They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead: Welles Making and Unmaking his Final Film

It is hard to call this a “making of” documentary, considering Orson Welles’ final film, The Other Side of the Wind, remained unfinished and unseen for over forty years. Blame the Islamist extremists in Iran. Welles received bridge financing from a film company owned by the Shah’s brother-in-law, so when the new regime came to power, they bottled up Welles’ unedited footage in a legal quagmire. They also launched a reign of terror against secular, tolerant modernity, but that is for another documentary. Morgan Neville and the surviving cast and crew chronicle the film’s making and unmaking in They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead (trailer here), which is now playing in New York and streaming on Netflix.

There is even disagreement among Welles’ close contemporaries whether he truly uttered the title phrase. Regardless, it does sum up his career rather aptly. Like Jake Hannaford, the central character of Wind, Welles had just returned to Hollywood after a long period of European scuffling when he commenced work on Wind. In many ways, it would satirize both Hollywood and European art cinema. Not coincidentally, Hannaford’s homecoming birthday party takes place in the fab desert pad next door to the house from Zabriskie Point. There are a number of intriguing little details like that in TLMWID that might counter-intuitively make this the film you should start with, before watching Wind, so you know what to keep an eye out for.

Rather awkwardly, Wind probably isn’t as interesting as the story behind it. As usual, Welles shot whenever he could, proceeding for months without nailing down his lead actor. Eventually, John Huston would play Hannaford, which was a truly brilliant bit of casting. In fact, some of the best parts of Dead address the friendship between the two larger than life movie legends. It rather boggles the mind, but both Rich Little and Peter Bogdanovich were cast as Hannford’s’ more successful protégé, with Bogdanovich replacing the impressionist when he was forced to leave to fulfill prior obligations.

Neville got on-camera just about everyone we would want to hear from, including Bogdanovoch, Little, Danny Huston (the accomplished actor-son of John), Cybil Shepard (who was involved with Bogdanovich at the time and appears briefly in Wind), Frank Marshall (the future super-producer, who worked on the film as a production aide), filmmaker friend Harry Jaglom, Beatrice Welles (his daughter), and actor-biographer Simon Callow. It would be nice to have had Oja Kodar on-camera too, but at least Neville has some audio reminiscences from her. However, Alan Cumming’s shticky introductions are completely unnecessary.

There is some fascinating cinema history in TLMWID, but it also sets the record straight on some points. Most crucially, it gives Gary Graver credit for his under-heralded work as Welles’ final cinematographer. In addition, Neville and company decisively dispel the myth Welles never really wanted to finish his pictures, but the notion he was often his own worst enemy remains in full force. It briskly but comprehensively chronicles an intriguing but frustrating episode in Welles’ intriguing but frustrating career. Highly recommended for Welles fans, They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead is now playing in New York, at the IFC Center and also streams on Netflix.

Orson Welles’ The Other Side of the Wind

If his final film had been released in his lifetime, Orson Welles might also be known as the father of found footage, but should’ve-could’ve-would’ve was pretty much the story of his later career. Over forty years after Welles’ on-and-off-again, on-the-fly 1970-1976 shooting wrapped, his acidic Hollywood satire has finally been cut together and unveiled with the fanfare the old master was due in his lifetime. However, Welles fans should temper their expectations when The Other Side of the Wind (trailer here) finally arrives tomorrow, both in theaters and on Netflix.

Jake Hannaford is a crusty old filmmaker, who is considered a “living legend” due to his early work, but has just returned to Hollywood after a long, semi-self-imposed exile—or at least he was. This will be his final night on earth, but at least he will go out with a bang. All of Hollywood has flocked to his homecoming party, so they can gawk at his latest film: a self-indulgent attempt at sexually frank European art cinema—and a rather spot-on send-up of Antonioni. Out of eccentricity or indifference, Hannaford has allowed every journalist or amateur videographer with a handheld camera to document his snarky, drunken soiree.

