Armchair Theatre 2018

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By Scott Ross

Continuing my reluctant withdrawal from moviegoing, due to perpetual disappointment both with new work and with the new theatre audience — neither of which seems to be improving; indeed, the latter now infects every performance venue in the land — I saw only two pictures in a theatre last year… and they were from the 1970s and ‘80s. Additionally, the summer and autumn of 2018 were for private reasons exceptionally difficult for me, and entertainment was something I was able to devote very little time or attention to. Here’s to a much more movie-intensive 2019, whatever the venue.

And herewith, the movies (and other video items) I did manage to see during the year recently passed.

BOLD                                     Denotes very good… or at least, better than average.
BOLD + Underscore          A personal favorite


1.
Older titles re-viewed on a big theatre screen

the front page - 1974_main title

The Front Page (1974)
Thanks to the Carolina Theatre in Durham I was able to add one more Billy Wilder picture to my list of his work seen on a big theatre screen, having missed this adaptation (by Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond) of the Hecht-McArthur perennial when it was first released. I have a complicated relationship with The Front Page: As an adolescent, influenced — as were so many of my generation — by Woodstein, and perhaps even more so by Carl Kolchak, I aspired to be a journalist. My interests eventually led me elsewhere, but that early appreciation of the Fourth Estate remains, even if it has now, as increasing numbers of people have begun to believe, become a fifth column. And no play had a greater influence on popular American culture than this breakneck 1928 farce-melodrama; all of the great newspaper comedies of the 1930s (especially those featuring Lee Tracy, who had the starring role in the play) flowed from its influential fount, and it absolutely cemented our image of the hard-bitten, ink-stained, wisecracking reporter… a figure now utterly obliterated by $30,000-a day neoliberal shills for the Establishment. Yet as much as I admire it, I don’t find the play especially funny, except in the 1940 Howard Hawks variation His Girl Friday, and that’s due largely to the charm of Cary Grant, the fast-talking zing of Rosalind Russell and the fizz they spark off each other. (The final line is funny, but once you know it, it’s not one that elicits much of a laugh next time around.) The newsmen depicted are, in the main, appalling — less the bulwark of free-press democracy than shabby, cynical hacks more concerned with snappy headlines than with anything approaching the truth. Some would no doubt argue that’s the point of the thing, but the authors clearly intended the play as a paean to the type, not a critique. That their star characters, Hildy Johnson and his unscrupulous editor Walter Burns, eventually manage to keep a corrupt Chicago mayor and sheriff in check is almost by-the-by; they wouldn’t do so unless their own liberty was at stake. That’s not to mention the casual bigotry of the piece: The word “nigger” is used by some of the reporters when “colored,” the general nomenclature of the time, not only would do, but did, elsewhere in the play, and the character of Bensinger is the piss-elegant pansy type prevalent in the ‘20s and ‘30s, all too easily ridiculed, and ridiculous. That Wilder and Diamond not only didn’t improve on that stereotype in 1974 but actually embellished it, making a cute young cub reporter (Jon Korkes) the object of Bensinger’s attentions, is a mark against their movie. (An end-credits post-script reveals — presumably for a boffo laugh… which, sadly, it probably got from a 1974 audience — they’ve left the newspaper business and opened an antique shop together. Why not a florist’s while you’re at it?) As was their wont when adapting material by others, Wilder and Diamond made a number of changes to the original, and some critics were unreceptive; Wilder later admitted that he hadn’t understood how deeply venerated the play still was. It’s a lively enough transliteration, with a fine performance by Walter Matthau as Burns, a good one by Jack Lemmon as Hildy despite his being too old for the role, and a controversial turn by Carol Burnett as Molly Malloy. (She famously apologized, to a planeload of passengers whose in-flight entertainment it was, for her performance.) Yes, she’s strident, but she’s also vulnerable, although not nearly as endearing as Austin Pendleton as the convict Earl Williams, whose imminent execution and eventual escape sets the plot (which Walter Kerr memorably described as “a watch that laughed”) in motion. And some of the scenarists’ alterations are pleasing, such their stab at making the role of Hildy’s fiancée less thankless, and casting the young Susan Sarandon in the part. There is also excellent support by Charles Durning, Alan Garfield, Dick O’Neill and Herb Edelman (as Hildy’s fellow reporters), a blustery Vincent Gardenia (was there any other kind of Vincent Gardenia?) as Sheriff Hartman, a suave Harold Gould as the Mayor, Paul Benedict as the emissary from the governor, and wonderful old Doro Merande as the Criminal Courts Building custodian Jennie. As Bensinger, alas, David Wayne makes the worst of a bad job. While largely set-bound, the picture has a rich look to it, and there’s even a wild Keystone Kops-like chase through the Chicago streets. The opening credit sequence, set to a spritely Billy May rag (the production company was Universal, no doubt keen to have another Sting-like radio smash on its hands) and depicting the mechanized assembling of a newspaper from page one typeset to completed broadside, is a two and half-minute gem.

the-changeling-ghostballer

The Changeling (1980)
A beautiful rumination on the basic ghost story. Its admittedly thin screenplay is augmented by the usual marvelous George C. Scott performance, rare intelligence behind the camera — the director was the underrated Peter Madek — and a remarkably rich musical score (mostly by Ken Wannberg, with an assist from Rick Wilkens, anchored to an exquisite little music box theme by Howard Blake.) It’s one of those movies that has seen extremes of response: Dismissed, when not bludgeoned, by the critical fraternity on its 1980 release, it was restored and reissued in 2018 to ludicrous over-praise by people who can only deal in absolutes, and in an eminently dismissible interrogatory style: “Is The Changeling the most terrifying movie ever made?” The answer, even for partisans of the picture such as myself, is no. Not even close. But that hardly disqualifies the picture from being seen, and embraced, as a stylish — and surprisingly plangent — exercise in supernatural emotionalism that rewards repeated viewing. Thanks to my friend Eliot Camarena for suggesting this one to me a few years back.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2018/05/13/it-doesnt-want-people-the-changeling-1980-2/

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2. Documentary

I.F. Stone’s Weekly (1973)
Jerry Bruck, Jr.’s illuminating portrait of the fiercely idiosyncratic progressive journalist and, for many years, publisher of the eponymous newsletter still considered among the best, and most reliable, of progressive American news and opinion journals. Viewed courtesy of a kind friend who for the last several years has been my personal source for previously undiscovered (at least by me) cinematic gems.

untold history - showtime
Oliver Stone’s Untold History of the United States
(2012)
A staggeringly effective multipart examination of the dark underbelly of our history no American public school educator will touch: This one-time Republic’s century-plus evolution into the world’s most avaricious, and murderously dangerous, empire. Reactionaries, conservatives, liberals and their corporatist ilk will, if they sample it, no doubt sputter with impotent fury. And even for those of us who’ve been paying attention these last few decades, the revelations on display here will astonish and enrage. Yet even after 12 exhaustively documented hours* (and which feel more like two) neither Stone nor his co-authors Peter Kuznick and Matt Graham succumbs entirely to despair, and their Untold History is, finally, an impassioned call to arms that refuses to admit the defeat of essential values… provided we want them badly enough to fight for their reinstatement. “The record of the American Empire is not a pretty one,” they write. “But it is one that must be faced honestly and forthrightly if the United States is ever to undertake the fundamental structural reforms that will allow it to play a leading role in advancing rather than retarding the progress of humanity.” The Untold History is a vital step in facing that record. Now: Is there the popular will to make the changes we need?


Rush to Judgment
(1967)
This collaboration between the radical American documentarian Emile de Antonio and the Warren Report-debunking Mark Lane is in essence a 98-minute cinematic edition of the latter’s bestselling jeremiad of the same year. Lane’s is the research on which fifty years of responsible investigation into the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and its subsequent and violent cover-up, are based. And, as nearly as I can determine, none of his central findings have in the intervening decades been proven incorrect.


Directed by John Ford
(2006 edit)

Peter Bogdanovich revisited his lovely 1971 documentary/overview in 2006. Alas, his new interview footage (with Clint Eastwood and Harry Carey, Jr.), shot on video, lacks, as Joseph McBride correctly noted in his review, the “vibrant look” and “elegant mobility” of their earlier counterparts. Nor does Eastwood add anything of value to what was observed originally by John Wayne, James Stewart, Maureen O’Hara and Henry Fonda. Still, the prickly sessions with Ford himself, the representative sequences Bogdanovich lovingly culled from his pictures, and the original Orson Welles narration are evergreen, and certainly reason enough to revisit this very personal Valentine to perhaps this most American (in both the good and bad connotations of the word) of 20th century filmmakers.

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3. Video/Made for Television

Johnny Mercer: The Dream’s on Me
(2009)
A pleasant, if not especially inspired, Clint Eastwood-produced TCM centenary portrait of our finest pop lyricist.

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The Night Stalker
(1972)
No American made-for-television movie had a higher viewership in its time than this wonderful, and genuinely scary, adaptation by Richard Matheson of a then-unpublished Jeff Rice novel, and it has lost little of its power, or its humor, in the decades since. The inspired casting of, and performance by, Darren McGavin as pain-in-the-ass investigative reporter (remember them?) Carl Kolchak is half the fun, and the supporting roles are no less vividly limned: Simon Oakland as his dyspeptic editor; Ralph Meeker as that oxymoron, a helpful FBI agent; Elisha Cook, Jr.’s professional snitch; Peggy Rea’s cameo as a switchboard operator bribable with foodstuffs; Larry Linville’s no-nonsense coroner; Charles McGraw’s polished, slippery Chief of Las Vegas police; and Barry Atwater, cunningly revealed in stages by the director, John Llewellyn Moxey, as the vampire. There’s also a terrific score by Dan Curtis’ house composer Robert Corbert. The new Kino Blu-Ray restoration is mouth-watering, making The Night Stalker look as good as it must have when first aired. My favorite bit of Kolchakian rhetoric (“Now, that is news, Vincezo. News! And we are a newspaper! We’re supposed to print news, not suppress it!”) is one that has, thanks to Bill Clinton’s Telecommunications Bill of 1996 and the subsequent, nearly total corporate takeover of all news media, become even more sadly pertinent.


The Night Strangler
(1973)
This inevitable sequel to The Night Stalker is nowhere near as good as its record-breaking predecessor, and pointed up the major flaw of the subsequent weekly series: That supernatural crimes keep popping up wherever Carl Kolchak goes, and that only he believes in them. But it’s atmospheric as hell, what with its remarkable abandoned city beneath the streets of Seattle, from whence a new serial murderer emerges. And it has McGavin and Matheson (not to mention Simon Oakland) and that’s almost enough. It also has a feast of fine supporting roles embodied by Scott Brady, Wally Cox, John Carradine, Al Lewis, Margaret Hamilton, Jo Ann Pflug as Kolchak’s co-conspirator, and Richard Anderson as the urbane villain. Dan Curtis directed this one, and it’s also out in a sumptuous-looking Kino Blu-Ray.


The Incredible Mel Brooks: An Irresistible Collection of Unhinged Comedy
(2012)
If, as I do, you can’t quite imagine life without the mad, unbridled wit of Mr. Brooks, this Shout! Factory set is five discs of bliss. (Six, if you count the accompanying CD. Which isn’t to mention the nifty hardcover book.) The DVDs consist of Brooks’ television appearances, an uproarious reunion interview with Dick Cavett, a five-part Mel and His Movies documentary, shorts (including Brooks’ and Ernest Pintoff’s Academy Award-winning The Critic) and even episodes of Get Smart! (one show is enough to make us wonder why we loved it so much in the ‘60s), When Things Were Rotten (which is no better now than it was in 1974) and Mad About You. There is never such a thing as too much Mel Brooks but even if there were, this set would support Mae West’s contention that too much of a good thing can be wonderful.

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4. Seen a second… and final… time

Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson (1976)
Robert Altman and co-scenarist Alan Rudolph’s adaptation of Arthur Kopit’s trenchant, theatrical play Indians lost much in the translation, and the result is an occasionally diverting mess. A fine cast (Paul Newman, Joel Grey, Burt Lancaster, Geraldine Chaplin, Kevin McCarthy, Harvey Keitel) flounders in material too diffuse to have a discernible shape or point of view.


Von Ryan’s Express
(1965)
Joseph Landon and the redoubtable Wendell Mayes adapted David Westheimer’s fascinating World War II thriller, and lost thereby much of what made it enthralling. To their credit, they kept the central figure’s prickly, unlikable character, and their star, Frank Sinatra, never winks at the audience. But the ending, which sacrifices Colonel Ryan on the altar of carnage, and which has no correspondence in Westheimer’s book, is wholly unnecessary. Mark Robson directed crisply, Trevor Howard makes a good foil for Sinatra, Vitto Scotti shows up as a train engineer, and the propulsive score by Jerry Goldsmith is one of his finest early works.


The Black Cauldron
(1985)
When I saw this animated Disney adaptation of Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain pentalogy on its release, I found it exceptionally impressive visually but largely uninvolving on a human level. In the intervening years I read, and fell in love with, Alexander’s entrancing series of novels for young people, so seeing the picture again was dispiriting. The novelist’s scope is Tolkeinean in its breadth, characterization and action, and 80 minutes is too skimpy a running-time to even begin encompassing it. But the books are as well deeply moving, something the movie never is, even with an illogical tear-jerker of a climax added on. The action takes in only a small set of events from, essentially, the first and second novels in the series, and the vast canvas of characters has been reduced to a mere handful, with one major figure (the Horned King’s tiny henchman Creeper) created out of whole cloth. Or ink-and-paint, as may be. One could go on at length, but why bother? Elmer Bernstein composed a splendid score, and young Grant Bardsley makes a properly questing Taran. The other voices include Freddie Jones, Nigel Hawthorne, Arthur Malet, Billie Hayes, John Hurt (as the Horned King) and John Byner, very fine as Gurgi. Among the familiar Disney names associated with the picture are Roy Disney (dialogue), John Musker and Ron Clements (story), and, in the animation department, Ruben Aquino, Hendel Butoy, Pixote Hunt, Glen Keane, John Lasseter, Rob Minkoff, Phil Nebbelink, George Scribner and Andreas Deja, all of whom would go on to far better things.

