The Ipcress File
It’s a good measure of the impact of James Bond movies on the 1960s that, in addition to spawning countless imitations, they also spawned a healthy number of reactions, that is, movies that stepped forward to say “James Bond isn’t how international espionage is, this is how international espionage is.” The angriest of these reactions was probably The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, with a disgusted Richard Burton grousing about espionage being filled with degenerate, failed, perverse little men, a movie so intent on disproving the Bond romance that it becomes a romance of a different kind, a romance of failure and self-absorbtion.
And then there is The Ipcress File, which presents a whole nother vision, an anti-Bond fascinating in its own right.
There is a comically pedestrian, almost Pythonesque nature to Harry’s adventures in espionage. He is spy as civil servant, his office and its doings being barely above that of a DMV post. He bickers with his coworkers about paperwork, he’s surrounded by muttering drones, dull-minded superiors and “put the kettle on” pepperpots. When Harry needs to find a missing scientist, there are no secret meetings, code words or labyrinthine precautions; he just walks up to his contact in a library and asks him where the guy is. When it turns out the guy has a tough bodyguard, there are no razor-hats or metal teeth, just a simple punch-up on the library steps.
Michael Caine’s talents continue to astonish. He manages to make Harry a living, breathing entity; one senses the bitterness of a wasted life underneath Harry’s unflappable facade. There is an everyday, almost depressive feel to Harry, a mopey, buttoned-down dullard who wouldn’t know a casino, laser cannon or volcano stronghold if he woke up in one. The investigation Harry’s on rarely rises above the level of a routine police story, with spies wandering around in the open and trading exchanges like:
SUPERIOR: Well. It looks like we’re too late.
HARRY: If we had been on time, I’d be a hero.
SUPERIOR: But we weren’t.
(everyone prepares to leave)
HARRY: Hey. This stove is warm.
SUPERIOR: Really?
HARRY: And look, there’s something inside. (examines the thing) That’s recording tape.
SUPERIOR: Let me see it.
(examines it — it is clearly labelled “IPCRESS”)
HARRY: Do you think it means something?
SUPERIOR: It might. (pause) It just might.
In Act III, Harry is framed for murder, kidnapped by the bad guys and brainwashed, which raises his pulse a little bit but does not seem to ruffle the feathers of anyone he works with. It’s British Reserve carried to its logical conclusion; even when in life-or-death situations, Harry’s cohorts cannot bring themselves to perform desperate acts; they can only sigh and get on with it.
It is perhaps indicative of Harry’s stance that the final horror, the bad guy’s sinister world-threatening brainwashing technique, involves exposing him to modern art and electronic music.
I would be remiss if I did not mention the utterly original, stylized direction of Sidney J. Furie, which recalls nothing and exists within its own cool, implacable logic. Furie, bafflingly, went from what feels like a highly personal directing style to projects as diverse and anonymous as Superman IV: The Quest For Peace, Iron Eagle and Ladybugs, before going on to Dolph Lundgren action movies and episodes of VIP.