Cahiers du cinema 11

8/18/2019 Cahiers du cinema 11

1/68

No

cahiers du

in english

Orson

Weller

lngtn r

Bergman

Alain

essua

Robert Flaherty

8 6 1 25


2/68

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on

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story by Ambrose Bierce,

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A spell-binding drama of a condemned man-

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incredible denouement.

CONTEMPORARY FILMS , INC.

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Y. 10001


3/68

c hiers u

Luis

Bunutl: Belle tit

j our

Hhtrine Qe.

ntU\

t

Grnevirve Page.

in nglish

Number

11

September 1967

ORSON

WELLES

AND JACK

FALSTAFF

Welles

on

Falstaff, Interview

by

Juan

Cobos

and

Miguel Rubio

(

CdC 179, June

1

966

) .

5

Welles in Power,

by

Serge

Daney

(CdC 181, Aug

1966

)

16

The Other Side,

by

Pierre Duboeuf (CdC 181, Aug 1966)

18

Jack le Fataliste,

by

Jean-Louis Comolli (CdC 181, Aug

1966

)

20

Sacher

and

Mosoch,

by

Jean

Narboni

(CdC 181, Aug

1966

)

22

lNGMAR

BERGMAN (

CdC

188, Mar

1967

)

The

Serpent s

Skin,

by

lngmor Be r

gman

24

The P

ha

ntom

of

Personality,

by Jean

-

Louis

Comolli

30

ALAIN

JESSUA (CdC

188

,

Mar 1967

)

Meeting with Aloin Jessuo,

by

Michel

Delahoye

36

SADOUL-FLAHERTY

A

Flaherty

Mystery,

by Georges

Sodoul

46

CAHI

ERS

CRITIQUES

Bresson: Balthazor,

by

Rene Gilson (CdC 182, Sept 1966) 54

Lewis: Three on a Couch,

by Jeo

n-Louis Comolli (CdC 186, Jon

1967

)

57

Groulx:

Cat

in the Sock,

by Jacques

Levy (CdC

187

, Feb

1967

)

59

Goldman: Echoes

of

Silence,

by

Jean-Claude Biette (CdC

11?8

, Mar 1967) 60

ODDS AND ENDS

Council

of

Ten (C

dC 185,

Dec

1966

)

4

Luis

Bunuel's 'Belle

de Jour

'

4

Editor's Eyrie,

by

Andrew

Sarris 62

CAHI ERS DU

CINEMA IN ENGLISH,

PRINTED

MONTHLY

Administrative ond

Subscription

Office: 635 Madison Ave., N. Y., N.

Y.

10022, USA

Editorial Office: 303

West 42nd

St.,

N.

Y.,

N. Y.

10036

Publisher: JOSEPH WEILL

Ed itor-in-Chief: ANDREW SARRIS

Monoging Editor: JAMES STO LLER

Contributing

Editor:

RA

LPH

BLASI

Tran

slator:

JANE P

EASE ROBERT STEELE

P

hoto

Acknowledgement: French Film

Office

, Museum of

Modern

Art

Porent

Pub lication: CAHIERS

DU

CINEMA. Revue

mensuelle du Cinema. Administrotion·Publicit6

8

rue

Marbeuf, Paris 8 Redaction: 5. Clement·Marot, Paris 8. Comiti de redaction: Jacques Donioi-Volcroze,

Daniel Filipocci, Jean·luc Godard,

Pierre

Kosi, Jacques Rivette, Roger

Therond,

Francois

Truffout.

Redacteurs en

chef:

Jean-louis Comol li,

Jean·louis

Ginibre. Mise en pages: Andrea Bureau. Secretariat:

o c ~ u e s

Bontemps, Joon·Andri fi e

schi. Documentation: Jean-Pierre Biesse.

Sicnitoire

general:

Jean

Hohman

Space Soles

R

epresen

ta tive:

C·l

A

ssociates, 9

Morton

St., N.

Y

., N. Y.

10014,

AL S 4n1

U.S. i s t r i b u t i o n ~

Eastern

News Distributors, Inc.,

155

West 15th St., N. Y., N.

Y.

10011. All

rights

reserved. Copyri

g ht 1967 by

Cohiers

Publishing Company.


4/68

LE

CO

NSElL DES DIX ouncil of ten

)

COTATIONS (Ratings) Inutile

de se

d eranger (No use bothering)

*a voir a Ia rigueur (see if necessary)

a

voir (see)

*** a voir absolume

nt

(see absolutely)

****

chef-d'oeuvre (masterpiece)

Michel Jacques

Jean-Lou

is Albert

Jean M

chel

Jean-

Andre

Michel

Jean

Georges

Aubriant

Bontemp

s Bory

Cervon

l

Collet

Delahaye

Flesch

Mardore

Narbon

i

Sadoul

(Candide)

(Cahie

r

s)

(Arts)

Fra nce

(Telerama) (Cahiers)

Ca

hiers)

(

Pari

scope)

(Cahiers)

(les Lettres

Nouvelle

)

Francaises

)

La Prise de pouvoir par Louis

XIV (Rossellini)

***

***

*** ****

**** ****

***

***

**

Le

Chat

dans

le

sac

Cat

in

the Sack) (Gi lle

s Grou

lx)

***

*

*** **** ***

***

**

***

**

Torn Curtain (Alfred Hitchcock)

** ****

* *

***

****

***

***

~

*

Cul-de-sac {Roman

Polanski)

** ****

***

• ***

*

**

*

***

Du courage pour chaque jour (Kazdy

den

odvahu)

(

Eva ld

Schorm)

* **

**

*** **

***

*

**

*

Le

Deuxieme Souffle (Jean

-P

ierre

Melville)

***

•

¥¥**

¥¥**

*

'

•

• ***

•

*

Les

Coeu

rs verts (Edoua rd

Luntz)

*

**

** * **

*

*

* **

War

and Peace II (Natacha) (Serge Bondartchouk)

* * *

*

•

*

The Bible (John Huston)

• • * ** • **

*

• **

Le

Voleuse (Jean Chapot)

•

• • ***

**

• •

** *

Alvarez Kelly (Edward Dmy tryk)

*

• •

**

•

*

•

•

*

L Esp

i

on (The

Defector) (R

ao

ul Levy)

*

• * * *

* • •

•

•

One

Million

BC (Don

Chaffey)

** • • • *

•

*

•

Hitler (S

tuart

Heisler)

• • •

*

**

• * •

•

The Russians Are Coming (Norman Jewison)

•

• *

•

•

•

Tonnerre sur 'Ocean lndien (Sergio Bergonzelli)

•

•

•

Les

Enquiquineurs (Roland Quignon)

•

•

•

•

La Nuit des adieux (Je an Dreville)

•

•

• •

Othello (Stuart Burge)

•

• • • • •

•

Soleil Noir (Denys

de La

Patelliere)

•

•

• • • • •

•


5/68

Welles on ~ a s t a f f

nterview rvith

Orson

lles


6/68

Orson Welles: Falstaff Orson Welles


7/68

QUESTION-In the

reading,

the

sce-

nario

of

alstaff

seemed

much

Jess trag.ic

than

the film

that it

bas become •

ORSON WELLES-Yes, oow ir

is a

very

s

ad

story.

Perhaps that

is a mis-

take on

my

part. Moreover

I find

the

film

funnier

in

English

than

io

Spanish.

The Spanish version is

very

well done,

but there were

difficulties io

translating

the

jokes. In any case my character is

less

funny than

I had hoped.

But

the

more

I

srudied the pan, the l e ~ s

funny

it appeared to me. This problem pre

occupied me

during

the entire

shooting.

I

played the role three

times

on

the

stage

before

filming

it,

and Falstaff

appeared to me

more witty

than fun-

ny. I

don t

th ink very highly

of

those

moments in

which I am

only

amusing. t seems

t

me that Falstaff

is a man

of

wit

rather than

a clown.

