There is a tendency to view a lot of films from an earlier period as unsophisticated, if not downright hokey.
Those made and set in wartime can be regarded with particular disdain because of their blatant propaganda component. Which is a shame, for it ignores the priceless contribution made by cinema in maintaining morale in the WWII’s darkest days. Lifting a phrase from a speech by Winston Churchill for its title, this gorgeous and surprisingly touching movie doffs its cap to all those involved in the business, but specifically to the writers.
The mood is initially lighthearted, with Bill Nighy in comi mode as Ambrose Hilliard, a precious actor past his prime. He has been cast in a movie about the evacuation of Dunkirk that is being hastily written for the War Office by a novice, Catrin Conn (Gemma Arterton), and the more experienced Tom Buckley (Sam Claflin). It shifts powerfully when Hilliard has to identify the body of a friend killed in a London air raid and the fun and games of movie-making take a back seat to the urgency of their brief.
Matters are complicated when a Whitehall knob (a delicious cameo from Jeremy Irons) announces that an American will be thrust into a starring role so that the US might take notice (they had not yet joined the fight against Hitler), and off set, Catrin’s personal life is thrown into disarray.
The gender issue is never far from the surface – ‘We can’t pay you as much as the chaps’, Catrin’s boss (Richard E Grant) blithely informs her – and the smouldering attraction that Catrin and Tom feel for each other as collaborators who do not always see eye to eye provides sexual tension. Arterton is thoroughly lovely, playing her part with passion but not histrionics, while Nighy does his shtick to perfection. The closing sequence, in which Catrin joins punters to watch the finished product onscreen, is a weepy tribute to cinema’s beautiful and unique ability to make us love and care and understand who we are.
Fantastic.