Archive for Orson Welles

A softly falling silent shroud of snow

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Television with tags , , , , , , , on October 31, 2015 by dcairns

This is really wonderful. I didn’t know the classic story it’s based on, by Conrad Aiken, but it’s beautiful and very very strange. This semi-professional filming (the IMDb doesn’t know of its existence) manages a kind of expressive naivety in its effects which works well. The same filmmaker, Gene Kearney, later filmed the story again for Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, with Orson Welles as narrator. I must see that, though I sort of doubt it will be as good in colour, with an NBC TV look to it. The narrator on this version does great. But I must admit I’m psyched to hear Welles do it. Where did I put my set of Night Gallery season 2?



Found it! Wonderful to hear Welles at work on this text, and the episode justifies the whole existence of Night Gallery (which, let’s face it, was frequently crummy) — it’s the kind of material one simply can’t imagine seeing on television. Having said that, feeding it through the NBC de-flavouring machine does result in a loss of visual atmosphere. In the b&w version you COULD close your eyes and still enjoy it, but you really WANT to watch.



I’m reminded of the fact that the great Wendy Toye remade her own masterpiece, THE STRANGER LEFT NO CARD, as an episode of Tales of the Unexpected. I’m very curious to see it, but despite a TOTU box set and constant TV replaying, that one never seems to turn up…


Note: the ending of Youtube’s SSSS seems abrupt, and comes before the last couple of lines of the short story. Truncation was suspected — but Night Gallery trims the show at exactly the same line, so I guess that’s Keirney’s decision, and all that can be missing is some kind of end title.

The Cold

Posted in FILM with tags , , , on September 15, 2015 by dcairns

This is a treat — a riveting short film, produced by the BBC, made available on YouTube by its director, David Cobham.

A fairly straight filming of a Jack London short story, by a filmmaker with considerable experience of nature filming. Narrated by Orson Welles — and it’s one of Welles’ great performances. His flair for the dramatic is in perfect synch with the material. Just by sounding a bit concerned, Welles stokes the flames of suspense. Understatement may not be something you associate with old Orson, but he’s a master of it. It’s just that his understatement is naturally a bit bigger than most.


The Sunday Intertitle: Bava Lava

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 30, 2015 by dcairns


I’m finally reading Tim Lucas’s magisterial Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark. I can’t fault the scholarship — few filmmakers are lucky enough to get books as exhaustive and considered and respectful as this. It’s all the sweeter since Bava was such an underrated artisan in his lifetime.

I wouldn’t dare to contest Lucas’ unparalleled expertise in this subject, but one little bit where I think he’s not quite right gave me an idea for today’s piece.

The book not only examines Bava’s directorial legacy, it probes into his work as cinematographer, and also provides as full an account of the career of his father, Eugenio Bava, cinematographer and visual effects artist of the silent era. Lucas examines the legendary CABIRIA, whose effects are jointly ascribed to Bava Snr. and the great Segundo de Chomon. Chomon usually gets most of the credit, and Lucas thinks this is probably unfair — he claims Chomon’s effects “were usually rooted in the principles of stop-motion animation.” In fact, I think it’s going to be impossible to make any calls on who did what, other than that we are told Bava Snr. built the model Vesuvius. Chomon’s imitations of Georges Melies’ style saw him performing every kind of trick effect known to the age, to which he added the innovation of stop motion, cunningly integrated into live action sequences. I think it’s fair to say than any of the effects in CABIRIA might have been the work of either man.

Lucas goes on to focus on one spectacular shot of the erupting volcano, a composite in which the bubbling miniature shares screen space with a line of fleeing extras and sheep (do the sheep know they’re fleeing? Perhaps they’re just walking). Lucas notes that smoke pots in the foreground, placed near the extras, waft fumes up across the model volcano, which makes him think the shot could not have been achieved as a matte effect. He deduces that the volcano was filmed through a sheet of angled glass, one corner of which was brightly lit to reflect the extras.

I would suggest that the shot is in fact a pure double exposure, with no mattes. The volcano is dark apart from the bright lava. The shot of the extras is also dark apart from the extras, sheep, and smoke. Double exposed on the same negative, the bright parts register and the black parts stay black. Thus the white smoke can drift up through the frame, appearing transparently over both the darkness and the bubbling Bava-lava.

belle et la bete end

More examples of this effect: at the end of Cocteau’s LA BELLE ET LA BETE, two characters fly off into the sky. The highlights on their figures cut through the superimposed cloudscape, but the shadow areas become transparent, phantasmal, in a way I don’t think the filmmakers intended; and in CITIZEN KANE, Welles crossfades slowly into flashback, with Joseph Cotten remaining solidly visible long after his background has disappeared, a trick achieved by fading the lighting down on the set while keeping Cotten brightly lit — no matte was needed, and had Cotten puffed on one of those cigars he was talking about, the smoke could have drifted across the incoming scenery, provided a sidelight picked it out of the darkness.

Lucas’s reflection trick, a kind of Pepper’s Ghost illusion, would have anticipated the more refined Schufftan effect by more than a decade (Eugen Schüfftan used mirrors to combine miniatures with full-scale action within the same, live shot on METROPOLIS) and Lucas suggests that Mario Bava resented this claiming of an invention his father had anticipated, and makes his disapproval known by including a character called Schüftan in his movie KILL, BABY, KILL. Since I don’t believe Eugenio anticipated Eugen in this technique, I think we can say that the use of the name Schüftan for the film’s heroine is more of an affectionate tribute to a great cinematographer, effects artist and a near-namesake of his dad.

Quibbles aside, I repeat: this is an amazing book.


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