There have been countless films made about war, telling stories of the brave men and women (both those serving in the armed forces and the civilians that often had to demonstrate a similar level of courage) who experience the horrors of conflict, and tend to gain scars – both physical and emotional – that linger with them forever. However, we don’t often find works that are wholeheartedly committed to exploring the psychological impact of war, outside of just remarking on how traumatic such an experience can be, despite it being one of the main talking points when it comes to looking at the effects of such periods in history. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger were fascinating filmmakers insofar as they were quite active in Great Britain around the time of the Second World War, and a lot of their output in the 1940s and onwards did deal with the aftermath of the conflict. Still, they rarely made traditional war films, at least not in the way that most of their peers engaged with these events. Instead, they crafted works that used the changing social and cultural context as the foundation for their stories, exploring more unique concepts through looking at the events and how they influenced society. One of their more explicitly war-based films is The Small Back Room (often known also as The Hour of Glory in some markets), a small and intimate character-based drama based on the novel by Nigel Balchin, which is about an alcoholic scientist who has been enlisted to work with the British army to develop weaponry that can be used in the war effort, which does very little to aid in his recovery from both physical injuries and psychological disorders, the war only forcing him further down into a spiral that he knows will end quite badly if he doesn’t get a handle on his addiction. It’s a straightforward film, but one that has several merits that strike us as deeply moving and profoundly unnerving, with the Archers crafting quite an engaging examination of war and its aftermath.

It’s quite common to find stories that explore war through the eyes of ordinary people, either those forced to participate in the conflict in some way or mere observers who patiently watch in horror as the world changes around them. Powell and Pressburger were very much intent on exploring this idea, and to cast as wide of a net as possible, cobble together a film that looks at someone who stands at the intersection of both groups – a scientist who is not formally trained in any military skill, and is therefore more aligned with the civilians, but who is still a functioning civil servant by his profession, which does force him into something of an allegiance with the government, who enlists him to use his skills to help develop tools to be used in the war effort. This is the entry-point for the film’s poignant and deeply compelling examination of identity, following a man who is slowly descending into a state of deep depression, leaning into self-destructive behaviour that he knows is going to ultimately cause his downfall, but which he cannot fathom as being anything other than entirely essential to his sanity. We often see stories about people who witness war, either directly or by proxy, and whose entire worldview shifts, falling apart as they attempt to acclimate themselves to a changing society. The Archers have a very distinct approach to how it explores these ideas, developing a more unnerving psychological drama that touches on very harsh themes in a manner that is still very poignant, even at its most seemingly simple, carrying an abundance of emotions that do tend to bring a lot of complex ideas to the forefront of the narrative, which is all about how war can change someone’s mentality, and where the recovery from such shifts are almost impossible to handle.

Without knowing precisely when it was made, you’d be forgiven for thinking The Small Back Room was a relatively early work for the Archers, particularly since its smaller, more intimate scope implies that it was a project that had access to fewer resources than many of their more famous works. Interestingly, this film occurred towards the end of their partnership, coming after masterpieces like A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes, timeless classics that established the directors as masters of their craft. While it isn’t necessarily defined by its weaknesses, it’s difficult to fathom how this film – a rather dour, straight-laced affair without much energy behind it – could have followed those films, both formally and in terms of its themes. All colour is extinguished from the film, likely done to reflect its more bleak tone, and it moves at a slightly laboured, meandering pace, lacking the curiosity that was present in so many of the directors’ previous (and future) works, which creates a strange disconnect amongst the viewers,  who patiently wait for the plot to be set in motion, not realizing this very slow, intricately-woven character study is ultimately the entire film. It lacks a unique vision and is often quite limited in its scope, but it doesn’t necessarily disqualify itself from being worthy of our attention – it just needs the viewer to be aware that this is a far more sombre, dour affair, and not one that is ever going to be some sprawling, daring masterwork that intends to capture the entirety of the human condition, which is exactly the case in a lot of instances when we see the directors delivering more stark, compelling work that is designed to entertain, whereas this one simply exists to convey a very deep and somewhat downbeat message, which it does relatively well.

In keeping with the more subtle nature of the film, Powell and Pressburger enlist a cast of well-known names who were still quite popular in Great Britain at the time, but were not major stars in the vein of some of the previous actors with which they had collaborated in the past, choosing instead to construct the film out of a more subdued set of performers. The Small Back Room is led by David Farrar, who portrays the self-destructive Sammy Rice, whose steady descent into madness is both harrowing and very compelling, based on the firm commitment he has to this role and everything that it represents. He’s very effective in the part, crafting a poignant and well-defined portrait of a man losing his grasp on reality, and falling ever deeper into a pit of despair, from which escape is not possible. He’s supported by the beguiling Kathleen Byron, who plays his long-suffering love interest who watches him fall apart, knowing that, despite her best efforts, she is helpless in giving him the guidance he needs – anyone who has known a close family member or friend who has grown addicted to some kind of substance will be keenly aware of the challenges that come when trying to give them support. A large supporting cast, consisting of several wonderful actors in bit parts, only enriches the film further, with appearances from the likes of Robert Morley, Cyril Cusack and Michael Gough padding the film and making it so much more compelling based on the strength of their work. The Small Back Room is driven very much by its characters more than its plot, so it stands to reason that the strongest aspects of the film would be found within the performances across the board.

While it is obvious that we all step into a film crafted by Powell and Pressburger with a certain level of anticipation about the colourful, otherworldly masterpiece we are about to see, this is not always the case, and a film like The Small Back Room does require us to temper our expectations as far as we can. This is not a film that is going to suddenly shift gears and become a much broader, more sprawling examination of war – and its small size is one of the more confusing aspects, almost as if Powell and Pressburger were attempting to make something to reflect the reality of the war, rather than just using it as a trivial starting point for something much more eccentric. There are moments of revelatory beauty, and even more of quiet, poignant meditation – these elements do make it a more acquired taste, and it would not be an appropriate entry-point for someone who is not well-versed in the Archers and their work, since the traces of their more well-known films do linger, but in a way that is only noticeable through critically engaging with the work and understanding its ideas. It’s a very simple film, and one that builds on its ideas with a sense of commitment and precision, which form the foundation for something that is genuinely quite moving, even at its most seemingly insignificant moments.