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5. New to Me: Meh

bye bye braverman - godfrey cambridgeBye Bye, Braverman
(1968)
This adaptation by Herb Sargent of Wallace Markfield’s 1964 novel, directed by Sidney Lumet, is richly populated with wonderful actors (George Segal, Jack Warden, Joseph Wiseman, Sorrell Booke, Phyllis Newman) and is on a certain level a vivid comic depiction of 1960s New York Jewish intellectuals. Sargent’s screenplay elides some of the archness of Markfield’s self-consciously (and, to my ear, anachronistic) “Jewish” dialogue, but, alas, is no more substantial, and its climax is even wispier. Godfrey Cambridge does have a marvelous scene as a cabbie, and Alan King gets a sly satirical sequence as a pompous Rabbi.


The Last of the Mobile Hot-Shots
(1970)
Another Lumet adaptation, by Gore Vidal this time, and of a Tennessee Williams flop (The Seven Descents of Myrtle) is the last word in weird. And although Robert Hooks is, as always, excellent, his presence as the mulatto bastard brother of James Coburn’s shabby white racist makes a hash of the action, since “Chicken” is supposed only to be somewhat dark-skinned, and not, as depicted here, obviously black. Lynn Redgrave gives a winning account of Myrtle, Coburn is fascinating, and the thing was shot, beautifully, by James Wong Howe. But it’s a curio merely, and a rather disagreeable one.


The Cowboys
(1972)
A real misfire. William Dale Jennings’ sumptuous novel (based on his own rejected original screenplay) was turned, by Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank, Jr., into a crude, morally objectionable revisionist Western, the ambiguity of the original lost by the appalling placement of John Williams’ rousing “Cowboys” theme at a crucial juncture. John Wayne and Roscoe Lee Browne almost triumph over this unsavory mélange, unimaginatively directed by Mark Rydell. But Bruce Dern, as the chief villain, wallows in overstated ugliness.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2018/10/08/between-hay-and-grass-the-cowboys-1972/

executive action - ryan and lancaster

Robert Ryan and Burt Lancaster

Executive Action (1973)
What might have been a galvanizing fictionalized critique of accepted wisdom on the assassination of John Kennedy was turned in its pre-production into an oddly tame affair. The original script, by the JFK assassination researcher Mark Lane and the playwright Donald Freed (cf., the Nixonian fantasia Secret Honor, filmed by Robert Altman) and later adapted by them into a compelling paperback novel, made no bones about CIA involvement in Kennedy’s murder. The subsequent screenplay, by Dalton Trumbo, muddies these waters to the point of nearly complete opacity: From which shadowy organization, if any, is Burt Lancaster’s team derived, if not directed? Your guess would be as good as mine. Lane and Freed also focus their narrative very effectively on two of the conspirators’ descending life spirals, both of which the picture eschews, to its ultimate detriment. That said, the sight of three old Hollywood lefties (Lancaster, Will Geer and Robert Ryan, whose last film this was) as sinister reactionary collaborators holds a sly kick.


Play Misty for Me
(1971)
Clint Eastwood’s directorial debut is a time-capsule movie in any number of ways: As a depiction of the artistic colony of Carmel, California (where Eastwood resides, and was once a bar-owner — and later the mayor) at the beginning of the 1970s; the hair, autos, interior design and clothing of the time; the emergent style of Hollywood filmmaking as practiced by bright young directors feeling their oats; and, perhaps most interestingly, as an example of a narrative form that would no doubt be greeted with howls and Twitterized hisses today. “What? A thriller with a knife-wielding psycho… and she’s a woman? How dare they? And Eastwood goes to bed with her and then dumps her just because she’s a little unstable? #Hatred for the Mentally Ill! Maybe it was men like him who made her crazy! So she stabs his housekeeper — does that make her a bad person? (His Black housekeeper. #Racist!) And then he punches her? #Abuse! #Sexist Pig!” Never mind that one of the screenwriters (Jo Helms, who also crafted the story) was a woman. (The other was Dean Riesner.) Much more to the point is that fact that Eastwood’s character, an FM jazz d.j., behaves in such a demonstrably stupid manner throughout the rising action. And his directorial flourishes date the picture far more than the actors’ clothing, reaching their nadir in a soft-focus romantic montage with Donna Mills, set to Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” which became a Top 40 hit. There is a nice sequence at the Monterey Jazz Festival, a narrative development obviously close to the director’s heart, Eastwood’s mentor Don Siegel shows up in a pair of nice bits as a barkeep and Jessica Walter does wonders with a character so frighteningly mercurial you wonder why her co-star doesn’t take out an immediate restraining order against her. But then, if he had, there might not be any movie. (I said he was stupid.) The great Bruce Surtees was the cinematographer.


Broken Arrow
(1950)
This early attempt at being fair to Native Americans — the screenwriter, uncredited until decades later, was the then-recently blacklisted Albert Maltz — is overly earnest, stilted in its dialogue (which James Stewart’s opening narration hastens to warn us is due to the Apache language being spoken solely in English) and, while beautifully shot in color by Ernest Palmer, was directed with no distinction whatsoever by Delmer Daves, whose oeuvre only a confirmed Sarrisite could love. Jeff Chandler, whose stardom has always seemed to me one of American cinema’s great enigmas, is Cochise. The best one can say is that at least he doesn’t embarrass himself. Debra Paget is rather lovely as Stewart’s eventual Apache bride, and Will Geer — himself about to be blacklisted — has a small, showy role as an angry settler. Mickey Kuhn, who memorably played Montgomery Clift as a boy in the early part of Red River, also appears, as Geer’s son. Stewart, alas, has little to tax him histrionically until late in the picture.

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Night Passage (1957) I’ve seldom seen a good Western novel so thoroughly — and, to my mind, perversely and irresponsibly — ruined by Hollywood as what the makers of this one did to Norman A. Fox’s remarkable little book. But either the producer or the screenwriter (the redoubtable Borden Chase) removed the guts from Fox’s story, one that couldn’t have been more of a ready-made movie if it had been typed in screenplay format. A terrific picture could, and should, have been made from it, preferably in black-and-white, but neither Chase nor James Neilson, the ploddingly literal director, trusted what they had. There’s not even more than a few minutes’ worth of night in the damn thing… and that with a director of photography as certifiably great as William H. Daniels! Audie Murphy gives a good account of the nominal villain; you get the sense that he, at least, read the book. But Brandon deWilde, while game, is years too young for a role that should have been cast with an adolescent, and Dan Duryea is truly dreadful; the characteristic habit of his role is laughter, but each time Duryea breaks into it, the braying result is as phony as the backdrops the actors are framed against in the medium shots and close-ups. As good as James Stewart is in the lead, he’d have been twice as effective if more of Fox had made it onto the screen. Indeed, the only actor in Night Passage who’s a true breath of fresh air is Olive Carey, and it’s notable that her character, a wise, cheerful old muleskinner, wasn’t in the novel at all. The picture reaches its creative nadir in an added sequence that probably pained Norman Fox as much as, if not more than, what they took out of his book: A would-be comic brawl among querulous Irish laborers that is no funnier here than it was the many times John Ford attempted it, usually with Victor McLaglen. An extended sequence, on a moving train-car, provides the only real suspense in the picture: You keep looking at Stewart and deWilde, and those rushing waters far down below, and wondering how much insurance was issued on the actors.

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6. New to Me: Worth (or More Than Worth) the Trip

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From Noon ‘Til Three (1976)
Frank D. Gilroy wrote and directed this delightful Rashomon-like parable, from his own ingenious little novel, which takes off from variations on what may have happened between a bank robber and a young widow during a crucial three-hour liaison. Charles Bronson and Jill Ireland are surprisingly charming as the lovers, and if the finale is less downbeat than the climax of the book its payoff is in its way no less pointed. Elmer Bernstein composed the delicious score, and the lyrics to his eponymous waltz are by Alan and Marilyn Bergman. (Bernstein and Alan Bergman appear on-screen as early Tin Pan Alley hacks, plugging the song.) Lucien Ballard added his usual luminous cinematography, and the Twilight Time Blu-Ray transfer makes splendid show of it.


Violent Saturday
(1955)

A good crime drama depicting the planning of a bank robbery in a mining town that gets a lift from the performances of Stephen McNally, Richard Egan, Sylvia Sidney, J. Carrol Naish, Margaret Hayes, Tommy Noonan and Lee Marvin. Sydney Boehm wrote it, from a novel by William L. Heath, and it’s crisply directed by Richard Fleischer. With its small town full of adulterous dames, peeping Toms and kleptomaniac librarians, the picture suggests what might have happened had Richard Stark written Peyton Place. Charles G. Clarke provided vivid Technicolor® cinematography, Hugo Friedhofer composed the taut and intelligently-spotted suspense score, and there’s a spectacular finale at a farmhouse owned by, of all people, Ernest Borgnine in an Amish beard and accent. Victor Mature, playing a man embarrassed that his son thinks he’s a coward, struggles manfully with a lousy part. He doesn’t overcome it, although he fares rather better with the villains.


The Crucible
(1996)
This excellent Nicholas Hytner-directed film of the 1953 Arthur Miller play about the Salem witch trials — and, in part, the playwright’s response to the House Committee on Un-American Activities — when seen in the years since the Democrats instigated a brand-new Red Scare on “evidence” no more substantial than that concocted by the terrified young Salemite Abigail Williams, carries with it a new and unavoidable metaphor: Hillary Clinton is Abigail.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2018/03/30/crucible/


The Landlord
(1970)
Hal Ashby’s directorial debut is a determinedly quirky take on what used, rather prettily in America, to be called “race relations.” The perennially under-rated Beau Bridges plays a wealthy ne’er-do-well who capriciously buys a Brooklyn apartment building, selfishly concerned only with refurbishing his own apartment and utterly unprepared for the wild array of his new black tenants, whom he plans to evict. The superb cast includes Diana Sands, Lee Grant, Pearl Bailey, Lou Gossett Jr., Mel Stewart and Robert Klein. Kristin Hunter wrote the novel on which the actor and playwright Bill Gunn based his cutting screenplay. Gordon Willis was the cinematographer.


The Public Eye
(1992)
Howard Franklin wrote and directed this beautifully photographed (by Peter Suschitzky) attempt at a latter-day, albeit period, film noir, basing the central character played by Joe Pesci on the idiosyncratic photojournalist Arthur Felling, aka “Weegee.” It doesn’t entirely work either as a character study or as a thriller, but it’s a highly original conceit, and Pesci, who has a tendency to repeat himself, is refreshingly restrained here. The always interesting Barbara Hershey also stars, and Stanley Tucci has a fine role as a hood with a conscience. Some of Wegee’s distinctive photos are featured, along with work by others.


Hombre
(1967)
One of several collaborations between Martin Ritt and the aforementioned screenwriters Ravetch and Frank, this one based on an Elmore Leonard Western. It’s an expansive movie, shot by the great James Wong Howe in widescreen and muted color, but doesn’t, finally, add up to a great deal. Paul Newman is the eponymous anti-hero, a taciturn young Caucasian raised by Apaches, and his performance is very nearly silent. It’s the kind of thing Steve McQueen made a fetish of, but that was due to his own well-deserved insecurities as an actor; you’ve only to picture any of McQueen’s defining roles with Newman instead, to comprehend the gulf that lay between them. Only a performer of Newman’s range and seriousness could really pull off the conceit, and he’s splendid here, as is the rather astonishing supporting cast: Frederic March, Diane Cilento, Cameron Mitchell, Martin Balsam, David Canary and, especially, the great Richard Boone. If not an ideal movie, it’s certainly an intelligent one.

tom sawyer - funeral

Tom Sawyer: Huck and Tom eavesdrop on their own funeral.

Tom Sawyer (1973)
Conceived and written by Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman and financed by, of all things, The Reader’s Digest, this musical variation on Mark Twain turns out to be a welcome, and very pleasant, surprise. Johnny Whittaker is Tom to the life, especially in the delightful fence-painting sequence; with his curly mass of strawberry hair and those half-attractive/half-ordinary features, Whittaker passes for a young Sam Clemens, which is who Tom is anyway. As Becky Thatcher, Jodie Foster (in only her third film appearance) is already poised and appealing; and Celeste Holm is the Aunt Polly of one’s fondest dreams, exasperated and warm in equal measure. The Shermans elevated Muff Potter to featured status, giving Warren Oates a chance to shine (although his vocals were dubbed) and the supporting cast includes Jeff East, very good as Huckleberry Finn; Lucille Benson as the Widow Douglas; Henry Jones as the cane-wielding pedagogue; and, as “Injun Joe,” the impressive Kunu Hank (no actor, his entire performance was dubbed). It’s about as likable a piece of Americana as you could wish, and the Sherman songs are their distinctive, patented mix of word-drunk whimsy (“Gratifaction”) and incisive character writing (“Tom Sawyer,” “How Come?,” “If’n I Was God,” “Aunt Polly’s Soliloquy”). My only real complaint concerns the cavern sequence, too brightly lit to achieve the terror intended; the 1938 David O. Selznick version got it much better, and remains one of the most frightening memories of my life as a children’s matinee moviegoer in the late 1960s. (Obviously, Injun Joe is dispatched in a less grisly manner in both pictures than the truly nightmarish demise Twain gave him in his book.) The director, Don Taylor, shot the picture in Missouri, and his approach to the material — and indeed, that material itself — never falls into the elephantiasis that doomed so many movie musicals of the time. There’s a marvelous, long helicopter tracking shot of Whitaker running through fields toward the Mississippi to meet the steamboat docking there which is as lovely as it is exuberant; the airy, attractive cinematography is by Frank Stanley, and looks especially good in the Twilight Time Blu-Ray. John Williams supervised the music and also served, with Irwin Kostel, as orchestrator. The movie does contain an odd detail, one that would never pass muster today: When, in their duet ”Freebootin’,” Tom and Huck swim naked off Jackson’s Island, the camera catches, almost gratuitously, what seem to be deliberate (if brief) glimpses of their bare bottoms thrust above the water. We can tell they’re not wearing anything in the sequence; what was the point of embarrassing adolescent actors that way?

