Sir Henry at Rawlinson End

I absolutely love this film. I have watched it so often I could dictate the screenplay from memory, but still new subtleties become apparent, even twenty years after I first saw it. Imagine a festering synthesis of Evelyn Waugh and Bunuel via Monty python, then make it ten times better than you might imagine. The fevered and eccentric imagination of 60's Dada-jazz-pop-freak Vivian Stanshall has brought to life a film that is by turns insanely funny, intellectual, schoolboy coarse and charmingly nostalgic for a never-been, golden age of Englishness. If you think you have wrung out every subtlety and pun from the dialogue then you have probably not been listening carefully enough. Layers of meaning run through everything (visuals, dialogue and songs). Apparently Vivian, never satisfied with his own work, hated it but, for me, this film is very nearly perfect. I saw this before hearing any of the Sir Henry radio or LP recordings and to be honest, there are some things that can't be fathomed from the film alone but they only serve to make it more surreal. 'Bizarre' magazine voted it the weirdest movie of all time. That is open to debate but it is decidedly, wilfully odd. If you are one of those (irritating) people who like to quote whole chunks of pungent comic dialogue then leave the safe waters of Monty Python and Derek and Clive and set out on an epic journey to Rawlinson End. It's not hip, it's in B&W and it has ukelele music, it makes no concession to commerciality and 95% of the population will not understand the appeal, but if you are one of the lucky twentieth then your life (and your repertoire of quirky film quotes) will be enriched. A lost British classic.

'Sir Henry ..." is irritating mainly because it is so damn funny while it makes no sense at all. Bizarrely adapted from Stanshall's radio series, and starring the quintessentially English actor Trevor Howard as Sir Henry in one of his last movie roles, this odd, odd film is a total blast from start to finish.

Helped by Howard playing the role of the crusty old racist (shackled in the filth of his ancestral pile - Knebworth House in tatters for the film) with utter seriousness, the film manages to get a flavour of the Rawlinson saga which began all those years ago on the LP 'Let's Make Up And Be Friendly'.

I'm not going to spoil it for you by giving any of those wonderful and daft lines away - suffice to say if you love Viv's work with the Bonzos and have caught any of this daft tale in its various projects over the years you'll appreciate this movie. If you just stumble across it without any prior knowledge - well, you've been warned. Give it a go anyway. The world needs more Viv Stanshalls, he's greatly missed ...

I've seen this movie twice and yet still can't make head or tail of it. However, that doesn't prevent it from being near on brilliant, perhaps the lamentably late Vivian Stanshall's masterpiece. Trevor Howard as Sir Henry rambles on pompously (and nonsensically) and maintains a bunker which houses two guys who pretend it's still World War II for Howard's sake. There's some sort of plot involving exorcising Howard's brother's ghost (played by Stanshall) and a sub-plot involving Patrick Magee as a Reverend up to no good (can't figure out what sort of no good, however). The extremely low production values add to the feeling of run-down old money that make this dada narrative so damn funny. It's also got some good music and Howard in blackface on a unicycle. Director Steve Roberts was responsible for writing the Max Headroom TV show, of which I have extremely fond but vague memories.

"The cracks are showing, listen to the loonies croon". Perhaps the most remarkable thing among many remarkable things about this film is that it was ever made. It is a surreal, nonsensical, sepia tinted memorial to a glorious, politically incorrect, past that never was that will nevertheless inspire a sense of nostalgia in every British viewer of a certain age. Beyond that, even to British viewers, it makes very little sense whatsoever. That however is to entirely miss the point. Whether the product of alcoholiday or derangement, or both, the film is a buried and largely unknown gem.

Buy the DVD! Why? - Because to watch the great Trevor Howard, seemingly perfectly in his element as the "brandy baffled rhinoceros Fuhrer" of Rawlinson End is, alone, worth the money; because you will almost certainly never see it on television again; because you will want to watch it time after time, (the second to at least actually confirm that you weren't hallucinating when you watched it the first), and then to get more and more of what is a very, very, rich seventy one minute running time. Some scenes don't work, but the pace of the film is so rapid you won't have the opportunity to become bored. Like me you may also get huge if guilty enjoyment out of casually slipping it into your DVD player when unsuspecting friends come to visit and you suggest they might like to watch a movie you've come across.

Having done that please also buy the album. Yes, there is an album, (not a soundtrack) which, in my opinion is even stranger and laugh out loud funnier than the film.

I saw this film in the Cinecenta in Panton Street when it was first released. I was so surprised that I went back in to watch it a second time. That was probably not the best use of £3.25 but I didn't regret the spending of it. I have seen it many times since and am still filled with that original sense of awe and mystification. And I love to share it. The sheer poetry and feeling of Theatre de Absurdisme. The unpredictability and blunt refusal to genuflect at the altar of political correctness (gone mad).

I recently had the opportunity of watching it with an American film buff. At the end he turned to me and asked "Can you tell me what that was about?" From this I gathered that American film buffs need to know about things like themes and analysis. Anyway, the answer still is that I don't know what this film is "about", any more than I know what my son's haircut is "about".

Some years ago I had the chance to ask Vernon Dudley Bowhay-Nowell (the ukulele player who gets stabbed with the bison horn) what it was all about. He didn't know either.