The English Patient : desert winds and divided loyalties

The first film group meeting of 2026 revived, for many of us, memories of seeing The English Patient on its release in 1996. Directed by Anthony Minghella (who sadly died in 2008, aged only 54) and adapted from Michael Ondaatje’s 1992 novel, the film boasted a starry cast: Ralph Fiennes, Kristin Scott Thomas, Juliette Binoche, Willem Dafoe and Colin Firth. 

Tony Jewell introduced the film as an epic exploration of the horrors of war, a love story, an examination of loyalty and guilt, and a beautiful evocation—through stunning imagery and memorable music—of the North African desert. 

The film centres on a Hungarian explorer and cartographer, Count László Almásy, based on a real person. For most of the film he is swathed in bandages, having suffered extensive burns when his plane was shot down by German soldiers (actually played by tourists, as the budget was running out). He is cared for on the Allies’ route north through Italy, and later in a bombed-out monastery, by a Canadian nurse, Hana. After both her boyfriend and closest female friend are killed, Hana becomes convinced she is a curse to those around her and chooses to stay behind to care for the dying Almásy. Since he has forgotten his identity and speaks fluent, if accented, English, he becomes known as the English patient. 

Love, betrayal and war in the desert

The complex events leading up to this point are gradually revealed by Almásy and through flashbacks—there are apparently around 40 time-shifts. At the beginning of the war, an international group of explorers, including Almásy, are mapping a region of the North African desert, strategically important because of the Suez Canal and oil. Other group members include Katharine and Geoffrey Clifton, the latter ostensibly a photographer but probably a British spy. Katharine is intellectually formidable, and she and Almásy begin with a prickly relationship. Gradually, however, she realises he is becoming obsessed with her, and when they return to Cairo they begin a passionate affair. Geoffrey, meanwhile, notices Katharine heading for a secret assignation. 

Eventually Katharine breaks things off, but Geoffrey—who may never have confronted his wife—clearly cannot forgive them. With Katharine as a passenger on a desert flight, he deliberately aims his plane at Almásy in an attempted double murder-suicide. Geoffrey dies, Katharine is badly injured, and Almásy survives. He carries her to the Cave of Swimmers, leaves her with food and a torch, and sets off on a three-day trek to find help. Mistaken by the British for a German spy, he is put on a train north under guard. He escapes, finds a German unit, and trades vital maps for fuel. Using this, he flies a hidden British plane back to the cave, only to find Katharine dead. He takes her body away in the plane, which is then shot down by Germans. Thanks to Bedouin care, he somehow survives long enough to reach the Canadian unit that later tends him. 

The monastery: care, guilt and reckoning

Two important subplots unfold at the monastery. The first involves Caravaggio, a morphine-addicted man with his hands permanently in mittens. He turns out to be a Canadian spy who was captured and tortured by the Germans—his thumbs were chopped off. He is seeking revenge on the “traitor” who supplied the Germans with the maps and is convinced it was Almásy. Yet after many conversations, Caravaggio appears to move towards a kind of forgiveness. The choice of name may reflect the historical artist, who was also a murderer. 

The second subplot introduces a sapper unit led by Lieutenant Kip Singh, a Sikh sapper in the British Indian Army, supported by Sergeant Hardy (Kevin Whately, in a wonderful cameo). Kip daily risks his life defusing mines and bombs. He and Hana clearly fall for each other, but towards the end of the film he is reposted. Will they meet again? 

At this point Almásy decides he has had enough and signals to Hana that she should inject him with all the remaining morphine. Through her tears, she does so, while reading Katharine’s final letter from the cave. Was his timing influenced by the possibility of exposure as the “traitor” by Caravaggio? 

Discussion themes: identity, beauty and moral ambiguity

The group were largely blown away by the film’s sheer scope and the many ways in which it succeeds. It depicts the destructive power of war and the mental and physical scars that remain; all the main characters are scarred in different ways. Notably, the Italian campaign—a significant part of WWII—has often been airbrushed out of history. 

Questions of identity and nationality also loomed large. The international group of explorers, wealthy and independent, are suddenly forced into loyalty to nation-states. Discussion centred on whether Almásy, as a Hungarian, owed any greater allegiance to the Allies—who had refused him help—than to the Germans. Was he morally wrong to trade the maps for fuel in order to rescue Katharine? The real Almásy was partly educated in England, spoke fluent German and was recruited into the German army—was he possibly a British double agent? Both Ondaatje (of Sinhalese, Dutch and Tamil ancestry) and Minghella (from an Italian family who ran ice-cream shops on the Isle of Wight) may have been drawn to a multinational perspective. Kip’s service in the British Indian Army also raised issues of colonialism. 

Not everyone was convinced by the love affair between Almásy and Katharine (the real Almásy was gay). Interestingly, some found themselves more moved by the film than on first viewing 30 years ago, while others now saw Almásy as cold and obsessive. The Kip/Hana romance felt more convincing to some, but was the deeper bond really between Hana and Almásy—or was she simply an exceptionally caring nurse? 

We all agreed on the film’s visual splendour, from the striking title sequence—the painting of a primitive image of a swimmer on parchment, which looks like skin, merging into desert dunes—onwards. Lawrence of Arabia was apparently an inspiration. Minghella also directed visually striking operas, notably Madama Butterfly, with the child represented by a Japanese puppet. The scene in which Kip shows Hana the frescoes in a church by swinging her on a rope, lit by a flare, is a moment of visual hope in a dark setting. 

The music was equally evocative: Bach variations and Hungarian folk music sounding unexpectedly Arabic. The composer of the original score was Lebanese-Italian. Hana playing the wrecked piano in the monastery was another moment of fragile beauty amid horror. 

Tony J noted the recurring use of natural elements—desert winds shifting dunes and trapping vehicles, and water: Almásy longing for rain, Katharine craving water, Hana washing outdoors under a tap. 

Finally, we considered Almásy’s sole possession: a copy of The Histories by Herodotus, interleaved with notes, drawings and letters, including the myth of King Candaules showing his naked wife to his bodyguard Gyges—a cautionary tale about a love triangle. 

There were, of course, coincidences and implausibilities—Almásy’s survival, Katharine’s improbably perfect appearance even in death, the conveniently hidden spare plane. But these did little to detract from the film’s power as a major epic. Do they even make films like this anymore?