Huckleberry Finn (1974)
Also featured on the Twilight Time Tom Sawyer release, this inevitable sequel fails on nearly every level. Yet somehow you don’t hate it. Sawyer’s producer, Arthur P. Jacobs, died before the picture began shooting, and his absence is felt throughout, especially as the director, J. Lee Thompson, clearly had no idea how a musical should be shot. László Kovács’ cinematography is gorgeous, but the predominance of muddy tones (and mud itself), while appropriate to a story set on the Mississippi, is at variance with the material. It might work for a straight adaptation of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but it’s disastrous for a musical. And Thompson’s staging is no help either; when the Duke and the King (David Wayne and Harvey Korman) are introduced with an energetic soft-shoe, they’re reduced to stomping around in the mud; what should soar with comic invention merely lies there, inert and gasping for air. As Huckleberry Finn is not merely one of my favorite novels but a cornerstone of American literature, I was surprised that the picture didn’t offend me. But the technique that worked so well for the Sherman Brothers on Tom Sawyer — they called it “A Musical Adaptation” rather than attempting a perfect transliteration — doesn’t suit this book, whose incidents are so well-remembered, and so crucial to the narrative, that variations can only disappoint. The death of Colonel Grangerford (Arthur O’Connell) in the feud here, for instance, simply lacks the heartbreak and horror of young Buck Grangerford’s murder, witnessed by Huck. (When Buck himself appears, it is not as the Colonel’s grandson, but as a black boy slave.) Nor is there anything in the picture as horrific as the tarring-and-feathering of the King and the Duke. Worse, the Shermans, having omitted the attempted lynching of Colonel Sherburn, give some of his lines to the King! East, whose second picture this was, is unable to breathe much life into a character whose struggles are largely internal, and not well illuminated in the screenplay, and Paul Winfield makes a dignified and endearing Jim, but the movie lets them both down; at the end they simply part and the picture fades off into nothingness. Korman and Wayne probably come off best, although Gary Merrill’s brief turn as Pap is properly unpleasant, and Natalie Trundy has a nice cameo as Mrs. Loftus. But the Sherman songs are a great deal less buoyant and memorable than those in Tom Sawyer. I suspect the material, darker and more pointed, was simply not a part of their creative wheelhouse.


Run of the Arrow
(1957)
Samuel Fuller’s examination of race in post-Civil War America focuses on an Irish Confederate (Rod Steiger) who, refusing to accept Lee’s surrender, turns his back on white civilization. If you admire this most idiosyncratic of writer-directors, as I do, this one is essential viewing. Astonishingly, there are those now who don’t get that Steiger deliberately loses his accent when speaking Sioux when it’s blazingly obvious Fuller intended these dialogues, as the makers of Broken Arrow did, as representing the Siouan language in English. They think it’s just bad acting. Christ, how unbelievably obtuse Americans have become!
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The Tamarind Seed
(1974)
Blake Edwards’ return to filmmaking following his disastrous experiences on Darling Lili, Wild Rovers and The Carey Treatment is a fascinating, intelligent and very effective little romantic thriller (from a good novel by Evelyn Anthony) on Cold War tensions. It’s bright, tense, well-conceived and often witty, with good performances from Julie Andrews, Omar Sharif and Anthony Quayle and a brief but extremely effective John Barry score.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2018/09/23/nothing-is-to-be-trusted-the-tamarind-seed-1974/

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The Traveling Executioner (1970)
Had Gerrie Bateson written The Traveling Executioner as a novel rather than a screenplay, it might have been hailed as a modern neo-Southern Gothic black comedy on a par with the best of Flannery O’Connor. The picture, directed by Jack Smight, has the feel of the form, and if it’s difficult to imagine quite how it could ever have caught on with a large audience, then or now, it’s also in its small way superior to the later, much-heralded John Huston adaptation of O’Connor’s Wise Blood. Bateson, whose only movie this was (he wrote a Night Gallery and a Mission: Impossible before disappearing from the business forever) completed it for a film-school assignment, and it exhibits a smart novice’s go-for-broke quality. It’s ruthlessly efficient, rather like the device the smirkingly-named Jonas Candide (Stacey Keach) creates for quick penal executions, and carries through without compromise from its premise to its unsettling climax. Keach, fresh from Arthur Kopit’s play Indians and with his long hair worn in an anachronistic ponytail, is splendid, never appealing for audience sympathy as a less secure performer might. Although the tone veers from knockabout comedy to genuine tragedy, the picture feels entirely of a piece. My only cavil is with the ending, in which the dejected mortician played by Bud Cort takes on Jonas’ persona, and takes over his job. Having botched things so spectacularly, what state — even a backwards Deep Southern one — would let him continue executing felons? The Jerry Goldsmith score is a marvel, ranging from a circus-like waltz theme whose calliope gives way to an ersatz Gospel hymn, to a tender, moving accompaniment for Jonas’ soothing verbal depictions for his victims of an annealing vision he calls “The Fields of Ambrosia.” Love it or hate it, it’s certainly unlike any other movie you’ll ever see.


The Comancheros
(1961)
A big, colorful, episodic John Wayne vehicle that never takes itself seriously for a moment, and doesn’t ask you to either, and all the more likable for that. (Although Wayne’s character was subservient to that of Stuart Whitman’s in the Paul I. Wellman novel on which it was based.) The backstory is in some ways even more interesting than the picture — see the Wikipedia entry — and it was the final work of Michael Curtiz, whose illness forced him to withdraw during shooting; Wayne himself completed the movie. Clair Huffaker’s script was eventually re-written by Wayne stalwart James Edward Grant when the actor was cast in a role intended first for James Garner. The flavorsome cast includes Ina Balin, Bruce Cabot, Jack Elam, Jack Buchanan, Gwinn “Big Boy” Williams, and Henry Daniell. Nehemiah Persoff makes an elegant, wheelchair-bound villain, and Lee Marvin is both amusing and frightening as a mercurial, whip-wielding gun-runner who, scalped by Comanches, wears his remaining hair in a long braid down one side of his head. Elmer Bernstein wrote the score in his characteristic Big Western mode, and it’s a honey, rousing and relentlessly melodic.


Wall Street (1987)
Although supposedly made in tribute to his stockbroker father, Oliver Stone’s movie is really a disgusted response to the bald, grasping greed of the Reagan era. And while Michael Douglas is perhaps my least favorite actor of his generation, I must admit he has a feel — come by naturally, one presumes — for embodying sleaziness. I am if anything less enamored still of Charlie Sheen, Martin’s less gifted son, but even he is in good form here, as Bud Fox, an ambitious young trader who willingly allows himself to become corrupt. (Is it coincidental that he shares the first name of Jack Lemmon’s equally climbing would-be junior executive in The Apartment?) Martin Sheen himself provides splendid contrast as Bud’s honest dad, Hal Holbrook has some nice moments as a seasoned broker, James Karen is solid as Bud’s predictably mercurial boss, and Terence Stamp does well by an icy corporate raider. Only Darryl Hanna proves a true embarrassment; in her big break-up scene with the younger Sheen, she’s appalling. Whatever his limitations as an actor, he’s trying to do honor to the moment, but she gives him nothing to play against. Stone, who wrote the screenplay with Stanley Weiser, has a fine feeling for the trappings and appurtenances of the time and place, although when the picture ends you may find yourself shrugging with indifference at the whole thing.

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Gazarra and Bogdanovich. Two pimps. At least Jack’s whores give pleasure.

Saint Jack (1979)
Largely ignored on its release, and barely given a chance to find an audience, this adaptation by Peter Bogdanovich, Howard Sackler and Paul Theroux of the latter’s caustic picaresque novel set in the Singapore of the 1960s and early ‘70s is beautifully made and wonderfully acted, especially by its star, Ben Gazzara, who gives a performance in which every word and sparing gesture is so honest we feel like eavesdroppers. Bogdanovich and his collaborators — although presumably not Theroux — deviate from the book’s structure (it’s both linear and temporally fragmented) and its events in substantial ways, particularly in their depiction of the Hong Kong-based accountant played with understated garrulity by Denholm Elliott; he dies early in the novel, but pops up repeatedly in the picture, and since Elliott is so pleasing a presence, even Theroux devotees may not mind.  Bogdanovich himself shows up, in a coldly effective portrayal as a wealthy fixer. (Amusingly, his ever-present aide and chauffeur walks as if he has a stick shoved permanently up his ass.) George Lazenby appears late in the movie as a liberal Senator, the unintentional means of Jack’s redemption. Interestingly, Bogdanovich changes the odd but essentially innocent liaison between the politician and a young woman Jack is supposed to spy on into one between Lazenby and a native rent-boy, making Jack’s rejection of the plot even more pointed. I say “interestingly” because Bogdanovich has seemed in his writing to be at best rather uneasy with homoeroticism. Robby Müller photographed the picture, beautifully, on location.


The Immortal Story
(1968) — Criterion
Orson Welles’ intriguing adaptation, for French television, of the Isak Dinesen story was his first project not filmed in black-and-white. And while he disdained color, he shortly became a master of it; his subsequent F for Fake is the most beautiful of movies, and among the most pictorially splendid of Welles’ own work. Welles was also a realist, and he understood that color was increasingly important to distribution, indeed the dominant mode of world cinema, and especially, television. (The Immortal Story was shot by Willy Kurant.) Welles appears as the wealthy catalyst of the events, Roger Coggio is his ambiguous aide-de-camp, Norman Eshley is the virginal young sailor and the luminous Jeanne Moreau is the impecunious woman at the center. Since I have not read Dinesen’s story, I am not sure what is missing in the loss of authorial voice, and indeed I would like to know how Dinesen ends the narrative, because I’m not at all certain how I am supposed to feel, and what it all means. On that basis — one of the most basic to movies — The Immortal Story must, I suppose, be accounted an artistic failure; a picture that depends on our understanding of the story it is based on and cannot express its own intentions clearly enough to stand on its own is not a success. Or perhaps I’m just thick-headed. Despite the foregoing, anything Welles put his name to is, perforce, worth seeing, and more than once. I’m sure I’ll be watching this one again… although I also suspect that it, like his adaptation of The Trial, will never be a personal favorite.

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7. Revisited with pleasure

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Jeffrey Tambor, Steve Buscemi and Simon Russell Beale in various attitudes of perplex, phony grief and calculation.

The Death of Stalin (2017)
Armando Iannucci co-wrote (with David Schneider, Ian Martin and Peter Fellows) and directed this at once hilarious and horrifying black comedy based on the French graphic novel La Mort de Staline by Fabien Nury and Thierry Robin, and it’s one of the finest — and funniest — political satires in motion picture history. Granting there haven’t been that many of those takes nothing away from this audacious, witty, occasionally shocking and blazingly intelligent movie. Even the casting amuses: When Steve Buscemi, Michael Palin and Jeffrey Tambor show up (as, respectively, Khrushchev, Molotov and Malenkov) they elicit sly chuckles. There is, however, nothing remotely amusing about Simon Russell Beale’s chilling performance as the appalling Lavrentiy Beria. Rat-like both in action and physiognomy (courtesy of some superb prosthesis by Kristyan Mallett), pathologically sadistic and lethally efficient, Beale’s Beria is a genuine sociopath who only exhibits human feeling when it’s his own neck on the line. Buscemi and Tambor take top honors among the comedians but the entire picture is beautifully cast, with standout work especially from Andrea Riseborough as Svetlana Stalina. Foolishly, “Me Too” accusations against Tambor led to the producers erasing him from the poster while the picture was still in theatres. One wonders where this insanity will end. With Errol Flynn being digitally erased from The Sea Hawk, presumably.


Harry and Walter Go to New York
(1976)
An enjoyable farce starring James Caan, Elliott Gould, Diane Keaton and Michael Caine whose screenplay, one gathers, was muddled by that hack Mark Rydell; Caan averred Rydell “completely” re-wrote what he called a “wonderful script” — by John Byrum, with later revisions by Robert Kaufman and Don Devlin — adding, “The director sacrificed jokes to tell a story no one cared about.” (Leslie Anne Warren, who is featured in the deliberately overripe, and amusingly sabotaged, play-within-the-film, claimed she couldn’t get work for five years after the picture opened.) If you approach this period farce with appropriately lowered expectations it’s buoyant and engaging, if not especially hilarious. The muted ending is another detraction, turning as it does Keaton’s radical newspaper publisher into a rank, gold-digging opportunist. Among the delicious supporting cast: Charles Durning, Carol Kane, Michael Conrad, Burt Young, Bert Remsen and the always delightful Jack Gilford. The early 1900s décor is sumptuous, heightened by the burnished cinematography of László Kovács and the bouncy score is by the great David Shire, who also appears, briefly, as the blasé pianist accompanying Harry and Walter’s vaudeville act.


