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Andrew Spicer, University of the West of England: ‘Understanding the Independent Film Producer: Michael Klinger and New Film History’
Paper Given at the Centre for Cinema and Television History, De Montfort University, 17 November 2010

- Thanks to Paul for the invitation to speak and thus for the opportunity to discuss my work on Michael Klinger and to reflect on the protocols and procedures of what has been labelled
New Film History.

My analysis of Klinger is based on documents - which I’ll refer to as the
Klinger Papers - that were deposited at the University of the West of England in 2007 by his son, Tony Klinger. The Klinger Papers consist of approximately 200 suspension files and numerous screenplays concerning 21 projects on which Klinger worked as producer or executive producer from the late 1960s to the late 1980s. They are a very rich source of material, not available elsewhere, including itemized breakdowns of production costs; film grosses; distribution sales and territorial rights; company accounts and promotion and publicity material, as well as over 40 scripts and numerous stills. Comprehensive material exists for several films, e.g. Something to Hide (1972) and Gold (1974), and several unrealised projects, including Green Beach. As I’ve applied for an AHRC Research Grant to catalogue and interpret the archive, so far I’ve only made periodic raids on its contents rather than attempted a systematic scrutiny, so what I’m presenting here is very much work-in-progress.

Because Klinger is a forgotten figure in film history, I’ll begin by briefly sketching the main lineaments of his career (you have a list of his films on the sheet). But, as adumbrated in my abstract, I wish to use that work to explore what constitutes the ‘archive’, revisit the concept of agency and to suggest that we need a more inclusive reconfiguration of film history as an uneven, ‘messy’ cultural history. In order to give a concrete focus to this exploration, I’ve decided to channel this exploration through a case study of
Green Beach, a war film that Klinger tried, unsuccessfully, to make for over 20 years. To speed delivery, I’ve given a list of references on the back of the Klinger filmography, a copy of the slide offering a rough timeline of the Green Beach saga, and one that reproduces an actual document from the archive, a script outline.

Klinger’s Career
Rotund, cigar-chomping and ebullient -
Sheridan Morley described him as resembling ‘nothing so much as a flamboyant character actor doing impressions of Louis B. Meyer’ - Michael Klinger might seem, outwardly, a caricature of the producer, but this image belied a quicksilver intelligence, photographic memory and a cultivated mind. Born in 1920, the son of Polish Jewish immigrants who had settled in London’s East End, Klinger’s entry into the film industry came via his ownership of two Soho strip clubs, the Nell Gwynn and the Gargoyle - that were used for promotional events such as the ‘Miss Cinema’ competition and by film impresarios such as James Carreras - and through an alliance with a fellow Jewish East Ender Tony Tenser, who worked for a film distribution company, Miracle Films. In October 1960, they set up Compton Films which owned the Compton Cinema Club - that showed, to anyone over twenty-one, nudist and other uncertificated, often foreign, films. As Compton-Tekli, a production-distribution company, they made a series of low-budget ‘sexploitation’ films e.g. The Pleasure Girls (1965), horror and sci-fi pictures and two ‘shockumentaries’ - London in the Raw (1964) and Primitive London (1965). At the same time Tenser and Klinger acquired cinemas in London (converting the famous Windmill Theatre), Birmingham and Derby.

Keen to take creative risks - he produced
Roman Polanski’s first two British films Repulsion (1965) and Cul-de-sac (1966) - Klinger broke with the unadventurous Tenser and set up Avton Films in late 1966. Klinger’s policy of promoting young, talented but unproven directors who were capable of making fresh and challenging features - Peter Collinson, Alastair Reid and Mike Hodges - was financially rewarded when Hodges’ brutal crime thriller Get Carter (1971) starring Michael Caine became an international success, enabling Klinger to mount a more ambitious production programme in the 1970s. He formed a production company - the Three Michaels - with Caine and Hodges that made Pulp (1972), but then dissolved.

Part of Klinger’s success was his ability to tap into various markets. He continued to make low-budget sexploitation films with the “Confessions of” series (Window Cleaner/Pop Performer/Driving Instructor/Holiday Camp, 1974-78), for which he acted as executive producer, whose modest costs could be recouped from the domestic market: in fact they made substantial profits. Klinger continued to produce more recherché and challenging crime thrillers - Hodges’
Pulp Reid’s neglected Something to Hide (1972), Collinson’s Tomorrow Never Comes (1978) and Claude Chabrol’s Les liens de sang (Blood Relatives, 1978) - but his main energies went into the production of big-budget action-adventure films - Gold (1974) and Shout at the Devil (1976) - aimed at the international market.

