Citizen Kane (1941) ***

(This is my contribution to the CMBA’s Fabulous Films of the 1940s Blogathon. For more contributions check out this link: http://clamba.blogspot.com/)

What can be said here that hasn’t already been said about director Orson Welles’ masterpiece, Citizen Kane (1941)? Probably nothing.  It is, after all, considered by countless critics to be the greatest film ever made.  As indicated by my three out of four star rating, I obviously do not share that opinion.  However, as a student of film I know that Citizen Kane is one of the most important movies ever made.  The complete destruction of narrative continuity and cinematographic “rules” demands that this film be recognized as the creator of modern cinema. 

Welles was only twenty-four when he starred in, co-wrote, and directed Citizen Kane; his first feature film. His innovative stage and radio productions with the Mercury Theatre group propelled him into the national spotlight—particularly after the infamous The War of the Worlds broadcast caused panic across America.  He was courted by Hollywood and eventually RKO landed him. Never having helmed a motion picture in his life, he was given complete and absolute freedom to make two films of his choosing for the studio.  That was a lot of power to give to such a young and inexperienced director—especially one with an ego the size of Texas.  As such, many RKO studio executives were plagued by chronic migraines throughout the entire production.

Of course, it didn’t help that the script crafted by Welles and Herman J. Mankiewicz mimicked (and some would say lampooned) the life of one of the most powerful men in America: William Randolph Hearst. Was Charles Foster Kane a thinly veiled stand-in for the real-life publishing magnate? If you believe Welles, the answer is no. He once wrote that the “only purely Hearstian element in Citizen Kane” was Kane’s publishing machinations regarding the orchestration of  the onset of the Spanish American War.  Yet, Mankiewicz had been a frequent guest at countless Hearst parties and was friends with members of the family, so he certainly had some insight into the Hearst world. And, any truly unbiased person (or one who had no fear of being sued for libel) can see many parallels between Kane and Hearst.  Surely Kane’s Xanadu was a stand-in for Hearst’s La Cuesta Encantada, and while Marion Davies was obviously more talented than Susan Alexander (Dorothy Comingore), they were nonetheless paramours who had their careers advanced by two powerful men.  If you’re interested in delving into this more, might I suggest you read John Evangelist Walsh's, Walking Shadows: Orson Welles, William Randolph Hearst, and Citizen Kane.

Whatever one might think about the Hearst/Kane debate, there is no denying that the complex narrative style used by Welles and Mankiewicz was completely original and totally reshaped the views of generations of screenwriters.  Flashback was nothing new for cinema, but Citizen Kane was told in such a non-linear style, employing both flashbacks and flashforwards as well as quick-swipe montages, that it revolutionized screenwriting.  At one moment a character is young and spry and in the next frame they are old and frail.  There is no explanation of this rapid transition—it is the viewer’s job to put the pieces together.

Which brings me to my favorite thematic element in the film: the jigsaw puzzle. From the moment Kane’s infamous last word, Rosebud, is uttered Citizen Kane becomes a mystery.  Who or what is Rosebud is what sets the story in search of those who knew Kane best, and allows Welles to employ his own unique storytelling vision. Of course, no one knows the answer.  Charles Foster Kane was a jigsaw puzzle that was missing at least one piece, and so no one could really know or solve him.  While I won’t spoil the mystery for those who haven’t seen this, I will say that I often cite this plot device to students as one of the most important in modern narrative development. 

Finally, no discussion of Citizen Kane would be complete without mentioning the brilliant cinematography of Gregg Toland and the cinematic techniques employed by Welles.  Using the Chiaroscuro method of using high-contrast lighting against backlighting, as well as low-key lighting, created an enigmatic and larger-than-life feel to the film and its main character.  High-angle and low-angle shots, along with deep focus, were used in such unique ways that countless books have been written and film seminars still study them in great depth today.  Two particular scenes are stand outs: the showdown between Kane and Leland (Joseph Cotton) after his election loss and the mirror shot at Xanadu.  Toland  had a trench built into the floor to capture his low-angle shots of the dissolution of Kane and Leland’s friendship.  And, Roger Ebert and I agree that the most evocative shot in the movie is “the shot showing an infinity of Kanes reflected in mirrors as he walks past” at Xanadu.  Those multiple reflections (with no hint of a camera anywhere) is one of the most brilliant visual images I have ever seen in a movie (this was before CGI). 

Perhaps I haven’t said anything new about Citizen Kane here; I don’t profess to have any new insights into Welles’ vision or Toland’s masterful cinematography. All I can say is this: Citizen Kane is one of the most important films ever made.  No, it didn’t win a Best Picture Oscar or rake in huge receipts at the box office (it actually took a loss), but it revolutionized the art of filmmaking—and for that it should be appreciated and watched. 

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The Not So Magnificent Ambersons (1942) **1/2

 

(For a detailed examination of the now infamous saga of the making of this film please visit Jim Lane's Cinedrome—it is a long read but highly educational and entertaining.)