The Front Page
(1931)
The first time I saw this Lewis Milestone-directed version of the Hecht and McArthur play, in an admittedly poor print, it seemed to me one of those creaky, set-bound early talkies that illustrated why the camera needed to be freed from the tyranny of the sweat-box microphone. But the restored edition, made available on Criterion’s splendid recent release of His Girl Friday, showed me just how wrong I was. Culling footage from the domestic, British and foreign versions of the picture, and a 35mm print from the Howard Hughes Collection struck from the original nitrate negative in 1970, the Academy Film Archive re-assembled and restored the movie to spectacular life. Although Lee Tracy, the original Hildy Johnson, was engaged elsewhere in Hollywood (and playing very similar roles) Pat O’Brien makes a suitable substitute, and that insufferable old reactionary Adolphe Menjou is a very credible Walter Burns. Best among the supporting cast are Walter Catlett (as Murphy), Mae Clarke (Molly Malloy), Slim Summerville (Pincus), Frank McHugh (McCue) and, as Bensinger, the peerless Edward Everett Horton.


Harper
(1966)

William Goldman wrote this sharp adaptation — and slight updating — of Ross Macdonald’s initial Lew Archer novel The Moving Target, removing, thankfully, most of the original’s ugly homophobia in the process. Perhaps at Paul Newman’s suggestion? (That is sheer speculation on my part, but something about the subject of homosexuality clearly bugged Macdonald; every Archer novel I’ve read contains at least one unsavory Lesbian or gay man, and Newman was notably squeamish about such sexual demonizing. The one exception in the picture is the murderous thug played by Roy Jenson whom Harper queer-baits, to predictable results.) The star, coming off The Hustler and Hud, was convinced that the letter “H” was lucky for him, hence the change from Archer to Harper. The rich supporting cast includes Lauren Bacall as a paraplegic ice-queen; Julie Harris as a drug-addicted singer-pianist; Arthur Hill as Archer’s lawyer pal; Janet Leigh as his dry, cynical ex-wife; Pamela Tiffin as a spoiled rich girl; Robert Wagner, pretty and dangerous as a glorified pool-boy; Shelley Winters as a former Hollywood starlet turned blowsy man-trap; Harold Gould as a sheriff; and Strother Martin as a phony spiritualist. Johnny Mandel wrote the brief, jazzy score. Appropriate to the tawdry sadness that overlies the Archer books, Goldman’s twists are less clever than deflating, particularly the last one, and he gets off some pretty fair hard-boiled lines of his own, the best and most famous being one for Newman: “The bottom is loaded with nice people, Albert. Only cream and bastards rise.”


Dick Tracy
(1990)
Warren Beatty’s witty take on the notably grisly Chester Gould strip, complete with a color palette evoking the bright hues of the Sunday newspaper comic page… and which scores of ignorant American critics referred to at the time of the picture’s release as having been done in “primary colors”… which of course would have meant only in red, blue and yellow. Maybe they were taking their cue from Richard A. Sylbert, the movie’s designer(!), who said the same thing(!!) in a number of contemporary interviews. It’s a fast, enjoyable ride (Jim Cash and Jack Epps, Jr. are the credited screenwriters) decked out with some marvelous pastiche songs by Stephen Sondheim, a Danny Elfman score that emulates Gershwin as well as his usual hommages to Herrmann and Rota, glorious photography by Vittorio Storaro, and a terrific cast to embody the many odd, pre-Fellini grotesques of Gould’s imagination. Aside from Beatty himself as Tracy, Madonna as his temptress Breathless Mahoney (she gets a great Sondheim number in the Harold Arlen mode called “Sooner or Later”), the delicious Glenne Headly as Tess Trueheart and the gifted Casey Korsmo as Junior we also get Seymour Cassel (Sam Catchem), Michael J. Pollard (Bug Bailey), Charles Durning (Chief Brandon), William Forsythe (Flattop), Ed O’Ross (Itchy), Mandy Patinkin (88 Keys), R. G. Armstrong (Pruneface), Paul Sorvino (Lips Manlis) and, in an inspired bit of kidding, Dustin Hoffman as Mumbles. Dick Van Dyke, alas, is wasted as a crooked D.A., but Al Pacino has a veritable field-day as the chief villain “Big Boy” Caprice. It’s the perfect role in which to indulge his penchant for explosive over-acting; like Akim Tamiroff in Touch of Evil, he’s both menacing and very, very funny. Mike Mazurki also shows up, in a bit. He’s a living link to the past the movie depicts, as is Mel Tormé, whose voice we hear on the radio crooning Sondheim’s “Live Alone and Like It.”

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Lily Tomlin in the great scene in which three women hear Keith Carradine perform “I’m Easy” and each is convinced he’s singing directly to her.

Nashville (1975) — Criterion
Robert Altman and Joan Tewksbury’s unrivalled nonesuch, one of the greatest movies of a great movie period.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2013/12/26/nashville-1975/


Tom Jones
(1963) — Criterion
John Osbourne wrote and Tony Richardson directed this elegant, playful, French New Wave-inspired adaptation of the sprawling Henry Fielding novel, which made Albert Finney an international star. (It made a then-astonishing $36 million in its initial release, on a $1 million budget.) Five and a half decades on, the bawdiness which titillated its contemporary audience has become about as shocking to the sensibilities as an octogarian grandmother saying, “Fuck,” but the performances, and Walter Lassally’s exquisitely rendered cinematography, remain enchanting, and the famous “eating scene” between Finney and Joyce Redman is still riotously suggestive. Although I am averse to the hack-phrase “breaking the fourth wall,” which is most often used by the sort of people who think direct address was invented in Hollywood sometime around the year 2000, it’s notable that Richardson and Osbourne (and yes, dear auteurists, the moments were scripted) have fun twitting the audience with acknowledgments of the camera: Redman’s impressed, impish shrug to the audience when she realizes she’s slept with her own son is still jaw-droppingly hilarious. Susannah York makes a charming Sophie Western, Hugh Griffith is a roistering Hogarthian feast as her father, and the rest of the fine supporting cast (Edith Evans, Joan Greenwood, Diane Cilento, George Devine, David Tomlinson, Jack MacGowran, David Warner, Peter Bull, Angela Baddeley, John Moffatt, Lynn Redgrave) are a comprehensive delight. Micheál Mac Liammóir adds his rich, plummy actor’s tones to Osborne’s narration which, while it does not often quote Fielding directly, approximates his style with aplomb. The witty score is by John Addison, and Antony Gibbs provided the sprightly editing.


The Adventures of Baron Munchausen
(1988)
Terry Gilliam is, arguably, our greatest movie fantasist — and, inarguably, has the worst luck of any major filmmaker; there is nothing as insane in the Gilliam universe as the people for whom he has worked. On Munchausen, he was saddled with a very strange, possibly criminal, German producer and yoked to corrupt Italian artisans and the wildly expensive and inefficient facilities at Cinecittà, rendering much of his original vision compromised… and, when the picture was completed, suits and countersuits by the completion bond company and the indifference of a new regime at Columbia Pictures which preferred taking a $38 million loss to promoting a project of the previous administration. Yet Gilliam delivered a movie of such richness it is nearly overstuffed with delights. Seeing it in a theatre in 1988 was an exhilarating experience, one comparable to the high you get if you’re lucky enough to watch Lawrence of Arabia on a wide commercial screen. The director and his co-scenarist, Charles McKeown, made going to the movies an act of veneration, and the Cineplex a palace of wonders: An ancient European city besieged by Ottoman artillery; encounters with Death; a wild nocturnal ride on a cannonball; a hot-air balloon made of women’s undergarments; a flight to the Moon; a corresponding plunge to the center of the earth; ingestion by a giant sea monster; incarceration in, and escape from, a Turkish seraglio; and a character whose impossible feats of sprinting make him the human equivalent of Chuck Jones’ Road Runner. Nor are these marvels wholly (or even necessarily partly) realistic. Munchausen is, if anything, about the advantages of storytelling artifice over absolute verisimilitude, and the movie is filled with delicious theatrical concepts — another age’s deliberately exaggerated invocation of splendor. The great Giuseppe Rotunno shot the picture, which features John Neville as the Baron, Sarah Polley as the skeptical child he endeavors to convert, Eric Idle as Berthold, Jonathan Pryce as an officious officer, Oliver Reed as Vulcan, Uma Thurman as Venus, Valentina Cortese as the Queen of the Moon and a prototypically untrammeled Robin Williams (in the credits he’s “Ray D. Tutto,” a homonym approximation of the Italian “king of all”) as the King.


The Godfather
(1972)
I doubt I can add anything to the millions of words that have been written, and said, about Francis Coppola’s adaptation of the Mario Puzo novel, with Jaws a prime exemplar of the notion that third-rate source material can, when filtered through the sensibilities of supernally gifted popular artists, yield first-rate movies. The Blu-Ray edition of the “Coppola Restoration” is exquisite.

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Rio Bravo (1959)
I have a good friend who positively loathes Howard Hawks. I am precisely the opposite. I don’t love his movies equally, and I know dreck when I see it, whoever made it. But when I think of the creative filmmakers (as opposed to the many hacks for hire whose oeuvres made Andrew Sarris swoon) whose best work I most enjoy, Hawks — with Wilder, Welles and Chuck Jones — comes high on the list. Rio Bravo is one of those pictures that, if I begin watching it, I know I’m in for the duration. It is, in a way, a perfect distillation of everything Hawks did well, and all his thematic quirks. That sort of thing can be deadly, but, working with the excellent screenwriters Jules Furthman and Leigh Brackett, Hawks keeps things light and, despite the lengthy running time, so relaxed and enjoyable you don’t even mind the cavalier attitude he took toward re-staging for a new picture what had already worked for him once. (He apparently had never heard that old movies were regularly showing up on television. And he would later essentially remake Rio Bravo twice, in the 1967 El Dorado and his final movie, the very likable 1970 John Wayne Western Rio Lobo.) All of the Hawksian concerns are here: Intense male camaraderie bearing more than a whiff of the homoerotic; fast talk between cynical men and sharp, witty women (Angie Dickinson is pretty much Bacall in To Have and Have Not, albeit without Bacall’s ineffable je ne sais quoi); and action that, while headed for an explosion, dawdles charmingly on seeming irrelevancies that add immeasurably to its texture. Made in part as a response to High Noon, whose plot Hawks found infuriating, in Rio Bravo the protagonists spend much of the picture preparing for an impending assault by outlaw killers, and the rest of the Texas town might as well not even exist. Aside from Wayne, giving one of his most relaxed and endearing performances, the cast includes Dean Martin, very good in an essentially dramatic role; Walter Brennan, lovably cantankerous; and the astonishingly beautiful Ricky Nelson as a young gunslinger. Russell Harlan photographed the picture and Dmitri Tiomkin scored it, less bombastically than was his usual wont.

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The Verdict (1982)
Paul Newman’s performance as Frank Gavin, a broken-down, ambulance-chasing lawyer handed a life-changing case he’s expected to lose is so keenly observed many of us in 1982 were convinced there was no way the Academy could continue denying him his Oscar®. We hadn’t counted on the typical response to Gandhi: Alcoholics (and the physically and mentally handicapped) usually get awards, but not as many as historical figures. (23 in the “Best Actor” category, at last count.) Scarcely less impressive than Newman are James Mason as his urbane opposing counsel; Charlotte Rampling as his ambiguous love interest; Jack Warden as his mentor; Milo O’Shea as a political hack of a judge; Edward Binns as a Bishop; Julie Bovasso as an angry potential witness; Wesley Addy as a self-important surgeon; Joe Seneca, both dignified and apologetic as Newman’s chief medical expert; and Lindsey Crouse in a striking turn as an unexpected witness. (You can also, if you look closely, spot the young Bruce Willis as a courtroom observer in the climactic scene.) I am by no means an admirer of that overpraised reactionary David Mamet, but this almost insanely overrated playwright got nearly everything right here,† and jettisoned most of what made Barry Reed’s novel such an irritatingly second-rate exercise. (Rampling’s character in the book, for example, is a one-dimensional schemer — a corporate bitch; Mamet gives her moments of aching humanity, and when Newman decks her in justifiable fury, you hate neither of them.) Sidney Lumet directed, with his customary intelligence and unobtrusive artistry, and Andrzej Bartkowiak provided the autumnal imagery. My only cavil with Newman’s otherwise scathingly honest performance: Frank smokes, constantly, but Newman never inhales, and it’s almost shockingly phony to watch. Wouldn’t it have been better to have dropped the cigarettes entirely than let your star look that foolish?


The Boys from Brazil
(1978)
Perhaps there were too many old Nazis running around in the late ‘70s… by which I mean, on the nation’s movie and television screens. I have a feeling that, after Marathon Man (1976) explored the narrative possibilities of resurrecting Mengele, The Odessa File (1974) played out its revenge fantasy, television weighed in with Holocaust and The Wall, and this, Ira Levin’s masterly speculation on cloning Hitler, had come and gone, there was little appetite left for the subject. Which might explain why the very fine Thomas Gifford thriller The Wind Chill Factor, positing nothing less than that Nazism was not only alive and well but integral to Western governmental organization, was announced, on the jacket of its paperback edition, as “Soon to Be a Major Motion Picture”… and promptly never was. In any case, The Boys from Brazil gave us, of all people, Gregory Peck as Mengele, Laurence Olivier (Marathon Man’s Mengele stand-in) as a Wiesenthal-like Nazi hunter, James Mason as Peck’s comrade and eventual nemesis, Uta Hagen as a bitter old one-time Nazi guard, and the gifted Jeremy Black in multiple roles, each intensely dislikable, as the boys. The supporting cast is especially effective, and includes Lilli Palmer, Steve Guttenberg, Denholm Elliott, Rosemary Harris, John Dehner, John Rubinstein, Anne Meara, Bruno Ganz, Walter Gotell, Wolfgang Preiss, Michael Gough, and Prunella Scales. The screenplay, by Heywood Gould (who later wrote the effective cop study Fort Apache—The Bronx) was largely true to Levin’s work, Franklin Schaffner directed it with verve (and staged a notably gory climax) and Jerry Goldsmith composed one of his essential ‘70s scores, hinging it on an at once exuberant and sinister waltz theme — coffee mit bitters. And if the picture lacks the gravitas and the nerve-wracking grip of Marathon Man, it’s that rare thing, an intelligent thriller, and Peck has a high old time of it playing militantly against type.


