Within the brief span of five years, the British team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger released four Technicolor films so dazzling each could easily compete for the title of 'Most Beautiful Color Film Ever Made.' The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, and The Red Shoes; looking back on these films, each one of them masterpieces in their own right, still invites a sense of awe at how utterly unique they are from every other color film of the time. The sheer richness of the color cinematography aside, the movies stand out for the way color is used thematically. Color film in the 1940s was generally all about music and adventure, dancing and entertainment. Serious films were made in black-and-white. Color invoked frivolity and excess.

In Powell and Pressburger films, however, color is used not so much as decorative frosting but as a bold expression of human needs. In The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, the vivid backdrops offer up a bittersweet reminder of the lost beauty of Blimp's chivalrous, thwarted world. In A Matter of Life and Death, color is used for the characters' scenes on Earth, contrasting with the sterile, black-and-white Heaven. It's even commented on in the story, when an angel remarks sadly, 'One is starved for Technicolor up here.' In The Red Shoes, the color of the shoes, and by extension, the lavish ballet scenes represent the frenzied passion for art, a passion ultimately proving stronger than love or death. And in Black Narcissus, my personal favorite of the Powell and Pressburger fims, the Technicolor cinematography creates a world so lush and beautiful it drives people mad with desire.

As a story, Black Narcissus is short on plot, rich in mood. In a way, the movie itself is a commentary on the very futility of trying to enforce goals, purpose, or a calendar on an environment that rejects any such borders. Our protagonists are a dutiful but easily flustered order of Anglican nuns, led by the young and inexperienced Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr). By her side are the strong-shouldered Sister Briony (Judith Furse), the sweet Sister Honey (Jenny Laird), the green-thumbed Sister Philippa (Flora Robson), and the unhappy, quick-tempered Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron). Their assignment is to set up a nunnery and school in a remote Himalayan palace, under the benevolent patronage of the local general (Esmond Knight). But their grand plans are quickly unraveled by the wild, unruly behavior of the inhabitants and their own uncontrollable weaknesses. The nuns' efforts are overseen and alternately helped and mocked by Mr. Dean (David Farrar), the rough British agent, who has seen far too many well-meaning Europeans come and go. Although Sister Clodagh dismisses him as a brute, Mr. Dean quickly becomes the object of Sister Ruth's passion. Her growing instability goes unnoticed as the nuns have their hands full with other problems, including a naive Indian prince (Sabu), a thieving, seductive servant girl (Jean Simmons), and a bunch of superstitious villagers. However, the more the nuns try to cling to the discipline of their order, the more vulnerable they become to the harsh, beautiful climate and the desires it evokes.

In its extreme clash between the dedicated, disciplined nuns and the uncontrollable Himalayan setting, the movie sets up a classic conflict straight out of The Bacchae. Deborah Kerr's character, Clodagh, overcompensates for her youth and inexperience with harsh, unreasonable demands for discipline. However, Clodagh's sternness masks her own unwilling fascination with other possibilities, a fascination that becomes all too apparent whenever she shares a scene with Mr. Dean. Kerr's performance is brilliantly pitched; she almost vibrates with anger every time David Farrar raises an eyebrow. When the movie reveals to us, through a series of flashbacks, that Clodagh started out as a young, impetuous girl in Ireland, a girl who loved hunting and jewels and her childhood sweetheart, it's clear Clodagh's overreactions stem from her own fear that she'll succumb to feeling things again. In that respect, it's her relationship to the troubled Sister Ruth that becomes the uneasy nexus of the story. Ruth's own pathology is like an extreme expression of everything Clodagh feels. Where Clodagh is brisk and condescending, Ruth is rude and openly racist. Where Clodagh has an unspoken attraction to Dean, Ruth believes herself madly in love. And in the movie's climax, Clodagh finds herself at the mercy of Ruth in a frenzied fight over the cliffs. It's as if Ruth is the physical representation of Clodagh's Id, come to either torment her into confession or to quite literally throw her into the abyss.


Kathleen Byron's terrifying performance as the increasingly feral Sister Ruth earns her a place as one of the greatest madwomen in all of cinema. If the world was just, Byron's portrayal would be as famous as Norma Desmond or Mrs. Danvers. Sister Ruth is introduced in the film by her glaring absence at dinner, explained only by the weak excuse that, 'she's unwell.' Sister Clodagh resists taking her along on the Himalayan project, but the reverend mother dryly remarks that, 'Sister Ruth needs to feel important...spare her a little of your own importance if you can.' When we finally do meet Sister Ruth, she's ringing the bell over a dizzying precipice, her expression exultant. But Ruth won't find a real outlet until the day she helps a mother in childbirth. Clodagh scolds her for not getting someone more qualified, but Mr. Dean steps forward and casually thanks her. As Byron stands there staring at him, her white habit covered in blood from the labor (the imagery overflows with Freudian implications), you can see the dawning of a new obsession in her eyes.

The single greatest moment in Black Narcissus is an almost wordless scene between Sister Clodagh and Sister Ruth. Clodagh arrives in Sister Ruth's rooms, finding the other woman dressed in red, her nun's habit abandoned and her red hair curling loose (the fact that both Byron and Kerr are redheads is another way the film implies a kinship between them). The film's score hits a scare chord that might be laughable if not for the utter terror in Kerr's eyes and the horrible triumph in Byron's. She glares at her sister superior; she is now free of her nun's vows. When Clodagh offers to stay with her until the morning, giving her time to think things over, Ruth responds with a giggle as the score howls eerily. Clodagh sits down with her Bible to pray. Ruth looks over and then, in one extreme close-up, applies a crimson slash of lipstick as the camera pans up to a shot of her bloodshot, merciless eyes. In that moment, we see just how powerful the use of red can be as Ruth uses that single gesture to declare herself female and sexual, a Maenad reborn.

While Byron's sexuality ultimately turns her into a monster, Black Narcissus rises above cliches of female hysteria by portraying passion and desire as something beyond good or evil. The men are just as susceptible to corruption as the women; the dividing line is between those who acknowledge it like Mr. Dean and those who run from it like Sister Clodagh.

The Technicolor cinematography of Black Narcissus, lensed by the legendary Jack Cardiff, was reportedly met with gasps of astonishment when the film premiered in 1947. The harsh blasts of red and orange in Byron's mad scenes are contrasted with the crystalline blues of the mountains and the painted walls of the palace. In this setting, the nuns' white habits make them seem like blank canvases, ready to be painted. The overabundance of rich color is enough to justify the off-kilter emotions of the characters; it's not hard to believe that a place could be beautiful enough to drive people off their heads. 'There's something in the air here that makes everything seem exaggerated,' Mr. Dean says at one point, staring out a dizzyingly vast landscape that belies the fact it was entirely created in the studios, with matte paintings and models. The art direction by Alfred Junge won an Oscar, as did Cardiff's cinematography. Even from a distance of almost seventy years, their work still hits like a thunderbolt.

At times, I review movies here on Colorama whose plots and performances can be easily separated from the visual aspects. The beauty of the camerawork doesn't really relate to the plot onscreen. Black Narcissus is the complete reverse. Its visual delights are inextricable from everything else it has to offer. The color tells the whole story. And the story deserves to be seen by anyone who considers themselves a true lover of film.

Aubyn Eli blogs about color movies-and a whole of black-and-white ones-at The Girl with the White Parasol.