Review of The Titfield Thunderbolt

One of the lesser Ealing Studios comedies of the 50s that are fondly looked upon today as the quaint legacy of a bygone age, The Titfield Thunderbolt shares many of the characteristics of its more celebrated peers (Passport to Pimlico, etc) – especially in its story of everyday folk rallying against a dictatorial bureaucracy (in this case, British Rail, who close down the village's railway line) – without quite attaining their sublime heights. The reason is probably down to T.E.B. Clarke's script, which, relying as it does on comedy stereotypes that date all the way back to silent days, is disappointingly sketchy. We have the saintly vicar, the rascally poacher, the booze-loving lord, etc none of whom have any real back story to speak of. John Gregson is the notional male lead, but has very little to do, and is given no love interest, and so can't help but come across as bland.

And yet, despite all this, the film has charms that make spending an hour in its company not unpleasant. It has that aura of a gentler time now lost to us – and which, in all likelihood, never really existed – and seeing the familiar faces of Gregson, Sid James, Hugh Griffiths, Stanley Holloway and Naunton Wayne is always a pleasure. Funniest moments for me have to be the drunken joyride in a stolen train enjoyed by Holloway and Griffith through the streets of the sleeping village, and the site of dear old Edie Martin trying to get a train's furnace going by covering its hatch with a tea towel.