Lawrence of Arabia

Sometimes a film, and its production, is the stuff of myth, legend and that which dreams are made of. Lawrence of Arabia is a hallucinatory dream, sometimes filled to the brim with wonderment and romanticism, and just as quickly turning in a nightmarish hell from which there is no true escape. It’s the kind of grand movie-making that not only entertains but reaches a level of artistry that is impossible to deny or top.

It’s easy to try and quantify or classify a movie into simple genres and easily digestible identifiers like biographical film or action-adventure story, but Lawrence contains those elements while simultaneously rejecting those simple classifications. Entire sequences go on in real-time in the vast emptiness of the desert. The effect is simple: Lawrence uses the desert as a giant canvas to paint an impressionistic portrait of T.E. Lawrence in all of his grandeur, madness and folly.

Less concerned with strict narrative propulsion, Lawrence prefers to wrap us up in an emotional and sensory experience. And much of the credit for the success of the film rests on David Lean’s mesmerizing visual grammar and Peter O’Toole’s head-first abandonment in crafting the titular role. O’Toole’s role may even be trickier since he is rarely off-screen and frequently the subject of numerous, invasive close-ups which he has to hold for prolonged periods of time.

In addition to having to hold our attention while doing relatively little besides reacting in real-time to figures crossing the desert or subtly sign-posting his descent in madness and disenfranchisement, O’Toole’s physical commitment to the role offers up a great backstory. According to him he spent two years obsessing over the role, sprained both his ankles, was knocked unconscious twice and dislocated his spine. But his obsessiveness with the role shows through in every moment, and it is a grandly magnificent performance. This is the kind of acting which appears seamless and can give a movie a magical spark.

O’Toole may not be conventionally handsome, after spending nearly four hours studying his face in various expressions, lighting schemes and makeups, what we’re transfixed by are his large eyes and sensual mouth, which is to say nothing of his roguish Irish charms. Would another actor have commanded our attention so completely in a scene where Lawrence, dressed in white sheik’s garments, prances around like a peacock for no one in particular in a sand dune? Or would another actor have been able to capture the fey, high-camp humor in sequences in which he poshly tells military brass to bugger off and sell it so well? It’s hard to say, but I have my doubts. Life, and the vast empty desert, doesn’t seem big enough to contain this complicated figure.

O’Toole’s renegade charm allows for us to buy into what he’s selling – a new Arabia in which the British and other outside forces will leave well enough alone. This element of the film seems even more prescient currently as the Western influence in the Middle East is one of the biggest hot button topics in our news cycle. Yet O’Toole isn’t acting in a vacuum, despite how it may sound. Lean regular Alec Guinness has a small role as a worldly Arabian prince who constantly questions Lawrence’s motives in uniting the various factions. Seeing Guinness in brown-face is disconcerting, a harsh reminder of a time when something like this was considered perfectly fine. His very Anglo looks and clipped upper British tones never successfully merge with the garments he’s wearing. Anthony Quinn, acting through a terribly fake and obvious prosthetic nose, gives one of his typically big and grandiose performances, more to do with guttural pronouncements and heavy posturing than emoting and nuance.

The most successful supporting performance is the one with the most complicated baggage. Omar Sharif is Lawrence’s long-time friend and supporter Ali, one of the first Arabian tribe leaders that he meets and gets on his side. Sharif is the stable and supportive center that Lawrence needs as he zips back and forth between determined charisma and insolent madness. Lawrence, it was widely believed, was a homosexual, and it doesn’t take much careful reading or looking beneath the surface to see the questionable element to their friendship. Sequences involving wordless interactions or Ali nursing Lawrence back to health feature a gentle, almost lover-like touch to them. This isn’t the only element that hints at Lawrence’s sexuality – his prancing in robes and taking in two street kids also point to it, along with his generally fey demeanor and bitchy wit – but they’re the strongest example of encoding in a time of strict censorship.

But when one remembers or thinks of Lawrence, one remembers the whole confounding experience. This is because of David Lean’s expert execution of big dramatic ideas with a poetic visual style. Everyone remembers the desert mirage slowly forming into a black spot and then into a man, and that scene alone would allow for the movie to make it on any number of greatest films of all-time lists, but it isn’t the only visual that lingers in the mind.

Lean’s expressive use of color transforms the deserts into searing white oceans whose stillness belie the dangers inherent within them. Or the way he uses a visual echo to show the transformation happening within his main character. When Lawrence first gets the white desert sheik robes, he prances around and pulls out his knife to stare at it in awe. And it is a wondrous work of art – the design work and craft that went in to it are terrific. His sense of play and adventure are evident. The stakes are low, his mission simple, this is all before madness has overtaken him and his cause. Later, after a bloody battle, Lawrence is seen again staring at this knife, but this time it is with horror and shock, and the gilded weapon is now covered in violently red and vivid blood.

In this film, and The Bridge on the River Kwai or the much quieter Summertime, Lean knows that film is a primarily visual medium. Words and dialog are helpful, but not always necessary to show the slow descents into madness, or the sweeping nature of romance. He allows his scenes to unfold in a slow, methodical way and expands the film’s scope by doing so. He truly was one of the greatest directors and visual artists to have graced the big screen, and Lawrence may be his grandest achievement. It’s not a simple or easily digestible work, but it practically defines the word epic through its emotional scope and bold storytelling methods.