2012-2013.) Plunkett was not the only one to take period detail seriously. Before filming began, both Ford and Hepburn spent time researching Scottish history and reading up on Mary’s life and background. Kate rehearsed in private wearing Plunkett’s costumes, practising – for example – how to turn her head naturally wearing a high ruffs collar such as this.

Nonetheless, there are numerous anachronisms – not least in the musical settings – while the historical bias in Mary’s favour overlooks a number of dark deeds and murky motives, the blame for which cannot be entirely laid elsewhere. It was impossible for a Hollywood film – even at two hours – to convey the complex religious and political turmoil of 16th century Scotland, with the kaleidoscope of shifting allegiances amongst the Scottish Lords and the web of conspiracies, plots, counter-plots and forgeries in which Mary was embroiled all her life. In consequence, her romance with Bothwell is pushed to the forefront, and that in turn required that his character be whitewashed: their possible involvement in Darnley’s murder is represented only as a wild accusation from the mouth of firebrand Protestant preacher John Knox.

Moroni Olsen, who gave a dramatic performance as Knox, was the only member of the original Broadway cast to appear in the screen adaptation.

The screenwriter Dudley Nichols – a regular collaborator with Ford – did away with Maxwell Anderson’s blank verse, but his screenplay retains much of the speechifying and dramatic monologues that betray its stage origins. Kate did her best with the stilted, over-expository dialogue, but neither Ford’s direction nor Nichols’ script really allowed her enough space to develop Mary’s character. Frustration about this led to a disagreement during filming on the 10th April, when they were due to shoot the intimate scenes between Mary and Bothwell on the ramparts of Dunbar Castle, the night before their final separation. Ford wanted to drop the scenes as an unnecessary piece of soppiness, while Kate regarded them as central to the film’s depiction of the relationship. After a heated exchange, Ford handed her the script and megaphone, walked off the set and told her to direct the scene herself if she thought it so important. She did, and the film is better for it.

Ford’s direction of Hepburn reveals the strong feelings he had for her: there are a disproportionate number of close-ups, the camera lingering upon her face with an attentiveness granted to no-one else in the cast. Few films captured Katharine’s beauty so well. The luminosity of Joe August’s cinematography, combined with the close-up editing of Jane Loring, made the footage of Kate fit perfectly with Elizabeth’s comment on Mary, in Anderson’s play, that not since Helen of Troy:

has a woman’s face
Stirred such a confluence of air and waters
To beat against the bastions. I’d thought you taller,
But truly, since that Helen, I think there’s been
No queen so fair to look on.

A miniature shown to Queen Elizabeth as an indication of her cousin’s youthful beauty. Not a bad likeness of Katharine Hepburn either.

Filming was completed on 25 April 1936 and Mary of Scotland was released on the 28 August. Three days later the New York Times praised the picture’s ‘depth, vigor and warm humanity’, but admitted dissatisfaction with Hepburn’s portrayal of Mary. The moments when the Scottish queen was ‘womanly, tender, impetuous and of high courage’ were convincing, but – while Anderson’s play showed Mary’s vengeful and ruthless side – the film script had tried to soften this and thereby introduced inconsistencies to her character.

It was only towards the end of the film, when Mary was imprisoned and put on trial, that this forcefulness began to burn through and Kate’s performance took on new vigour.

Mary’s cousin Queen Elizabeth (left) was played by March’s wife, Florence Eldridge, although the part was sought by both Ginger Rogers and Bette Davis.

The face-to-face meeting of the two queens (above) provided much-needed dramatic intensity – something that both audiences and critics found lacking elsewhere in the film. One person who did not like the scene, however, was Viscount Mersey, who found the historical inaccuracy sufficiently disturbing that he complained about the film before the House of Lords on 9 December 1936:
On the night before her execution at Fotheringay Castle, Queen Elizabeth was made to go into Mary’s cell and have an altercation with her. It is common knowledge to those of your Lordships who are interested in the history of Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots that they never met in their lives.
Lord Mersey then proposed a motion calling for ‘some form of control over the historical accuracy of films produced or shown in this country.’ After the Marquis of Dufferin pointed out that cinema’s presentation was little different from the romantic stories passed on by Shakespeare, Scott and Dumas, and that the fictitious meeting also appeared in Schiller’s Maria Stuart, Lord Mersey withdrew his motion.

Entertaining performances came from Douglas Walton (left), camping it up in lipstick and earrings as the effeminate Lord Darnley, and John Carradine as the queen’s Italian secretary Rizzio.

Debate continues – albeit less formally – about Katharine’s performance, and indeed about her casting in historical films. In the early part of her career, she appeared in a series of 19th century period dramas – The Little Minister, Little Women, A Woman Rebels (notice a theme..?) – few of which stand comparison with the witty contemporary comedies in which she played characters more similar to herself.

To suggest that her best performances are those in which her characters are closest to her own personality, is not to diminish her acting skills. The distance between Mary, Queen of Scots and Katharine – in terms of both time and personality – challenged her, demanding more effort, and it is interesting to hear Kate’s voice in Mary of Scotland display far wider range and pitch than in her later films.

Part of the problem lay with Kate’s lack of empathy for her character. In her autobiography Me she recalled: ‘I never cared for Mary. I thought she was a bit of an ass. I would have preferred to do a script on Elizabeth.’ There is certainly little doubt that Kate would have excelled as Elizabeth. Both Ginger Rogers and Bette Davis had wanted the part but had been rejected by Ford. Davis only had to wait three years before playing the queen in The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex, adapted from another Maxwell Anderson play.