In some respects,
Gold and Shout at the Devil, which Variety identified as ‘one of the biggest independently financed films in British cinema history’, were the high watermark of Klinger’s career and after this point his abiding struggle to finance his films was largely unsuccessful. His career in the 1980s was lacklustre. Following the expensive failure of Riding High (1981), a rather ill-conceived film about the stunt rider Eddie Kidd, Klinger produced little before his death in 1989.

However, as with any producer, no doubt most film-makers, there’s a hidden history buried away here: the unrealised projects that Klinger was desperate to make, but couldn’t. I’ve chosen Green Beach because it casts light on the complexities and importance of Klinger’s Jewishness and because, as a war story, it is part of a hugely important stratum of post-war cultural history.

Case Study: Green Beach
‘Green Beach’ was the code name for Pourville, a small seaside town near Dieppe, where, on 19 August 1942, nearly 6,000 troops, mostly Canadian but with some British commandos, landed in Operation Jubilee, deemed an essential rehearsal for the D-Day landings two years later. One of the key objectives was to ascertain the capability of the German radar systems - hence the need for the only non-combatant on the raid, the 24 year-old Jack Nissenthal, a working-class London Jew, who had become an expert on radar. In fact his knowledge was judged so important that he had a bodyguard of ten Canadians and a British officer to see that he did not fall into enemy hands, or, if that seemed likely, to shoot him. Although casualties were very heavy, Nissenthal survived, and he gained intelligence concerning the German radar system that enabled the development of sophisticated scrambling devices that proved invaluable. Following the raid, several officers and combatants were decorated, but Nissenthal’s exploits went unrecognized and his story - referred to later as ‘the last great personal adventure story to come out of World War II’ - remained unknown.

This timeline is a simplified, but not grossly distorted overview of
Green Beach’s complex history, beginning with Nissenthal’s desire to have his memoirs turned into a book and Klinger’s to make a major film with a Jewish hero and ending with the failure to make even a low-budget mini-series. It’s not possible here to examine Green Beach comprehensively, but I wanted to have something concrete on which to attach my more general observations on texts, archives and the multiple determinants of cultural history.

a) The Text
I need to start with an explanation of my choice of
Green Beach because it may seem odd, even perverse - after all, Klinger produced 32 films - to choose a project that never reached the screen. My choice was dictated by wishing to problematise the nature of the text itself, the actual object of study. With Green Beach there is a particularly complex relationship between the actual book, published in 1975 and the putative screenplays. This concern extends to an important question about what constitutes the ‘legitimate’ field of enquiry in cinema history: is it a history of films? In his introduction to Sights Unseen: Unfinished British Films (2008), Dan North argues that a focus on unrealised projects not only highlights what we might mean by the ‘film text’ but that ‘the lack of a finished film throws those non-filmic elements into even sharper relief, shifting attention to the intricacies of the creative process and to the context in which that creativity began.’. This shift, from text to processes of production, is of far-reaching significance and I’ll return to that in my conclusion.

2) The Archive
I also chose
Green Beach, because, as with Klinger’s other failures in the 70s and 80s, there is voluminous material in the Klinger Papers: a wide range of correspondence between various individuals and organizations; newspaper cuttings; publicity material from Heinemann, and Klinger’s company Avton Films; an announcement in Klinger’s newspaper Klinger News; press releases and reviews of the book by James Leasor; annotated scripts; and a variety of Avton documents including contracts with various screenwriters. The extent of the documentation is because Green Beach was an ongoing project and Klinger needed to retain all the material. And, because, in general, failed projects are likely to generate more documentary ‘evidence’ than completed ones as rejecting a project usually forces potential financiers or organizations to be explicit in their reasons, as I shall demonstrate. Of course, film historians, like any other responsible archivists, need to take cognizance of the provenance and reliability of their sources. I’ve placed great reliance on the correspondence between Klinger and his potential investors or his writers because these are private documents in which there would seem no reason to lie or distort the facts. However, whether they reveal the whole truth, is a different matter. Klinger News, by contrast, is the public face of a producer anxious to sell himself and one must see interpret it in that light. Archives are repositories of what happens to have been kept - what Carolyn Steedman calls the ‘mad fragments that no one intended to preserve and just ended up there’ (68) - rather than comprehensive repositories and there are significant lacunae in the Green Beach files. There is extensive correspondence between Klinger and all the writers involved except Benny Green who, as a close friend would presumably have ‘phoned Klinger or gone round to see him rather than written a letter. However, this lack of written documentation makes Green a vestigial figure in the production process.

