Rain on screen

Moving image is a vivid lens through which to explore wet weather. So, it is fitting that films make up some of the items in our 'Rain' exhibition (read about some of these in 'Nine ways of looking at rain').

Rain can add romance, dread, relief and danger. It may obscure, reveal or isolate. Sometimes rain actively drives the story forward. But other times, it simply falls in the background, shaping the mood and atmosphere. In documentaries, rain may appear to be 'just' weather, captured as the clouds empty. Even then it still evokes memories, reveals time passing or changes how we might see a place.

The chosen films that follow demonstrate the many different meanings that can be found in a downpour.

The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

Reflection by Marc Hemingway, Security Team Supervisor

In 'The Shawshank Redemption' Andy Dufresne is sent to Shawshank prison for a crime he didn't commit. For close to 20 years, he's kept locked up and suffers abuse and beatings from inmates and guards alike, but he holds on to the one thing he has control over: hope.

He forms friendships with fellow inmates while quietly and meticulously plotting his escape. After decades of patience and careful preparation, he executes his plan. Aided by a small rock hammer, the assistance of fellow inmate Red, and an extraordinary determination to reclaim his freedom, it finally comes to fruition on a night when a storm rages over the prison.

After crawling 500 yards through a foul-smelling sewer pipe to escape, Dufresne emerges into a torrential downpour. He stands with his arms raised to the sky in what has since become one of the most enduring images in cinema.

He lets the storm pour over him, cleaning his body from not only the filth he's had to crawl through to get there, but washing away his life as an inmate and the years of unjust incarceration. It symbolises the redemption and rebirth of Dufresne, of how hope can triumph over seemingly never-ending despair.

The rain belongs to the outside of the prison walls and, finally, so does Andy Dufresne.

Raindrop (1975)

Reflection by Màiri Lafferty, Head of Digital Engagement

Like Eddie McConnell, I studied sculpture. I think that leaves you with an appreciation of materials. How they look, smell (and taste), and how they feel in the palm of your hand, between your fingers and across your cheek. Wet and dry. Clay and plaster. Glass and resin.

McConnell later turned to film, and so did I, becoming interested in materials that are harder to hold: sound, light, weather and time. The everyday, non-material things that shape our experience as they slip away.

'Raindrop' resonates because, for me, rain has always been inseparable from light. Growing up on Scotland's west and north coasts, both were either abundant or scarce. My dad, a linesman, still talks about the "liquid sunshine" of the west coast: wet air saturated with low, golden light. A single raindrop running down a rhododendron leaf. The first 'pluke' on Aros Loch that meant, "Grab your bows and arrows, lads, and run for the horsie trees." My brother jumping into a puddle that swallowed him up to his waist. The smell of rain coming in off the sea and down from the hills where the clouds had been ripped open.

McConnell's film reminds me that weather isn't just something we experience. It becomes part of us, the drip, drip, drip of memories collecting.

Singin' in the Rain (1952)

Reflection by Clare Simpson, Kelvin Hall Access and Events Assistant

'Singin' in the Rain' is a Hollywood musical about making a Hollywood musical. The story revolves around a film studio and its stars during the advent of talking pictures, and how they manage to adapt to this new technology with some underhand overdubbing.

Rain features in the film in the iconic sequence where Gene Kelly expresses his joy by dancing and singing in a soggy Hollywood street, unbothered by the inclement weather because the sun is in his heart and he is ready for love. It is exuberant perfection: the choreography, the orchestration, and Kelly's seemingly effortless performance combining to create a moment of pure cinematic magic.

When I first saw this film as a child, I was captivated. It's fast-paced and funny, bursting with energy and colour, and full of spectacular song and dance. I've seen it countless times since, and my appreciation of the technical and artistic achievements of the film have grown with each viewing.

But ultimately it is the film's wit and warmth that resonates most. Watching 'Singin' in the Rain' feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket, making it the ideal film for a rainy afternoon.

A Ship to the Sea

Reflection by Zeynep Erdal, Cataloguing Assistant

It is a movie from a by-gone era. I recognise some of the places from my days today. I have walked there. I looked with my eyes. Where I have not been is also keenly familiar. The flow of water, the moss on the rock, susurrations of the summer trees… I can almost smell the air.

One can tell the disappointment on the kids' faces as they look out the window praying the rain will stop. Their play was interrupted; they are worried about the boat: has it toppled over? Is it lost?

I wonder if they know it is actually the rain that runs the river, that it is the river that flies back to rain, and it is the perseverance of the riverside's inhabitants that puts the wee boat back on its course when it stumbles – so that it is passed on to the next familiar place.

For we come and go but not before we set our wee boats on sail. For "tomorrow, songs will flow free again, and new voices be borne on the carrying stream" (from Hamish Henderson's 'Under the earth I go').