I directed

everything, played

eve

ry

·

thing,

in

the perspective of the

last

scene.

So that the

relationship berween

Falstaff

and

the

Prince

is

no longer the

s

impl

e comic

one that one

finds

in

Shakespeare s

Hettry

V Part I

t

is a

foretelling, a

preparation for th

e tragic

ending. The

farewell

scene is. foretold

four

times in

the film

The

death

of

the Prin

ce,

the

King

in his castle,

the

death of Hotspur, which

is

that of

Ch

ivalry,

the poverty and

illness of Fal-

staff,

are presented

throughout

the

en

tire

film and must darken

it. I

do not

beli

eve that

comedy

should dominate

in

such a film.

Yet

Falstaff representS a

positive spirit, io many respeCtS cour-

ageous,

aod even when be

makes

fun

of

his cowardice. He is a man

who

representS a vi rtue in the process

of

di

s .

appearing. He wage

s a struggJe

lost

in

advance. I

don t

believe be is

~ k i n g

anything.

He

represents

a va

lu

e;

he

is

goodnes;.

He

is

the character

in

whom

I believe

the

most,

the most entirely

good man

in all

drama.

His faults

are

trivial

and

he makes the

most

enor-

mous jokes from

them

. . . His good

ne

ss

is

like bread

,

like wine. That

is

why

I

lost th

e comic

side

of

his char-

acter

a

littl

e;

the more

I

played him,

the more

I felt

that

I represented good-

ness,

purity.

The film speaks

too of the terrible

price

that

the

Princ

e

must

pay

in

ex-

change

for

power. In the historical

writ

ings, there is that

balancing

berween the

triangle

(

th

e

king

,

his son, and

Falstaff,

who

is a

kind of

foster

father)

aod

the other plot, that

of

Horspur

,

which

is

much

longer and intricately con-

structed, and

very

interesting. I t keeps

the triangle from dominating the sima

cion.

But in the

film,

which was made

essentially in

order to tell the

srory

of

that

triangle, there

are

necessarily ele-

ments that cannot have the same exist-

ence as in the original

works.

In the

face

of

Falstaff,

the

king

repr

ese

nt

s

re

spo

nsibility. The

interesting

thing,

in

the

story is

that the old king

is a

murderer, he has usurped

the

thron

e,

and yet be

represents

legitimacy. The


8/68

Story is extraordinary because Hal,

the

le gitimate prince, must betray the good

man co become a

hero

, a heroic

and

renowned Englishman. . . •

QUESTION - The film becomes a

kind

of lament

for Falstaff.

WELLES-Yes,

perhaps

that s true.

I

would lik

e

peopl

e

to

see

it

that wvy.

Although it was not made to be that

alone, but alro, a lament for the death

of Merrie

England

-

which

is a con

cept

, a

myth

chat was very

real for all

who speak English, and which,

to

a

certain exte

nt

was prese

nt

in other

countries in the Midd le Ages. In a gen

eral way, it was

the

age of chivalry,

of

i m p l i i t y and on on. That

which

dies is mo re than Falstaff,

th

e old Eng

land

, betrayed.

QUESTION

- The Magnificent

Am -

berson

s

too,

was

a lament for a va n

ished age

WELLES-Yes.

Not

so much for

an

age as for the sense of moral values.

that has

been

destroyed. In

the

case

of The i\ aguificeut Am bersom, they

we re destroy

ed

by

the

automobile.

In

the

case

of Falstaff there are other

s that

ar e becrayed in

th

e of power,

of

duty

, of responsibility, of national

grandeur

,

and

so on. I put a

mor

e per

sonal feeling, a deep emotion, into these

two films

than

into

the

ochers. People

think that my films are violent and

often cold; but I believe chat The Mag-

tli/ice

llf

Am bersons and Falstaff repre

sent more than

anything,

what

I

would

like to do in cinema. Whether I

have

succeeded

or

not, I

do not

know ; but

that is

the

closest

to

what I have always

wanted

to say.

QUESTION-Do you think that

there

is a difference in style between Falstaff

and your earlier .films?

WELLES - People

have

always at·

tributed a

great

deal of importance

to

the

sryle

of

my films.

Yet

I

do not

think that they are dominated by s.cyle.

I have one, I hope, or several, but I

am nor essentially a formalise. I am

most

concerned with

rendering

a mus i

cal impression. Music and

poetry, more

than merely visual imaginati

on.

The

visual aspect

of

my films is that

which

is dictated

to

me by poe

tic and

musical

forms. I

do

not

start

from forms to

try to

find a poecry or a musical rhythm

and

try to

plate

them

on to

the

film.

The

film ought on the contrary to

follow that rhythm effordessly. People

tend to think that

my first preoccupa

tion is with the visual, that only

the

visual effects

interest

me. With me

all

that comes from an inn er rhythm.

Ther

e

are

many beautiful things that I see

every day

in

this film and tbat I had

nor even tried

to do

because they bad

nothing to

do with it. I do not stroll

about like

a collector choosing lJeauti

ful images and pa>ring them together.

I consider a film as a poetic means. J

do

noc believe

that it

comperes

with

painting or choreogq•phy, bur that its

visual aspect is only -a ' ke} giving access

to

irs poetry. It does not justify itself

in itself. No film justifies itself in itself,

no matter

whether it

be

beautiful

, strik

ing, terrifying,

tender

. . . I t signifies

nothing, unless it makes poetry possible.

But

the

difficulty comes from

the

fact

that poetry

suggests things that are ab

sent, evokes more than what

you

see.

Orson Welles: The Magnificent A mbersons

8

And the d

anger in

CtDema is that,

in

using

a camera, you see everything,

everything is there.

Wh a

t one must

do

is succeed

in

evoking, in

making

things

emerge

that are not in

fact, visible,

in

br

inging about a spell. I

do

not know

whether I attained that in

Falstaff.

I

ho pe so. f so, I have reached my artis

tic maturity. f not, I

am

in decline,

believe me.

Now, I

try

co

bring about

an effect

in

films,

not

by technical

surp

r ises,

shocks, but by a ve

ry

great

unity

of

form;

th

e

true form of

cinema,

inner

form, musical form. I believe

that

one

ought to be

able to

enjoy a

ilm

with

on

e's eyes closed ; a

blind

man ought

to

be capable of enjoying a film

We

all

say The only

true

films are the silents.

But, in fact, cinema has been talking

for forty years;

ro

we ought

to

say

something in it,

and

when something

is said,

when

there is sound and music,

that ought to have re

chnically-I

speak

now,

not

of poetry, but of technique

an absolutely recognizable form, so that

one sees that everything subjects itself

co

that

form. The idea,

the per

ronal

view of

the

auteur of

the

film, ought

co rend co a unique, total form.

QUESTION-During

th

e filming of

the

battle in

Falstaff

you made shots

of

considerable

duration

and

then

you

shortened them in editing. . . .

WELLES-Yes. f you remember,

at

first I

want

ed to make brief shots, bur

I

had to

extend

them

because I realized

that the

actors

would not

give a good

performance

i f

they did not

have

some

thin

g connected

to

do . . .

One would

not have had

the

impression that they


9/68

Orson Welles:

Falstaff

Welles,

Margaret Ru

therford,

Jeanne

Moreau.

were really in the midst of fighting, i

they

had not had the tim

e

to

warm

up;

that is

why

the shots were very ex·

tended. But I

knew that

I was

going

tO

use them only in short fragments.

For example, I filmed the battle 5::enes

with a

crane that

shifted position very

quickly at g.round level, as quickly as

poss.ible,

to follow the

action.

And

I

knew exactly what I was doing to do

after

that- to cut and

edit

the

frag

ments so that

each

shot would show

a blow, a counterblow, a

blow

received ,

a

blow

s

truck

,

and

w

on

. . .

