Archive for Orson Welles

The Scottish Play

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , on May 12, 2018 by dcairns

I borrowed William Packard’s book The Art of Screenwriting from the college library to see if it was worthwhile. Interesting passage where he takes the first scene of Macbeth, the witches’ meeting, and fleshes it out into screenplay form. A worthwhile exercise.

The scene looks like this in the original play.

ACT I  SCENE I  A desert place.
[Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches]
First Witch When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
Third Witch That will be ere the set of sun. 5
First Witch Where the place?
Second Witch Upon the heath.
Third Witch There to meet with Macbeth.
First Witch I come, graymalkin!
Second Witch Paddock calls. 10
Third Witch Anon!
ALL Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
[Exeunt]

Packard does things like adding EXTERIOR, though oddly he doesn’t give a full slugline (EXT. HEATH – DAY or should it be NIGHT?) and adds some scene-setting description. He sets the action in the aftermath of the big battle{“broken swords, armor pieces litter the ground”), which seems to me to fly in the face of strong textual evidence that the witches are meeting before the battle, or anyway before it’s finished. But some kind of addition is necessary since Shakespeare doesn’t give us any scenic description — even the sparse exits and entrances provided in the text were added by other hands (so, sadly, we can’t credit the Bard with “Exit, pursued by a bear.”)

Then Packard adds parentheses to each of the first lines ~

First Witch (cries out) When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch (quickly) When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
Third Witch (knowing) That will be ere the set of sun.

I don’t really see the point of that (and I normally LOVE parentheses) and you shouldn’t really add so many hints to the actors. Leave the director something to do.

Other action seems under-described. Shakespeare has his witches crying to their offstage familiar spirits, Graymalkin and Paddock, which are presumably meant to make some sound, but Packard doesn’t mention this. Maybe the spirits’ sounds are only audible to their respective witches, but that seems to me missing a trick.

At the end, he has the witches “vanish into nowhere,” but I feel here he’s leaving too much room for interpretation. There are a lot of ways of vanishing into nowhere.

Packard notes that the scene being short, it’s unnecessary to trim it, but *I* note that didn’t stop Polanski and Kenneth Tynan, who couldn’t resist ending the scene on the hero’s name, thus cueing the main title. Welles also ends the scene on his character’s name, as well as trimming the lines “Where the place?” and “Upon the heath,” which unfortunately makes “There to meet with…” less sensible. But changing plays into films often involves lopping off entrances and exits, since these can to make things seem stagey: Polanski allows his weird women to wander off, stressing their mundanity as he did with the Satanists in ROSEMARY’S BABY, whereas Welles just ends the scene on the clay homunculus — a touch of voodoo — birthed from the boiling cauldron (his witches are evidently flame-retardant, which must come in handy for them).

I thought I’d have my own stab at it scripting this scene,

EXT. CAVE MOUTH, MOUNTAINS – DAWN

A barren expanse of rocky mountains. Thick fog rolls across the peaks. In the foreground, a cliff ledge juts out.

On this outcrop, a small fire smolders at a cavern mouth  Round it huddle three ragged, withered old women. One of them gets to her feet.

FIRST WITCH: When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Another looks into the fire.

SECOND WITCH: When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.

The third woman throws handfuls of dirt onto the fire and extinguishes it.

THIRD WITCH: That will be ere the set of sun.

The seated witches stand.

FIRST WITCH: Where the place?

The other witches are wandering away separately along the mountain ledge.

SECOND WITCH: Upon the heath.

THIRD WITCH: There to meet with Macbeth.

An uncanny feline noise echoes across the mountains, catching the First Witch’s attention.

FIRST WITCH: I come, graymalkin!

As she disappears into the fog, her silhouetted figure is abruptly snatched upwards, like a rag doll, rising into the mist until she vanishes.

A bizarrely loud frog croak echoes from the other direction.

SECOND WITCH: Paddock calls.

Her shape is likewise snatched up from view.

THIRD WITCH: Anon!

She vanishes the same way, as if yanked on a string from above. We follow her into the fog bank, swirling clouds billowing past us.

ALL (V.O.): Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air.

And then maybe we could break through the clouds and soar down over a battlefield or something as the title appears. Hopefully, this is a scene the reader can visualise, with drama and cinematic interest. I haven’t done anything original with the witches’ appearance, as Polanski did, but I think the manner of their exit suggests something spooky and interesting about their relationship with “graymalkin” and “paddock.” But I’d be interested in any suggestions readers may have.

