What can we say about Orson Welles? Citizen Kane has topped innumerable lists of the best films of all time; “every filmmaker since 1941 is, to some degree, in debt to Orson Welles,” Peter Bogdanovich asserted, and many others would agree. Yet critics continue to debate the narrative and meaning of Welles's career.
Welles (1915–1985) summed it up sardonically in F for Fake: “I began at the top and have been working my way down ever since.” Having been featured on the cover of Time at age twenty-three as the “Wonder Boy” of American theater, the twenty-five-year-old Welles was already a celebrity when he co-wrote, directed, and starred in Kane, a film that established his virtuosic techniques and thematic preoccupations. His second film, The Magnificent Ambersons, was cut by RKO in his absence; from then on, he would rarely have full artistic control over his productions, eventually entering a largely self-imposed exile from Hollywood. His story has often been told as one of quixotic quests and tragically betrayed talent, of “a man,” like Kane, “who got everything he wanted and then lost it.” But this neglects the considerable achievements of his later work as well as the complexities of his persona: this man of enormous artistic ambition was also a puncturer of pretense, a lover of magician's razzle-dazzle, of pulpy ruses and fake noses.
“A genius in Hollywood's dictionary is someone who is either unavailable or dead,” Welles said. Twenty-two years after his death, we could call him a genius. Or we could just say, along with Marlene Dietrich in Touch of Evil, “He was some kind of a man. What does it matter what you say about people?”
Juliet Clark
Editor