Only
Orson Welles cold win a Peabody for a television pilot that never went to
series. That would be The Fountain of
Youth, produced by Desi Arnaz. As he did in film, Welles burned TV bridges
on both sides of the Atlantic. At least six episodes of his British travel
series were produced and eventually aired on the fledgling ITV. Twenty-six had
been commissioned, but they were probably lucky to get what they got, for
reasons Welles fans know only too well. Little seen at the time of their
original broadcast, all six episodes are now available for streaming as part of
Fandor’s Orson Welles collection, assembled in celebration of the filmmaker’s
centennial.
Orson
Welles will be our host, as well as the director and primary cameraman and
editor. You might pick up a little something about each port of call, but the
series will never replace your Fodor’s or Let’s Go. It’s all about Welles, but
isn’t it always?
The
first episode assembled into the Around
the World super-cut is probably the most Wellesian. It is here in Basque
Country that we most often see his dynamic sense of composition. Of course, it
is hardly surprising Welles was inspired by the locals’ defiant refusal to
quietly conform to either France or Spain. He also clearly had a great deal of
affection for his appointed translator, Chris Wertenbaker, the young son of his
recently deceased friend, Time foreign
correspondent Charles Wertenbaker.
If
you were charmed the first “Pays Basques I” than hopefully you will also will
also enjoy the network-edited “Pays Basques II,” which includes the same intro
and conclusion, but comes with a lot more Pelote (the Basque game related to
Jai alai) in between. Still, Welles’ easy rapport with Wertenbaker and all the
little moppet Pelote prodigies is quite engaging.
Probably
the one episode most likely to disappoint is “Return to Vienna.” By its very
title, it promises to revisit the memorable backdrops of Carol Reed’s The Third Man, but Welles spends most of
his time in the city’s elite pastry shop. Evidently that was what he most remembered
from his time in Vienna. Still, it is nice to be able to finally see it for
ourselves. Like many works of Welles marginalia, “Return” was presumed lost for
years.
Continuing
on to Paris, Around gets a bit
impressionistic with “St.-Germain-des-Prés.” Welles spends a lot of time
wordlessly panning the streets of the Left Bank hipster enclave. A lot of
famous French intellectuals, including Jean Cocteau and Juliette Gréco make cameo
appearances, but Welles only talks at length with Raymond Duncan, Isadora’s
sandal making, Greek tunic-wearing brother. He and Welles get on pretty well
too.
In
one sense, Welles was really phoning in the London episode, since he spends
half the episode talking to the widows living in the Anglican charity houses
next door to theater where he was mounting his ill-fated production of Moby Dick—Rehearsed. On the other hand,
that old Welles charm really comes through as he flirts with his eighty and
ninety year old neighbors, all whom declared themselves to be “true blue”
Tories, who must be besides themselves with glee up in Heaven watching the
pasting David Cameron just laid on Ed Millibrand. For the second half of the
show, Welles knocks back a few pints with a few of retired soldiers living in
the Royal Hospital Chelsea (hospital in this case meaning a place of
hospitality). Again, the old salty dogs appreciate Welles’ good fellowship (and
his hollow leg).
For
the bullfight report in Madrid, Welles enlists Kenneth Tynan and Elaine Dundy
as surrogate hosts. She is relatively relaxed, but he had no business being on
camera at this point in his career. As was always the case, Welles’ commentary
was recorded after the fact. In some cases, it certainly looks like he took
advantage of the opportunity make contentions his guests never had a chance to
refute (but he always seems to faithfully represent his conversations with the
pensioners). With only one camera, this was sort of a necessity. Still, what
could be considered highly problematic liberty-taking for anyone else, comes
across as Welles’ likable roguishness here.
