stylistic comparison to be made between the films they made together and the films they made separately. Although Toland is best known for his work with Orson Welles on Citizen Kane (1941), their collaboration features two striking anomalies. The first is
‘I wrote the script and directed it. My name is Orson Welles.’ These words, spoken by the director over a shot of a microphone at the end of The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), resonate far beyond their ostensible function of a delayed credit sequence. In the first place, to connoisseurs of Welles’s opus, this is highly ironic: the film for which the director claims entire credit was the first and, to many, the worst case of an endless series of studio cuts, recuts and various tamperings with Welles’s films that was to continue nagging the director throughout his career. The voice-over, therefore, becomes the signifier of a ghost, a voice claiming authorship for a text that no longer exists – the original, unmutilated Ambersons – , or the almost real signature of a fictional author. The real Orson Welles was not the director of this film. But then, who is this ‘Orson Welles’ who addresses the spectator from the fringes of the film?
As we launch this journal, we think of the scene in Citizen Kane when Orson Welles, as the young Kane, reads the “Declarations of Principle” he has just written for his newspaper The New York Daily Enquirer. We do not claim the same aims—nor anticipate the same future—but we feel something of the same excitement. Journals are not easy to get started, but this one came into being in a short amount of time after we conceived its goals. A number of very fine journals are already published on film, but none, we feel, puts film (and the visual arts in general) into the dynamic and developing intellectual current of our time.
Thursday, 11 August 2005. Killing time, I visit the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles. This is coming to the end of a tour of the Arthur Murray dance studios up and down the West Coast. It is a hot break coming at the end of a month’s dance fieldwork in Sacramento. Rather than fly back to Belfast from San Francisco, I opted for LAX and bookended my research with a personal journey driving up and down the state. I had gone up through Death Valley where I had solo hiked into the desert and made a souvenir vial of Death Valley sand. Then inland north to get through Yosemite, living in my rental car, sleeping in motels. Back south, I was sampling the dance studios along the coast—waltz in San Francisco, rumba in Hayward, foxtrot in Redwood City, tango in San Jose, salsa in chic Santa Barbara, merengue in Beverley Hills. Along the way, I was taking in the tourist attractions: the boardwalk in Santa Cruz where the movie Lost Boys was filmed; Cannery Row, Monterey, described long ago by John Steinbeck; Hearst Castle, which had inspired Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane.
Edited by Stephen Prince
examines Toland’s work for William Wyler, John Ford, Orson Welles, and other filmmakers and finds figural designs across this body of work that point toward a paradigm of authorship that is more collaborative than the traditional model. Borrowing a
happier cases, found or restored. As a result, sometimes films are released to the public in the form of different “cuts.” Consider, for example, Mr. Arkadin (Orson Welles, 1955) and Touch of Evil (Orson Welles, 1958). This is also the case when films
Michael Radford’s The Merchant of Venice
Maria-Clara Versiani Galery
challenge of representing the Jew in the figure of Shylock is a chief concern, leading filmmakers to look for ‘more palatable plays’. 1 Orson Welles, for instance, encountered various difficulties, financial and otherwise, in completing the filmed
Francis Ford Coppola’s Vision of Boyhood
, combined with black-and-white photography and low-key, expressionistic lighting, 5 make the film look far more like Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane (1941) than that of a film made in the mid-1980s. In his commentary, Coppola admits that he always wanted to
Robert Sinnerbrink and Matthew Cipa
abstract concepts are defined by systematic mappings from bodily-based, sensory-motor source domains onto abstract target domains” (65). In applying this idea to two iconic film scenes—the boarding house sequence from Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane (1941
A Style Analysis
argued, filmmakers such as William Wyler and Orson Welles had been employing depth of field compositions in order to establish “a relationship between the viewer and the image which is closer to the viewer’s relationship to reality.” He pointed out that