The Servant (1963)
Directed by Joseph Losey

Film Review

Seductive yet softly repellent, The Servant deserves its reputation as one of the most dazzling and disturbing films of the 1960s.  A landmark in British cinema, it is one of the few films made in Britain in this decade that can be said to belong unequivocally to the New Wave cinema movement that had revolutionised European cinema at the time.  Stylistically and thematically, it fits easily alongside other notable European modernist film masterpieces of the early 1960s - most notably Alain Resnais's L'Année dernière à Marienbad (1961), Michelangelo Antonioni's L'Avventura (1960) and Luis Buñuel's The Exterminating Angel (1962) - but it has its own distinctive, demonically deranged character that sets it apart from just about any other film of its era and makes it now appear genuinely timeless.  Adapted by Harold Pinter (arguably Britain's most important playwright since Shakespeare) from a fairly inconsequential novella of the same title by Robin Maugham (first published in 1948), The Servant offers both a scathing critique of Britain's entrenched class system and a truly unsettling depiction of the malleability of the human psyche.  In the latter respect, the film has much in common with Ingmar Bergman's Persona (1966), both dealing with the chilling idea of a complete identity swap, in a way that is both beguiling and utterly nightmarish to watch.

This was a defining work for Pinter, marking the beginning of his remarkable collaboration with the immensely talented American film director Joseph Losey.  Unable to find work in his home country after being placed on the Hollywood blacklist because of his close links with the Communist Party, Losey was compelled to move to Europe in the early 1950s, settling in Britain to direct some of his most daring and acclaimed works.  Losey and Pinter made three stunning films together - Accident (1967) and The Go-Between (1971) followed The Servant - and would have gone on to complete a fourth (inspired by Marcel Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu) if the director had lived a few years longer.  More than anything, it was the Brechtian influence on their work and their shared politics that allowed Losey and Pinter to forge such an effective partnership.  The very quality that makes Pinter's idiosyncratic plays so menacing - the controlled yet seemingly natural suppression of exposition and character intent - works well with Losey's cool, baroque style, particularly in The Servant, where just about everything of interest takes place beneath the surface and so much is left to the viewer to interpret as he or she chooses.  Watching The Servant is a profoundly discombobulating experience because it is a work that revels in its teasing ambiguity, yet it soon becomes unimaginably compelling once it has gained your interest.

The film owes much if its sinister aura to the inspired casting of Dirk Bogarde in the principal role.  This was the third of six films that the iconic actor made with Losey, others including The Sleeping Tiger (1954), King and Country (1964) and The Fixer (1968).  When Losey originally intended to make The Servant in the mid-1950s, it was Bogarde he considered for the part of the younger lead character, Tony.  This would have been a terrible mistake as Bogarde was so perfectly suited to play the role of the slightly older character, the manservant Barrett, almost a decade on.  By this time, Bogarde had grown to despise the polished matinee idol image that his producers had foisted on him in his early career and was desperate to create a new image that was nearer to the angry, disillusioned, middle-aged man he had become.

The highly controversial film Victim (1961) had given Bogarde a heaven-sent opportunity to re-invent himself, instantly alienating himself from his adoring fans with his sombrely introspective portrayal of a man living in dread of being exposed as a homosexual.  Although it was not known to the public at the time, the film was remarkably close to reality, since Dirk Bogarde was a gay man in real life and lived in perpetual fear of his homosexuality becoming public knowledge.  At the time, the homosexual act between men was a criminal offence and almost invariably resulted in a lengthy prison sentence for the 'perpetrators'.  (In the case of the pioneering computer scientist Alan Turing the punishment was an enforced programme of chemical castration which may have been a contributing factor in his suicide).  Homosexuality was not fully decriminalised in the UK until July 1967.

The Servant was a crucial film for Bogarde, allowing him to complete his spectacular metamorphosis and paving the way for the many great roles that would take up the larger part of the rest of his acting career.  As the smooth but ineffably creepy manservant Barrett inexorably alters his outward form - from obsequious model gentleman's gentleman to mischievous housemate and then sadistic puppeteer - so Bogarde's screen persona shifts ever more into the dark shadows of human malevolence.  Dirk Bogarde has given so many remarkable performances that it is hard to single out one as being especially impactful, but his faultless turn in The Servant is surely among his best - he is absolutely mesmerising from start to finish, yet also spine-chillingly sinister and, at times, weirdly camp.  There is a grotesquely satanic aspect to Bogarde's appearance at the end of the film that is unmistakably the stuff of nightmares.

