The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

Though it never achieved quite the same level of accomplishment or recognition as its French counterpart, the British "New Wave" of the late 1950s and early 1960s nevertheless managed to produce a number of felicitious films, such as Tony Richardson's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.

Adapted for the screen by Alan Sillitoe from his own short story, the film relates the story of Colin Smith (Tom Courtenay), a rebellious and disaffected teenager whose kicks against the pricks (along with some thievery) swiftly lead to borstal. There, his talent for cross-country running is noticed – a talent which earns him both preferential treatment from the regime and the enmity of other, less favoured inmates.

Things come to a head when the governor (Michael Redgrave) has Colin enter a race against a group of local public schoolboys…

The British New Wave was always marked by apparent contradictions, not least the fact that predominantly public (i.e., for the benefit of our American friends, private) school and Oxbridge educated film-makers were seeking to make gritty and realistic (as the cliché invariably puts it) films about working class life; a situation always likely to lead to touristic, impressionistic pieces that presented a world the director/auteur found a nice place to visit, but wouldn't want to live in…

Questions of class voyeurism aside, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner works better than many of its peers, retaining its freshness and a degree of relevance 40 years on thanks to its timeless, placeless main theme of rebellion vs conformity and the continuing fallout of debates over the influence of American/mass/consumer culture, as epitomised here by the villainous TV set (though oddly trad jazz – the subject of Richardson's earlier "Free Cinema" short, Momma Don't Allow – seems to be okay) on "the British way of life".

This said, Richardson displays a perhaps surprising affinity for the material, possibly the result of an insight that, be it boarding school, barrack room or borstal, Britain's "total institutions" – to use Irving Goffman's phrase – have always been much the same in terms of corrupt(ing) master-slave power relations.

But if anything makes the film it's not all this lefty (g|st)uff, rather the brilliant performance by Tom Courtenay – all the more remarkable given his youth and inexperience in what was his film debut – and the beautiful, alternately poetic- and documentary realist black and white cinematography by Walter Lassally.

Overall, Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner retains its power and impact and deserves the viewers attention over its louder, but ultimately emptier, offspring If… and A Clockwork Orange. Against The 400 Blows, Kes and Bill Douglas's Trilogy it's probably outclassed though. (Truffaut's stylistic experiments feel more harmonious, the approaches of Loach and Douglas more honest and authentic.)

This Region Two DVD of The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner from the BFI presents the film in its original 1.66:1 aspect ratio. While the print used shows the inevitable scratches and damage that one would expect from a 40 year old feature, these never overshadow the overall quality of the transfer, which copes very well with the range of tones, film stocks and lighting levels deployed by Lassally.

Lassally's contribution is spotlighted in the first of the extras, an 18 minute masterclass featurette in which he dissects a number of scenes from the film, explaining how and why a particular look was achieved. I particularly appreciated the ironies of how the scenes showing the evil television were put together – in the days before video the only way they could synch the image on the TV screen was to project film onto a dummy TV – along with the use of exclusively London and Home Counties locations instead of authentic northern English locales, with Camber Sands doubling for Skegness.

The feature length commentary track, featuring contributions from film historian Robert Murphy along with writer Alan Sillitoe and star Tom Courtenay, is clearly made up of separate pieces edited together afterwards. As such it lacks the repartee element of the fireside chat style commentary, tending instead towards a dry, more academic approach. Then again, this is perhaps the appropriate format for a BFI disc to take, given the organisation's educational remit. Dryness aside, the commentary is illuminating on almost all aspects of the production, with the contrast between the personal reminiscences of those involved and the outside expert a welcome one.

A quality package is neatly wrapped up with short profiles of Richardson, Sillitoe and the Free Cinema movement, a picture gallery (albeit only four images) and a link to relevant pages on the BFI's web site.