Lunch Hour

This is the sort of charming little film about the innocence of young love that couldn't be made today without copious love scenes to lure the 'punters' in.

It's also the type of film that nobody ever sees unless, like me, you scour the TV listings for obscure items and curios that are normally shown in the early hours of the morning, as this was, when the sort of innocent people that are portrayed in this film (if they still exist) are tucked up in bed and have been asleep for a good few hours.

This is the story of a young man and woman (Robert Stephens and Shirley Anne Field) who meet at the factory where they work and fall in love. Stephens plays an executive which is a job title that clearly flatters his position and Field plays an artist who having recently left art school paints flowers seemingly all day.

The short time they spend alone together is during lunch hours where they are constantly frustrated in their attempts to have a kiss and a cuddle. Stephens' character attempts to solve this problem by booking a hotel room and attempting to avoid suspicion by telling the landlady an assortment of lies. These include Field being his wife who has come down from the North with the kids (who will be looked after by an imaginary aunt) to discuss something very important.

Why he didn't book the same hotel room and use it overnight so they can really get down to the business at hand is never explained.

This is where the film goes really weird and Field's character starts to imagine the whole lie is actually true and visualises having to dealing with noisy crying kids and all the hassle that goes with it. Maybe this is her scary vision of the pressures of marriage and motherhood that will arise if she hangs around this executive chap much longer. Whatever the reason she comes across as an unhinged psycho who Stephens would do well to steer clear of.

It seems such a shame that Field's character goes from a lovely girl with whom any young man would want to spend their lunch hour to a hallucinating crackpot who probably belongs in a straitjacket. Then again you never truly know your beloved until you have spent an hour together in a grubby little hotel room.

Following from director James Hill's adaptation of Arnold Wesker's 'The Kitchen' 'Lunch Hour' was the second of two screen versions he then made of works by John Mortimer.

Originally based like his previous 'The Dock Brief' on a television play it manages to combine elements both of Francois Truffaut's comedy of bourgeois adultery 'La Peau Douce' and the scene in 'Duck Soup' in which Groucho Marx comes to blows with a foreign ambassador for a slight he hadn't even yet had time to deliver.

As in 'La Peau Douce' it depicts the trials of an illicit relationship rather than the pleasure to which the harassed expression worn throughout by a young Robert Stephens attests.

Robert Stephens was a fine actor who sadly ruined his looks life and career through heavy drinking.I remember seeing him with Maggie Smith in Private Lives.Here he excels as the carrier's husband looking for a fling with a young designer played by a vivacious Sally Anne Field.The first half of the film is much better than the second half,if anything it becomes unbearably pretentious.Filmed at Marylebone studios that there are lots of scenes shot in the area.However I found the most nostalgic scene to be in the cinema where the beam from the projector shines through the smoke with the audience puffing away.I remember it well.

Bryanston Films were responsible for numerous highly underrated British b-movies of the late 50s/early 60s and this one, at barely an hour in length, is up there with the best. The narrative is simple - a young salesman (Robert Stephens) in a wallpaper manufacturer, trapped in a seemingly loveless marriage, meets and is instantly attracted to a newly employed designer (Shirley-Anne Field) at the works. They want to get to know one another better but privacy is hard to find. So he books a room at a nearby private hotel for an hour one lunchtime....and there the fun (though not the way he intended) begins.

There are two ways of looking at what happens next - either she is, in reality, somewhat unhinged and her subsequent actions are the outpourings of a hysterical individual or, and I prefer this interpretation, she cleverly turns his (white) lies around, deciding that she is worth rather more than the occasional lunch hour fling.

Either way, the conclusion, with him, visibly rattled, returning to his desk whilst she, yards away, continues as nothing has happened is rather chilling.

Field is excellent throughout this film and it's not hard to see why she attracts most every male she encounters in her job. Stephens also excels as the naive, rather gauche individual who, whichever way you look at it, completely misreads the situation.

Definitely worth looking out for with the bonus of some great location shots and a very poignant soundtrack.

Married Stephens fancies Field; can't keep his hands off her. With their trysts constantly blocked, he books a b&b in desperation.

Thing is, the yarns he contrives to fool the priggish early-60's types he meets on his odyssey to highly anticipated conquest are so fancy, she embroils herself in them.

Is she mad, or vigorously enjoying avoiding doing the deed ?

Being British, 'LH' stays relatively conservative, never veering into overblown 'Cat On A Hot Tin Roof' territory.

And again, being British, it's way ahead of the blunt U. S. in terms of feminism. There is no 'man holds all the cards until plucky woman finally trumps his hand' to be drudged through here . . she holds them all from the start !

From the days when seeing just one movie at the cinema was unthinkable, 'Lunch Hour' was presumably shot as a support feature - but written by John Mortimer and directed by James Hill, even a 'short' will have charm and intelligence if nothing else.

Field - captured by Wolfgang Suschitsky in soft, reverent b&w - is a jubilation. You can't blame Stephens for a second, but common sense should urge him think twice when secluded treasure shines as luminously as Shirley Anne.