hunny miss (aka lets fead him to the gators) (ehs_wildcats) wrote,
hunny miss (aka lets fead him to the gators)

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Me and Orson Welles post

From Vue:

LOL... somehow I managed to hit enter way before I was done with this post. I've got more to add to this so hang on guys and I'll update.

ETA: A company called Fluid Mastering twittered this:

A few reviews/articles:

Michael Coveney

By an odd coincidence, I’d been reading Simon Callow’s second volume of his Orson Welles biography when I was invited to a BAFTA screener of the new film, Me and Orson Welles, released here in December.

It’s a fascinating and very well acted movie, directed by Richard Linklater, which tells the story of a young high school student, played by Zac Efron, who gets caught up in Welles’s famous 1937 Mercury Theatre production of Julius Caesar and falls in love with one of the secretarial staff, played by Claire Danes, who is plotting her next career move.

The performance of Welles himself (the boy genius was twenty-two at the time) by Christian Mackay is quite astounding — gravid and authoritative, sensual and mercurial — but above all, this is a great film about the theatre.

Maybe Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York was more cinematically challenging in Philip Seymour Hoffman’s portrait of a disintegrating theatrical director entrapped in his own Pirandellian creation, but not since Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney “putting on a show” in Babes in Arms has there been such a purely enjoyable film about the theatrical process.

And British actors sare notably well fetaured. Ben Chaplin is wonderful as a doubting George Colouris, swept along on Welles’s ego as he nervously prepares to play Antony to the director’s Brutus; Eddie Marsan is John Houseman, Welles’s Mercury Theatre co-director; Kelly Reilly is a sexy Portia (you can just tell she’s slept with Welles, says Cinna the Poet) told to remove all her jewellery at the final rehearsal; and Leo Bill plays Cinna, brilliantly, like an anxious younger cousin of John Turturro.

Our own Dick Pope is director of photography, Jools Holland is responsible for the big band music and Janie Dee pops up in one little scene as Zac Efron’s mother.

But the main business is the recreation of this modern-dress Caesar, with its bare stage, daring lighting plot, backstage squabbles and notable mis-en-scene, for instance the assassination of Caesar as a human pass-the-parcel along a diagonal of daggers-drawn conspirators until he ends up in Welles’s downstage arms: “Et tu, Brute.”

One detail missing from the story, beautifully recounted in Callow’s first Welles tome, which has a whole chapter devoted to the production, is the intervention of the New York Post critic John Mason Brown suggesting they end the play with Antony’s eulogy for Brutus. And do you know what? They followed the critic’s advice!
For this was a “themes from” Julius Caesar, a cut-up Caesar, if not a cut-price Caesar, long before Charles Marowitz started re-packaging the Bard, but not long after several other modern dress, modern fascism, interpretations; Welles was no great innovator.

Many key characters were cut from the play, but no-one crucial. I nearly fell off my chair this morning when I read a review in the Telegraph of the RSC’s new Twelfth Night which makes no mention of Viola, or the actress who plays her.

How brilliant and radical that production must be, I thought to myself, until I saw that Richard Wilson was playing Malvolio; and that sounds like a surprise-free performance you can imagine in almost every particular before you see it.

Welles may have cut Lepidus and several other minor roles, and once left “To be, or not to be” out of Hamlet, partly to epater le bourgeois; but I doubt if he’d have cut Viola from Twelfth Night, even in the truncated form he produced as a student.

Another thing you get from the film is the manner in which Welles rode roughshod over his collaborators, rather like Brecht did, and, to a lesser extent, Ken Campbell.

These charismatic and impatiently proactive theatre makers saw nothing in the creation of their work, or in other peoples’ part in it, except the end result, so that even their own substantial egos are somehow subsumed in the greater cause.

In Welles’case, of course, as Callow makes so abundantly clear in his second volume, the cause was in actual fact an expression of the ego in the first place. But it is a fact that nothing stupendous happens in the theatre without such flagrancy. Or such a personality.


This one was from last year, but I don't remember posting it and somehow (possibly Twitter?) it surfaced again.

Moving Image Source
Jonathan Rosenbaum

“A writer’s reputation,” Lionel Trilling once wrote, “often reaches a point in its career where what he actually said is falsified even when he is correctly quoted. Such falsification—we might more charitably call it mythopoeia—is very likely the result of some single aspect of a man’s work serving as a convenient symbol of what other people want to think. Thus it is a commonplace of misconception that Rousseau wanted us to act like virtuous savages or that Milton held naive, retrograde views of human nature.”

Although Orson Welles is rightly regarded as someone whose creative work partially consisted of his own persona, he remains unusually susceptible to mythmaking of this sort. This is because he often figures as someone who both licenses and then becomes the scapegoat for vanity that isn’t entirely—or even necessarily—his own. Quite simply, many of those (especially males) who obsess on the “meaning” of “Orson” are actually looking for ways to negotiate their own narcissism and fantasies of omnipotence.

It’s part of the special insight of Richard Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles, which premiered last month at the Toronto International Film Festival, to perceive and run with this aspect of the Welles myth, which is already implied in its title. This energetic and entertaining movie, which still lacks a U.S. distributor, was scripted by the couple Holly Gent Palmo and Vincent Palmo, closely adapting a 2003 novel by Robert Kaplow about a teenage boy in 1937 who joins Welles’s legendary Mercury Theatre stage production of Caesar in the minor part of Lucius. This was a modern-dress, bare-stage presentation celebrated for the conceit of making Shakespeare’s characters contemporary Italian fascists, and for employing “Nuremberg” lighting.