I want now to turn to what NFH would call the multiple determinants that might explain Klinger’s inability to make
Green Beach in the spirit of new Film History that stresses that cultural phenomena are the result of a plurality of causal factors rather than looking for a single explanation.

3) Economic Determinants: the British Film Industry
Another strength of concentrating on unrealised projects, I contend, is that they often reveal more about the various constraints within which film-makers were working than ones that received the ‘green light’, revealing the parameters as to what was permissible, acceptable or economically viable at any particular moment. From the outset, Klinger conceived of
Green Beach as a ‘mass appeal action picture’ (Nov. 67), a high-budget production intended to be sold world-wide. During a period when cinema admissions plummeted, only low-budget films (such as the ‘Confessions’ series) could hope to recoup their costs in the domestic market. More ambitious films had to have an international appeal but this, Klinger argued, was the route to survival for the British film industry. Indeed, he repeatedly attacked the insularity, parochialism and timorousness of the British film industry in the trade press. However, in an era of industry retrenchment, the problem was to raise production finance. Historians of this period, notably Alexander Walker, all point to the swift and unceremonious withdrawal of large-scale American finance as the key explanation of the British film industry’s decline. And indeed, the archive documents how Klinger’s persistent attempts to interest Hollywood studios in this project were all rebuffed - I’ll return to Columbia’s rejection later - which would seem to confirm this paradigm.

Independent producers were caught in a double-bind because major British companies were also withdrawing from indigenous production. This withdrawal, as with American finance, was a more complex process of ebbs and flows than conventional wisdom acknowledges, as illustrated by Klinger’s relations with Rank over
Green Beach.

Following a very encouraging letter (19 Aug 1976) from F.S. Poole the MD, K believes he has concluded with deal with Rank in which
Green Beach becomes part of the package of four films that also included: The Chilian Club a satirical comedy; Eagle in the Sky an action-adventure story; The Limey, a heist thriller. The slide shows the trade press announcement, included in Klinger News. However, through the correspondence of Klinger and Sir John Terry who was head of the NFFC, the deal was more apparent than real as both Rank and the NFFC - approached for ‘end money’ - were not prepared to finance such an expensive package unless Klinger secured American finance as well and guaranteed international distribution. Klinger’s argument that he could not do this unless he had firm assurances from Rank and the NFFC, fell on deaf ears. In desperation, Klinger tries to scale down the film and, in the letter/synopsis you have on your sheets, Pinewood writers David Pursall and Jack Seddon - they’re working for Klinger on another war film, A Man and a Half - make, in my judgement, a spectacularly inept attempt at cost-cutting by eliminating the Dieppe landing itself!

However, the problem with a purely economic explanation is that, as already mentioned, Klinger successfully mounted two high-budget international productions:
Gold in 1974 and Shout at the Devil in 1976. Thus the failure to produce Green Beach needs to be related to the preoccupations and vicissitudes of Klinger’s career and more specifically, his Jewishness and the subject matter of the ‘text’ itself.

4) The Jewish Independent Producer
The genesis of GB started in October 1967 when Klinger read an article in the Jewish Chronicle stating that Nissenthal had written an account of his role in the Dieppe Raid with a view to publication. Klinger wrote immediately to Nissenthal, who had moved to South Africa and ran an electronics firm, fired up by this epic story of an unrecognized Jewish hero from almost exactly the same background as Klinger himself, with whom he began to cultivate a warm personal relationship. As a fellow Jew, Klinger is anxious to help Nissenthal get his memoirs published but at the same time ensure that he has the exclusive film rights. Klinger reassures Nissenthal (3 Jan. 68) that ‘the subject matter will be dealt with in a worthy and honest manner’, but he always has strong ideas about the nature of the story. Nissenthal is happy with
Barry Wynne, the author nominated by his putative publishers Curtis Brown, because Wynne had an established reputation as the author of both fiction and non-fictional war stories and had researched the Dieppe raid extensively. For his part, Klinger does not want to deal with a rather self-regarding (and expensive) middle-class writer - his address is Vicars Bottom, Wormsley, Stokenchurch, Bucks - and starts to manoeuvre another writer into the frame, arguing in a letter to Nissenthal (May 71) that ‘the problem [is] to get a writer who will understand your background and mentality and be able to translate those things, together with the humour, to the public’. And for Klinger, that public is always a cinema audience as well as a book-buying one.