The Ghost and Mr. Chicken
(1966)
A perennial favorite since I first encountered it on television around 1969, this most likable of all Don Knotts comedies gets a workout on my Blu-Ray player every October.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/and-they-used-bon-ami-the-ghost-and-mr-chicken-1966/

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JFK: The Director’s Cut
(1991/1997)
Love it or despair of it, Oliver Stone’s incendiary examination of the Kennedy assassination was one of the most important movies of its time, its popularity leading directly to the establishment of the Assassination Records Review Board. That the Board has not, as directed by law, made public “all existing assassination-related documents,” that the CIA has not permitted the release of the most incriminating information, and that we are still awaiting some confirmation of the essential facts, is hardly Stone’s fault. To expect more would, one suspects, be tantamount to believing in Santa Claus, or in the non-existence of an American Empire. Based primarily on On the Trail of the Assassins, Jim Garrison’s memoir of prosecuting what is to date (and a half-century ago) the single case brought against any of the conspirators and on Jim Marrs’ Crossfire: The Plot That Killed Kennedy, Stone and Zachary Sklar fashioned a fiercely cinematic examination of the assassination and its largely transparent official cover-up that so enraged the Establishment it was attacked even while it was being shot — Time magazine even published a critique on an early script, making blatantly false claims about its content. That more than slightly hysterical response only intensified when the picture opened big; its success must have truly unnerved the CIA and its plants in the American press. Pat Dowell, the film critic for The Washingtonian, found a mere 34-word capsule review killed for being, however brief, positive, and even The Advocate piled on; I am ashamed to admit their screaming headline (“JFK: Pinko Fags Offed the Prez!”) kept me from the theatres in 1991… and from Stone’s work generally, for years. Well, it was my loss. And I should have realized, once nearly every mainstream media outlet in America inveigled against the movie, that Stone was touching a very raw nerve. He and Sklar were criticized even by dedicated assassination researchers like Mark Lane, who did not seem to understand that a feature is not a documentary. And while it is true that they conflated some characters, made composites of several participants (the racist male prostitute played by Kevin Bacon, for example, is based on a number of real figures)††, speculated — as all assassination journalists, given no official confirmation, must — and (horrors!) invented dialogue, that is what filmmakers do. One can reasonably nit-pick over a scene such as the one in which the terrified David Ferrie (Joe Pesci) says more than one imagines he would to Garrison’s team, but to dismiss the picture entirely because a dramatist dramatized is to admit you know nothing about movies, and understand less. But Stone’s critics make up their own rules where he is concerned… that is, when they don’t ignore his pictures entirely. There are sequences in JFK that are among his finest work: The long sequence with “X” (Donald Sutherland), the former operative based on L. Fletcher Prouty and John Newman, is, in its melding of dialogue and music (by John Williams) and its gripping juxtaposition of images, the work of an absolute master. One can reasonably quarrel with Kevin Costner as Garrison, an imposition, one assumes, by Warner Bros. as box-office insurance. It’s a role rather beyond not merely his limited abilities but his physiognomy and vocal timbre; Garrison sounded more like Gregory Peck than anyone else and was of comparable and imposing physical stature. Costner isn’t bad by any means, merely conventional. He gets exceptional support, moreover, from the large cast, which includes Tommy Lee Jones as Clay Shaw, Gary Oldman as Lee Harvey Oswald, Sissy Spacek as Liz Garrison, Edward Asner as Guy Banister, Brian Doyle-Murray as Jack Ruby, John Candy as Dean Andrews, Jr. and Jack Lemmon as Jack Martin. Michael Rooker, Laurie Metcalf, Wayne Knight and Jay O. Sanders play members of Garrison’s legal team, John Larroquette shows up as a lightly disguised version of Johnny Carson, and Garrison himself appears, briefly, as Earl Warren. Robert Richardson was the cinematographer, and the kinetic editing was the work of Joe Hutshing and Pietro Scalia. JFK is most effectively enjoyed in its 206-minute “Director’s Cut.” Appropriately, the most disturbing moments in the picture stem from Stone’s use of the Zapruder footage which, however altered by the CIA, is still horrific after 55 years. As Richard Belzer is fond of reminding people, whatever one’s feelings about John F. Kennedy, or how and why and by whom he was killed, a man died that day in Dallas — horribly.

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The number of the Beast: Sam Waterston as Richard Helms.

Nixon (1995)
Criminally ignored — when not slammed outright, by the same chorus of professional neoliberals and CIA plants who reflexively ganged up to “discredit” JFK in 1991 — on its release, this Oliver Stone picture, written by Stone with Stephen J. Rivele and Christopher Wilkinson, is less a conventional “biopic” than an epic meditation on post-war American political realities, using as its anchor that most Shakespearean of Presidents. (Much of the idiot criticism the movie engendered centered on Stone’s audacious depiction of Richard M. Nixon as a multi-faceted human being… the first obligation of the dramatist.) It’s a film that looks better with each viewing, particularly in Strone’s home-video “Director’s Cut,” which among other things restored what to me seems its most absolutely essential sequence, between Anthony Hopkins’ RMN and a silkily foreboding Sam Waterston as the CIA Director Richard Helms — the single segment of the picture that most directly addresses Stone’s central thesis: That the President, whoever he (or in future, she) might be, is a temporary employee of a National Security State so overweening, and so powerful, it is a beast with its own sinister momentum, over which the Commander in Chief has no recourse, defense, or power. One senses in its excision from the 1995 theatrical release the fine Italian hand of the Walt Disney Company. Elaine May once observed that “They” always know what your movie is about — the very reason you wanted to make it — because it’s what they make you cut first.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2013/12/27/nixon-1995/

The Russia House casarusia05
The Russia House (1990)
A beautifully lucid and bracingly intelligent spy thriller out of le Carré that, unlike the run of these things, rewards repeated viewings as few such entertainments ever do.
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2018/12/10/grown-up-love-the-russia-house-1990/


The Front
(1976)
Even at 15 I knew that this earnest dramatic comedy written, directed by and starring a number of blacklist survivors carried with it more than a whiff of wish-fulfillment. Yet it carries you along, and engenders a great deal of good will, despite Woody Allen’s amateurish performance, and general repulsiveness of personality, in the lead. The nadir of Allen’s appearance here is his questioning by a HUAC panel. The great screen actors allow a director to photograph thought; at the crucial moment, all Allen knows how to do is blink and stare. Walter Bernstein was the screenwriter and Martin Ritt directed. The supporting cast includes Andrea Marcovicci (struggling against a poorly written part), Michael Murphy (very good as a blacklisted television writer), Zero Mostel (obnoxious in a largely obnoxious role), Herschel Bernardi as a harried network producer, Remak Ramsey as a slithery investigator, Lloyd Gough and David Margulies (also playing blacklistees, which Gough was), Charles Kimbrough and Josef Sommer (as HUAC members) and in a small early role, Danny Aiello. The great Michael Chapman (The Last Detail, The White Dawn, Taxi Driver, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Raging Bull) provided the warm, burnished cinematography of a lovely, and lovingly recreated, 1950s New York.

winchester '73
Winchester ’73 (1950)
This first of many taut collaborations between James Stewart and the director Anthony Mann is tough to beat. It’s practically a Western noir, shot by the great William H. Daniels in beautifully rendered black-and-white and written (by Robert L. Richards, with an important final revision by Borden Chase) seemingly in hot type. Stewart, to my mind the single finest actor in American movie history, plays a man obsessed, at which he excelled — the sort of role that allowed this beloved figure to limn the darker contours of American life. Some think this is a post-war innovation, but if you look over Stewart’s filmography you become aware that this dramatic tendency (which he shared with Cary Grant, an actor just barely second to him in range and ability) goes back at least to Mr. Smith Goes to Washington in 1939, and that even in such sparkling comedies as The Philadelphia Story and The Shop Around the Corner he hints at discordant rumblings beneath an often placid surface. The splendid cast includes Shelley Winters as a tarnished angel, Millard Mitchell as Stewart’s trusted friend, Charles Drake as a congenital coward, John McIntire as a laconic seller of firearms, the ever-likable Jay C. Flippen as a Cavalry officer, Rock Hudson as a dangerous Indian, the wonderful Will Geer (who was shortly to be blacklisted) as Wyatt Earp, Stephen McNally as the object of Stewart’s quest, Tony Curtis in a small role as a soldier and Dan Duryea as a cheerful psychopath; the scene in which Stewart interrogates him, nearly breaking his arm, is a small masterpiece of unexpected violence. Stewart’s profit participation deal with Universal for this and the film of Harvey made him a very wealthy man.

the magnificent ambersons - moorehead
The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) — Criterion
Whenever I contemplate what RKO did to what might have been Orson Welles’ masterpiece, not merely disemboweling it but destroying the original negative, I become physically ill. Yet even in its severely truncated form, Ambersons is a movie of such exquisite textures it demands to be seen, studied and yes, even loved. Perhaps no American literary adaptation has so conscientiously retained its author’s voice, with Welles himself memorably narrating Booth Tarkington’s un-emphatic yet revealing descriptive prose. Perhaps only a master radio dramatist, as Welles certainly was, would have been as concerned with the sound and shape of authorial tone, and Tarkington’s lovely novel was quite clearly one that resonated with him; he adapted it for radio twice before embarking on the movie. Unavoidably out of the country as the picture was being edited, and lacking the right of final cut he enjoyed on Citizen Kane, Welles was powerless to stop the picture’s evisceration: His initial cut ran 148 minutes, the preview edit was 131, and the final release print was further hacked to a mere 88 — fully an hour shorter than Welles intended. It was one of those two previews that so frightened management at RKO, when his ending, and Agnes Moorehead’s performance, received what he later called “roars of laughter from some stupid Saturday night audience.” That climax, it should be noted, was the one area in which Welles’ narrative diverged from Tarkington’s, and certainly it was depressingly dark.§ But the studio’s solution, allowing several hacks (one of whom was the editor, Robert Wise) to re-shoot in an appallingly unambiguous manner, not even attempting to match the style to that of Welles, are disastrous, and it takes a strong constitution to bear them; the final scene is especially stomach-churning. (The movie’s composer, Bernard Herrmann, was so incensed by the damage done to the picture he demanded his credit be removed.) Matters weren’t helped by the slowness with which Stanley Cortez lit the stages for his admittedly shimmering cinematography — and indeed, the time he wasted likely would have allowed Welles to edit it to both his and RKO’s satisfaction; Cortez was eventually fired and replaced with Jack MacKenzie. What still exists is among the finest work, not merely by Welles, but by anyone. There are sequences, like the ball in the Amberson mansion, and two on the streets of the Midwestern city in which the story takes place that are among the most quietly astonishing ever committed to celluloid. And his cast is first-rate: Tim Holt as Georgie Minafer, the spoiled, headstrong scion of the family; Ray Collins as his laconic uncle; Dolores Costello as his indulgent mother; Joseph Cotten as Eugene Morgan, her quondam and future suitor; Anne Baxter as his daughter, and Georgie’s inamorata, strangely unable to resist this appalling boy; Richard Bennett, deeply moving as the Amberson patriarch; and Moorehead in a towering performance as Georgie’s embittered spinster aunt, who foolishly if unwittingly sets in motion the wheels of the family’s eventual destruction. Her scene with Holt toward the end, where she bravely resists her own rising hysteria until she can no longer stave it off, is one of the peerlessly great moments in movie acting. Welles always wondered why she didn’t get an Academy Award for her performance, and you will too.

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*Ten, if you don’t watch Stone’s two Prologues detailing the last years of the 19th century and the earlier years of the 20th — and you should; they provide the necessary context to what follows.

†Except the ending. Infamously, Mamet concluded his screenplay without the jury returning a verdict, then left the picture in a childish huff when his wisdom was questioned. (The producer suggested that, had they filmed the picture as Mamet wrote it, the marquees would have to have read “The Verdict?”)

††One of them, Perry Russo — who was not a hustler — was Garrison’s star witness. Interestingly, Russo appears nowhere in JFK.

§In the novel, the eventual redemption of both Georgie Minafer and Eugene Morgan is accomplished through a bizarre deus ex machina: Eugene, while in New York, visits a medium, whose “control” convinces him he must “be kind.” Welles later told Peter Bogdanovich that his ending was “not to un-do any fault in Tarkington,” but surely he was either mis-remembering, or protecting Tarkington’s reputation, which he quite reasonably felt deserved contemporary re-evaluation.

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Post-Script
I have, since writing the above, heard Oliver Stone admit that he cut the Richard Helms sequence from Nixon on his own volition and not, as I assumed, due to studio interference. I respectfully submit that he was wrong. That single scene is what Stone’s Nixon is really all about.


Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

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Fighting Gravity: Orson Welles at 100

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Orson+Welles+Early+Career

“… everything as I see it is against him before he starts, but his courage, like everything else about him, egotism, generosity, ruthlessness, forbearance, impatience, sensitivity, grossness and vision, is magnificently out of proportion.” — Micheál Mac Liammóir on Orson Welles, Put Money in Thy Purse: The Filming of Othello.