The film is greatly assisted by much research into the original stage production and a very adroit impersonation of the young Welles by English actor Christian McKay. And even though it is limited both as history and as Welles portraiture, it remains wholly on target in suggesting some of the motives for Welles mythopoeia. Thus one of the key scenes depicts the liberated vanity of the Mercury Theatre players that immediately follows the triumph of the opening night performance, as reflected in their idle chatter while they bask onstage in their victory. Indeed, the same euphoric self-regard can be found in virtually all of the film’s young characters, including a writer (Zoe Kazan) befriended by the hero who isn’t part of the Mercury troupe; in every case but hers, Welles is basically the magical force that unleashes and validates everyone’s egotism.

Despite the fact that the movie celebrates collective effort, and benefits a great deal from its own version of it, self-regard is the main dish on display, and Welles is credited as both the chef and the narcissistic role model. In fact, the “me” that appears first in Me and Orson Welles also appears last in the story, long after the Welles character has evaporated into legend.

Kaplow’s novel is also clearly attuned to this particular aspect of Welles-fixation; on the book’s second page, Richard Samuels, the teenage hero, is already gazing into a mirror and comparing himself to Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, and Fred Astaire (a conceit that the film’s casting of teenage heartthrob Zac Efron in the part makes halfway plausible). But Kaplow complicates and muddles matters somewhat with some of his ethnic details—most notably, by making his Richard Jewish and then having Welles improbably call his Jewish set designer Samuel Leve a “credit-stealing, son-of-a-bitch Jew” after the latter complains about not getting credit for his work in Caesar’s program, which leads Richard to leap to Leve’s defense.

The screenwriters, however, omit virtually all of the novel’s Jewish details (including even the character of Marc Blitzstein, who composed Caesar’s incidental music), and given the particular story Linklater has in mind, this simplification actually clarifies the proceedings. The credit dispute remains in the story, but without the intervention of either anti-Semitism or Richard—whose own battle with Welles crops up later.

Welles mythopoeia may help to explain why the least researched of all Welles biographies, David Thomson’s Rosebud—that is to say, the one most invented out of whole cloth—is commonly regarded by nonspecialists as the best, presumably meaning the most apt and insightful even while it imputes various failings to the man (including racism, classism, and declining productivity) that have no demonstrable basis in fact. Two characteristically unsupported sentences in Rosebud: “There is sometimes a perilous proximity of old-fashioned racial stereotype and yearning sympathy” (posited in Welles’s affection for some black people and black music) and “Welles...always liked his revolutionaries to be sophisticated and well-heeled” (an assertion refuted by the Brazilian fishermen and communists he insisted on hanging out with in 1942, to the consternation of some “well-heeled” government officials and studio spies).

But because Thomson is clever enough to know what some people want to believe about Welles as well as what they prefer to ignore, the falsity of his portrait “rings true” according to the myth, and for many people it continues to hold water. To some extent, Kaplow seems to be banking on a similar trait in his own readers.

By his own account, Kaplow’s hero, Richard Samuels, grew out of his efforts to imagine Arthur Anderson, the young lute player who appeared in a famous photograph of the Welles stage production, increasing his age by about three years so that his fictional counterpart could become Welles’s romantic rival. Correspondingly, Kaplow’s curiosity about what gave Welles’s fascist Caesar its political resonance and impact in 1937 is minimal, so that one may be left wondering, in spite of his and Linklater’s meticulous recreations, why the production proved to be such a smash success. (John Houseman’s memoir Run-through, clearly used as a major resource, conveys this period flavor much better.) And the film also sometimes reverts to standard-issue shorthand in establishing late-Depression atmosphere—such as employing a pastiche of Benny Goodman’s famous January 16, 1938, Carnegie Hall performance of “Sing, Sing, Sing,” perhaps the single most overused emblem of swing music employed in American movies. (The second most overused emblem, Duke Ellington’s “Solitude,” is also used.) More generally, it gives us the attributes of a young Welles that might inspire a teenager’s envy and imagination while omitting many of the other traits that would complicate this scenario.

There’s general agreement that Welles was self-absorbed. But one way of distinguishing mythopoeia from biography is whether or not his other distinguishing traits—such as his compulsive self-criticism (which could sometimes be even more severe than the charges of his detractors) and his desire to compensate for his self-absorption with certain forms of charm and generosity—are factored into the portrayal.

Me and Orson Welles (film and novel) is intermittently attentive to the latter but completely oblivious to the former, offering a Welles who insists on being called a genius and refuses any form of self-criticism. It also depicts him as a man who could nurse serious grudges over minor challenges to his authority—something my own research has failed to turn up. But insofar as Welles continues to be a shining beacon for the self-regard of others, the portrait hits a mythological bull’s-eye.


Three slightly peripheral (to Zac and/or MAOW) articles I will just link to: - "Orson Welles says, 'It was like this..'"

Guardian UK - "The most glorious film failure of them all"

David Thomson on Orson Welles
Tags: articles, interviews, linklater, me and orson welles, reviews: maow, videos
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