Narciso Negro

Group of Anglican nuns are sent to the Himalayans to start a convent/school/hospital in an old palace which used to be a House of Ill Repute. Quickly, the strange locale, the constant winds, and the appearances of a strapping handyman sends two of the sisters to distraction. Gripping drama from Powell and Pressburger has moments of sly humor, incredible beauty. Some of the close-ups (as when Sister Superior Deborah Kerr remembers fox-hunting in her youth, or when Sister Ruth discloses her desires of the flesh) are fascinating, almost surreal, and the finale is a wind-whipping frenzy of emotional overload. A few characters--such as Sabu's General and Jean Simmons' young tart--are not expanded upon and simply evaporate, but the film is still a stunner, depicting need and survival with colorful, melodramatic flourish. ***1/2 from ****

Deborah Kerr is designated to establish a convent in the Himalayas at a remote cliffside dwelling, a palace of dubious origin. She takes her assignment seriously and faces strange customs and unfamiliar peoples as well as a harsh climate. There are inner struggles as well, and Kerr is excellent at revealing these. Huge closeups reveal what her character is supposedly thinking as she peers at others, often in unspoken disapproval of their actions, particularly David Farrar, Jean Simmons (as an Indian girl), and Kathleen Byron--who gives the film's most urgent performance as the distraught nun with worldly pleasures on her mind. Kerr gives a faultless performance, the mainstay of the film, since most of the story is seen from her viewpoint.

The striking color photography and set decoration were rightfully awarded Oscars. A haunting, powerful study of the effects of loneliness and isolation on a group of nuns--and what happens when one of them goes beserk. The struggle between the two nuns at the bell tower is one of the most gripping climaxes ever. A richly detailed British film with a windswept atmosphere all its own.

Having enjoyed the recent release of Jean Renoir's "The River" on the Criterion Collection DVD, I was looking forward to seeing this film adaptation of yet another exotically set Rumer Godden book. As it turns out, this 1947 classic is far more enthralling thanks to the visionary film-making team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, an intriguing plot line focused on the conflict between devotion and desire and a sterling cast headed by 26-year old Deborah Kerr as Sister Clodagh, a precursor to her similarly themed work in "Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison" ten years later.

The beautifully photographed movie tells an unusual tale of Anglican nuns who establish a convent in an extremely remote region of the Himalayas called Mopu. Chosen in Calcutta by her Mother Superior, Sister Clodagh becomes the Sister Superior, one of the youngest ever chosen, of the convent. Her primary task is a daunting one, to convert a donated sultan's palace into a convent, transforming it from a residence for concubines to a school and a hospital. The terrain, 9,000-foot elevation and climate all prove challenging, and physical problems are compounded by ensuing health issues and the decline in overall morale, the result of the invariable conflict between the sensuality of the environment and the regimented order of the nuns' lives.

Each sister reacts differently and manages their inner turmoil in different ways. Matters come to a head with the arrival of three outsiders - a cynical, agnostic Brit, Mr. Dean, who sparks unholy feelings among the sisters; the son of the General who bestowed the gift of the palace, hungry for education from the nuns; and Kanchi, an exotic native girl who is unruly and in need of male attention. The film's title refers to an exotic perfume, worn by the General's son, which clouds the air around their mission and consequently redirects the thoughts of the sisters to the world they were supposed to leave behind. All their lives collide in ways that lead to tragic consequences.

The hallmark of this movie is the lush cinematography by Jack Cardiff, who did similar duties on "The African Queen". Amazingly, the film makes extensive use of matte paintings and large scale landscape paintings (the artwork is by Peter Ellenshaw) to suggest the mountainous environment of the Himalayas. The cast is mostly quite effective. In one of her first starring roles, Kerr is superb as Sister Clodagh, providing the right shadings to her conflict-ridden character. However, it is Kathleen Byron (who looks eerily like Cate Blanchett) as the deranged Sister Ruth and a 17-year old Jean Simmons as Kanchi, who threaten to steal the picture. The suspenseful climax will remind you a bit of Hitchcock's "Vertigo" made 11 years later. This is a fascinating, subtly erotic film about repression and duty, sometimes melodramatic but constantly affecting, and quite worthy of viewing.

Black Narcissus is a whirlwind of a film, and a milestone in cinematography. I mean, this film looks amazing. The set of the mountain village is a great pleasure to watch. It's a built set, not the actual Himalayas, and the set decoration and lush design are wonderful and always intriguing. The cinematography itself is seamless, beautiful strokes of a rigid, expressive painting. Each closeup is so grand and overpowering. The lighting is moody but in such an overt manor. Each shot itself is interesting, not only because of the set but because the pure look of the film, especially for 1947, is almost alien. One hardly hears about Powell and Pressburger films, and here on IMDb, they are rated highly but never on the Top 250, yet their ratings and votes are equal to the amounts of many on that list. There is something completely offbeat about their films, and I love it. Seeing The Red Shoes caused me to admire them, but Black Narcissus makes me fascinated with them. Their collaboration blends very personal visions into something much different. This film makes you desperately want to see more.

This is a spellbinding movie that has haunted me for years. No other film in my sixty- odd years of viewing has so affected me. There is, beyond the obvious tangibles of superb artistry, an intangible quality that continues to elude me. Maybe it's that last scene of departure - the man framed against the mountain, the raindrops evanescing from the leaves, the procession passing into the mist. I know something has passed, yet something remains. But what? I know now that the movie is to be experienced, not decoded, a case where the figurative whole becomes a sum greater than any of its truly astonishing parts. The result projects that rarest of film qualities—an aesthetic that transcends artistry. Someone once observed that strange things happen when the practical mind of the English encounters traditional mysticism of the East. Strange and sometimes wonderful things, it should be added.