One of a number of terrific WW2 films we've steered through, and deserves immense praise for its proud, hard script (Rattigan; poems by John Pudney) and direction (Asquith), such as a camera finding a lighter that should have gone airborne with its owner, a pan up revealing that it isn't he. Trevor Howard in his 'debut' (actually the Way Ahead) and Michael Redgrave are so frightfully good that we rather miss them, though there's a bounteous supporting cast including Bonar Colleano (doing a Tarantino), Basil Radford (that handsome scar a WW1 trophy) and "I'll thank you" Joyce Carey as the wicked aunt. The scene where Johnny Mills kisses Renee Asherson goodbye through Rosamund John is delightful, particularly the look on the latter's face.
Derick Williams rather overlights the actors, but the second unit comprises not just Jack Hildyard but Guy Green as well.
A certain kind of quintessential British film: stiff upper-lipped, patriotic, unsentimental, cynical, witty and off-handedly literate. Do we need the war to make films this good?
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