Klinger’s choice is
Benny Green, again from the same background as himself, who was working on other Klinger projects as well as his numerous radio scripts, journalism and jazz punditry. Klinger wrote to Nissenthal assuring him that Green’s script has ‘settled the storyline and [has] possibly taken some artistic liberties, particularly in the area of the squad of Canadians who accompanied you. But I think it will make a great action picture and you come out of it as one hell of a character’. Thus Klinger’s emphasis is on the valorization of an unrecognized Jewish hero.

The ‘Canadian element’ will, as we shall see, come back to haunt Klinger, and Green’s departure in April 73 - it seems that he was too busy on Klinger’s other projects but, as mentioned, he is a silent witness in this affair - means that Klinger starts to lose control of the material. Anxious to have Nissenthal’s story made public, Klinger had brokered a deal with Heinemann, a Jewish firm, and a much bigger publisher. But Heinemann bring in
James Leasor - an experienced writer of fiction and non-fiction works, to write the book. Leasor’s book, Green Beach is a rather sober account but one that gives due weight to the complexity of the Raid and the role of the Canadians. Although successful - reissued as a Corgi paperback in 1976 it goes into the bestseller charts - it was not the book Klinger wanted. And he brings in Stanley Price, who adapted Gold, to write a screenplay.

Price sees at once how complex the task is, the conflicting demands of a story that has to convey a lot of technical stuff about radar, produce an exciting narrative that is true to the main ‘facts’ and foreground Nissenthal’s Jewishness. In a letter to Klinger (May 1975), he observes that Nissenthal ‘doesn’t have any [character] in the book’ and continues: ‘I shan’t bore you with the job I had trying to establish Jack’s Jewish background, without making it schmaltzy like
‘Flight-Sergeant on the Roof’ and Jack singing “If I was a Squadron-Leader” in Act Two’; a reference, as I’m sure you’ve worked out, to Topol and Fiddler on the Roof, a smash hit in 1971.

For Klinger,
Green Beach was a paean to Jewish expertise and courage , a celebrating of his racial heritage. He expended an enormous amount of energy, and money, producing Rachel’s Man (1974), advertised as: ‘the world’s oldest and greatest love story photographed in the actual locations where the Old Testament story took place by Moshe Mizrahi Israel’s most celebrated film-maker.’ I haven’t completed much work on this yet - the documentation is huge - but conversations with Klinger’s son Tony have made me realize that this was a film Klinger knew, from the outset, was parlous box-office but which he felt compelled to make as a Jew. One could hardly claim it as a Zionist film like Land of Promise, but its making shows how Klinger’s Jewishness occasionally conflicted with his sense of what might be profitable. With Green Beach he must have felt he could have both: a Jewish epic that was good box-office. But the complicating factor was the conflicting pulls of this story and its imbrication in another history: that of the meaning of the Second World War in post-war British culture and that takes us into the realm of genre and myth.

5) The War Film: Genre and Myth
In the same letter in which he described the difficulties of creating a Jewish hero, Price discerned other difficulties in writing a war film in the mid-1970s. He complains that Leasor’s book is ‘all rather gung-ho, jolly heroics when one reads it. I don’t feel we can get away today with another stiff-upper-lip wartime romp …
Michael Redgrave saying to Richard Todd “O.K., old chap. We know we can trust you to give Jerry something to think about.” And when Todd returns Sir Michael says “Well done, old boy. By the way, whatever happened to that right leg of yours? It used to suit you.” So I’ve tried to make it a little more real.’ What Price mockingly alludes to as he conflates The Way to the Stars (1945) and The Dam Busters (1955), is the exhortatory epics of middle-class courage and fortitude that formed a central element in what Angus Calder has identified as the dominant discourse about the Second World War, the ‘myth of the Blitz’, an heroic fable of courage, endurance and pulling together and which Leasor’s book, no doubt unwittingly, reconfirms.