Jurassic Park (1993)

Reflection by Russell Dornan, Digital Content Manager

A single drop of water runs down the back of Laura Dern's hand. In this moment, the calm before the literal storm, there's laughter. It's a little whimsical. But it's also a miniature demonstration of the chaos about to ravage the island. The tiny, unpredictable movement of the droplet on Ellie Sattler's skin later becomes a torrential force humans cannot control.

Acting as an alarming backdrop to the transition between the power failure and characters getting separated, rain plays many roles in 'Jurassic Park'. The storm precipitates Dennis Nedry's frantic, unsuccessful escape, his steamed-up glasses blinding him (oops, foreshadowing). The rain steals visibility and control. And, despite Nedry's obnoxious perseverance, it facilitates his final moments as he loses his stolen embryos as well as his life.

Elsewhere, there's a more subtle influence as rain forces our protagonists to stay in their cars outside the tyrannosaur paddock. They wait in the assumed protection of powerless cars ("They're electric… Top of the line."), sitting ducks. The rain hammers the windows and lightning flashes as 'Jurassic Park' leans into classic horror. The sense of dread rises in the darkness of the saturated jungle outside.

The T. rex emerges in one of many iconic set pieces. Characters struggle to see through the rain, wiping condensation from windows, squinting. A long-extinct monster brought back, its terrifying bulk barely visible through sheets of falling water. Once out of the cars, our heroes are immediately soaked, sliding in mud, unable to see or hear clearly, shaking with cold and fear. Not ideal.

Ultimately, 'Jurassic Park' is about the illusion of control where there is none. In unsuccessfully trying to impose order on nature, many of the characters are hurt or killed by hubris (not always their own). The raging tropical storm is just one of the elements thrown at our protagonists as life finds a way.

As the carefully controlled park unravels, the rain embodies the film's central idea: humanity attempts to control nature but succumbs to systems that are too complex to contain. "Welcome…to Jurassic Park."

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) and The Magic Umbrella (1994)

Reflection by Emily Munro, Moving Image Curator

Awarded the Palme d'Or, 'Les Parapluies de Cherbourg' is notable for the way it wrings the classical Hollywood genre of the musical into something unexpected and, politically, French. The visuals are a sweetie shop of riotous 1960s colour, a counterpoint to the drab pragmatic decisions made by the characters throughout most of the film, and the underlying tragedy that war (especially of the colonial variety) tears lovers apart.

The umbrellas in the title perhaps symbolise a duality in life. Youthful idealism is tempered by a requirement to fall in line with societal expectation. Open, the umbrella is both a shelter and a pretty plaything. Closed, it is buttoned up and convenient.

In a very different way, 'The Magic Umbrella' (1994), filmed by Ian Rintoul, hints at something similar. In this community-made film, a group of children run across the city of Edinburgh in an attempt to find the owner of a lost rainbow striped umbrella. You can read the catalogue record for 'The Magic Umbrella', but for now the film is only viewable in person at one our buildings.

When the umbrella flies off on its own, there are clear references here to another mid-century French film, 'The Red Balloon' (1956), in which a little boy chases a bright balloon through the streets of Paris. The umbrella exists, in the eternal sunshine of childhood, as a signature of imagination and freedom. When the weather shifts, the umbrella is returned to its rightful owner – an elderly man, who needs its protection, and the children dance in the rain, freed from constraint, just as people do in musicals.

As with Gene Kelly’s famous song-and-dance number 'Singin' in the Rain', rain is the poetic backdrop to the emotional payoff. It elevates the moment. Rain can be happy or melancholy but, on film, it’s always somewhat dramatic.

Garden State (2004)

Reflection by Gillian Russell, Kelvin Hall Access and Events Team Leader

The scene referred to as Infinite Abyss (or as I call it, Screamin' in the Rain) from 'Garden State' is one of the defining cinematic moments of noughties indie cinema. While the film's legacy has been mixed, there's no denying that the soundtrack captured the exact sound of 2004, and the scene in the pouring rain speaks to even the hardest of millennials.

Is it the music (Simon & Garfunkel's 'The Only Living Boy in New York')? Is it the cast? For me it's neither; it's the rain. The dreich, relentless rain, and the therapeutic release of completely letting go and screaming from the top of your lungs.

Try it. Pick your own soundtrack and go outside the next time it rains. Scream. You'll thank me.

As Long as You're Young

Reflection by Niamh MacPhail, Kelvin Hall Access and Events Assistant

"This dripping city that drips, that drops, is a fair enough place for doing a job in." So begins Eddie McConnell's hostelling documentary 'As Long as You're Young', where rain is introduced as the moral failing of a disconnected city workforce before going (notably) AWOL for the rest of the film.