Hepburn returned to playing royalty later in her career, winning an Oscar for her performance as Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine in The Lion in Winter, which also starred the late Peter O Toole as King Henry II. Her success here was largely due to her ability to identify keenly with Queen Eleanor as a person: ‘She was something I’ve always tried to be — completely authentic.’

Sadly, the same cannot be said of Mary Stuart, whose downfall was brought about through a series of compromises and misplaced confidences. Kate, on the other hand, was far too sure of her own identity and opinions to let herself be shaped by others. Fiercely independent in spirit, she defied whatever conventions clashed with her style, and the drama critic of The Sunday Times summed this up succinctly in his review of Mary of Scotland when he wrote ‘Her accent was not of the Highlands, the Lowlands, nor a pure French equivalent. It was pure Hepburn, and nothing else.’

What else did we expect?

This post is part of the Great Katharine Hepburn Blogathon hosted by Margaret Perry at The Great Katharine Hepburn.

Follow this link http://margaretperry.org/the-great-katharine-hepburn-blogathon-has-finally-arrived to see all the other posts this weekend!

Horatio Ross

Posted on September 9, 2013January 31, 2018 by James

Yesterday’s talk, given to the southwest branch of the Photographic Collectors’ Club of Great Britain (PCCGB), provided an hour-long romp through the colourful life of Horatio Ross (1801-86), a pioneer photographer who worked with the daguerrotype, calotype and collodion processes, as well as a brilliant marksman and all-round sporting hero.

This illustration indicates the range of his achievements. The images are based on well-known paintings, engravings or photographs, by artists including Joseph Ferneley, Sir Edwin Landseer and Horatio’s wife Henrietta.

Horatio’s grandmother, Henrietta Tod Parish, from a painting by Sir Henry Raeburn

Horatio’s parents were Hercules Ross, who sailed to Jamaica in 1761 to make his fortune and sailed back into Falmouth harbour twenty years later in his own 36 gun frigate, and society beauty Henrietta Parish. They married in 1785 and four daughters were born before Horatio arrived on 5 September 1801. He was named after his godfather, Admiral Horatio Nelson, whom Hercules Ross had met and befriended in 1779. Henrietta’s mother was painted by Sir Henry Raeburn; a copy of the portrait is reproduced above.The family were raised at Rossie Castle, a large mansion that Hercules had erected to the south of Montrose. Due to the war with France, Hercules raised a local Volunteer force which drilled on the lawn at Rossie. One day when Horatio was six, he was frightened by the rifle fire and ran into the house crying. His father, regarding this as a sign of weakness in the child, had his valet fire a gun several times immediately over Horatio’s head each day from then on to accustom him to gunshot. Whatever other effects this may have had, the boy grew up with exceptional physical stamina. After six years in the army he threw himself into the sporting life, taking part in the first ever recorded steeplechase in Leicestershire (30 March 1826), a non-stop 97-mile walk from the River Dee to Inverness (19–20 July 1826) and a sunrise-to-sunset partridge shooting competition with Gen. George Anson (10 Nov 1828), as well as numerous other daring exploits and feats of marksmanship too numerous to mention here, but well-documented in contemporary literature. He was well-known enough to appear in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair as well as in paintings by artists such as John Ferneley, Henry Alken, Francis Grant and Edwin Landseer. Large sums of money were staked on these races and competitions – Ross rode the steeplechase for £1,000, and three times that amount exchanged hands on other occasions.

Ross entered politics in his late twenties and was returned unanimously on 23 May 1831 as Whig MP for the Aberdeen burghs. He held this seat for eighteen months before defeating Radical Whig Patrick Chalmers in a contest for the Montrose district in December 1832. When the first reformed Parliament met early in 1833 Ross sat alongside the new Whig MP for Chippenham, Henry Talbot. Did he ever whisper to Ross on the benches about his latest experiments with photo-sensitive paper? Ross married eighteen-year-old Justine Henrietta Macrae in December 1833, exactly a year after Talbot’s marriage to Constance Mundy. Constance Talbot was probably the first ever female photographer, but Henrietta Ross also turned out to be highly proficient with a camera. Between 1834 and 1843 she gave birth to five sons: Horatio Senftenberg John, Hercules Grey, Edward Charles Russell, Colin George and Robert Peel. Three of the boys shared their father’s shooting skills, and all of them appear in his photographs, often captured during sporting activities such as fishing, archery and deer stalking.

Ross’s photographic work began with daguerrotypes in 1843 or 1844, possibly inspired by contact with Talbot’s friend Sir David Brewster, whose brother, the Rev James Brewster, was the local minister and a close friend of Ross. This is Hoddy and John Munro fishing at Flaipool

After receiving tuition from James Ross (no relation), Horatio took up the calotype process in 1849. However, he became dissatisfied with the calotype’s inability to show the textures of his favourite mountain landscapes, and switched to the wet collodion process in the early 1850s. He made hundreds of photographic images during the 1850s, many of which were displayed at the exhibitions of the Photographic Society of Scotland, which Ross helped to found in 1856. His work shows great technical skill as well as a strong aesthetic sensibility in matters of composition and lighting.He was a true amateur photographer, in that he was an amator, or lover, of the art, and the seriousness with which he regarded his work is suggested by, for example, his use of paper negatives and his choice of literary quotations as captions.

These are just a few brief excerpts from my talk, a full version of which will appear in the forthcoming issue of Photographica World.