The problem was how to deviate from this paradigm, how to be ‘more real’ without producing an anti-war film and Price was wary about his treatment ‘getting too close to
“The Dirty Dozen”’, which he felt would not work with British audiences and produce adverse reviews. However, in reply Klinger tells Price that his script hovers between The Longest Day and The Dirty Dozen and that the latter must be their model: ‘I feel that we must aim for the latter’s style which had the emphasis on some very strong characterizations built in very early then action all the way. We must be allowed to do things that are cinematically justifiable even if we have to bend facts just a titchy bit.’ (13 June 75) When Price expresses his further concerns at ‘“fictionalizing” too outlandishly a story that has been so well-documented, and with so many of the characters still living’ (10 Sept 75), he’s dropped.

For Klinger,
Robert Aldrich’s The Dirty Dozen (1968) - which depicts how a group of criminals led by the maverick Major Reisman (Lee Marvin) succeed in a daring mission which is important to the war effort despite the cynical attitude of the top brass - was revisionist war film that foregrounded character and action and was hugely successful. Having dropped Price, Klinger approached the book’s author, James Leasor for a script, arranging a screening of The Dirty Dozen as inspiration and insisting in a letter (18 Aug 75) that his screenplay must avoid ‘the quiet documentary approach or anything reminiscent of 1950’s type British war films’. Despite Klinger extensive annotations on various drafts, Leasor proves unable to provide the kind of script Klinger wants and is dropped in June 1976. K then turned to Gerry O’Hara, a writer-director with whom he worked extensively in the 1960s. O’Hara, not, as far as I can judge a man of excessively refined sensibilities, considers Leasor’s screenplay to be immoral. Writing in July 76 to Klinger to inform him that he declined the commission, O’Hara commented that, having carefully written the book, the way Leasor had ‘then thrown truth right out of the window in such a reckless way astonished me’.

O’Hara’s reservations show that by the mid-1970s the counter-cultural expressions of discontent - including, of course, protests against the war in Vietnam - that had marked the release of
The Dirty Dozen had attenuated, and that, certainly in Britain, there was a generic shift back to safer terrain. The war films released in 1977 - A Bridge Too Far and The Eagle Has Landed, if not the same as 1950s war films, are not the ‘British Dirty Dozen’ that Klinger was seeking to make.

Indeed, as Price had argued, it was especially difficult, if not impossible, to make such a film based on a story that actually happened and that was part of the ‘Blitz myth’. 1977 was the 35th anniversary of the Dieppe landings marked bv parades in London and elsewhere. Klinger had interested
Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, in the publication of Green Beach and he had immediately distanced himself from the decision to kill Nissenthal rather than have him captured. His disclaimer: ‘If I had been aware of the orders given to the escort to shoot him rather than have him captured, I would have cancelled them immediately’, was included in all the publicity for the book and printed on its back cover. And yet this was just the controversial element that Klinger was anxious to play up.

6) National sensibilities
Of course,
The Dirty Dozen was an American film and the American take on the Dieppe landings was rather different. Danton Rissner, VP at UA in charge of East Coast and European Productions, with whom Klinger had worked on Pulp, could not, even as a fellow Jew, see its fundamental appeal of the story. He wrote to Klinger in Jan 75: ‘even though I personally always like to see “the Jews” knocking the shit out of “non-Jews” and especially the Germans … it seems that the Canadian/British raid on Dieppe was neither a notable success nor an utter disaster, but rather a frustratingly botched operation which at best turned into an ambiguous outcome’. Tellingly, he assumes Klinger is ‘just using the book as a frame of reference for a movie’ - precisely what The Dirty Dozen had done - and wants to see a script! However, a cavalier disregard for the ‘facts’ was precisely what Klinger’s British writers felt they could not do.

Rissner emphasizes that this was a Canadian-British affair, and this was a war story that had a huge appeal north of the American border: Heinemann pre-sold 40,000 copies of
Green Beach in Canada, the highest ever for a hard-back book. The Klinger Papers reveal a strong and persistent interest by a number of Canadian companies in the project and in the possibility of a co-production. Signal Film Corporation of Quebec, for instance, advised Klinger that a group of Canadian veterans were interested in investing in a film about the Raid. However, Klinger was initially unwilling to deal with Canadian companies without major financial resources or distribution networks and because he always saw the story as an epic of Jewish heroism.

