So dove vado

Rarely does a 60 year-old b&w unheralded movie get the number of raves from the grassroots this one does. And it's deserved. The Powell-Pressburger film is more than a cult favorite. The producer-director-writers have raised a rather unexceptional premise to artistic levels, through superior acting, location, screenplay, and cinematography. If there's a questionable side, it may be the abrupt shift in technique once Joan (Hiller) reaches the island. Her journey from the city is rapid and occasionally cartoonish in contrast to the slowly paced naturalism of the island. Perhaps, the shift intends to contrast competing life styles.

Speaking of photographic values, in my book, the visuals are a clear object lesson in the power of b&w to capture moods beyond the reach of color photography. Consider the stark poetry of those spectral images projected against the rugged island coastline. These are dream-like textures that the literalism of color simply cannot reproduce. Moreover, the power of these images to call forth a shadow world beneath the sweeping natural vistas remains a memorably artistic feature. Done in color, the film would have lacked that distinctive extra dimension.

It's hard too, to say enough about how casually and effectively local color is blended into the narrative. From the folksy bus ride where we learn a lot about the two romantic rivals, to the monolithic castles of a distant past still stubbornly present, to an untamed countryside where eagles still roam and pillage, the settings remain indelibly unique. But most of all, there's the community dance. It's like a boisterous celebration of life and the common folk where past and present meet in joyous abandon. And it's to those compelling bonds of community and good feeling, of which Thorquil (Livesey) is a part, that Joan is drawn despite her mercenary ambitions. Thus, the two islands become not just two spots on the map, but two poles of competing values, magnetic attractions between which the city girl is torn. All in all, the movie's screenplay underscores an intensely human theme.

I agree with those reviewers who have trouble with Hiller's bewitching allure. She's one heck of a capable actress. Still, she reminds me of a British Katherine Hepburn with the same sort of sharp edges. The question here is not whether she's attractive or not. She is. Rather the problem is whether she has the kind of allure that would immediately enchant a confirmed bachelor like Thorquil as apparently happens in the movie. Seems a stretch to me, unless the unassuming Thorquil's dislike for the upstart rich man Bellinger is factored in. Then we might consider Thorquil's initial courting as a way of proving his superiority to the obnoxious newcomer. The irony, of course, is that as he comes to experience Joan's sterling potential, he falls genuinely for her, and in the process helps overcome not only her limitations (false values), but his own (the family "curse").

Something should also be said of Pamela Brown's exotic Catriona. In a crafty and purposeful screenplay, she remains something of a wild card, always alone with her hounds and in the end unresolved. She clearly has designs on Thorquil and thus should resent his interest in Joan. But she demonstrates a noble nature by taking Joan under wing when Joan is in need. Thus she comes to represent the noble and untamed dimension of a land still uncorrupted by mercenary values. It's therefore well and good that she remains unattached, an enigmatic personality that defies the usual movie resolution.

The well-timed choral accompaniment is another flavorful touch. It lends a splendidly lyrical quality to what we would probably now call the simple life. And it's to that lyrical call that Joan is being drawn in spite of her headstrong nature. In fact it's a neat touch of irony how the story itself comes to contradict the confidently resolute title. Then, of course, there's the movie's dramatic centerpiece, the whirlpool that looks so real, it probably is, and the only one I've seen in a film. No doubt the effect now would be digitally done and likely overdone. Still, the real thing remains an unusual feature of an unusual movie.

It seems many professional critics downgraded the film because of its soap-sudsy plot. Nonetheless, in my book, the film amounts to a masterpiece, and a masterpiece of slyly wrought design. For like Joan, we're gradually drawn into the charmed circle of the island and people, but it's done in a cleverly understated way, rather like Livesey's low-key courting of the city girl. In fact, Livesey's performance is itself a masterpiece of slyly conveyed purpose. So, if you're like me, the film's cumulative impact sort of creeps up, until the end when I was rather surprised to note that, yes, I had just seen something really special.

The title "I Know Where I'm Going" refers to a declaration made by the film's heroine, a middle-class English girl (acted by Wendy Hiller) who's determined to get to the top of the social rung by any means legal. She has just become engaged to Sir Robert Bellinger, one of the country's richest industrialists. She knows where she's going all right: To the Scottish isle of Killoran, where her future as Lady Bellinger is to be confirmed in matrimony.

Yet Killoran may as well be the planet Mars. No matter how hard she tries, she just can't get there. At first, it's only the foggy weather that prevents her from ferrying across to Gretna Green. Then the fog is cleared away by gale-force winds. Later though, it's as if the atmosphere itself, something in the old castle legends and superstitions that conspire to keep her away from everything she's wanted. Yet she is stubborn, even bribing a boy to pilot a small boat to Killoran in the midst of a huge squall - a move that proves nearly fatal. She's determined to get "where she is going," but she's turned away once again -- by the elements as well as the realization that she has become emotionally attached to a young naval officer on leave (Roger Livesey).

This is a tightly written and performed effort. There isn't a single wasted motion. The images are memorable too. Pamela Brown, plays the poor huntress Catriona, silhouetted against the gray Northern sky with a shotgun in one hand, the other hand tethered to a leash restraining her dogs as they make their way up a brae; Finley Curray's weather-beaten face in close-up says more about his salty character than his sage dialogue; and there's an amusing cameo by a pre-teen Petula Clark, reading Edmund Spenser at the breakfast table. Just the sort of ironic juxtaposition one might expect from this movie's masterful director, Michael Powell.