But

I

nev er thought

to

use

more

than a

short portion

of

the

field

covered by

the camera.

Now

the battle

lasts

about

two

minutes

longer

than I

had

thought

beforehand. Maybe it is

too extended;

I

do

not

know.

QUESTION-The

fi

lm was

to

begin

with the murder of Richard

II

. . .

WELLES-We had shot the scene,

bur then that did not

seem clear

enough

tO

me. Instead of explaining

the

politi

cal context, it ran the ri£.k of

con

fusing it.

Then too,

in

order tO

finish

it,

it

would

have

been necessary

to

work

on

it

for four or Jive days and

I did

not want tO

involve

the producer

in that kind of expense. It was that way

with the

debarkation of

Henry

Boling

broke, which I had also begun

tO

shoot.

It was an interesting thing, and I was

p l e ~

with that

scene,

but

I believe

that

a director

ought absolutely to

be

able co reject

some

of his shots, even

the most beautiful. To my mind, an

autettr who cannot

bear

the

idea

of

ridding himself of something, under

the pretext that

it

is beautiful, can ruin

a film.

That

a

shot

is

beautiful

is

not

enough tO

keep it.

You

remember .the

two old men walking in the snow?

.i\1arvelous

image

s

but

I

took th

em

out.

I could have been self-indulgent

and

let

the

audience see

tho

se shots. Every cine

club in

the world would

have said

How

beautiful that is " But th ey would

have

compromised the internal rhythm

of the film. One ought to be implacable

with one's own material A film is

made as much with

what

one takes

away as with

what

one joins to . it.

QUESTION-Does

it

often happen

th t

you have to sacrifice scenes?

WELLES- During the shooting I

sacrifice

what

in my opm10n will

not

work out,

because it is roo difficult,

or unnecessary

tO

the film a5 a whole,

or

boring.

I

am

very easily

bored, and

I

think that the audience may

be too.

You

cinephiles do not feel that bore

dom.

f

I were

to make

films for

those

who

love cinema essentially,

might

be

too long drawn

out. To

my

mind,

one

should

be able to tell a stOry by

cinema

more

quickly

than

by any other

means. The tendency in th ese las.c

twenty

years, especially

in the

last

ten

years,

bas

been to

go more and more

slowly, and, for the director, to

delight

in

what people

call visual ideas. For

me

one of the

strengths

of cinema is its

speed and its concentration. For ex

ample,

at the

end

of the

film,

th

ere is

a scene that is not quite the same in

Shakespeare,

when Henry

V gjves

orders

that Falstaff be s.et free,

with,

at his

back,

the two

traitOrs,

the

most relent·

less opponents of clemency. In Shake

speare the scene does

not happen

with

Falstaff, nor are the

two

men there.

Their attitude

is typical; they are poliri-

9


10/68

cal

connive

rs of

th

e

palac

e, the

et

e

rnal

palace schemers. I do not

know whether

the au

di

ence

notices this detail,

which

I

th

in k

important.

I do

not like ve

rbiage

or lose time; I

lik

e what is

concent

rated

and swift.

I

know that

I lose a gr

eat deal

that

way,

and th

at

th

e

audience

risks letting

som thin

gs pass

unob

se

rved. 1

hope

that some will see those details, and

o

ch

ers, d ifferent ones.

f

eve

rything

is

clear, precise,

th

e

fi

lm ri ks

being ve

ry

thin. 1 do

not want

to criticize

certain

con

te

mp

orary directors

wh

om people

consider

very grea

t,

but often

they

ilm

one

effect and only one. You

can

see

th e

lilm

teo

time

s; you wilL

admire

ex

actly the same thing, without discover

ing

anything

else.

I think that a film oug,ht to be

full of

things

details

that

one

does

oot

see

the

firs

.t

time.

I t

o

ught not

be

entire

ly

obvious. I

do not

Jike thin films

QUESTION

- Some

time

s

you shoot

the same scene se

veral

times, on several

days,

and

yer

yo

u scarcely

look at your

.rushes.

WELLES-Ru

shes

are no

t

important

for

me.

And

1

do not

r eally s

hoot

a n

ew

ta ke in

th

e sense in

which one und

er

stands

that in Am

erica; that s to say a

s

hot

that does not

work

for primarily

tech nical reasons.

ln

America

one doe

s

ir

most

of the tim e

for that

reason;

as

for

me, I do it because

perhap

s my

purel

y

personal work

is

not good

enou

gh. f

I r emake a scene,

that s

because

it

does nor

appear

p

erfect to

me,

and 1

can

do that only when I work in

th

e

sa

me

se

tting. I never come back co

a se

tting where 1 hav

e finished s

hooting.

T h

at

is a

lu xur

y

that

I

cannot permit

my

se

lf. But

wh

en I

hav

e

th

e same

actors

and

1

realize that

somethi

ng

does

not

come off,

it

is ben er

to

s

tart again. t

Cardona, we

did not do many

takes. be

cause I had

John

Gielgud

for only two

weeks. I kn ew wh en we felt that a

grea

t deal of

work

re

mained-which,

mo r

eover , we

did

Iacer

in

Madrid.

I

knew that

I

would

use stand-ins because

John Giclgud

played a role

that

last

ed

almost

as l

ong

as mine.

Moreov

er, Fal

srnff is

th

e

o ~ c

difficult

ro l

e

that

I

have

ever

played, and l a m still not convinced

that

I

rendered

it wd l. As an actor, I

should like tO redo th r

ee

scenes

at

least.

One must be se,•

ere with

onese

lf

,

when

one is

at

the s.ame time actor and direc

tor of a film. And as I sa id, falsraff s

a

role

char

demands an

e

normou

s

amount of

work, a very difficult role.

QUEST

I

ON-When

you

work, on

the

set

th

ere is

what one

can call a

kind of

"o rdered disorder, for exa

mple

when

yo u pass from

one

scene to another in

the same clay

of

shooting.

WELLES-There are se

ve

ral

reasons

for thar. fi rst, what seems disordered

h as in fa

ce

so

metimes a perfect logic.

For one to

ex

plain everything to the

assi

stant and to

th e

oth

ers

would

r e

quire

ten

minut

es each

time-to

say

why

one

must

move a floodlight, w hy I do th is or

Orson Welles:

lstaff

Beatrice

and

Orson Welles.

1


11/68


12/68

that. I do nor do so, and

that

is why

I seem capricious. Bur

there

are many

other reasons. Out of

doors, for

ex

ample, the position of the suo deter

mines everything, so that pass

suddenly

from one sequence co another, or

even

to a sequence char was not planned for

char day,

if

the light seems suitable co

me.

You

see, I

do not

begin co

work

saying ro

myself

Today we

will

posi

tively

make

this

or

that ~ , e q u e n c e , be

cause

if

suddenly the sunlig,ht is suit·

able

for another, and if

it

is

the

most

beautiful light in the world, rhe

only

way ro make my sequences beautiful roo,

is ro shoot at that exact moment. There

are the two technical reasons for that

ordered disorder.

On rbe other hand, it happens that

the

actors are nor at their best on

the

day planned.

You

feel

that

they

would

be anot

her

day, in another atmosphere.

Things

are nor coming off.

Then you

muse change; chat is

co

everyone's ad

vantage. When all the

lighting

is in

posicion,

co

change everything in

order

to pass to the next scene causes con

siderable Joss

of

rime, and you know

that

I

like

to

work

fast.

Therefore

I

jump about

in

the work schedule, and

I sow confusion. In the end I lose less

time;

the

disorder does nor necessarily

mean that I work slowly. I believe on

the

contrary

that

it

is desperately neces

sary to work

quickly.

QUESTI

ON-What

place do you give

to improvisation?

