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There can be no doubt, states Everson, that the creativity and beauty Powell brought to film will continue to inspire and encourage filmmakers, film students and “ordinary” audiences for generations to come.

The last dozen years of Michael Powell’s life were remarkably happy and rewarding ones. Few major directors who have been shunted aside or forgotten by the industry have lived to see their life’s work re-acclaimed to the degree that his was. Certainly Griffith didn’t. Some directors, like Herbert Brenon and Powell’s own particular idol Rex Ingram, never were really rediscovered, and remain in undeserved obscurity. For Powell, the renaissance probably began at the Telluride Film Festival in Colorado (significantly, not in his native country of England) in 1977. Since then he lived to see his once vilified PEEPING TOM (the film that literally cost him his career) regarded as one of his major works, to be honored with full scale retrospectives of his films at the Museum of Modern Art, the National Film Theatre in London and elsewhere, to be lionized with tributes at Festivals all over the world, to work with young filmmaking students during his tenure as Artist-in-Residence at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, and, even if only tangentially, to be involved in production again.

During those years he was able to produce the literally monumental first part of his autobiography and to see it published, and to finish most of the work on its second volume. Best of all, in 1984 he married Thelma Schoonmaker – Martin Scorsese’s film editor, and a lady whose passion for film matched his own – and their years together were incredibly happy ones. As Michael himself stated in the moving introduction to his autobiography, he was quite satisfied with the way life had treated him and with what he had been able to contribute to life, and was quite willing to plunge into (even curious about) whatever came after the final reel. But as so often happens, when death came, the timing was off-badly. Another year would have given Michael the opportunity to direct one more film (there was a very definite project in view) and to see the second volume of his autobiography in print. It might even had seen him recognized in the Queen’s New Year’s Honors list, something his friends had been working toward. Not that Michael was hungry for status or a title… but he loved England so passionately, and poured that love into his films, treating England’s flaws and foibles with as much affection as her greatness (particularly in films like A CANTERBURY TALE) that it would have meant a great deal to Michael to see that dedication officially recognized by the country itself. The story goes that Michael was denied a knighthood because of Churchill’s wartime opposition to THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP. But while the story might have had some basis in fact in the 40s, it certainly doesn’t hold water today. Churchill was not a vindictive man, and in any case his power – even his life – was over well before true recognition came to Powell. The probable truth is that Powell’s own integrity caused the slight. Many years ago he was indeed offered a decoration but declined it unless his writer/collaborator Emeric Pressburger was likewise honored, feeling that the work was so much the product of a team that to honor one and not the other was both pointless and unfair. The offer was promptly withdrawn, and British Royalty, not used to being snubbed, didn’t make it again. But with all the urgings from Michael’s friends in high places – urgings that were renewed when it was discovered that his illness was terminal – there is a good chance that there might have been a change of heart for 1991’s New Years Honors. (And it might be added that Michael was very happy with the various honors that were heaped on him in Britain over the past few years, and the collection of photographs of Michael in a wide assortment of ceremonial robes is most impressive, with the solemnity of the garb never once diminishing that perpetual twinkle in his eye!)