If I could take only one movie with me to a desert island, this would be it. Wendy Hiller and Roger Livesey are so vibrant and every scene is a joy to watch.

Part of the chemistry is that Hiller is assertive and on top of everything and Livesey is more vulnerable and searching -- she resists him and he reaches out to her -- I think of Virginia Woolf's line about how the sexiest thing is if a woman is "man-womanly" and a man is "woman-manly."

My favorite moment comes early on, when Hiller says, about the eccentric colonel, "He's an odd one, isn't he," and Livesey responds, "Who isn't." There's so much feeling and humanity in how he says this -- so much depth -- I fall in love with his character and this movie every time.

Superlatives cannot suffice to give justice, or homage, to 'I Know Where I'm Going'. This is, simply, one of the most delightful and enchanting films. Ever. Expect it to remain so.

On screen Wendy Hiller is always luminous, and her acting superb. Here, in Roger Livesey's brilliantly understated company - which all of today's leading men (with the exceptions of Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington, and Morgan Freeman) would do well to study and emulate, Hiller devotes an unforgettable performance. But I most loved Pamela Brown's glowing effort as Catroina Potts, whom Emeric Pressburger mistook to think ugly: for Brown is one of the loveliest, most entrancing women ever to have graced the screen; in fact, I feel she's in a class by herself, a class never to be entered by another. As radiantly and a sun, a moon, a star, a galaxy, Brown's face and eyes are sheer, transfixing magic.

The location filming yielded an exemplar of black & white cinematography, and the editing in 'I Know Where I'm Going' is its happy equal. The supporting cast, the marvleous special effects, and the whimsical inventiveness of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger all conspired congenially to bait and hook me forever: when I die I hope the afterlife, if there is one, will be of their black & white splendor. I shall watch again and again this dear, splendid film and always appreciate and enjoy its goodness.

Never mind the plot, my dears, just do not miss this cinema jewel. Let 'I Know Where I'm Going' steal your breath away, and then swell your breast with fresh, heady gales of atmosphere. Be enchanted.

This wonderfully charming film from the Powell and Pressburger team is probably their most underrated great work: the most recent "Sight and Sound Critics Poll" of British films didn't even include this gem in the top 100. If it means anything, "Trainspotting" was in the top 10.

What elevates the film beyond other light-hearted romances is chiefly the impeccable acting and tight screenplay by Emeric Pressburger, probably the greatest English screenwriter to have ever lived. This might be generic laudation to any film, but by no means is Wendy Hiller's performance generic. As the young gold-digger-type woman, Hiller is slightly bewildered at being sidetracked to the Scottish natives, but she is much more fluxed when she realizes she is falling for a common Scotsman, and not the rich lord she envisioned. So what is the reaction to this bafflement? A fierce sense of panic that is very honest in its depiction of desperation. It might be puzzling to the viewer why our heroine should seek royalty so vehemently, but because of Hiller's expert frenzied facial tics, we see her slowly realize her ridiculousness herself. In an age where critics desire constant plausibility and "believability" in romances, Pressburger reminds us that attraction is something that can largely be out of our control. Hiller's character, an obsessive control freak, is the perfect example of one who cannot comprehend this fact.

The perfect foil for Hiller's hysteria, of course, is Rover Livesey's soft-spoken Torquil Macneil. Before Ashton Kucher-like effete twigs came to dominate on-screen masculinity (or Vin Diesel-like muscle-studded goons on the other extreme), the quiet dignity and charisma of a man like Livesey could light up a screen without any histrionics or wrestling moves. Those still looking for romantic realism will recognize that like Hiller's character, Livesey is just as strong-willed, and more importantly, is a match in wits and a counterbalance in earnest, world-weary personality. Their mutual attraction is perfectly played out in the strangely electric silences as much as the dialogue.

But the performances enhance what is already a remarkable script. The very basic premise of the love story can be read by many other astute reviewers on this website who also see the merits of this film. Powell and Pressburger have always been smart enough to embed their love stories with some heavy ideas: in "The Red Shoes," it was love vs. art; in "I Know Where I'm Going!" it is love vs. money. Sounds simple enough, but unlike other romances, these filmmakers can glean insights on the definition of poverty. While primitive (the one phone in town is at the post office) and poor (the staff in charge there can't break change for a pound), the villagers are portrayed affectionately with class, dignity, and culture, especially in a wonderful dance scene that seems to affectionately embody both a small community's close familiarity with one another, as well as the drunken festival spirit. Like Livesey's character says at one point in the film, "They aren't poor, they just haven't got any money." It's a succinct but revealing statement about the human condition in a time where money did not necessarily determine one's social class because of many other admirable factors. Contrast this cultural milieu with a film like "8 Mile," in which the characters are "real" if they are from the "streets" or living with trailer trash parents, and "phony" if they have an education from a private school, and you can see how our self-important attitudes are progressing.

Lastly, I must mention that this is one of the most exquisitely photographed black and white films I have ever seen, and the Criterion remastering does the film ample justice. I have been harping on the merits of the high-mindedness of Pressburger, but the appropriate plaudits must be dealt for Powell's emotionally expressive vistas that equal his achievements in "The Edge of the World." From the craggy peaks of the highest cliffs or the frothy waves of every bank, the film's mystic sense of ambiance is drawn by a foggy mist that pervades most scenes. For once, grand scenery doesn't dwarf the characters; every picturesque shot either captures the characters in the beauty of the element, or is intended as a complement to the characters' emotions. It's a great film.