Sir Henry at Rawlinson End (Steve Roberts, 1980) was the brainchild of writer, musician, comedian, drunkard and visionary Vivian Stanshall, growing out of his work on John Peel's radio show. And very English it is too, in the true spirit of the word: absurd, poetic and - on occasion - devastatingly satirical, underscored by a rich sense of history and a caustic sense of humour. Trevor Howard is typically commanding as the title figure, a colonial relic plagued by booze, indoor polo and the ghost of his adulterous brother, who's looking for his trousers. Then there are the cultured German PoWs he keeps in a cage at the bottom of the garden, who are intent on escaping, and the bodies of the hedonists he offed during a heady night of paganism climaxing with his appearance in a Viking hat, bellowing "Son of Raw!" The dialogue is sublime, the plotting generally more coherent than I'd heard - though it doesn't all work - and the snippets of music truly wonderful. Cracking sepia cinematography too. I just wish it were longer - the running time is a decidedly slender 71 minutes, not nearly long enough to investigate all the fascinating ideas Stanshall casts into the mix.
Review of Sir Henry at Rawlinson End