By Scott Ross

6 May 2015 marks the centenary of the birth of George Orson Welles. I doubt there’s much, if anything, I can add concerning this essential American figure that others have not already observed — those who knew him and those — the lists intermingle — who have illuminated Welles’ importance by examining the contours both of his existence and the many arts to which he gave life, and in the service of which he imbued so much and received so appallingly little.* But in this life, one has touchstones: Those figures who serve as inspirations, whose artistry touches one in ways that may defy cold analysis but whose lives and work simply matter. In my own case, there are three such artists. Tennessee Williams is one; Louis Armstrong another; and Orson Welles completes the trinity. What grips me about Welles, aside from his accomplishments, which are self-evident (or should be but all too often, to the ignorant, are not) is how deeply he strove; how much adversity he faced, and how often; how high — despite all odds, and systems, and limitations — he aspired; and what altitudes, with all possible decks stacked against him, he so often obtained.

“I started at the top and worked down.”
— Orson Welles, F for Fake

I will not rehearse here the early triumphs, save to note that Welles started big; not merely in his theatre and radio successes, at an absurdly early age, but in the profession into which he stumbled, he said, out of necessity. Broke at 16, in Ireland where he’d gone to paint for the summer and desperate to avoid college in the United States, he presented himself at Dublin’s Gate Theatre as a noted American actor who, at liberty, would condescend to perform for these Hibernian provincials if they had any leading roles going begging. Micheál Mac Liammóir, who with his work (and life) partner Hilton Edwards founded and managed the Gate, later claims to have seen through this charade, but the young Welles must have had something aside from his youth, height, bass baritone and oddly comely features (the latter accentuated by a rather sensual lower lip) for engage him they did, giving Welles an entrée in American theatre, courtesy of his Irish clippings. (He was far from stumbling into acting, however, for the theatre had been an important part of his life since at least early adolescence.)

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At 24 he was on the cover of Time; at 25 the achiever of national — indeed, international — notoriety as the progenitor of a radio “hoax” that allegedly scared a chunk of a nation already made edgy by the rise of militant Fascism in Europe, nearly to death (see Brad A. Schwartz’s book Broadcast Hysteria for a through de-bunking of the myth); and at 26 in Hollywood, where, with much of his Mercury staff, he was about to make what for many years was called (by those who actually saw it) the greatest of all American movies.

By 27, he was, on the face of it, close to a has-been.

That, at least, is the legend — or part of it, anyway. “What has he done since Citizen Kane?” was the cry, one which, with a slight variation in tense, has been the cry ever since. That legend, of course, omits two very important factors, the first of which is that there even was a Kane against which to compare the remainder of Welles’ career. (And what did you do at 26?) The second is that he never stopped manufacturing wonders. Even if, as is my case, you don’t consider Kane the greatest of all movies — and I don’t know that anyone can make that distinction, for any picture — there is (if often in final forms that altered their maker’s vision, and even meaning) The Magnificent Ambersons, The Lady from Shanghai, Macbeth, Othello, Mr. Arkadin, Touch of Evil, Chimes at Midnight and F for Fake… not to mention his marvelously theatrical play Moby-Dick — Rehearsed, his fabled “home movie” The Other Side of the Wind, and all those acting jobs, some of them (The Long, Hot Summer; Compulsion, A Man for All Seasons) sublime, which he performed to keep the whole floating opera going. It was customary, during his later years, to chortle derisively, both at his commercial appearances for television and at the aging fat man himself, and that attitude, sadly, still obtains. Recently, in an online discussion of F for Fake, one especially pompous fool I knew slightly in college (and in which setting he was the same, merely younger) chimed in, snottily, with, “And then he sold no wine before its time.” And this man makes his living writing about movies.

And here, let us add a third factor (and perhaps a fourth), one carefully and, I am convinced, deliberately, omitted from the usual discussion of Orson Welles: He was among the most radical of all filmmakers, domestic or foreign; and the means by which he operated were no less radical. Oja Kodar, the woman with whom Welles collaborated in life and in art during the last two decades and more of his life — and who was often, and even as recently as last year, condescending described in the press with the demeaning epithet of “Welles’ girlfriend” — has often said that his life was a struggle against gravity. Gravity not merely as a force weighting down the spirit and the imagination, but keeping earth-bound too the available modes of expressing them. Film, for an artist, is the most unwieldy of canvasses, and the most expensive. Ironically, the collapse of the studios that could not contain, and did not care to employ, him, was a boon for just about every independent in the business except Welles. (Another fierce and iconoclastic independent, Samuel Fuller, had similar problems.)

As we are all either beneficiaries, or victims, of our times, so too was Welles. He was wed to film, to those costly spools of celluloid that had, first, to be purchased, then exposed, then developed, then edited, duplicated, dubbed and distributed. Were he operating now, with all the many and various available digital technologies at his command, half the battles he waged just in order to work would be virtually (no pun intended) eliminated. He would surely have been entranced by the freeing possibilities, and would, I have no doubt, have exploited them more ingeniously, and with greater wit and compassion, than anyone else around.

“I think I made essentially a mistake in staying in movies but it’s a mistake I can’t regret because it’s like saying I shouldn’t have stayed married to that woman but I did because I love her. I would have been more successful if I hadn’t been married to her, you know. I would have been more successful if I’d left movies immediately, stayed in the theatre, gone into politics, written, anything. I’ve wasted a greater part of my life looking for money and trying to get along, trying to make my work from this terribly expensive paintbox which is a movie. And I’ve spent too much energy on things that have nothing to do with making a movie. It’s about two percent movie-making and ninety-eight percent hustling. It’s no way to spend a life.” — Orson Welles, 1982

Those who know Welles’ work only casually often maintain that his later years were “sad.” For we measure the movie artist in those expensive reels of film, and after F for Fake — itself so misunderstood and under-appreciated that the critical fraternity of the time ought, by rights, be called to account — there were no more. That we saw. And there’s, as they say, the rub. What the tut-tutters, both in sorrow and in derision, never know nor understand about Orson Welles is that, while he was deeply frustrated, which is indeed sad, he never stopped working on his own projects, which is not. And that is a mark not only of Welles’ restless prodigiousness, and his seriousness of purpose, but of how much he accomplished. Whether the results of Welles’ efforts were exhibited, or even completed, is of less importance, ultimately, than the fact that they were — that they existed at all.

If we look at Citizen Kane, not as the greatest, or even Welles’ greatest, but simply in its historical context, and if we know anything at all about the techniques then in vogue — and in danger of becoming ossified — in talking pictures, we can appreciate it for what it was, and for what Welles brought to the medium: The exuberance of a young man who did not understand the established rules, and who questioned why this or that had to be done, and why might it might not be done differently, and for whom his RKO contract, the subject of much envious teeth-gnashing, permitted his innocent, and joyous, expansion of the existing vocabulary. For it is that giddy experimentation, augmented to the utmost by Welles having the great good fortune of a collaboration with its cinematographer Gregg Toland, which makes Kane such a pleasure to watch.

Welles and Joseph Cotten in "Kane." The shot was achieved, believe it or not, with split-screen.

Welles and Joseph Cotten in Kane. The shot was achieved, believe it or not, with split-screen.

But there is more to the movie than photographic innovation. There is, too, its aural perfection — its position as the first great feature by one of radio’s most significant practitioners. Pick almost any moment, at random, in Kane and recall what’s happening on the soundtrack; Welles not only affected the way talkies looked, but the way they could sound. Yet beyond that, too, is the screenplay, with its unusual, fragmented, structure, its use of the tropes of the medium (the March of Time newsreels in particular) and its lively admixture of history, comedy, melodrama and something dangerously close to real (and specifically American) tragedy. Pauline Kael called Kane “a shallow masterpiece,” and she had a point. Its swift (if not Swiftian) satire, its pell-mell early pace, its occasional caricature, all give the picture a certain insubstantial air. However, the dredged-up memories of its characters, which reveal, in the aggregate, a far more complex central figure that was the norm, add depth to the characterization of Charles Foster Kane, and to those who surround him. Welles’ original conception was, he said, more like the later Rashomon, in that Kane “would seem to be a very different character depending on who was talking,” whereas in the final version he was rendered less extreme, and more ambiguous. It is that very ambiguity which is a hallmark of Orson Welles’ cinema, observable in all of his best work, a fact that, along with a few other consistent themes and appurtenances, gives the lie to the old canard that Welles had no hand — or, if he did, a small, editorial one — in the crafting of Kane’s screenplay.

“I am a writer-director — with an emphasis on the former.”
— Orson Welles

Kael, of course, did more to roil those waters than anyone, and it must have galled Welles to see the Kane script in book form forever wedded to the essay in which Kael “proves” he didn’t write it. (Just as it would pain him, as it does many of us, to endure Time-Warner yoking all its home video editions of Kane with that spurious documentary The Battle Over “Citizen Kane.”) That Herman Mankiewicz had a hand in the picture’s creation is not debatable. And whether Welles wrote most of it, or only some of it, is less to the point than that he was — until his late collaborations with Oja Kodar, anyway — the sole author of every subsequent movie he directed, with the notable exception of The Stranger.† Do the anti-Wellesians think he somehow pulled it over on everyone (not least of all, himself) for the rest of his life, or that, as absurdly, he miraculously sprouted a scenarist’s gifts, but only after Mankiewicz “wrote” Kane? The thematic concerns in Kane — with loneliness, loss, old age, betrayal, corruption and political engagement — are manifest in nearly all of Welles’ subsequent endeavors; indeed, they run throughout his oeuvre as a writer-director, as keenly as deception runs through Billy Wilder’s pictures and group failures inform John Huston’s. Did Mankiewicz somehow magically implant Welles’ recurrent concerns as well?

Moreover, the shape of many of the lines and speeches in Kane, the give and take of its arguments and colloquies, the wit and eloquence (even elegance) of the expression likewise reflect the writer Welles was as much as the look of Kane reflects his directorial flourishes, begun on the stage. One sees, and hears, their corollaries in The Lady from Shanghai, in Mr. Arkadin, in Touch of Evil, in F for Fake and, especially, in the un-filmed (by Welles) The Big Brass Ring. For Welles was a writer; he wrote a plethora of newspaper and magazine columns, radio (and later, television) broadcasts, and plays, in addition to his screenwriting forays, so to imagine him as somehow not responsible for a good portion of the writing of his single great critical success is patently absurd, if not downright invidious. Yet Simon Callow, Welles’ curiously — and in some respect, militantly — antipathetic biographer, baldy states, “Orson Welles did not write one word of Citizen Kane”… and ignoramus public radio interviewers in America let him get away with it.

Welles’ eloquence may owe something to his upbringing, particularly since he had no formal schooling after the age of 16. He was an aristocrat, and I think that shows in his movies as it did in the particulars of his life; for all the economic struggle that dogged his filmmaking, he clearly enjoyed a high standard of living. That background is evident too, I think, in some of his attitudes to others. Despite his leftist politics (and for all that Hearst papers and the FBI enjoyed labeling him a Communist) there was a streak of well-heeled moralism in him at times; I think I detect a little of Welles in Charles Foster Kane’s self-righteous riposte to his guardian, “If I don’t defend the interests of the underprivileged, somebody else will — maybe somebody without any money or property, and that would be too bad.” Certainly many of his attitudes were the furthest thing from enlightened; he expressed at times an appalling misogyny, in tandem with a fashionably sneering tone about homosexuals — coupled with a dismaying propensity for post-dubbing other actors with stereotyped “fag” voices. Perhaps it is those two, rather reactionary, strains that have in part led even some friendly commentators to detect a latency in Welles? Nothing, after all, succeeds like deflection.

His lack of formal education had its small defects, among them the propensity to mispronounce common terms: “Arch-type” for “archetype,” “antiquay” for “antique”… and Welles only knows why both Michael Redgrave and Robert Hardin pronounce the word telescope as “teleoscope” in Mr. Arkadin.

Welles’ mother died when he was 9, his father when the boy was 15, and a deep subsequent sense of loss seems to have followed him. Without doubt, that emotion is a primary concern in his movies. And too there was his tendency toward egocentric self-aggrandizement, but even Kael granted that, when an artist has had so much taken from him, such attitudes are explicable, if not altogether laudable. That she wrote this in an essay aimed at taking even more credit from Welles is an irony about which Kael herself was, presumably, not conscious.

“The absence of limitations is the enemy of art.”
— Orson Welles

Agnes Moorehead as Aunt Fanny in the "hysterical" scene of "The Magnificent Ambersons." Welles: "Why she never got an Academy Award for that performance I'll never know."

Agnes Moorehead as Aunt Fanny in the “hysterical” scene of The Magnificent Ambersons. Welles: “Why she never got an Academy Award for that performance I’ll never know.”

The ignorant are, perhaps naturally, all too ready to repeat mythology without bothering to learn anything about reality. And no one occasioned more speculation or accrued more ignoramuses to his legend than Welles — as many now as when he was alive, if not more. “Oh, yes — Welles. Made Citizen Kane. Never did anything after that.” That this ignores Ambersons is perhaps understandable, given that the movie was mutilated by RKO while Welles was in South America, barely released to theatres, and at that with some 50 minutes of shorn footage either incinerated or dumped into the Pacific Ocean — in any case, irrevocably destroyed, beyond the hope of restoration.†† Welles himself wanted, in the ‘60s, to re-shoot the climax, with Joseph Cotton and Agnes Moorehead (their respective ages at the time would have fit with his original conception) but could not persuade the rights holders of the efficacy of the project. Had the movie been released in anything like Welles’ initial, 140-minute cut, it would have easily bested, if not eclipsed, Kane in conception and achievement. (Jonathan Rosenbaum’s inclusion of the scripts for the deleted sequences, along with some on-set stills, in This is Orson Welles, makes that case more than amply.) That it is still a great picture, a masterpiece even in its extremely bastardized form, and with a risible ending not shot by Welles, is a testament to how great a movie Ambersons is. Yet I become quite literally physically ill every time I think of that deliberately annihilated footage, particularly what was lost of Moorehead’s performance, which, even truncated, is among the finest ever committed to film.