WELLES-In films we are always

beggars, in a way; we stand, hands out

stretched, hoping that manna will fall

from heaven. At

times

one

shoots

tbink

ipg that God will

put

something into

ope s plate; rometimes

He

does

and

then

one seizes it.

Sometimes

things

are

not

in perfect

working state

and

I shoot all rhe same.

I

do

not

think that that

makes a

great

difference. As you know I

am

in a cer

tain way a maniac, a perfectionist, but

in

many other

aspects,

not

at

all.

I al

ways leave some

things uoelaborared;

I

do not

believe chat a .film is to be

made like those

pictures

in

which people

paint the leaves

of

a tree one by one.

I can

work and work

still

more

on an

actor's playing, wair

until

everything is

perfect. Bur in general I shoot

more

quickly

and

I

am

satisfied with it. I

work much more

crudely

than

many

directors. It may be that an assistant

is still running about. That is all the

same

to

·me. I

go

ahead

. I

be

li

eve

that

that

cont

r ibutes toward keeping irs liv

i ng aspect for the film. The terrible

danger

for

a .film is co Very w -

silence-long

pause-

with all those

gesrures, - all

that

ceremony. I

try to

keep a little

of

the feel ing

of

improvisa

. tion;

of

conversation.

Ordinarily,

I have

· music on

the

set. Not here, because

I had difficulties with the technical

aspect of

the

organization, on account of

1

the

dimensions of

the

film

and the

dif

. fieulties of

my

own ro le, of

the

' costumes,

· _ and

so

on.

I

had

to be

much more

2

austere than

usual. Bur almost always,

when

I am on the set, there is music,

to

try

to make people

forget

that

they

are in the process

of

making a .film.

During the

shooting

I eliminate every

thing that

could

slow

it. On

my

films,

the sound engineer does nor have the

right

ro ask that a shot be remade.

T he

only

thing that he is

co

do, is to

catch the sound.

No

script girl,

however

good

she may be, has che r ight to speak.

If,

without speaking, she wants

to

shift

something, all

right,

but she

mus 1

never

speak. Sound,

makeup, take

an hour

every day.

f

one does

not

Jet

people

speak, one gains an hour

of

shooting.

I warn my collaborators

at

the start that

they are

not

going

to

like

the

film be

cause the>• will nor be able to do their

work

on it,

that

I will

not

lee

them

do

it. I say to rhero- Scay, but you know

that you are going to be 'second

clas.s

citizens' and that

nobody

wi

ll

ever

ask

you 'Is that all

right with

you?'

There

is

almost

no makeup in my

Jil.ms;

I do not

give

it a thing. I use it

only to change the appearance of a face

or

someone's age; otherwise, no

makeup.

In

fact, I believe chat I

was

the

firs.t

director

not to

use it.

There

is

none

in

Citizen Kane, except

for

the character

that

play. That was

the

first time,

I believe.

Perhaps

too in

The

Grapes of

W1·ath. I

think

that makeup is bad for

films. That is

what

rhe cameramen

think, roo.

f

you take a referen

dum

among all the good cameramen in the

world asking them whar they think of

makeup, I

promise

you that ninety-eight

percent

of

them will be against it. But

the

cameramen

do nor want to

cake

the

responsibiliy

of

attacking the occupation

of the makeup man. That is

why

they

do

nor

go

find

the director and

ask

him: Why all that makeup? They Jet

people go on smearing. themselves,

which is pointless.

QUESTION-Did

you

work a

long

time on your project before shooting

Falstaff?

WELLES-Yes, I did a stack

of

re

search. Besides, I

had already worked

on

that period

earlier. So I know

that

period rather well. But when you

have

done that research,

then

. . . The ele

ments

of

the research are

only a

pre

paration. You

muse nor make

museum

pieces; you must create a

new

period.

You

muse invent your own England,

your own

period,

starting from what

you have learned. The drama itself

fixes rhe

universe

in which

it is

going

to

unroll.

QUESTION-What impor

tance

do

you

give

to the

setting in

your

films?

WE L

LES-Very

much, obviously. But

a setting ought noc to appear perfectly

and

solely real. In

other terms, one

of

the

enemies of

the

.film s

the

simple

banal fact. A tree, a rock, you know,

are the same

for

the roan who takes a

family photograph on Sundays and for

us. So we must be able, thanks to the

photography,

to the lighting, and to all

chat can transform the real, to charge

it

witlt a ''charact

er,

sometimes

with

a

glamour, sometimes w ith an aruac·

tion, a myscery, that it does not possess.

In this sense, the real must be treated

like a setting. There is, too, an aesthetic

problem that

is almost never resolved in

period films. I do not know why say

a l m o ~ . t ;

I {)ught to say never in the

history of cinema,

wit

h

the

exception

of some Jilros of Eisenstein. Films

that

I do not admire particularly in them

selves but which resolved that problem.

The

external

world, the

sky with

its

clouds, the trees,

and

so

on,

have

nothing

to do

with

the

settings;

therefore it mat·

rers little whether the Jaccer are convinc·

ing, papier-mache or magnificent,

whether the

actors

are

in

period

cos

tume or nor, because then they mount

on horseback, go off coward a place dis·

closed to view and suddenly everything

is banal, modern. Sudden ly you feel

that

at

wme moment a jec p lane can

cross the sky. I do nor

know

why, but

I am always aware of the inautbenticiry

of a period,

from the

fact

that

the actors

are

in costumes

and

have a false look,

when they are in a

natural

setting. But

I believe

that that

can

be resolved,

and

I resolved it, I think, in a way in

Othello, and still more here. \Vhat I tr}'

to do is

co

see with the same eyes rhe

external

real

world

and chat

which

is

fabricated. To create a kind of unity.

You see an actor correctly wearing a

perfect costume; everyth ing is ri

ght;

he

goes out and

suddenly

it becomes a

rented cosruroe.

The

on ly films in which

that comes off are westerns and Japanes.e

films, which are like westerns because

they belong to a tradition. A thousand

samura

i films are made every year, and

a thousand westerns,

but

they are found

ed on a tradition in which costumes and

nature have

learned

to live in juxtaposi

tion, and one

can

believe them.

Bur

see,

on the contrary, in H e t ~ r y V people

leave the castle on horseback and sud

denly they meet again on a golf course

somewhere

charging

one

another; you

cannot escape it, they have entered

an·

ocher world.

QUESTION- Ten years ago, in Edin

burgh

you

said

chat

perhaps

a happr

marriage between Shakespeare and

the

screen

was possible . . .

WELLES-

When

I made that

remark.

1 was

trying

to please my audience.

That

was surely demagogy. I

had

to

give

a two-hour lecture to an

audience

that had not

liked

my

Macbeth. So one

had to make

friends

with it

and

the

first thing that I could do was to admit

chat I

agreed with

them in pare

about

Macbeth,

and

in a

way, that

was true.

That is

because, besides the period

reconstruction,

there s another

problem

'ith Shakespeare,

that

of the text, of

course. When he wrote as one did in

the time of Lope de Vega, or

rather

in

the time of

Shakespeare-because

Eng

lish s richer

from

that

point

of view

than a Latin language-he did so

for

an audience which did not see, but

which was ab le

to hear. Just

as

the


13/68

the real u t be treated like a setting. Orson Welles: FalstafF Keith Baxte r, John

Gielgud Baxter, Welles.

3


14/68

Falstaff,

Orson Welles.

cinema audience today sees everyth

ing,

bur hears nothing.

Shakespeare w

ro t

e

in that

sense,

and there

is in

what he

says a close cexrure

that

one

cannot

change.

That

is

what

can

make

him

difficult

for ch

e audience

of

coday

For example,

one

cannot expect that a

popular audienc

e

will

appreciate

in

a

ilm

the

King s

speech on sleep, unless

one is d

ealin

g with an English audience

n

English, the cexr

p o s s e s ~ e s

a

power

, a

magic

ab le to tr ansfix cwo

thousand

G.I. s

in

Vietnam. But

trans

lated into

French or

Spanish

it can

fail

irs effect completely.

