How to Write a Screen Play

Make no mistake about it, as screen epics go Lawrence of Arabia is the best in a good many years. Of course the one sterling feature of all epics is the scenery, and in this case it is superb. For here the filming was done in no California backyard but actually in Jordan, and the desert is as real as it is remote. Heat waves shimmer in the endless flat distance, small figures appear waveringly on the horizon like mirages, the sun rises and sets enormously, camels strain and whinny, sandstorms blot out the sky. All this the cameras have captured with an immediacy that makes the eyes ache. Personally, I found the most movingly authentic scene a camel troop advancing down a long valley edged by sharp cliffs, while black-veiled women stood on the rocks on either side and gave their stylized ululating cries.

Yet, leaving the scenery aside as well as the extras (who are genuine, rather than Hollywood, Arabs), the question remains: what conception would anyone form of Lawrence here who knew nothing about him or his writings? A vaguely erroneous and feeble one. Does the engaging Peter O’Toole—who I’m sure has tried very hard and manfully eaten his peck of sand—manage to convey any of the elusive quality of the half-demonic, half-fake Englishman wanting to escape into the skin of a Bedouin? Hardly. Is the film an accurate and convincing account of the Arab revolt? No. Was Cairo, was Allenby, was the British Army, ever like this? Again, no.

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Francis Russell

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Make no mistake about it, as screen epics go Lawrence of Arabia is the best in a good many years. Of course the one sterling feature of all epics is the scenery, and in this case it is superb. For here the filming was done in no California backyard but actually in Jordan, and the desert is as real as it is remote. Heat waves shimmer in the endless flat distance, small figures appear waveringly on the horizon like mirages, the sun rises and sets enormously, camels strain and whinny, sandstorms blot out the sky. All this the cameras have captured with an immediacy that makes the eyes ache. Personally, I found the most movingly authentic scene a camel troop advancing down a long valley edged by sharp cliffs, while black-veiled women stood on the rocks on either side and gave their stylized ululating cries.

Yet, leaving the scenery aside as well as the extras (who are genuine, rather than Hollywood, Arabs), the question remains: what conception would anyone form of Lawrence here who knew nothing about him or his writings? A vaguely erroneous and feeble one. Does the engaging Peter O’Toole—who I’m sure has tried very hard and manfully eaten his peck of sand—manage to convey any of the elusive quality of the half-demonic, half-fake Englishman wanting to escape into the skin of a Bedouin? Hardly. Is the film an accurate and convincing account of the Arab revolt? No. Was Cairo, was Allenby, was the British Army, ever like this? Again, no.