Dearden and his clapper.
For decades now, I’ve been waiting for someone to package an oversized picture book called The Films of Basil Dearden. The 1970s would have been a good time for that, since Dearden died in ’71 (car accident), and this mid-rank British director was in need of appreciation. Great big coffee-table books about cinema were then much in vogue (Truffaut/Hitchcock, The Citizen Kane Book, Flesh and Fantasy). But now, in this current era of poorly designed, unillustrated e-books, I’m not exactly holding my breath.
Dearden has had a fair, if marginal, reputation in America, but on his home ground critics have been dismissive, often hilariously so:
His films are decent, empty and plodding . . . 
Dearden typifies the traditional...Full review >>