Welles (Othello) and Micheál Mac Liammóir  (Iago) in the long dolly shot in which the ensign plants the seeds of doubts in the Moor's ardor for Desdemona.

Welles (Othello) and Micheál Mac Liammóir (Iago) in the long dolly shot in which the ensign plants the seeds of doubts in the Moor’s ardor for Desdemona.

The “Nothing After Kane” school lives in willful ignorance of Welles’ other Hollywood projects of the time: Of The Stranger which, despite a somewhat perfunctory script (not by Welles, which makes the picture an anomaly in his filmography) contains some breathtaking sequences and, in the burlesque comic Billy House’s extended bit (and whose scenes Welles did write), one of the most delightful, if unheralded, supporting performances of the era; of Macbeth, made for pennies on Poverty Row, and on some occasionally cheesy sets yet despite this one of the richest of all Shakespearean transmigrations to film  — brooding, stark and even terrifying; and of The Lady from Shanghai, with its extraordinary gallery of grotesques, from Everett Sloane’s paraplegic cuckold to Glen Anders’ wild ersatz suicide (“I was just doin’ a little taaarget practice…”) and a climax which, although spoiled by some cutting of Welles’ more extensive funhouse sequence and the addition of a bloodcurdlingly dreadful musical score, does include the brilliant hall of mirrors shoot-out that ends the picture.

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“I know thee not, old man.” Falstaff is banished at the climax of Chimes at Midnight.

Not long after, in the late 1940s, Welles left America for Europe. I’ve long suspected he saw what was coming and beat it before he could be blacklisted, and in his essential What Ever Happened to Orson Welles? Joseph McBride reveals that Welles was indeed a target; his FBI file lists the usual “fellow traveler” stats. (He had also been subjected to one of those humiliating “unofficial clearance” interviews with the reactionary Hedda Hopper.) While his European budgets were curtailed — when not actually, as with Othello, nonexistent — and he was subject to terrible technical limitations, he still produced that ruminative, brief but sumptuous and disturbing tragedy, containing superb performances by himself as the Moor and by Mac Liammóir as Iago. Laurence Olivier’s Shakespeare movies got more press — and awards — than Welles’, and made more money, but I would argue that Orson’s Shakespeares are infinitely greater in the aggregate, even as they were far more limited in scope, and as their maker trimmed the texts to his own designs.§ Nothing Olivier did in that realm can touch, for instance, Welles’ Chimes at Midnight for breadth, visual poetry or sheer emotional heft.

The battle at Shrewsbury is unlike any such sequence I know in its uncompromisingly honest, even horrifying, depiction of mounted and hand-to-hand combat. And if it is hard to cotton on to Welles’ almost lovesick admiration for Falstaff (“Shakespeare’s good, pure man… the most completely good man in all drama”) it is equally difficult to suppress a shudder, and swallow past the lump in one’s throat, at Welles’ depiction of the old, fat knight’s banishment by Hal at the climax.

“A maverick may go his own way but he doesn’t think that it’s the only way, or ever claim that it’s the best one, except maybe for himself.”
— Orson Welles

The limitations imposed on Welles in his European exiles were two‑fold, and thorny. First, and partly due to the fact that he had, usually through lack of funds, to shoot in real locations, Welles had to forego the excellence of Hollywood sound recording, and often shot silently, dubbing in the voices later, during the editing stage. (A standard practice in European cinema, especially in Italy.) And while he maintained that he would rather have a great image than a great reading, post‑dubbing robbed this acutely sound‑conscious filmmaker of one of the hallmarks of his artistry. When the synchronization is good, one scarcely notices it. When it is not so felicitous, one is naggingly, sometimes maddeningly, aware of it, a flaw that detracts even from so manifestly great a movie as Chimes at Midnight. As if Welles needed another stumbling‑block in his way; Shakespeare limits one’s audience enough to begin with. Even those who admired the movie on its release, like Kael, felt that its technical flaws would likely sink its prospects. Worse, or at least more distractingly, Welles evinced a curiously self‑defeating tendency to dub other actors’ performances, and one is never not aware that, however disguised, it’s his famously distinctive timbre one is hearing. (That he so often dubbed these lines in lisping, deliberately — and, I think, rather maliciously — “faggy” tones, is an added hurdle to enjoyment.) Joseph McBride believes this aural lack forced Welles to be even more creative visually, but when you stack the sound of, say, Kane or Ambersons against that of Arkadin or Chimes at Midnight, the deficiencies are profound.

Robert Hardin and the magisterial Michael Redgrave in the "teleoscope" scene of "Arkadin." Ten of the most delightful minutes ever committed to celluloid.

Robert Hardin and the magisterial Michael Redgrave in the “teleoscope” scene of Arkadin. Ten of the most effervescent minutes ever committed to celluloid.

Second, Welles was hampered by the inavailability in Europe both of the crane that makes grand images possible, and the grips who operate it. While neither his visual acumen nor his innate ingenuity ever deserted him completely, and indeed, such sequences as Shrewsbury leave little to be further desired, one cannot but think how much richer his later pictures might have been had he been less technically hamstrung. “I didn’t have to know about cutting until I got to Europe,” Welles told Bogdanovich. He cut, sometimes too much, to compensate for his paucity of choices, and the rhythms, even in his best pictures of that period, are sometimes, unaccountably “off.” Of course, some of these movies (Arkadin, for instance) were taken out of Welles’ hands and re-cut, so it is entirely possible, if not probable, that what we perceive as faults in his editing may well be the work of other, less creditable, hands. Certainly this is the case with the Beatrice Welles-supervised “restoration” of Othello, which suffers both from a re-recorded music track that among other things reduces the scope and grandeur of the Francesco Lavagnino score, and from some infelicitous editorial second-guessing.

All that “Nothing”… Like Mr. Arkadin, a thin ghost of Kane, perhaps, in its complicated flashback structure and its interviews with the observers of a great man’s less-than-savory past but withal one of the most engaging of all Welles’ pictures, with superlative turns by Suzanne Flon, Katina Paxinou, Akim Tamiroff and, supremely, Michael Redgrave. (There are at least seven different versions of Arkadin extant, two of which plus a “comprehensive edition” are assembled in the 2006 “Complete” Criterion set, an essential item in the home of any self-respecting cineaste.) Another nothing: Touch of Evil, perhaps the most radical crime drama ever produced at a Hollywood studio, one which — now that Walter Murch has assembled a restoration that at least honors Welles’ innovative sound design — eschews the clichés even as it is constrained by genre, and offers for our consideration the most explicit rejection of investigative brutality between the onset of the Production Code and the relaxation of its strictures. As the nominal hero (played by Charlton Heston, no less) notes, “A policeman’s job is only easy in a police state.”

And here, another myth adored by the Ignorati, as exemplified by the cretinous Tim Burton, who in his execrable Ed Wood (written by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski) has Vincent D’Onofrio as Welles weeping into his beer over being “reduced” to employing Heston in his latest epic, when it is a well-established fact that Welles owed his directing of the movie to Heston. Admittedly a mistake on Heston’s part; when he was told, by a Universal suit, “We’ve got Orson Welles,” Heston replied that he would be happy to appear in anything Welles directed. (Welles had re-written the screenplay and was only, at the time, slated to play the heavy.) The actor’s misapprehension netted Welles the directing job, and Welles knew it. So the very idea of his pissing and moaning about being “stuck” with the likes of Heston is the rankest sort of historical revisionism, insulting to everyone concerned.

Welles (heavily padded) and Akim Tamiroff (heavily bewigged) in "Touch of Evil." Welles: "He looked at that gun like it was every cock in the world."

Welles (heavily padded) and Akim Tamiroff (heavily bewigged) in Touch of Evil. Welles: “He looked at that gun like it was every cock in the world.”

“I have always been more interested in experiment, than in accomplishment.” — Orson Welles

More “Nothings”: The richly evocative, nightmarish (if not especially enjoyable) The Trial; Chimes at Midnight; F for Fake. How that blazingly original meditation on art, forgery, beauty, sex and the divine comedy of life could fail to find its audience is less surprising than the critical indifference it received in America. What Welles did with F for Fake, taking off from some standard, if lively, documentary footage by François Reichenbach of the enigmatic art forger Elmyr de Hory and his neighbor and biographer Clifford Irving, was nothing less than to bring into being a new form — the personal film essay, in its more modest way as playfully revolutionary as Kane. The picture is not-quite-documentary, not-quite-fiction, and wholly, idiosyncratically Welles: Alternately frisky and sober, filled with Welles’ witty, baroque observations and beautifully photographed by Gary Graver, Welles’ indispensable lighting director and cameraman during his final years. Like Billy Wilder, Welles disdained color, but when he chose to utilize it, he did so in a way that made the images shimmer. He did not, perhaps, help his own case by submitting to the distributor an 11-minute trailer, more a stand-alone short than a preview, which he should have known would be rejected. But can we call F for Fake a “failure” because it did not find its audience? Only if we also call Kane, Ambersons, Arkadin, Touch of Evil and Chimes at Midnight failures merely because they fared poorly in the marketplace — a bazaar always more enamored with fairy tales than with honest expression. F for Fake is a “failure” only if we can also include as failures Moby-Dick and Ulysses, or The Iceman Cometh, or Van Gogh’s art, or Sondheim’s Assassins and Bernstein’s Candide.

Welles with Oja Kodar in the charming final third of "F for Fake." His love for her is evident in the exquisite way he illuminated her face.

Welles with Oja Kodar in the charming final third of “F for Fake.” His love for her is evident in the exquisite way he illuminated her face.

And it is here that we perhaps comprehend the ignorant (or maliciously mischievous?) mythmakers. Orson Welles had a few small box-offices successes as a filmmaker, but no “hits.” That is what his detractors are attuned to… plus the delicious frisson of being able to mock him for his Paul Masson commercials, his narration of bad movies and documentaries, his squabbles with producers over the inane copy of a frozen peas ad… and, of course, his expanding waistline. What they neither know nor care to know, is that he poured the revenues from these perhaps ignoble adventures into his work — and that the work was never-ending. Whether the public saw the fruits of those labors, whether he was able to finish them, or wanted to — was not the point; the objective was the labor itself. “He never finishes anything!” was (is?) the cry. Does every artist finish every canvas? Every novelist complete the manuscript? Every poet the stanza? Every composer the sonata? We know, by and large, only what was completed, not the pentimento of the artist’s work, those things he or she “repented” of, painted over, tossed away. Do we pillory Picasso for changing his mind?

Welles shooting 6a01053653b3c7970b0120a76d3491970b-800wi

Who but Welles, faced with no money and no costumes for his Othello actors, would shoot two reels in a Turkish bath and then spend two years prostituting his thespic gifts in other people’s inferior movies in order to complete the picture? Who else, having been sent to Rio de Janero on a “goodwill” project for his government, would labor, with bad — when not non-existent — communications, to complete his edit of Ambersons while simultaneously capturing, in the Jangadero sequences (finally preserved in the documentary “It’s All True”: Based on an Unfinished Film by Orson Welles decades after his death) some of the most luminously beautiful cinematography ever filmed, even as his own studio was haphazardly mutilating his greatest creation back home? “Nobody gets justice,” Welles said. “People only get good luck or bad luck.” His associate Richard Wilson maintained that the South American fiasco was the “direct cause” of Welles’ troubles ever after, and Welles concurred. “No question about it,” he told Bogdanovich. “It all stems from that.” As do the frothing teem of legends about his alleged profligacy, and his irresponsibility with other peoples’ money. Again, who but Welles would struggle to film, and edit, a genuinely experimental movie like The Other Side of the Wind, partially financed (horribile dictu!) by the brother-in-law of the Shah of Iran, and spend the rest of his life trying to extricate his movie from the fangs of revolutionary history?

“Oh, Welles — he never completes anything.”

Sigh.

“God, how they’ll love me when I’m dead!”
— Orson Welles

Welles with Peter Bogdanovich and Joseph McBride, at a rehearsal for "The Other Side of the Wind."

Welles with Peter Bogdanovich and Joseph McBride, at a rehearsal for The Other Side of the Wind. Orson has obviously just revised some lines.

As Welles’ centenary approached, much speculation was evoked concerning The Other Side of the Wind. Others, Bogdanovich included, are now reportedly toiling to complete something that might approximate Welles’ final vision, and to get it released. Many Welles aficionados are excited by this possibility, but some, even the keenest, are a bit ambivalent. The picture is so laden with personal history, so talked-about, so fabled but (with the exception of a few brief sequences) so largely unseen, that they may be excused from almost hoping it never sees the flickering light of exhibition. For, like the Criterion “Comprehensive Edition” of Arkadin, the final product will not be Welles’, but — also like the recent Touch of Evil restoration — only the best approximation of his work.