If you enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington you will be disappointed with the 1942 film version.  There, I got that out of the way right off the bat.  Dense and at times verbose, the novel is a nostalgic look at the end of the Nineteenth Century.  We read about a world on the cusp of urban sprawl and the advent of something called the horseless carriage (today we refer to it as the automobile).  One family, the Ambersons/Minafers, represents the antiquated Nineteenth Century viewpoint; while another family, the Morgans, symbolize the forward-looking progressiveness of the Twentieth Century. I can’t really fault Orson Welles’ adapted screenplay for falling short—the book is over 700 pages, so it was a monumental task—but I can’t deny that there is a big disconnect between the film and the novel.  Who knows, perhaps it was the absolute ludicrous happy ending that was tacked on at the film’s conclusion that makes me uncomfortable.  I suspect this is one of the many reasons so many people revere Gone with the Wind (1939)—it stays true to the book’s ending.  Nevertheless, while I’m not a huge fan of The Magnificent Ambersons narrative, I do believe the overall production has many things to admire.

The set designs, particularly the ones at the Amberson mansion, are spectacular. Rightly nominated for an Academy Award for Best Art Direction, the mansion set was constructed like a real house, where walls could be manipulated in such a way so that a camera could appear to seamlessly pass through them in one continuous take. The now famous ballroom sequence showcases the artistic brilliance of both the set designers’ and Welles’ virtuosity.  Employing his love of deep focus and high angles, Welles (along with his Oscar nominated cinematographer Stanley Cortez) did something unheard of in 1942—he attempted to capture one continuous scene for several minutes without a cut/edit.  Later filmmakers, such as Luchino Visconti and Alexander Sokurov would pay homage to Welles with their respective films The Leopard (1963) and Russian Ark (2002). In addition to the ballroom scene, there are countless ingenious shots captured on the mansion’s multi-tiered staircases and long hallways.  While Welles could never make up completely for the the film’s narrative deficiencies, his visual artistry is still a marvel to watch.

One of the many reasons The Magnificent Ambersons fails to completely deliver a rewarding cinematic experience is that there aren’t any likable characters (sans, perhaps, Lucy).  In the book, you root for Isabel (Dolores Costello) and Eugene (Joseph Cotton) and feel somewhat sorry for Lucy (Anne Baxter) and Fanny (Agnes Moorehead).  In the movie you find yourself searching for chemistry between Isabel and Eugene and you absolutely detest Fanny and George—of course, this is the one thing that Welles got right: George Minafer (Tim Holt) was an unlikable character in both the novel and in the film.  At least in the book he gets his true comeuppance, whereas in the film he is given a most undeserved happy ending.  Still, the strange maliciousness that Welles’ instills in Moorehead’s Fanny is hard to reconcile with how the character is portrayed in the novel, which is more pathetic than anything.  Somehow Moorehead received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress, but I can’t say why, except that she makes the viewer thoroughly loathe her character. Overall, most of the actors look like they are sleepwalking through the film.

Perhaps I’m being a bit harsh when it comes to the acting. What actor could be viewed as at the top of their game when more than an hour of the original film was edited out and additional scenes were inserted and tacked on to pull everything together?  It also doesn’t help that the actors found themselves shot in what can only be described as uneven lighting.  It is obvious what shots Welles and Cortez are responsible for and what scenes were reshoots helmed by stand-in director Robert Wise.  There is a subtle way to use light and shadow and then there is an overbearing (but still flat) way of using these devices.  There are several scenes where you just ask yourself why is the picture shot in such dark tones—are they trying to cover something up? 

Overall, The Magnificent Ambersons is a study in conflicting styles.  Its would-be greatness is dramatically diminished by haphazard editing—you just can’t cut 131 minutes down to 88 minutes and expect it to work.  Still, there are glimmers of cinematic brilliance in the production design, and these alone save the film from complete infamy.

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The Lady from Shanghai (1948) **1/2

(The following review is a collaboration between guest contributors Rick29 and  Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.) 

After saving a beautiful woman from three would-be attackers, Michael O'Hara (Orson Welles) is offered a job by the woman, Elsa (Rita Hayworth). Although apparently disappointed that she is married to a prominent defense attorney, Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane), Michael agrees to pilot her husband's yacht. At sea, Michael not only witnesses the rather unusual relationship between husband and wife, he also meets Bannister's law partner, George Grisby (Glenn Anders). Grisby makes a peculiar offer: the lawyer is planning on faking his death, and he wants Michael to confess to the "murder," so that Grisby can collect the insurance reimbursement. Michael agrees, because by this time, he and Elsa have started an illicit affair, and he needs the money so that they can leave together. The stage is set for various double crossings and multiple plot twists!

