THE SMALLEST SHOW ON EARTH (1957) *** British humour can be a wonderful thing, subtle, and almost sensible. A form of satire that is loving instead of cutting, predicated on the wonderful eccentricities of individuals who are more indulged than tolerated by a society that's more interested than aghast. William Alwyn didn't write a terribly original plot line, and any student of literature at the finest universities could go scrambling into the library for endless prototypes of his wonderful characters (and probably would, hint: don't, just breathe). None of that detracts from artistic sensitivities so confident and quaint that they're bound to create their own...um, happy vibes...no matter what. She wouldn't stand out so much without the wonderful script and surroundings, without the relief of the supporting characters, maybe, but Virginia McKenna is an accelerated, yet understated, in a word British, combination of wholesome charm and razor-edge comedic timing. Peter Sellers and Bernard Miles duel with their selected weapon of senility forged from confusion. They're both absolutely terrific, there's an argument to be made that Sellers actually lost power later by amplifying his schtick (incidentally, I wouldn't make it), but Margaret Rutherford tosses out the best line. It's one of the funniest medical observations that I've ever heard, though I think that most of its power lies in her delivery. The conclusion is slightly frustrating in ways that Alwyn and Basil Dearden couldn't have anticipated, not just because it's a wonderful film and you don't want it to end, but also because Bill Travers strikes me as something different, not necessarily less, than novelist material, and Virginia was having such a good time with the interesting people.
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