However, after the collapse of the deal with rank, Klinger’s attitude to the Canadians mollifies and his two 1978 crime thrillers - Blood Relatives and Tomorrow Never Comes were co-productions with Classic Film Industries of Montreal. He asked
Rory MacLean, a Canadian writer who had written the script for Eye of the Tiger to write yet another screenplay for GB. His third version (Aug 1982) was posted to a Canadian-Jewish producer, Saul B. Zitzerman of Orphic Productions, Winnipeg, accompanied by Klinger’s letter which insisted: ‘You know what we are driving at; it’s “The Dirty Dozen” that really happened. We have taken a few liberties with a real story but we want action, some fun, authenticity and drama.’. In 1987 Klinger made a final attempt to produce a mini-series with CBC-Radio-Canada. But CBC’s researcher questioned the authenticity of the MacLean script and opined that Canadian pride was offended by the glorification of an Englishman.

I’d like, in conclusion, to draw out a few of the more general implications of the Case Study. The first is around the multiple and mutable nature of agency. What I hoped to have established is the importance of the producer and problematised the idea of the auteur director as the central explanatory trope in film studies. This focus is part of what I’m arguing should be a shift - clearly this is a question of emphasis rather than an either-or - from texts to production processes. I’m arguing for the centrality of what
John Caughie calls the ‘producer-artist’: ‘Outside of a studio system or a national corporation, art is too precarious a business to be left to artists: it needs organizers. The importance of the producer-artist seems to be a specific feature of British cinema, an effect of the need continually to start again in the organization of independence.’ (Caughie, 1986: 200). However, the producer’s ‘art’, unlike the director’s, is elusive because it is, for the most part, invisible. And the critical challenge, as I’ve tried to make clear, is to render that art visible by a detailed examination of the production process. What the production process of Green Beach reveals is that the key relationships are those between the producer and his source - Nissenthal; Klinger and the various writers, and Klinger and the financiers. At one point Klinger mentions, in passing, that Lewis Gilbert is his preferred director, but that decision was always less important than the casting of a particular star in the lead role; for a long time Klinger hoped Michael Caine would play Nissenthal.

But I’ve also argued that we need to understand agency as encompassing generic/mythic discourses. As
Raphael Samuel has shown, historians need to deal with not only with documents but more intangible factors, with memory and myth. Not only because history, as he avers, is a hybrid and promiscuous discipline, but also because they are causal agents with material effects: could Klinger ever have produced a ‘British Dirty Dozen’ however well-placed economically? However, I want to emphasise that in this perspective myth and genre are historical entities rather than transcendent systems; they operate variably at different historical moments and are part of what Lutz Koepnick in The Dark Mirror suggests is the messy incoherence and contingency that the film historian has to learn to accept.

The second point is partly an archival one.
Geoff Eley in The Crooked Line identifies that the project of the ‘new cultural history’ has switched attention from the macro to the micro, signalling a move away from totalising social histories and the ‘tyranny of grand narratives’, stressing ambiguities and complexities and ‘general epistemological uncertainties’. In Visceral Cosmopolitanism, Mica Nava has urged that new cultural historians should be orientated to specific detail, ‘thick history’, and the ‘unexpected discoveries’ that arise from archival work allowing methods to develop intuitively, moving into the spaces and going in directions that the ‘evidence’ dictates. Thus although Klinger’s failure to produce Green Beach can tell us much about British film history, it has also led me in the direction of another, overlapping, history of the Jewish entrepreneur working in the entertainment industry, a history that would have to encompass Klinger’s cinema building and his role in the expansion of leisure facilities, as well as his part in the Soho sex industry of the 1960s. It’s clear that, as far as he could, Klinger tries to work within a Jewish entrepreneurial community that included writers, publishers, agents, lawyers and Hollywood executives such as Rissner. I’m not sure where this direction of my research is heading - I don’t think one could write a British equivalent of Neal Gabler’s An Empire of Their Own - but a history of Jewish entrepreneurialism in the Britain entertainment industry has not, as far as I’m aware, been attempted. Even a cursory glance at just the film industry would show the potential of such a history: Tony Tenser, Phil and Sid Hyams at Eros, Sidney Bernstein, Michael Balcon, the Grades/Bernard Delfont and David Puttnam. However, if this precise direction is uncertain, it does illustrate my main point: that even New Film History needs to be re-conceived as part of a broader and more inclusive cultural history.

Thank you.

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