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Snarl-Up

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 9, 2018 by dcairns

Orson Welles may have called John Guillermin “one of the truly outstanding incompetents” and a viewing of the Franco-Anglo-Irish director’s KING KONG movies might seem to bear that out, but I can’t help but feel there’s some merit there, in the earlier works, indicating that while some are born incompetent, others go on to achieve incompetence.

My late friend Lawrie knew Guillermin quite well. On noticing one of the maestro’s lesser works, EL CONDOR, in his Radio Times, I started to read the synopsis: “Slick, nasty and superficial…” “That’s John!” declared Lawrie jubilantly, but with a certain affectionate indulgence.

Talking Pictures TV kindly screened NEVER LET GO (1960), an earlier Guillermin, from when he had B-picture zest. It’s certainly slick, nasty and superficial, but it’s also very effective. Fiona was WILDLY enthusiastic about it. It has no really appealing characters, but it’s relentless, event-packed, and looks and sounds great, thanks to Powell & Pressburger photographer Christopher Challis and new composer on the block John Barry. But what really tips it over the edge is a ferocious performance by Peter Sellers, another of Orson’s favourite people (“Where’s our thin friend today?”) in, I believe, his first serious role.

Richard Todd plays a cosmetics salesman whose car is stolen by a gang of hoodlums led by Adam Faith (the best pop-star actor, I’d say, and a uniquely naturalistic one — he’s also fantastic in BEAT GIRL, the other great Barry-scored exploitation romp of 1960. Todd has staked his whole future on this uninsured Ford Anglia, and slowly transforms from a meek, bespectacled underdog (he’s worked out a very good, unassuming/defeated WALK) to a would-be Paul Kersey, bristling at Scotland Yard’s slow-but-sure investigation and taking the fight to the “legitimate businessman,” Sellers, who deals in hot vehicles.

There’s also good work by Carol White, the Battersea Bardot, in a somewhat thankless early role. Faith gets to alternately menace and be menaced, whereas White is entirely put-upon, a care home girl Sellers has taken as mistress, installing her in a downmarket shagging palace and leering over her with panting, bared-teeth menace. It’s an electrifying performance from him: when an actor goes all-out to be repellant, and has such resources, the effect is overwhelming. Guillermin’s dramatic low angles emphasise the pudginess of Sellers’ “jawline,” while the actor makes full use of his thin lips and sharp little teeth to suggest the lurking sadism of this mediocre criminal. He also plays it with a suppressed northern accent, hinting at the character’s social aspirations, along with his constant reiteration that he’s got a “legitimate business.”

“I know the term ‘fight in a warehouse’ is supposed to be pejorative…” said Fiona, as Todd and Sellers try to tear each other apart in a garage at the end. The whole place is a death trap, with big jeroboams of battery acid (never used: just planted there to terrify us) a descending car platform that threatens to crush Todd’s skull, chains and crowbars and planks with nails in…

If the film was as tough as it thinks it is, Todd’s car would have been totally trashed in the fight, Sellers would have been killed, and our vigilante hero would have been jailed for murder — instead, Sellers is only stunned, then arrested, and Todd goes home to his wife. But the happy ending is pretty crazy, considering the number of crimes he’s blatantly committed, and which the Yard has decided to sympathetically overlook. Still, at this stage in John Barry’s career, a filmmaker could do just about anything if he had that guy’s music to paper over the narrative cracks.

Fake Nose Media

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , on February 2, 2018 by dcairns

ON THE NOSE, the video essay co-written by Randall William Cook and myself (and narrated by Randy) and edited by Timo Langer, is up on the Criterion channel. It’s about Orson Welles’ false noses, their purpose and meaning.

This is a relative epic at ten minutes (some of my Blu-ray extras are MUCH longer, but for watching on little screens, brevity is good). We decided to cut it FAST, for pseudo-Wellesian energy, and then had a struggle to find enough stills. But there’s a generous sampling of clips from Criterion’s releases, Welles’ own art, and a guest appearance by Randy’s authentic cast of the actual nose itself. You can’t pass THAT up.

You can read about the piece here.

Thanks to Kim Hendrickson.