Nothing can be

done about

it.

WE

LLES--What is fine, in

the

character of the

prince, is

that he is

always Falstaff s friend,

but

char

at

every

Falstaff, Jeanne Moreau , Margaret Rutherford .

moment

somet

hing ecs

one

foresee his

disgrace

WELLES--

That is

where the

funda

mental idea lies, and I have

sho

w n

it

more

clearly

than

in the theatre. :Many

theatre

cr

itics find

that

the

banishment

scene, at rhe

end of

Henry

V

part 2

is roo

much

, a

littl

e

abrupt and im p

rob

able. That is merely because the pl ay

is often badly

performed.

I hope that

in

che fi lm

people

will understand better

what the

prince

is

going

to

do, that

he

muse

betray

Falscalf . . . I

do

nor

believe

that

his speech

will

affront

th

e

audience. Of cours.e che

problem

of

th

e

language

as a

whole rema

.ios, bur hap

pi ly

the

film includes

only one

speech

of

chat kind.

One cannot

cue it

merely

on

cbe

pretext

chat

it

will nor

be effec-

rive

other than in

English. E

ven if it

is

not

a

high moment

of the film, it is

indispensable

fo

r

understanding what

is

happening

in

the mind

of

th

e prince

Perhaps

one should cut

it

in

versi

ons

other chan the English. I do nor chink

char

the rest

of

the film poses sim

ilar

problems, ac lease I h

ope

nor.

The

Spanish version is very good, the tran

s

lation and the dubbin

g are exce

ll

ent

I am

sat

isfied with it. To

return

to th e

famous speech, perhaps

i t

would be

mo re effective in

German

or in

Russian

or i n Swedish. Shakespeare translates

badly into

the L

atin

languages,

and

when one

comes to

that

speech, wha

to

do

? (

In t

erview

taped by Juan

Cobos

and Miguel Rubi

o.

With the

aurhociza

rion

of the

review

riffith

Orson Welles: Falstaff, Tony Beckley, Jeanne Moreau, Keith Baxter.

4


15/68

Orson Welles:

Falstaff

eanne Moreau Orson Welles.

5


16/68

6


17/68

1

Of

Falstaff,

\\7elles said

th

at

"He

wages a struggle lost in advance." And,

too,

"I don't

believe he is seeking

somethin

g.

H e r

ep resent

s a value;

he is goodness." That strength

and

ge

n ius

unanimously

recognized ele

brate only hopeless causes

or

majestic

downfalls, that a man

like

\\7elles,

exert·

iog an undeniable

influence

on

those

arou nd him, incarnates only the defeat

ed (disappearing, certrunly,

at

th

e

heart

of

an

impres-'\ive

machin

er

y,

but

still

worn by

li fe, betrayed

by

th eir own -

tbat

is a

very

surprisin,g thing.

Strange

malediction- that a man coo strong

can

on

ly

end badl

y.

And

yet, from Kane to

Falstaff,

from proud di

s

pla

y co bareness,

fr

om

a corpse

that

one

do

es

nor

see

to

a coffin

that

is carried, it is really the

same

s

to ry, that

of

a

mao wh

o makes

ill use

of

his

power.

Cinema tends to

recount bow

this

or

that character

(a

nd

behi

nd

him, often,

the do easte) bas

obtained

some po wer,

that

of

speaking, or

acting

, of making

a choice, and so

on.

Tho se are

perhaps

the

nobl

est films (

lik

e Le Heros

sacrilege, Le Caporal epbzgle,

or

l.e

Coe

tlr

d mze

mere), the

s

trang

e roads

on which the d oeastes

lead

the

ir

char

aCters, because

th

e

simp

lest

road

is

not

a

lwa

ys the

mo

st

natural,

because there

ace

detour

s

more

rich

than

s

traight

Hoes,

d

ef

eats

mo r

e noble than v iccories, and

so on.

The

winning

of

one's

power

aiming

at

it. me

riting it

,

sna

tching it-

is

preci

sely what Welles speaks of least.

It

is

the witches

who shape

Macbeth,

ad intuition that pushes Quinlan

forward . T he

fi

lms

of

Welles begin

where th

e

oth

ers end;

when

everything

is

wo n

,

nothin

g

more

remains

but

to

unlearn

everythi

ng

,

unto

dea

th

,

once

Quinlan, today

Falstaff.

2.

The

work of Welles, in that way

fru thful

to Shakes

pear

e, is a reflection

on the very idea of

Po w

er,

that

exces

sive freedom

that no one can follow

without

seeing in

it

, in the end, degnlda

tion and derision. Power is an evil

that

b

eing

s

l on

ly co those who do not yet

have

ir. Theirs the bold enterprises, the

efficaci

ous

and astonishing actions, the

well

contrived

plots

- men

of the

future, born

to

trample

on king.s,

to

whom it

is given, at least

once

in

their

lives, to rock

the world.

Kings

have

Welles

•

ower

y Se

rg

e Daney

o

ther

cares;

their

vicrory

is

automatically

without

prestige,

like

a repression, a

useless recall

of

the past.

Defeat

is the

on

ly

adventure which

r ema ins

for

them.

Abso

lu t

e power destr oys rea l

power,

condemns

it

co futility.

If

there is a

sense

of

the real," Musil sa id, " there

muse be also a sense

of

the possible."

And

a

little further, ' 'No doubt

God

Himself prefers to s

peak of

His creation

as

po

tentinl." In c

oo

extensive a

po

wer,

th

e

po

ssibl e

gnaws away the

real, con

demos it in advance;

one

action is never

more

necessary than

anoth

er;

good

and

evil,

in t

erchan

gea

ble, are equally

in

different. He

who

is master of the pos

sible

at

twenty,

lik

e Citizen Kane, ends

as slave ro his caprices,

surrendered

g

raduall

y to a power with

out

object or

e

cho

to an ar b

itrary

and mad activity,

u s e l e

a

nd

expensive,

which never

in

volves him completely,

but whic

h sep

arate

s him always more

and

mo re from

ochers (like

th

e career

of

a sing

er with

out a voice, or the

coll

ections heaped

up in

Xanadu). Who can do the most,

does th e leasr, or aces at

the margin

of

his

power.

Comed

y

demands

then

that

from a

prodigious

exp

endit

ur e of

power th ere results a rigorously useless

life

.

From

film

to

film,

to th

e exte

nt that

his

work

proceeds,

that

W elles ages,

the

sense of the derisory

grows stronger,

ro

the

point of

becoming th e

very

subjeCt

of th

e film

Ihe

Trial)

that

Welles

considers his best. Always,

eve

rywhere,

power

is in bad

hands.

T hose

who

possess

it

do not

know

enough

about

it

(Othe

ll

o

who

believes, ago, Macbe th

victim

of

a

play

or

words)-or

know

much

c

oo much

(

Arkadin

,

Quinlan

,

Hastier th

e l

awyer),

each

commit t

ed ro

purely

destructive actions by an excess

of

nai vete as

of

intelligence.

3. The life of

John a l ~ t a f f

is a

comme

rcial failure.

Shortly before

dy

ing,

be

observes

that his

friend-the

feeble

but prud

e

nt Robert Shal low

has been

more

successful,

and

be

prom

ises

himse

lf

co

cultivate his friendship.

No

doubt only

his

sud

den

death, which

no

one

had foreseen, spa res him the

last disillusion. Falstaff was born , not

to

receive,

but co give-without

dis

crimination

or h

ope of

return-or,

if

he

has

nothing, to

give himself

as an

corer-

truomeor. \Vel es calls

th i

s waste

the

goodness

of

Falstaff

(and

rbe l

atter· him

self remarks, "Not o

nl

y do

have

wit,

but give

i t

to ochers." Which is a

good d

efi

nition

of

genius.)

