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I admit the problem I have with the much-celebrated Ealing films I've seen so far could be mine. To my taste, either they are black and rippingly funny, or so light in tone to be unsatisfying as comedies or stories. That's a self-important way of saying I wanted to like "The Man In The White Suit" but found myself struggling to sit through its short run time.
Textile worker Sidney Stratton (Alec Guinness) may be meek in manner, but he is doggedly committed to progress in the form of his attempts to invent a strand of fabric that can't be broken or made dirty. Using a factory lab for his latest experiment, he toils against limitations both material and human - the latter being the benighted mill bosses who don't understand what he is up to, then figure it out and become even more committed to stopping him.
"It's small minds like yours that stand in the way of progress," Sidney complains, practicing in the mirror what he struggles to say to the Man.
One problem with "Man In The White Suit" is that Sidney's vision of progress is awfully small-minded, too, more so even than that of the bosses or the laborers who also resent his work. My problem is more elemental: For a comedy, "White Suit" is not funny. It's a rather earnest script which too often tries to mine its feeble attempts at humor from spit-takes, double-takes, triple-takes, and dizzy takes.
The best joke is the sound of the machine Sidney toils at, going "Bleep-Blop-Bleep-Bop" endlessly and fetching queer looks from every visitor until Sidney either extracts his miracle from it or blows it up trying. Like every other bit of stray humor that functions decently in this film, it's leaned on too long.
I've never seen Guinness less affecting in a movie, even though he looks impossibly young and earnest (though actually in his mid-30s). He seems so bloodless, even more so than the wax-faced general he played in "Doctor Zhivago" He's the same cold fish whether he's ignoring the sad affections of the affecting mill girl who offers to give him her life savings when he loses his job (pan-faced Vida Hope as Bertha) or the more sultry charms of young Daphne Birnley (Joan Greenwood), his one real ally in his fight against "shabbiness and dirt", as she puts it, making those words sound as impossibly sexy as only Greenwood could.
Supporting players make "White Suit" work as well as it does. Ernest Thesinger of "Bride Of Frankenstein" fame plays a singularly nasty captain of industry who looks like Nosferatu and makes a laugh like a death rattle. Howard Marion-Crawford as another factory leader is as memorable here as he was playing a blinkered medical officer in "Lawrence Of Arabia". Then there's the undeniable charm of Mandy Miller as a little girl who steals her few moments on camera right from under everyone else.
But most of the scenes are played so straight that one wouldn't think director Alexander Mackendrick had ever worked on a comedy before (his previous Ealing comedy "Whisky Galore" doesn't reverse that impression, alas). Roger MacDougall's play posits the notion of scientific progress as potential disaster, but fails to present dull Sidney in anything other than the most blandly pleasant of lights.
Ealing comedies are remembered for capturing the human side of comedy. Yet the Ealings I've seen never seem to do this, working only when they play aggressively against our own sympathies. "Kind Hearts And Coronets" and "The Ladykillers" (Mackendrick again, go figure) are classics this way. "White Suit", on the other hand, is a pointless ramble that falls apart when it should cohere, just like that unfortunate suit.


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