The Lady from Shanghai is clearly a film about control, or the lack thereof. From the beginning, it seems, Elsa is controlling Michael. She draws him in with her beauty, and although he initially appears upset that Elsa is married, Michael still accepts the job offered by Mr. Bannister. Does he need to money? Perhaps. But the audience (and Elsa) knows why he really wanted to go sailing. Elsa controls everyone, and by extension, she controls everything. Elsa manipulates all three men and has them playing against one another. For example, one could maintain that she kissed Michael knowing full well that Grisby would see them. One of the movie's best lines belongs to Elsa (when first offering the job to Michael): "I'll make it worth your while." This is the essence of Elsa. Would a man do something he didn't want to simply because she asked him to do it? Most likely, yes. And there's absolutely no question as to what she's referring, by the breathy and seductive manner in which she speaks the line.


Elsa even controls the camera. One scene in particular is a great example of her visual control. Elsa is lying on the ship's deck with Grisby sitting nearby, and Bannister is discussing money with Michael. While Bannister is talking, the shot lingers on Elsa as she hands her cigarette to Grisby and asks him to light it (for the audience, her dialogue dominates and momentarily overrides Bannister). Another shot shows Michael lighting the cigarette, and then a crane shot follows the smoldering cigarette from Grisby to Elsa, who indifferently puffs away. Michael desires Elsa, Bannister is speaking about money and happiness but seems to be alluding to his beautiful wife, and retrospectively, it's known that Grisby is planning on killing Bannister for Elsa. Three men -- three fools -- all controlled by the magnetic woman dreamily staring at the sky. Likewise, the shots of Elsa lying on the deck and posing on the rocks are seductive images. Grisby spies on her, and Michael watches her, too. The two men cannot look away.

The theme of "control" is intriguing. Welles wrote the screenplay (with a small credit for the story and novel), produced, and directed. He also famously had his wife cut and dye her trademark red hair. So while Hayworth's character was in total control on the screen, Welles wielded it behind the scenes -- until the studio took it away. Welles had trouble maintaining control of his films after Citizen Kane (1941). The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) was completely recut without his consent, as was The Lady from Shanghai. Welles' original cut was reportedly 150 minutes, so that means there's an hour of missing footage. The studio reeling Welles in was quite possibly beneficial, as it is difficult to imagine the film at two hours, let alone in excess of that. As Alfred Hitchcock once said: "The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder."
 
Welles' films always benefit from rich characters, and The Lady from Shanghai is no exception. Ironically, the most sympathetic character may be Bannister. He knows Elsa is bad (he starts to tell the story of how they met... but cuts it short) and know that he's under her control. He's even willing to pimp for her; isn't that what he's doing when he goes to the docks to hire Michael? He's willing to let her cheat on him, as evidenced by stating that he doesn't mind that Michael loves her (and he likely means "love" in the physical sense). All he asks is that she stay with him, which makes him sympathetic or pathetic or both?


Then again, it's a fairly sad lot of people from which to find sympathy. Bannister seems to accept things the way they are, and he deals with life as it comes along. This is in contrast to Michael, who constantly looks ahead, hoping for everything to turn out one way but knowing it'll likely go somewhere else. I think the most unsympathetic person might be Grisby. Any type of control he has or thinks he has is highly evident, because he acts in the manner of a child, especially in the scene with Michael on the boat and Elsa is on the rocks. He also sweats incessantly, so perhaps Welles wanted the audience to view him as the "greasy" character. But, at the very least, Grisby is honest with himself. Michael wants Elsa, but he has to find excuses to be with her. Elsa would lie in a blink if it meant self-preservation. Grisby is transparent: he is greedy, he is jealous of Michael, and he wants Elsa, too. He doesn't try to hide his intentions or present himself as anything other than the greasy weasel that he is.

Orson Welles was perhaps a better director than actor. While he's very good in Touch of Evil (1958), he was too exaggerated as the evil cop, and even in Citizen Kane, he hams it up. Although, he was always theatrical because of his work on radio, in which voice is the most important tool (it's similar to the theatre, where an actor has to overdo it a bit because he/she has to project the voice). Welles is sometimes too theatrical, but Michael in Shanghai is underplayed to great effect. Michael is a brooding man and an emotional punching bag. With a lack of presence, he's really only there for Elsa to unload upon. In short, he's the complete opposite of other Welles' characters, like Quinlan in Touch of Evil and Charles Foster Kane. Rita Hayworth gives a smashing, memorable performance, and she and Welles are complemented by the supporting cast, especially Sloane (who played an equally cynical employer in 1956's Patterns, scripted by Twilight Zone creator/narrator Rod Serling).

Though it's easy to see why The Lady from Shanghai is a cult film, it's undoubtedly flawed. Even at 90 minutes, it's an indulgent film, sometimes quirky just for the sake of it -- such as the over-the-top courtroom scene with Bannister cross-examining himself. Welles gives himself the best dialogue, though everyone has a memorable line or two. Technically, it alternates between shoddy (some of the rear screen shots) and dazzling (the location scenes in San Francisco, the incredible mirror hall climax). But one thing is clear: it's not an easy film to forget!

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