As McConnell lends his usual indulgent tracking shots across the Scottish Highlands and Borders, those of us familiar with traversing the country's landscapes can't help but feel the drought of its absence. What does remain is a telegenic smattering of snow, as well as its endpoints in the waters of Loch Lomond, the Clyde, and the bogs of Rannoch Moor.

Propaganda or not (looking at you Scottish Youth Hostels Association sponsorship), there is something to be said for how successfully McConnell depicts these rural spaces as sites of connection, free from the hostility of city architecture. The hostellers in question could just afford to look a bit more drookit.

Point Break (1991)

Reflection by Ann Cameron, Moving Image Curator

"Lose something, brah?"’

'Point Break' is an all or nothing rollercoaster of an action film set in California. Keanu Reeves plays rookie FBI agent Johnny Utah, sent to infiltrate Bohdi (Patrick Swayze) and his gang of surfer dude bank robbers. Kathryn Bigelow’s gutsy direction has us skydiving out of planes, gun in hand, all the time wondering who the bad guy really is.

Apocalyptic rain engulfs the story start and end, unlike the stubborn, endless summer vibes elsewhere. I’m here for Keanu and his soaking wet six pack as the opening credits roll. But by the time the 50-year storm crashes down onto Patrick Swayze in that fatal final scene, my tears flow. The heavy skies and thundering ocean waves are ominously real.

Forget 'Twilight' (filmed on the same beach in Oregon). Forget all those drenched romantic kisses (see 'Four Weddings and a Funeral') and forget my weird Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon film connections (Keanu = Rain = The Matrix and John Wick Trilogy). These two men handcuffed together at the end, forced to admit their flaws and let one another go, is surely the true bromance/love story for the ages. Throwing fake rain machines into the mix just makes it all so much better.

Vaya con dios, dude.

'Scotch by Haig' (1979)

Reflection by Louise Smith, Kelvin Hall Access and Events Assistant

Rain, Rain, Go Away, but not for too long! Rain is a precious resource in Scotland, not least for domestic use in the home, and as renewable energy to power hydro turbines. But it also plays a big role in whisky making.

Rainwater (and melting snow) in Scotland makes its way into the springs, lochs and rivers where whisky makers all over the country source their water. From here it is used a key ingredient for whisky production. Scottish water is used at the beginning of the multi-stage process, where it is mixed with barley and allowed to steep for a period before it is spread across the malting floor so it can germinate.

'Scotch by Haig' offers an endearing history of the Scotch whisky distillers John Haig & Co. Opening with gentle Scottish melodies set against Highland scenes, the film traces Haig’s origins back to 1627. We learn how the Scotch is produced - noting the need for "pure spring water" and a "good address in Scotland".

The charming soundtrack continues, accompanying intricate scenes of whisky making. These scenes are punctuated by moments which elicit a chuckle or two, including a worker in weatherproof gear who pops inside a still to clean it. The end product is eventually revealed, proving that today’s rain really is tomorrow’s whisky.

Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994)

Reflection by Màiri Lafferty, Head of Digital Engagement

'Four Weddings and a Funeral' is all about ritual. The obvious rituals of weddings and funerals, the rituals of a particular time and class. Everyone knows the sequence. The arrival. The ceremony. The waiting. The drinking. The meal. The speeches. The dancing. The departure. Even tears have their allotted place, another beat in a ritual everyone understands.

When emotion threatens, it is rarely expressed directly. Instead, it escapes into the world beyond the screen. Rumbling thunder accompanies Carrie's wedding. Grey skies and showers settle over Gareth's funeral.  Meteorology tells us these events are beyond anyone's control.

By the time we come to the Rain Scene, there is no ceremony, no audience, no timetable. A single hesitant, "Is it still raining? I hadn't noticed," lands awkwardly, half-formed and un-funny. Carrie is drenched. As Charles steps into the street, so is he.

The rain is so visible, so insistent, it ceases to function as meteorology. It becomes an emotional medium. This is one of cinema's quiet sleights of hand. Film rain is manufactured: larger droplets, carefully backlit, controlled so that every drop catches the light and every take looks the same. It is more visible than real rain because it is designed to be seen. The artifice matters.

Earlier in the film, the weather belongs to fate. Here, it belongs to the lovers. The rain strips away formal clothes, rehearsed conversation, etiquette, and the social rituals that have governed every encounter until now. It is no longer something happening around them but something happening through them.

The final declaration of love only becomes possible once they have been saturated. The rain is an active participant in the scene. We are in new territory now. Ritual has ended. The weather has stopped behaving like weather. And here, we have arrived! "Thunderbolt City."

After the rain

The films gathered here remind us that rain is endlessly adaptable. It can be real or symbolic, dramatic or mundane, comforting or unsettling. Sometimes rain changes the course of a story. Sometimes it changes how we remember one.

Yet whether it arrives as a storm, a drizzle or a single drop on a hand, it often carries more meaning than the forecast suggests.