That

Fal

staff-whom

Shakespeare

bad ior

e

oded

mostly ridiculous

h

as be

co

me, imagin

ed, then inca

rnated

,

by

W e

ll

es, a mov

ing

·

characte

r is

no

t

very

s

urpri

sin

g. His

death

is not the disappearance--mysteri

ous

and legendary-of

a

Kan

e,

but th

e

drab

naked

eve

nt

in

which

one

must

read ,

although nothing

is

und

erlined ,

the end of a world. I f on e

amus

ed

one

se

lf

a

ll

th e year," says

th

e young

prince, "amu

sing

oneself would be fore·

ed labor." Of

what

is Falstaff guilty?

Nor

mu ch

of

having

i l l

used his

power, for he has scarcely any,

being

a

character

of

comedy, moreover

with

out

r

eal courage or authority.

P

er

hap

s

of having

used

without

r

estraint

speech ,

that power of parody, of ha

v

ing mad

e

from it

an

in t

errilioable histrionics, use

less and tedious, in which talent, i f

there

is any, asserts icseH

for nothing. More

certain ly s till of

having so

long survived

so

scanda

lous a

waste

of

his

energ

y (his

pu n

s

on ''was

te"

and

"wrust").

And

what

is sti

ll

more serious, victim

more

than culprit, i f he makes

i l l

use

of

his

affections roo,

when

he

c

hoo

ses as his

friend

the

very

person

who

will betray

him .

4

The work

of W e

ll

es is

singula

rl y

rich in

abuses

of tr ust The Lady from

Shanghai)

or in friendships

be t

rayed

(

Ot

hello).

T

he

s

trang.e and

scanda

lo u

s

complicity

that for some

time

links

Falstaff and the

young

prince makes

more

and

more

evident what it passes

over

in

silence, the difference

in

their

natures. Bur there

would

be no fascina

tion

between them

if each did not pre

cisely feel

th

at

they

are radically

dif

ferent, symbols of two

comp

lementary

and inimical

worlds, lik

e face

and

re

verse

of

the same coin. On

one

s

id

e,

Falstaff who lives

on

his

past

,

on

what

be

is already,

in

the

e

ntropy

of

a

fr

eedom deliberately

ruined.

On the

other, th

e f

utur

e H

enry V, who

is

nothing still, who will pe

rhap

s be a

gr

eat

king,

i f

be discovers that exact

re

lation

between

th

e

eifort

to

sup

pl

y

and the

end

co attain, th

e austerity a

nd

th e

rigor that ma k

es

po wer utilizabl

e.

17


18/68

rson

8


19/68

The

almost

monstrous egocentnclty

of th

e characters

whom

Welles,

has

in

carnated

in his past Jilms fascinated

only

because

it was accompanied by

a

more or

less

perceptible proportion of

vu ln erability.

Beyond

self-assertion, a

few scattered but

explicit signs be

trayed uneasiness and weakness; a

cer

tain

irritation

in

the movement

of his

eyebrows,

the

somedmes

extreme

ten

sion

of

his gaze, or

some

hesJtarion

in

the character s behavior,

gave

him a

pathetic

dimension

and aroused that

sense

of

fragility

that

the most instinc

tive

Strength

gives. The .flaw,

the

sensi

tive

part,

once

perceived,

the

fascina

tion was as irresistible as the first re

pulsion bad been strong.

Of

this

moral image

chat

Welles

has

bent

his

mind

to retOuch

from i lm to

film,

alstaff

offers us

the inverted

re

flection. Not chat

the

film witnesses a

change in the proceedings of Welles

or a new

orientation of

his arc, but

rather

because,

through the

same

mode

of iovesdgadon,

he makes a

kind of

moral discovery. The

primitive

s.trength

that stirr

ed

him has

lost its

cutting edge;

that

is

eno

ugh to

change

the

compon-

ents

of

his

portrait,

not

s

much

in their

respective natures as in their apportion-

meat. In the past, strength by

it

s

ob-

tuse pres.ence

crushed the underlying

virtues

of

the character;

today

devalor

ize

d, made

ridiculous, by age it lets

appear more

clearly

what was latent

and

scarcely perceptible- vulnerability

and

a ce

rtain

goodness,

the ultimate

form

chat

strength

or weakness assumes,

and which

decides

the emotional

ton-

ality

of

the Jilm.

From that, to sa

lute

in alstaff the

most accomplished Shakespearean work

of

Welles, is nor to envisage it

in

irs

specific character,

in

this special posi

tion

that the

film occupies

in

relation

t his

entire

work- a kind of corrigen

dum,

or

.rather,

of

complement, in the

sense

in

which

one

says that

two

colors

are comp

lementary, a

marginal

film

in

which

values

are

reversed as

i to make

more

explicit the rest

of

his

work

by

shedding

a new li

ght

on it.

For

ther

e is a great dist

ance between

chat

sombre shot in thello where th

e

convulsed face of Welles emerges

and

the pure

milky

whiteness

of

Falstaff,

between the wilful impetuous,

forehead

of

Kane

or of

Arkadin

and

the

full

features and the

unreserve

ting

ed

w ith melancholy

of Jack

Falstaff. In

th

e

exchange Welles has

lost his vi

sual

aggressiveness,

and

i

a

violent low-

angle shot

reapp

ears from

time

to time,

it

is

rather

as a

nosta

l

gic

recollection

of

the

past

. But he broods with a dis

quiet

like

Rembrandt s

over

his own

face,

and it

is

not

inconsequential

that

be finds th

ere

other acruoements, ac

cents. less

brilliant but more human,

which

be s

ub

s

titut

es for the dazzling

flashes

of the

past, so

that the

icy

imag

,e

of th

e

old

Kane, infinitely reflected in

the mirrors of Xaoadu,

recedes

before

th at

of

a king:s Fool, n

earer

co life.

9


20/68

Orson Welles:

Falstaff

Welles Keith Baxter.

20


21/68

Words. L

ike DidHot

's Jacques le

fataliste but

with

less naivete and inso

lence

than

he,

Welles'

Falstaff appears

ac firSt entirely given to the mania for

speech, actually mad with words build

ing his

dreams

on them,

mixing

li fe and

dream,

trusting enough

in

th

eir

pow

ers,

a nd certain enough of th

eir

fascinations,

to

leave to t

hem

the care

of

repairing

hi s blunders

and

his evasions.

That

is

because this Falstaff,

in

spi te

of

the

breadth

of

his waist, and

of

the space

that

he takes up on

the

screen, is as

much i not

mo r

e a being

of

air than

of flesh.

His

body is heavy but not his

wir,

and

that

bod

y had to be the

mou

cum

bersome, disabled,

ponderous

pos

sible, in order co

count

erbalance

and

sec

off to beSt advantage the agility of th e

wit, the fluidity ana the plasticity

of

speech.

I n Falstaff there

are

as it were two

orders clearly dist

inct

from each other

and

which complete each other, like

cwo Jines that cross each

other,

oppose

e

ach

other, and pu

rsue

each other, rhe

sec

tor

of

words

and

the

sector of actions.

On

one hand the heaviness, the en

cumbrance, of bodies, with

or without

armour, whose awkwardness

and

slow

ness of

motion,

at the same time as the

ir

enormous

strength,

are emphasized still

more

by a choice

of

short, cho

pp

y edit

in

g,

so that often

it

seems that Welles

has cur into the image co make the

gestures and rhe movements more jerky,

more clashing, an d by a see-sawing of

high

and low angle shots. The

battle

se

quence,

a lready famou

s

but

just

as

well chose of the ambush,

of

the dance

in th e tavern ,

or

the

strolls

of

FalStaff

and Justice Shallow, witness this concern

ro bring

our at

the

sa

me time rhe coo

fused haSte and the inertia

of

bodies,

their

resistance. That is the first space

of

the film, restricted, constraining, firm

ly anchored

at

its o n i i n limited .

