I was unbelievably excited when I heard that Orson Welles's final film opus, THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WIND, was going to be completed, thanks to Netflix and the work of devoted friends like Frank Marshall and Peter Bogdanovich.
Well that film has now arrived... And what is the verdict? From the perspective of Welles fans and completists, there is gratitude: that the director's multi-faceted, layered, and hyperkinetic longterm project has been realized in a way that feels complete and consistent with him, and possibly not far-removed from what Welles intended. I say this because some of the stylistic feats of his previous F FOR FAKE - mixed media, energized editing, several ideas spinning all at once - can be found here, which suggests at least some of the DNA of later Welles.
From a moviegoer's perspective, this is a film that reaches and doesn't quite grasp. It is successful in eliciting what Welles was seeking through the project: an expose of toxic masculinity, the betrayal of friendship, and the playfulness of sending up Euro art cinema and the New Hollywood. (Many of these themes are outlined in Morgan Neville's companion documentary, THEY'LL LOVE ME WHEN I'M DEAD.) But the long duration of the project, its catch-and-grab compilation, and Welles' own sensibilities from his years in Europe, combine to present a somewhat diluted satire. Perhaps this is the difference between ANY conceived film idea and its execution...especially when financing issues intervene.
John Huston, a filmmaking marvel in his own right, is never less than compelling as Jake Hannaford (as he is in every reel he appears in in CHINATOWN). He conveys layers of success mixed with self-deception, of secrets and grandiosity. He is as hated as he is loved. In fact, he is not a perfect analogue with Welles...because it is hard to believe Welles ever evoked the same kind of contempt which this character does! As a version of himself, Peter Bogdanovich is not quite as convincing as Brooks Otterlake. Bogdanovich would become quite a good actor (looking at his later work in THE SOPRANOS, for example), but, here, it seems like he is uneasy portraying a mirror of himself. Indeed, the whole thing was a little incestuous: Peter's perpetual houseguest was gently mocking him and his career success here.
The film is well-edited and executes perfectly what Welles intended (by design), but its mock-documentary style is no longer revelatory...as it surely would have been if completed at least three decades earlier. It also reminds a little of Robert Altman, especially with its large cast and freeform, intermingling dialogue.
I think it is too basic to refer to the film-within-a-film as softcore pornography. It is beautifully-shot and choreographed, if unlike anything else in Welles's filmography, but it is also less nuanced than the "art" films it appears to be skewering. Despite this, Robert Random is quite good as the smitten young man. Though Oja Kodar, despite her exotic beauty, brings little else of substance to her performance. (I liked her better as "herself," firing off the rifle at the party!) It's understandable why Welles wanted her in every frame of his film - but she was arguably a better muse than a big-screen femme fatale.
So, we have a film which is neither a study in formalism, nor in the traditional elements of the director's best work. It is a disguise, adopting the documentary and arthouse genres to generate moments of pure cinema. And it does succeed at this. Though the overall results are, at best, mixed for a first-time viewer. (This is not to say re-watching won't reward a diligent movie fan; I suspect it will.)
However, this feels more like a curio for Welles fans than a standing testament to his greatness as a filmmaker. By all means, watch it. But be prepared for something more like an experimental genre exercise than a definitive Welles film.
Well that film has now arrived... And what is the verdict? From the perspective of Welles fans and completists, there is gratitude: that the director's multi-faceted, layered, and hyperkinetic longterm project has been realized in a way that feels complete and consistent with him, and possibly not far-removed from what Welles intended. I say this because some of the stylistic feats of his previous F FOR FAKE - mixed media, energized editing, several ideas spinning all at once - can be found here, which suggests at least some of the DNA of later Welles.
From a moviegoer's perspective, this is a film that reaches and doesn't quite grasp. It is successful in eliciting what Welles was seeking through the project: an expose of toxic masculinity, the betrayal of friendship, and the playfulness of sending up Euro art cinema and the New Hollywood. (Many of these themes are outlined in Morgan Neville's companion documentary, THEY'LL LOVE ME WHEN I'M DEAD.) But the long duration of the project, its catch-and-grab compilation, and Welles' own sensibilities from his years in Europe, combine to present a somewhat diluted satire. Perhaps this is the difference between ANY conceived film idea and its execution...especially when financing issues intervene.
John Huston, a filmmaking marvel in his own right, is never less than compelling as Jake Hannaford (as he is in every reel he appears in in CHINATOWN). He conveys layers of success mixed with self-deception, of secrets and grandiosity. He is as hated as he is loved. In fact, he is not a perfect analogue with Welles...because it is hard to believe Welles ever evoked the same kind of contempt which this character does! As a version of himself, Peter Bogdanovich is not quite as convincing as Brooks Otterlake. Bogdanovich would become quite a good actor (looking at his later work in THE SOPRANOS, for example), but, here, it seems like he is uneasy portraying a mirror of himself. Indeed, the whole thing was a little incestuous: Peter's perpetual houseguest was gently mocking him and his career success here.
The film is well-edited and executes perfectly what Welles intended (by design), but its mock-documentary style is no longer revelatory...as it surely would have been if completed at least three decades earlier. It also reminds a little of Robert Altman, especially with its large cast and freeform, intermingling dialogue.
I think it is too basic to refer to the film-within-a-film as softcore pornography. It is beautifully-shot and choreographed, if unlike anything else in Welles's filmography, but it is also less nuanced than the "art" films it appears to be skewering. Despite this, Robert Random is quite good as the smitten young man. Though Oja Kodar, despite her exotic beauty, brings little else of substance to her performance. (I liked her better as "herself," firing off the rifle at the party!) It's understandable why Welles wanted her in every frame of his film - but she was arguably a better muse than a big-screen femme fatale.
So, we have a film which is neither a study in formalism, nor in the traditional elements of the director's best work. It is a disguise, adopting the documentary and arthouse genres to generate moments of pure cinema. And it does succeed at this. Though the overall results are, at best, mixed for a first-time viewer. (This is not to say re-watching won't reward a diligent movie fan; I suspect it will.)
However, this feels more like a curio for Welles fans than a standing testament to his greatness as a filmmaker. By all means, watch it. But be prepared for something more like an experimental genre exercise than a definitive Welles film.