In his first important screen role, James Fox is just as well-suited for the part of Tony, the rich young idler whose place Barrett appears determined to usurp (in a way that is more than vaguely reminiscent of what we find in Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr Ripley, particularly the 1960 screen adaptation Plein soleil by René Clément).  Fox's effete, lethargic, almost completely washed out Tony makes a startling contrast with Bogarde's solid, domineering presence as the impeccable manservant.  When the latter inveigles his way into the former's household and starts gaining the upper-hand it is hard not to be reminded of Dracula's conquest of the unfortunate Lucy Westenra in Bram Stoker's famous Gothic novel.  (At one point in the film, Tony even describes Barrett as 'a vampire on his Sundays off'.)   The early scene in which Barrett introduces himself to his future employer readily calls to mind Mephistopheles's first encounter with Faust, and once this has registered it is hard not to see the Faustian parallels as Tony is propelled towards his own private hell, to end up totally drained of his vitality whilst Barrett revels in his triumph over the weaker man.

The opposing natures of Tony and Barrett are effectively mirrored by their female counterparts Susan and Vera, beautifully played by Sarah Miles and Wendy Craig.  Miles's highly sensual Vera - Barrett's supposed sister, later revealed to be his lover - has a similar class-crossing goal to the manservant, but she uses the age-old technique of female seduction rather than indulging in cunning mind games to bring her master to heel.  The similarity of Barrett and Vera is striking, but even more so is that of Susan and Tony, who in some shots really do look as if they are brother and sister.  This adds to the impression that there is something profoundly wrong about the latter couple's lukewarm love affair, a feeling that is no doubt stronger for anyone who has seen Jean-Pierre Melville's Les Enfants terribles (1950), which The Servant curiously makes contact with in a few scenes.  In stark contrast to Vera's earthily sensual femme fatale, Susan is a primly respectable society bitch obsessed with order and propriety, contemptuous of the lower classes and a natural enemy for Barrett.  Susan's coldly Teutonic physical resemblance to Tony is repeatedly emphasised and carries with it the suggestion that Tony may be a closet homosexual - an impression that acquires ever greater substance as the character falls increasingly under the malignant power of his manservant.

The first concrete intimation of Tony's homosexual feelings for Barrett comes in the scene in which Tony returns home one evening to discover his manservant in his bed with Vera.  The strikingly artful shot in which a shadow of Barrett's naked body is projected onto the wall between Tony and Susan conveys more than a suggestion of the younger man's lustful designs on his servant.  Tony's forced show of revulsion that Barrett and Vera are carrying on an incestuous affair is obviously an attempt to deflect from the truth - a deeply felt sense of betrayal.  When Tony and Barrett subsequently meet up in a pub after the latter's justified dismissal the reconciliation looks like something straight out of a trite 1950s melodrama, with Barrett playing the part of the repentant wife begging her husband to take her back after some foolish indiscretion.  This is immediately followed by The Servant's most bizarre scene, a brazen kitchen sink parody with Tony and Barrett now apparently living together like a jaded middle-aged couple, constantly berating each other about the squalor of their surroundings and the cost of living.  (There is an additional irony to this scene, as Bogarde was living with a man named Tony in real life - his manager and life companion Tony Forwood.)

When the two women are finally out of the picture (Vera rejected by Barrett, Susan visibly offended by Tony's infidelity), the homoerotic tension between the two male characters is hard to miss and it isn't long before they end up looking like a stereotypical gay couple.  At the same time, it is all too easy to see the class conflict being played out as Tony gradually cedes his class superiority to his working class underling.  The friendly ball game the two men play on the stairs, acting like a pair of infantilised college pals, soon becomes pointlessly aggressive.  'I'm nobody's servant,' Barrett bratishly bellows having gained the upper hand.  'I don't know what I'd do without you,' Tony meekly retorts, revealing his now total dependency on a man who has him exactly where he wants him.