For the last few years of his life Michael migrated between two homes and (in New York) a series of temporary apartments. His wife, Thelma, rented a charming house in the isolated community of San Quentin. It had once been owned by the warden of the prison, and had a fine view of the bay. There are very few houses there, and Michael liked it for being close as he could get to the feeling of being in an English village. And within a few minutes he could walk to the bay and be near the water and trees he loved so much. San Francisco, with all of its filmic activity, and Berkeley’s Pacific Film Archive, where Michael frequently introduced his films, were both conveniently close. He was less happy in New York, although always comfortably ensconced either in apartments loaned by filmmaking friends who were out of the country, or in apartments leased on a short term basis. The last of these was a fairly new building on the West side, in the mid-50s, and Michael was always dismayed that he couldn’t see a single tree from his 28th floor window. For a while he could see the Hudson River – although his love of water really meant a clear stream with a cow drinking from it and a duck or two quacking as they foraged for watercress. But even the murky Hudson was cut off as new buildings went up around him. The New York stays were necessitated by his wife’s association with Martin Scorsese, and were invariably prolonged beyond expectations when Scorsese’s post-production schedule was delayed, as it always seemed to be. On those occasions Michael really chafed at the bit, longing to get back to his own home in the little village of Avening, a lovely Cotswold cottage on the side of a hill looking over the valley. (His next-door neighbor was Princess Anne, and he frequently complained that she was not energetic enough in cutting down the thistles on her side of the boundary. He was also not happy about the noise of the whirring helicopter which announced that the Queen was arriving for tea, but these two Royalty-induced shortcomings apart, he loved the area, one of the most beautiful in England). His decidedly independent cat Sundance was also there – she loved Michael as much as he loved her, but lived off the land (and friendly neighbors) quite happily when he wasn’t around. She also loved to show off her hunting prowess to visitors by catching a mole or some other small and less agile animal and crunching on it all night long right outside one’s bedroom door. In the morning there wouldn’t be the trace of a bone or a feather left, only Sundance with a proud smile of triumph on her face.

But while Michael missed his Gloucestershire home, he made good use of his time in New York-and not just on writing, or in cooking the elaborate gourmet meals he was famous for. Over the past year alone he made several appearances in New York (at the Public Library and at private clubs like The Coffee House) introducing his films and talking about them. He also was kind enough to come to many of my classes at New York University (specifically those courses on Art Direction and British Film) where the students loved him for his no-nonsense information and his ready wit. Luckily some of these appearances were recorded on videotape, so that his input will continue to inform (and entertain) students for many years to come. Being in New York also made him centrally available for film entrepreneurs with both genuine and phony propositions, Michael being very adept at spotting the latter. In his last years Abel Gance kept himself busy with “preparations” for his “next” film, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. It was excellent therapy for him, but it was always fairly obvious that the film would never be made. Although not all of the projects Michael became involved with came off, most of them were genuine. Actually, had he not gone to so many exhausting Film Festivals such as The Midnight Sun Festival in Finland (he loved going to new places and meeting new film people) and conserved his energy, he might have been able to get more of these projects off the ground. A new stage version of THE RED SHOES was proposed, and Michael spent a good deal of time on it, and ultimately it might well have come off. In the filmic works was an operatic version of THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, which really interested him. His association with the Russian-made PAVLOVA in 1982 was a disappointment to him, although he enjoyed the lengthy location jaunt to Russia. Initially he was supposed to co-direct, but he couldn’t persuade the Russians that their project was old fashioned and narrow. To Michael all art was inter-related, and he wanted that to be stressed; the Russians wanted an homage to Paviova in which all art was subservient to hers. When the film was finally finished, it turned out exactly as Michael had predicted: long, solid, stodgy and dull, despite its sincerity and huge budget. Michael’s final role in it was that of supervisor, acting as liaison in those (many) non-Russian locales where the director (Emil Lotianou) who spoke no other languages might have trouble. Powell undoubtedly smoothed the way a great deal, but from some location shooting that I witnessed in a restaurant beneath the Brooklyn Bridge it was obvious that Lotianou only took such advice that appealed to him. He couldn’t be dissuaded, for example, from using the impressive lower Manhattan skyline as a massive backdrop, even though the Empire State Building and the Trade Centre quite belied the 1929 period of that particular sequence. And more than once the director issued detailed instructions to his cameraman who immediately launched into elaborate tracking shots, the only problem being that the huge crowds of extras hadn’t been informed as to what they were expected to do and merely stood there bemused while the excited Russian cinematographer swept by them! The film has not yet been released in the U.S. but presumably because of its prestige subject matter eventually will be. A five-hour TV mini-series has also been prepared and that too stands a chance of an American release.

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