On the

other

hand the treache

rous

freedom

of

words

. Falstaff owes a ll

h i ~

power to them, by them he wards off

the fury of the P rin ce,

reve

rses the

obvious, corrects the true. He is an

obstinate sophist, putting

int

o play, like

Shakespeare's fools, the entire range

of

plays

on

words, witticisms, puns, to get

the

better of the

other,

by

laughter or

by weariness.

Words

a re his

w e p o n ~

the sna res that he passes his rime setting

around him. Fal staff pu ts himse

lf

on

stage

with the minimum of gestures and

the maximum of words.

Thealt

·e. Bur it is within the film that

J ck le ataliste

y Jean Louis Comolli

one

must seek tb e th e

at

.re, and not

in

Shakespeare's theatre that

one

muse seek

FalstaO. That tavern , with its long tables

and its benches, irs common

room,

the

gallery that runs along the upper floor,

where from time

to

time

so

me curious

women

, scantily dressed, come to lean

over, to dominate the scene, is a

kind

of theat

re

in

th

e round, in

which

rhe

act

ors

are not far from spectatOrs when

t hey are nor both

at

once.

Ot

h

er

places,

an othe r scene, counterpart

of

the tavern,

with other actors and other speCtators

th e throne room, cleverly tiered,

lighted

from the side by beams of light that

could

be

tho

se of

spo

tl

ig

ht

s. On the one

hand th

e tragedy

of power, on th

e

o ~ e r itS comedy.

The parallel b

et

ween court and hovel

affecrs nor

on

ly th e settings and arrange

ment

of

the places; the King finds in

Falstaff his doub le and his reversed

image; Prince Henry has two fat hers,

the noble and the common, two masters,

one of mire and one of honor. Divided

between both worlds, between these two

tyrantS

who are

jealous

of

each other

and hate each

other,

he rehearses with

the

one what

he

plays with

the

other,

all

the m

ore proud in

the tavern be

cause he s ash

amed

in the palace. In

which

di rection docs one's charaCter in

cline?

Wher

e does since

rity

bide

? Fal

staff, the King, the Prince all three are

equally histrionic, and

oft

en with the

same

e m p b a ~ . i s th

e same holl

ow

maxims,

the same prom ises and the same abjura

tions. T he King, th e Fool, and he

who

has something

of both contrast with one

another

Je

ss than th ey resemble

on

e an

other.

In

this stra n

ge

Trinity, each s

the aetor playing himself mo re

or

Jess

well, and the differences are

only

those

of

technique and

of

talent. All three

rival one another in pride as in coward

ice, and this

rivalry

leads

them to

humiliate themselves

through

one

an

other

and towa rd one another. Every

thing happens

as

if

t f f

on

rbe

one

hand,

the King

on

th

e other, each facing

the

princ

e wh o is an image of th em

selves, were ceaselessly bent

on

exchang

ing th

eir

roks

with

hi s

never

reco

gniz

ing

themselves en

ou g

h in him,

and

try

ing to discharge him, so as to super

charge themselves with it, of

the

noble

side and

of

the impure side that be

assumes, both equ a lly badly.

Falstaff is not the dance

of

vice and

virtue chang ing places with each other

that one can believe

at

first. Falstaff

i

s.

not goodness itself in the midst of

his shame, nor the

King

purity

in

the

midst of his hates. Each is the same lie,

the same iiJusion; t

here

is neither re

dempt i

on

nor mercy. This obsession

with

humiliation is

in

every Welles film.

Pals

ta

D is the film

of

masochism.

Education. The relations between

Falstaff and Henry

are

those

of

master

ro pupil. Falstaff is the st

ory

of an

ed ucation, but ra ther in

th

e

direction

of Faust and the demonic initiation

than t h

at of

the roman

d appr

e11tissa1Je.

For

here again

the

roles

are

transposed.

Guid

e

in

debauchery, sovereign at

orgies, Falstaff is nevertheless full

of

discreti

on with

h

is

pupil. Is he n

ot

rath

er

th

e

accommodating servant,

and

is it nor to satisfy the pri nce that be

reaches

him

to debase

himself an

d him

self debases

him

self? It seems th

at

the

pupil und

ertakes

the

master 's

game and

def

eats

him

on his own g round. Hen ry's

ruses, his, machinations - pr e

lu

des to

other

pl

ots- to su

rpr ise Fal staff in

th

e

very act of lying

compel

him to lend

himse

lf

to the role.

Here

is Falstaff as

object. He lets himself be

led in

every

sense, mindful

at

the same time to

be

guilty and to pretend innocence. Double

masosc

hi

sm, s

trange

satisfaction, to yield

to

the other while appearing to want

to escape him. This pe rverse du el be

tw

een

master

and

slave

goes

furthe

r

sti ll in parody.

To th e nob le sequence

of

th e death

of

the King, in which for a

mo m

ent

Hen ry, believing his father dead,

has

possessed himself of the crown and

t r i u m p h already, before the

King

revives to be

humiliated

and

th

en to

humiliate, corresponds the farce of the

coronation in th e tavern. Pr essed by

Henry,

Fal

staff installs hims

elf

on a

grotesque thron

e

and crown

s

himself

with

a 5aucepan. And Henry plays

the

humiliated son with a malicious Falstaff.

But

very

quickly-effeet

of

psychodrama

a st range rage seizes the prince, be

drive

s

away

Falstaff

and

takes

th

e

royal

crown from hiq1

into

his

own band

s.

It is for him

to

rake the role of his

father

with

a r

epe

ntant Falstaff. Each

bas what pleases him, and more than

the

ot

hers, Henry;

the

so

n humiliates

the father whether the latter is absent

or present,

whether

be speaks to him or

aces a performance of him, as

th

e

fathe

r

humil

iates himself in his son.

Only one

pe

r

so

n is

duped

, Falstaff.

But th

at

is

pr

ecisely where one finds

W elles' imperious obs,tinacy at

car

r ying

his cross.

2


22/68


23/68

Sacher nd asoch

by

ean

Narboni

Having dropped down

from the

sky,

as

one

said,

Arkadin

's

airplane

was

empty.

Van

Stratten,

uninteresting

ad

venturer,

established

for

a

moment a£

an

illusory

justiciary, covered

with the

col

ors of

scorn by the g lance

of Raina,

the daughter,

goes off, deceived by the

last stratagem to join the numberless

roster of

witnesses. Let

us

risk the hypo

thesis that Arkadin is not dead, too

many

witnesses seeming still

dangerous

for him-among them, to

begin

w i t h

the srud Van

Stiatten. Under

the

pre

text of

an

English television

~ . c r i e s

armed with deadly

cameras,

which,

like

a magician, he makes

appear from

his

coat as weapons,

which he

leaves scat

tered

about without

a

cameraman

in

the corners of sho

es

the better to

mis,

lead

the

adve

rsary, he traverses the

whole earth.

"Around

the

World"

this

new

diabolical

enterprise

titles itself,

reassuringly.

The

investigator

is

en

chanted

at first

with

his

own

lucidity

in managing to find innocuous images

of

himself, here, there arid everywhere,

voluntary ex

il

es, ambassadors and her

al ds

of

an independent America, - a

woman and

her

son

in

the

Basque

coun·

try, some musicians

in

Saint-Germrun,

Raymond Duncan ·ue de Seine.