This is not, you understand, to pillory Bogdanovich, or Walter Murch, or Richard Wilson, or Criterion, for their efforts. Their collective devotion to Welles, like their desire to re-present his work, is sincere. Bogdanovich in particular seems to be doing for Welles what Jo Cotten’s Eugene does for the memory of Dolores Costello at the end of Ambersons: Bringing his mentor’s work “under shelter again.” Nor, if and when Wind is released — every deal up to now has fallen through in the end — will this ardent Wellesian fail to see it. But we do risk grave disappointment in an Other Side of the Wind that falls short of expectations. Some of us who love Welles, and respect him, who experience, even at this remove, so long after his death, real pangs of empathetic regret at his deep frustrations, and who have spent time in fantasizing about Wind, have an uneasy feeling that, if the completion lets him down — lets us down — Welles’ legacy may be further tarnished. In addition, the film‑within‑the‑film that the movie’s star, John Huston, is making in Wind was, by design, a deliberate comment on then-current, early ’70s “with‑it” indulgences of the young tyros being given their collective heads at the time Welles was filming his movie. Will everyone now get the joke, or will some merely, and erroneously, think it’s Welles himself, and not Huston’s “Jake Hannaford,” who is being pretentious and overly frenetic?

Yet even those negative possibilities are no reason to deny the thing itself. How often do we get a “new” Orson Welles? And too, there is the undeniably nostalgic prospect of seeing the movie’s star, John Huston, again; and the still young and not-yet-disgraced Bogdanovich; and the glorious Oja; and Lilli Palmer, standing in for Dietrich, and Edmond O’Brien, and Mercedes McCambridge; and Susan Strasberg as a version of Kael; and Cameron Mitchell, and Norman Foster, and Gregory Sierra, and Paul Mazursky; and the impossibly young Joseph McBride as the sycophantic Mister Pister. At least Welles’ daughter, the Dread Beatrice, who has fucked up everything of her father’s she’s ever touched (the “restored” Othello, Don Quixote) up to and including his funeral, is not, this time — and thanks to Oja — intimately involved. Joseph McBride, for one, believes ardently that the picture should be completed, and released, and he’s not only devoted decades of his life to splendid Welles scholarship, he’s actually in the movie.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll be wonderful.

But it won’t quite be Welles.

Huston - Wind bfi-00m-v46

John Huston in The Other Side of the Wind.

Just as the botched The Big Brass Ring, the real heartbreaker of Welles’ final years, was ultimately not Welles. The screenplay, by Welles and Kodar, is a thing of beauty; literate, witty, perceptive, politically astute, emotionally raw, with perhaps the most chillingly forlorn sequence of voyeurism in the American cinematic canon. In a highly personal touch, the movie’s central figure, the potential President William Blake Pellarin, desperately pursues a woman from his past, much as Welles did Kodar in the 1960s. When they finally come together, they are seen making love, through an open window, by Pellarin’s shady old political mentor, the aging Kim Minnaker, who has long been carrying his own torch for his protégé and who spies the pair while riding a Ferris wheel. In a moment as sexually charged as anything in American movies, Pellarin becomes aware of this scrutiny, and his eyes lock with Minnaker’s. The description of this emotionally naked encounter, in the published script, is among the most breathtaking I’ve ever encountered in dramatic literature; it should have burned holes in the screen.

As so often, the industry let Welles down on that one. His financing for this anguished political parable was contingent on his netting a Big Name for the lead (Welles himself would appear in the secondary role of Minnaker.) Where was the Charlton Heston of the 1980s? None of them — not Nicholson, nor Beatty, nor Redford, nor Eastwood nor Reynolds — would agree to lower his asking price, even for the privilege of working in an Orson Welles picture. And when it was done, in 1999, the director George Hickenlooper re-wrote, with F.X. Feeney, that exquisite screenplay… and dropped its finest scene — almost its entire raison d’être — that magnificent, appalling act of voyeurism.

“A film is a dream, but a dream is never an illusion.” — Orson Welles

Welles was, like all important artists (and so many others) obsessed by certain themes: Old age, lost Edens, loneliness. The largest of these, I think, was betrayal. One sees it time and again in his work, and in his overmastering regard for Falstaff. He seemed, in some curious way, to expect to be betrayed, preferably by a younger man, and felt, finally, that he was, by Bogdanovich. Certainly Welles had been betrayed, and repeatedly — by studios, by collaborators, by financiers, by critics and other writers. And, just as certainly, the remarks he made about Bogdanovich to Henry Jaglom at their audiotaped luncheons are not those of a friend. In the transcripts of those tapes Jaglom, quite properly, and in what one senses is genuine disappointment and confusion, upbraids Welles more than once for his rudeness and bigotry. But blindness to the problems of others even as we ourselves struggle was not, is not, unique to Welles. At the risk of an unintended visual pun, he was large; he contained multitudes. So, too, should our response to Welles embrace catholicism: Let what is sad be sad, what is maddening be so too, and what is grand be, as it so often is, magnificent. Welles himself often said that he, an instinctive anti-auteurist, did not believe in creators, only in works. That is more than a fine distinction. It is, finally, an overarching philosophy.

And so let, on that note, the last words of this impassioned defense (and passionate appraisal) of Welles be his. In the deeply moving Chartres sequence of F for Fake, Welles, appearing to gaze at the Cathedral but, Gary Gravers informs us, actually at nothing, in the back yard of his own home (Orson: “Anybody can make movies with a pair of scissors and a two-inch lens.”) contemplates art, and the fate of the artist, in his own, exquisite, probing, style.

It’s not a bad epitaph, for him, or for anyone who strives, in a world always and eternally indifferent to artists, for expression.

“Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash — the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we’re going to die. ‘Be of good heart,’ cry the dead artists out of the living past. ‘Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing.’ Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.”

Orson_Welles_magician_in_F_for_Fake

________________________________

*Among them, Richard France, Frank Brady, Micheál Mac Liammóir, André Bazin, Joseph McBride, Peter Bogdanovich, Oja Kodar, Gary Graver, Barbara Leaming, Jonathan Rosenbaum, James Naremore, Christopher Welles and Clinton Heylin.

Touch of Evil was re-written by Welles, from two earlier drafts by Paul Monash and Franklin Coen, which he combined, edited and expanded upon.

††Another legend: The possible existence of Welles’ work-print, left behind in Rio — an almost unbearably tantalizing prospect which, to date, seems mere apocrypha.

§Welles is also a far better Othello than Olivier, whose eye-rolling performance is perhaps the worst, and hammiest, ever given by an important actor in a major screen role.

 

All other text copyright 2015 by Scott Ross

One enfant terrible breaks faith with another: Tynan, Kael and “Kane”

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By Scott Ross

Through the good graces of my best friend who, being a sensible sort, does not cling as I do to outmoded technology, I recently enjoyed Simon Callow’s reading, on cassette, of Kenneth Tynan’s diaries, as edited by John Lahr. In one early entry, Tynan is shattered to discover his notion of Orson Welles as the Compleat Artist is false: He’s just read Pauline Kael’s “Raising Kane” in the New Yorker, and declares that she “proves conclusively that Welles did not write one word of Citizen Kane.”

Kael, of course, did no such thing.

I am an enormous admirer of Kael’s, a zealot even; despite every effort, during her time at the New Yorker and since her enforced retirement (she had Parkinson’s) and her death, by others to discredit her, I remain steadfast in my belief that, whatever her flaws, she was, and remains, the finest movie critic not merely of her age but for any age. When she was wrong, however — and by “wrong” I do not mean, “I disagree with her opinion about X” — she was spectacularly wrong. And she was seldom more wrong than she was in “Raising Kane.

Any essay critical of Welles — of whom, it should be noted, Kael was in fact a noted supporter — that uses John Houseman as its chief source is benighted from the start. One can easily imagine with what barely submerged glee Welles’ one-time producer (and long-standing enemy) related his version of events to Kael. Her own motives are less clear. It’s been suggested that she had Hollywood ambitions of her own, and that, in elevating Kane’s co-scenarist of record, Herman J. Mankiewicz, himself a former New Yorker critic, she was further ennobling herself, by proxy. Once the piece was published, and Welles’ friends and admirers had their say via Peter Bogdanovich’s “The Kane Mutiny” rebuttal in Esquire (a jeremiad reportedly revised by Welles himself) she rather uncharacteristically confessed her doubts about her original piece to her then-friend Woody Allen, and worried that she didn’t know how to respond. His advice: Don’t. She never did.*

Pauline Kael in 1972, photographed (unusually, with her glasses) by Jill Krementz.

 

Nor did she “prove” in any demonstrable, let alone “conclusive” fashion that Welles had nothing to do with Kane’s superb screenplay. A cursory look at any of the other movies he directed and for which he also wrote the scripts, by himself — which is to say all of them except Kane and the un-produced The Big Brass Ring — reveals Orson Welles’ “voice” as a writer, a style and set of preoccupations manifest in films as seemingly unrelated as Touch of Evil, Mr. Arkadin, The Lady from Shanghai, F for Fake and even what little has been seen, and heard, of The Other Side of the Wind. Only when he adapted the work of others (Tarkington for The Magnificent Ambersons, Kafka for The Trial and Shakespeare for Macbeth, Othello and Falstaff/Chimes at Midnight) is the sound of the dialogue not patently presented in Welles’ distinctive cadences as a dramatist. Although it is probably impossible at this juncture to definitively prove that Welles or Mankiewicz (or even, perhaps, Houseman?) wrote this or that line, or monologue, for Kane, the quality of that verbiage, and the observations, are of a piece with the dialogue in the pictures Orson wrote either alone or (in the case of the published screenplay for The Big Brass Ring) co-authored with his companion, Oja Kodar.† Or are we to believe he “stole” all of those credits as well?

But Welles was also notorious for his prevarications, and this habit of giving himself credit in the absence of anyone who might have contradicted him became worse with time. Even Kael acknowledged of Welles that, when an artist has been cheated, repeatedly, of his due, he may be prone to self-aggrandizement. Certainly, Welles must have grown as sick of having his work misinterpreted, and condemned, by ignoramuses as he became of being asked about Kane. It may well be, too, that Mankiewicz, with Houseman’s collusion, modeled more than a few of Charles Foster Kane’s biographical details and characteristic idiosyncrasies on Welles and that Orson in turn may have been too sheepish about them to object. Master showman that he was, he may even have acknowledged their effectiveness as part of the drama, if only to himself. It may not be true, as Welles told Bogdanovich, that the script of Kane was scissored-and-pasted from his own version of the script and Mankiewicz’s, or that Mankiewicz’s “contributions” (as Orson called them) were more significant in part than as a whole. Whatever the truth of it, the movie of Citizen Kane resounds with Welles, not merely visually or in the sound of the picture but in the shape and tone of the words themselves.

Orson Welles at work on the script for The Other Side of the Wind in the early 1970s. At right, Peter Bogdanovich with the young critic and Welles scholar Joseph McBride. Both had roles in the movie.

For his own part, Kenneth Tynan was a magnificent theatre critic, but a less reliable movie reviewer. Tynan’s rhapsody on the London production of Welles’ own, splendidly theatrical Moby Dick — Rehearsed makes one pine to have seen it. “With this Moby Dick,” Tynan wrote, “the theatre becomes once more a house of magic.” Of Orson’s debut in movies Tynan famously wrote, “Nobody who saw Citizen Kane at an impressionable age will ever forget the experience; overnight, the American cinema had acquired an adult vocabulary.”

So what did Tynan see in Kael’s misguided adventure to convince him that his idol had feet of clay? (It’s significant that, in speaking to Terry Gross about the second volume of his own Welles biography, Callow, the reader of Tynan’s diaries on tape, used the exact same words as the diarist when he proclaimed, equally fraudulently, that “Orson Welles did not write one word of Citizen Kane.”) Alas, the entry that records Tynan’s shock at seeing a lifelong hero reduced, as it were, to a rather fat heap of ashes, is all too brief. Tynan does not bother to note how Kael “proved” Orson’s claims of authorship false.††

And in that, he resembles Kael herself, all too closely.

________________________________________

* Kael also seldom had a kind word thereafter for one of Bogdanovich’s pictures.

†Welles’ highly dubious but thoroughly enjoyable screen “memoir” The Cradle Will Rock script was likewise published after his death.

††Just as, in another diary entry, he quotes Gregory Peck at length, sneering at liberals and discussing his conversion to the true faith of conservatism, when it’s obvious to the reader that the man to whom Tynan’s had been talking at Hollywood party is Charlton Heston.

 

Text copyright 2013 by Scott Ross

Paper Moon (1973)

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By Scott Ross

A gorgeous evocation of the Depression era Middle-West, filtered through the Alvin Sargent adaptation of Joe David Brown’s seriocomic novel Addie Pray. (Although Brown set his book in the South.) Peter Bogdanovich, fresh off the one-two punch of The Last Picture Show and What’s Up, Doc?, engaged the great cinematographer László Kovács to work magic in black and white. Together they made a serious comedy, one whose imagery bears comparison to the 1930s photographs of Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans. It concerns Ryan O’Neal’s bunco expert — he cons widows with Bibles engraved in the names of their late husbands — and the precocious orphaned brat (Tatum O’Neal) he’s trying to take to her aunt’s house against her will.

Along the way they encounter such examples of period Americana as a bootlegger and his Sheriff twin (John Hillerman) and an outrageous whore (Madeline Kahn) and her adolescent maid (the astonishing P.J. Johnson). Kahn is so good she lifts the movie into the stratosphere, and the hillside scene in which she pleads with Addie for a brief shot at happiness should have won her the Academy Award. That it went to Tatum, whose performance was coaxed from her by Bogdanovich and patched together by the movie’s editor, Verna Fields, must have driven Kahn mad.

The director’s then-wife, Polly Platt, did the superb production and costume design. The movie’s title was suggested to Bogdanovich by Orson Welles after seeing the film, a nod to the period Arlen-Harburg song (Say it’s only a paper moon/ Sailing over a cardboard sea…) that accompanies the main titles. It also inspired the famous poser image.


Text copyright 2013 by Scott Ross