The implicit homosexual character of the relationship is underlined when, in an unexpected respite, Barrett and Tony admit to a shared feeling of being like 'old pals', something that neither has experienced since being in the army.  In case you missed it, the point is reiterated during the creepy hide-and-seek sequence, during which Barrett calls out to Tony in a tone of taunting malevolence: 'You've - got - a - guilty - secret...  that - you'll - be - caught...'  The look of terror on the younger man's face when he hears this shows far more than the expression of someone indulging in a harmless bit of fun.  Barrett has reached into his soul and ripped out the truth.  From this point on in the film, Tony is nothing more than a lifeless puppet, so crushed by shame that he can scarcely drag himself on to his feet.  Barrett's victory is complete, the full extent of his malignancy revealed in the way he claims the house as his own, hosting orgiastic parties whilst an inebriated and deflated Tony bobs about in the background, like a harmless unwanted pet.  Tony's progressive humiliation is punctuated by the recurring motif of a love ballad ('All Gone') sung, in various subtly different styles, by Cleo Laine.  On the song's first rendition, it provides a suitably romantic accompaniment to Tony and Susan's tender embrace.  Subsequently, it becomes ever more mournful and ironic, so that when we hear it for the final time at the end of the film it appears cruelly mocking.

Fox and Bogarde both won BAFTAs for their performances in The Servant - and deservedly so.  There is scarcely a scene in the film in which either actor fails to be completely mesmerising.  The third BAFTA the film picked up went to its renowned cinematographer Douglas Slocombe, who deserves as much credit as both Losey and Pinter for his artistic input into this singular work.  There is probably no British film made in black and white that is as visually stunning as this one, and this is almost entirely down to Slocombe's imaginative flair in his use of lighting, deep focus photography and camera positions to capture on screen the developing nature of the relationship between Tony and Barrett as they both undergo a gradual inner transformation which results in them switching their master-servant roles.  Inspired use of shadows, mirrors and skewed camera angles perfectly underscore the dramatic shift in the power dynamics of the four principal characters as they play out their intricate sadomasochistic game of domination and submission, becoming trapped in a psychological labyrinth from which escape is impossible (echoing Buñuel's 1962 surreal masterpiece).

The boldly expressionistic style is what gives the film its haunting dreamlike quality, imbuing the unfolding warped battle of wills with a kind of film noir-like inevitability that Barrett will ultimately achieve his victory over Tony.  And it is the utter completeness of the manservant's demonic triumph that is perhaps the film's most chilling aspect, serving as a stark and bitter symbol of the Communist dream of total victory of the proletariat over the moneyed classes.  The Servant's purpose as a dark political allegory is understandable, given Losey and Pinter's lifelong commitment to leftwing politics, but there are many other ways in which the film can be read.  A modernist interpretation of the famous Faust legend, an illustration of how Nietzsche's idea of the will to power can play out in personal relationships, a remarkably insightful study on the fluidity of human sexuality - these are all equally valid ways to regard the multi-faceted lyrical oddity that is The Servant as it lashes out and draws us under its hypnotic spell.  Whatever you make of the film, it will never let you go.  Like a lover whose embrace you cannot resist, it will draw you back to it, and every time you watch it the sense of wonder and enchantment can only grow.

Film Synopsis

Hugo Barrett is a working class northerner who finds himself professionally engaged as a manservant to a wealthy young man named Tony.  The latter has idealistic dreams of carrying out ambitious overseas development projects, but for the time being he intends living in London, in a large house he has recently acquired.  At first, Barrett appears to be the model servant, overseeing the house's redecoration and undertaking all of the necessary household chores.  Tony's prim girlfriend Susan isn't taken in by Barrett's show of deference and suspects he may not be quite as reliable as he seems.  Anxious as she is, Susan cannot persuade Tony to rid himself of his new servant. When Barrett suggests employing his sister Vera as a housemaid Tony readily agrees.  Not long afterwards, Tony finds himself attracted to Vera and they begin a torrid affair in secret.  Returning to his house one evening, Tony is shocked to find Barrett in bed with Vera.  Outraged, he instantly dismisses the two servants.  Some time later, Tony and Barrett meet up by chance in a pub.  Barrett persuades his former employer to take him back, having spun a tale that Vera deceived him and ran off after stealing all of his money.  By now, it is Barrett who is in the dominant position, and Tony becomes increasing subservient to him as their relationship develops.  When Susan returns to the house she finds that Tony is a totally changed man, a weak-willed drunkard, with Barrett now fully in control of the house.  With a wild party in full swing, Barrett attempts to seduce Susan as his former employer looks on helplessly.