Others

marked

themselves

more

disturbingly,

Dominici in

mid-affair,

old

English sol

dierF,

buried

alive in a London museum,

six decrepit intangible

old widows

ready to

tell everything. Little by little

in

the play

of identity

and

of

resem

blances,

the investigator

becomes un

easy; Duncan,

with

his

old

Sioux's face,

draped

in his cel

ebrated

tatters,

could

be ago

in a

Turkish bath;

the

widows recall or

prefigure

such-and

such

a

blind shopkeeper

of

Touch of

Evil; the old wldiers

cou ld

dangerously

reveal,

ouc

does not

know, that Arkadin

built

his

fortune

in

part by stealing

the

identity of

a

very

rich English

officer

whom

he

had struck down

from

behind,

profiting

by

the

disorder

in

th e

tr enches.

Moreover are th

e

other tat·

ders

all

dead? The Bernsteins Lelands,

O

'H

aras,

who

did

not bring to

its

end

a .fine

old

age,

Vargas

become

in

his

turn detective

of invented

proofs., and

yonder

Joseph

K

who

pretends to un

derstand nothing.

Everything

becomes a

proof,

things, people,

everything

sends

back

to Welles the infinitely reflected

images

of

himself (it

is

not the

.first

time,

but

today

no more "play" of

look

ing glas

ses

nor

necessary

mirrors)

Rosebud, Quinlan's

cave, Sanchez' dyna

mite,

the

cafes, of

the

celebrated Sacher

in

Vien

na where

Franz-Jose f

had

re

freshment

s before Sarajevo, the

chocolate Himalayas

and

bombes

glacees

whose dramatic

e

numeration

by

Welles

links

them with

ocher

bombs

as disquieting, let us say, as those

of

Tbe

Trial.

To take upon oneself

with impunity

to play

the "bigger chao life, is, liter

ally, tO accept

taking everything

into

oneself,

the living

·

and the inanimate,

thing,s, objects,

a n t ~ .

atoms, machines,

the armour of

English

knights and the

end of

rhe world.

Between

the "my

name

is

Orson Welles" of The Mag-

nificent Ambersous and th

e

same

sen

tence in

The

Trial

there

is a

world of

distance,

"the" world

- passage

from

the proud

assertion

of

oneself,

of one's

identity,

to th

e fear of

no

longer

being

anyone

at all,

but everyone

and

no

one.

lo the

noise of

the

battle, Falstaff

wanders,

Pet·e Ubtt

in

Poland, thus

everyone and nowhere, th e mao from

Mars

astray

on

the

moors,

good fellow

Michelin

ready

to

de-dog

himself

in

the four winds

of

combat.

l'ar from crowning the famous "hu

manism" in a gigantic .fig.ure Welles

illustrates the h u m n i ~ r o advocated

by the genius

of

Audiberri,

supreme

ly

self-negating attempt to cosmify beings

(the promoters takin

g

upon

themselves

to be the first victims).

o r g e ~ quoting

Hazlitr,

wrote that

Shakespeare resembles everyone, except

by the

facf

of

resemblin

g everyone.

Iag.o said I

am not what

I am.

And

Falstaff-"To banish Falstaff is ro

ban

ish the

world."

Because

neither

Falstaff

nor Welles

exist, because they are

the

world, scattered,

everywhere

present. As

for

the man

Welles

, the

paunch

,

the

genius Orson Welles, be is therefore,

co

paraphrase

what Audiherri wrote

about Hugo, "o

nly

th

e

living

place in

which the presence

of

Orson

Welles con

centrates, itself

most" (an

infinitely

small

variation benveen the

skinny fascinator

Charles Fost

er and the fat

Falstaff).

23


24/68

The

Serpent s

Skin

y

IngnUJr

erg

man

4


25/68

Artistic creation has always

mani·

fes red itself

for me

like a desire

for

food. I observed that need wirh a cer·

rain pl easure, bur,

all through

my

con·

scious life, I

never

asked myself why

this hunger had arisen and called for

sa tisfaction. Now, wh en in th ese latter

days

it

rends to abate and ro transform

is

eli

into something else, I feel rbe

urgeor necessity ro seek rh e cause

of

my acrisric activity.

I

remember having

felt, from my

earliest

childhood,

rhe

need

ro show

off my

talents-a skill

at

drawing

, rhe

science of throwing

a

ball

against a wall,

my first breast strokes.

I

remember having madly

desired to

attract

th e

attention of

the grownups

ro rhese manifestations

of my

presence

in

the world. Always I considered that

I

had

nor

awakened

others

in t

erest suf

ficiently. That is why, when reality was

no longer

en

ough

, I

began to

tell imagi

nary

stories, t divecr

r h o ~

my

own

age by rhe prodigious narration

of

my

secret exploits.

They were

clumsy lies,

that were dash

ed

to

pieces against

the

prosaic s k e p t i c i ~ m of

my

listeners. Final

ly, I

gave up living

in a

community

and kept for myself

my world of

phan

tasms. The boy possessed by

imagina

tion and the desire to establish a con

tact changed rather quickly into a

wounded, dis trusrful, and

wily

day

dreamer.

But

a

daydreamer

cannot be an artist

elsewhere chan in his dreams.

The

need ro be heard, to communi

cate, to

live in the warmth

of a com

munity,

persisted. The

more

the gates

of

solitude

closed on me, th e

more the

need

grew.

So

it is

rather

obvious

that

I bad

tO

en

d by expressing myself cinemato

graphically.

This medium gave

me

the

possibility

of making

myself

und

er

stood

in

a l

anguage that

surpassed the

words

of

which I was bereft, the music

that

I did nor ma$

ter, the painting that

left

me indifferent. Sudden

ly

I could

communicate

with

another

with

the help

of

a

language that

,

literally

, ;.

peak

s

from

soul

to

sou l, in expressions that escaped

the control

of

the intellect almost volup

tuously.

With

all this.

hunger

repressed

in the course of my youth, I

threw

my

se

lf

into the cinema and for twenty

years,

without

respite and with a kind

of

frenzy, I fabricated dreams, sensory

experiences,

whims

, fits

of

hysteria,

neuroses, religious spasms, and

pure

lies.

My

hunger

r

enewed

itself

perperuaily.

Money, fame and success sruck me with

stupefaction, but esse

ntially

had no ef

fect on my work. From the preceding,

one ought

not to conclude that I

under

es

timate what,

by chance, I

have

accom

plished. The fact reassures me that I

can

see the past

under

a new and less

romantic light.

Art as self-satisfaction

lngmar Bergman:

Persona

Liv Ullmann

25


26/68

can naturally have

its

importance,

-

fir of all for

the

artist hims

elf.

Today the situation

is Jess

complex,

Jess captivating,

and

especially Jess

allur-

ing.

Thus, i I

want

to be totally sincere,

I have the feeling

that

art

and

not

only

cinematOgraphic

art)

is

i n ~ j g o i l i ·

cant.

Literature,

painting,

music, cinema

and theatre

engender thems

elves and

are

born of

themselves.

New mutations

,

new

combinations,

are formed

and

die

out;

seen

from

outside,

the

activity ap-

pears

endowed with

intense

li f

grandi

ose obstinacy

that

the artists give

tO

projecting for

themselves

and or

an

always

more

distracted

audi

ence, the

images of a

world

that no longer even

cares

about their opinion.

On

some rare

occasions,

the anise is

punished, an

being comJdered as

dangerous and

de

se

rving

of

being

st i led or

controlled.

On

the whole, nevertheless, art is free,

insolent, irresponsible,

and,

as I was say

ing,

the movement

is intense,

almost

feverish;

it s e e m ~ to

me

that

it makes

one

think

of a serpen t's

skin

full

of

ants.

The

serpe

nt

itself

has

been

dead

a

long

time, devoured, devoid

of

its

venom,

but

the sk in moves

swollen

with

a

vital

ardor.

Now,

if

I observe

that

I lind myself

one of

these ants, I am compelled co

ask myself

if

there is any .reason for

pursuing my

act ivity. The

answe

r i;;

yes. Although I believe

that

the theatre

is a

dear

old

cocol/e

whose best da

ys

are over. Although I lin

Cahiers du cinema 11

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