Lessons From Orson

by Henry Jaglom | Published October 31, 1994

In the decade and a half in between, we became very good friends. We had lunch once or twice a week and spoke on the phone almost daily for seven years. I learned much-very much-from Orson Welles. We taped all those lunches, for him to use in a book that he would someday write: his autobiography.

I would ask him a question and mention a person I was interested in and whom he had known. Chaplin. Hemingway. Churchilll. Picasso. FDR. And he would talk.

I felt as if I was meeting the people I had always been most fascinated by. Of course, Orson had prejudices which influenced his perceptions of these people and his attitude toward them was naturally colored by who he was. But his prejudices were so like mine that I felt as if I were getting to know them the way I would have done had I been around back then.

On each of my last two films, Can She Bake a Cherry Pie? and Always, Orson did something truly remarkable. He waited both times until I had a fairly solid first rough cut, resisting the strong temptation on each occasion to look at any of the footage in the early stages. Lunch after lunch, for many months, I would tell him: "Not yet!"

When I finally did have a pretty tight cut ready, he came to my cutting room, sat in a wheelchair for comfort, smoked his Monte Cristo cigars and looked at the movie on my editing machine, reel by reel, talking as he watched-advising, suggesting, praising, laughing, arguing with the whole mad filmmaking process, being reminded of the movies he had made: their virtues, their flaws, his 'mistakes,' his conclusions.

Both times, it was a virtuoso performance lasting two days per movie, ten or twelve hours each, following lunch, followed by dinner, where the talk continued, the ideas flowed, issues/10/images stimulated thoughts, dialogue provoked memory. And he would talk. I would listen. Ask. Argue. And learn.

Still, in the 15 years that I knew him, I'd say that the two main lessons Orson taught me came early. One was positive, from Orson's example. The other was negative-also, sadly, from his example.

The positive lesson was this: MAKE MOVIES FOR YOURSELF. "Make them as good as you can, so that you are satisfied, never compromising, because they are going to show up to haunt you for the rest of your life," he told me on the set of my first film. He had watched me for a few days and finally came to the rather surprised conclusion that "you're trying to do something interesting, aren't you?" I nodded, yes. I hoped I was.

"Don't let anybody tell you what to do," he said. "And never make a movie for anyone else, or on some idea of what other people will like. Make it yours, and hope that there will be others who will understand. But never compromise to make them understand. Never do less than you feel you have to."

The negative lesson was simply this: NEVER NEED HOLLYWOOD. Never depend on it for your financing, for support, for your ability to make films. Get your backing as far away as possible from what they proudly call their "Industry" if you have any intention of being an artist. Co-existence cannot occur, as Orson's last two decades sadly showed. He needed them till the end, and they rejected him till the end. And a half-dozen or more brilliant motion pictures never got made as a result. And a magnificent artist could never get back to the canvas that they had pulled out from under him.

So: "Never give them control over your tools," is what I hear Orson telling me now, as I view his final screen appearance.

"Make the movies you want to make. On your own. And be free..."

Orson Welles' Ghost Story

by Tim Rhys

Two issues ago we talked a lot about America's renewed romance with the short film, and at least one video distributor seems to be taking notice of the trend. Just in time for Halloween, MPI Home Video has released Orson Welles's Ghost Story, a little-known 30-minute gem shot in Ireland in 1951 and nominated for an Academy Award for best two-reel short subject in 1953.

Originally titled Return to Glennascaul, the film was written and directed by Hilton Edwards and co-produced by Michael Mac Liammoir, two of Orson's stars in his production of Othello, which he shot in Europe between 1949 and 1952. Othello was several years in the making because of financing and scheduling problems, and Orson acted in other people's movies during this period to help keep Othello afloat. The Third Man, Black Magic, and Prince of Foxes were among these, as was Return to Glennascaul, which he starred in as a favor to his friends Edwards and Mac Liammoir. These two men were the founders and directors of Dublin's highly respected Gate Theater, where Orson first acted professionally when he was just 16. Legend has it that Orson, looking older than his years, convinced the two that he was a well-known stage actor from the U.S. Whether or not they actually believed him, Orson got the part and gained two lifelong friends.

Besides the photography and fine acting, the film is notable because it is one of only two times Orson agreed to be filmed without makeup of any kind -the other being as the scoundrel Harry Lime in Carol Reed's The Third Man. The famous zither music of that film has a similar feel to the hypnotic, haunting solo harp in Glennascaul. The long shadows, dutch angles and gothic European sensibility are also characteristic of both films.

This Halloween, after you listen to War of the Worlds again, you could do worse than to spend the evening watching these two Welles films back to back. One is a major classic, one minor, but I bet you'll love them both and you won't even realize you've been to film school. MM

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COMMENTS | POST A COMMENT

Comment by 642-436 on 5/09/09 at 7:14 am

I am fully agree with you that the negative lesson from all this was “NEVER NEED HOLLYWOOD”. Its necessary for you as a film director that never depend on it for your financing, for assistance, for your skill to produce or direct movies. Also if you want to be a good artist then always keep yourself away from what they proudly call their “Industry”.

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