Some targets are easier than others. The English upper
classes are a notably easy target, having been mercilessly
mocked by the Monty
Python troupe for their various, inbred absurdities.
Here, the controversial 1960s' satire of the English upper
crust successfully makes the transition from the stage to
screen, thanks largely to a superb cast.
Ralph, the
13th Earl of Gurney (Harry Andrews), returns home to his
palatial estate from a England-boosting, patriotic speaking
engagement, and promptly manages to kill himself through
autoerotic asphyxiation gone bad (don't try this at home,
kids). The next in line for the earldom and the substantial
property that goes with it is his son Jack (Peter O'Toole),
who unfortunately believes that he is God, wed to Marguerite
Gauthier (Dumas' Lady of the Camellias). Jack comes
complete with a giant cross that he installs in the living
room, where he often writhes in religious ecstasy. His uncle,
Sir Charles Gurney (William Mervyn) cannot abide this notion,
and schemes to have his nephew declared mad or alternatively
to arrange for Jack to wed his own mistress, Grace Shelley
(Carolyn Seymour), to produce a more suitable heir. Jack's
psychiatrist, Dr. Herder (Michael Bryant), concocts a plan to
cure the heir of his delusion of grandeur by bringing to him
another maniac who believes himself to be God (Nigel Green).
Although this appears to do the trick, Jack has instead
adopted a new identity: that of Jack the Ripper. However, the
Ripper himself fits beautifully into the House of Lords,
whereas the God of love had no place there whatsoever.
The film, here restored to add over half-an-hour of
deleted material, is dripping with superb performances,
beginning with that of O'Toole, who is alternately batty,
intense, trivial and delightful. The rest of the cast is also
made up of notable stage actors. William Mervyn is suitably
stuffy and single-minded. Harry Andrews is an utter joy as the
hawkish and perverse 13th Earl. Also notable is Arthur Lowe,
as Tucker, the butler who is left a sizable fortune by the
13th Earl, but stays on butling because he's too used to it to
do anything else; however, the money instills complete
disrespect for the Gurneys and he is quite hilarious in his
contempt for the upper crust. Alastair Sim (best remembered
for portraying Ebenezer Scrooge) is also quite funny as the
dotty bishop who is reluctant to comply with Sir Charles'
machinations.
There is plenty of innovative technique
here as well. At moments, the cast will break into popular
song from the early 20th century, such as the Varsity
Drag and My Blue Heaven. At other times, color
washes out, or the acting echoes the silent screen. Some vivid
and nasty dream sequences are also included, such as Jack's
climactic imagining of the House of Lords as a band of
decayed, cobweb-covered zombies. O'Toole's initial entrance is
built up beautifully, with tension as to what this mad Jack
might be like; when he does enter, there is a brief flare over
his head to make him almost appear as if he has a halo.
The pivotal sequence where the two Gods are brought
together is a thematic and cinematic tour de force.
Whereas Jack is the New Testament God of love, Nigel McKyle,
billing himself as the Electric Messiah, is nothing less than
the Old Testament deity, full of wrath and thirst for blood.
There are interesting angles used, including high POV shots
from atop Jack's giant cross. Of course, the New Testament
version is no match for the brutality of the primitive deity,
even in their maniacal personifications, and Jack's cracking
and disintegration is painful to see. A Victorian gorilla
manhandles Jack in a prefiguring of the epitome of Victorian
wickedness that will be Jack's future fate.
The
Ruling Class, and its sympathetic portrait of a madman,
invites inevitable comparisons with Harvey. Where the
family there is talked out of having Elwood P. Dowd returned
to a bitter and unpleasant sanity, here the the challenge is
taken and we get to see what happens when the madness of love
is rejected in favor of the brutality of real life. Is it a
parting shot at the nobility that allows the bitterness to
overtake the humor? That seems to be the case.
While
the target of the English upper class may seem too easy, it is
worth remembering that even at this point the Lords have real
political power—despite having no qualifications whatsoever
besides birth—acting as the British Supreme Court, among other
powers. The satire of the piece thus hasn't really dated badly
and bears significance even now.
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