Despite Welles’ protests otherwise, Hannaford certainly sounds like his alter-ego. The fact that he is played by the spectacularly craggy John Huston adds further layers of psycho-biographical significance. In fact, it is one of the more meta films of its era, with Peter Bogdanovich playing an analog of himself, Brooks Otterlake, Hannaford’s former protégé, whose current Hollywood success has eclipsed his former master. Hannaford has become unhealthily obsessed with the cast of his film-within-the-film, most notably his would-have-been discovery, John Dale, who bolted from the production before Hannaford could complete it for murky reasons. Pauline Kael-esque critic Juliette Rich, who hypothesizes Hannaford seduced Dale’s girlfriend as a surrogate for Dale himself. Dale’s leading lady, condescendingly referred to as “Red” (portrayed by Welles’ lover, Oja Kodar, naturally enough) is still present and accounted for, but she clearly is not happy to be there.

Editor Bob Murawski did a flat-out brilliant job shaping together all the footage, while doing his best to respect Welles’ original intentions. The result is a visually kinetic kaleidoscope of hedonism and bedlam. The often rapid-fire cuts are not classically Wellesian, per se, but we can still see his masterful eye composing each shot. It also features a wonderful score composed by the legendary-in-his-own-right Michel Legrand (seriously, his name also ought to be on the key art, because LeGrand scoring Welles again is an event). In all honesty, it is one of Legrand’s jazziest scores and one of his best, which is saying a lot (considering the themes he composed for F for Fake, Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and Thomas Crown Affair, to name just a few).

So why the warning to keep your enthusiasm in check? Unlike every other Welles film, Wind feels like a dated relic of its era, even though we are just seeing it now. Some of party dialogue has the sly acidic bite of the nattering gossipers in Citizen Kane or Magnificent Ambersons, but Otterlake’s pontifications sound like the shallow group-think of the time. Particularly cringe-worthy are his jibes at then Governor Reagan, who would go on to be the last president who unified the nation, in a positive way. There is also a phallic sight gag late in the picture that should have been considered beneath Welles’ dignity. More fundamentally, it is simply impossible to get around the fact that Welles & Kodar’s narrative is really just a sketch-like premise stretched to its absolute limits.

Wind is further notable as Welles’ most sexually explicit film, but the nude scenes in Hannaford’s film are actually work in their on-screen context. Frankly, there is an energy to these scenes that the rest of the proper film could have used. The dramatic, saturated colors also really pop off the screen, providing a vivid contrast with the black-and-white or dingy 16mm color of the party footage.

Those scenes also give us an idea of what might have been for Kodar, who was always (fairly or unfairly) dismissed as Welles’ lover, and Robert Random, who is best known for guest-starring on episodic TV (seven appearances on Gunsmoke, each in a different role). They are terrific together, generating some legit heat on screen. The mood is further heightened by Gary Graver’s striking color cinematography.

There is definitely stuff to see here, including Lilli Palmer, who is a delight playing the Marlene Dietrich-like Zarah Valeska. However, with a running time just over two hours, Wind is way too long and self-serious for what should have simply been a larky middle finger extended in Hollywood’s face. Still, the Legrand sounds great (there is also some Jaki Byard in there, along with some other jazz greats). It is too bad Welles’ unfinished The Deep will most likely always remain so, because it is more likely to be the lost masterpiece we crave from him. Recommended as a curiosity rather than a revelation, The Other Side of the Wind opens tomorrow (11/2) in New York, at the IFC Center and also starts streaming on Netflix.

The Great Buster: An Overdue Ovation for the Silent Star

Buster Keaton and Elvis Presley were a lot alike (obviously, right?). They were both drafted into military service just as their careers were reaching stratospheric heights. Yet, when both returned to civilian life, they released some of their most iconic work. Plus, Presley sang about a hound dog, while Keaton looked like one. The life and art of the silent comedy auteur are surveyed in Peter Bogdanovich’s The Great Buster: A Celebration (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

He is so recognizable, yet so underappreciated and misunderstood. Keaton came up during the vaudeville era as a part of his parents’ comedy act. In fact, they had the law called on them several times for their distressing-looking slapstick treatment of young Buster. He would return to the stage to perform his “greatest hits” over the years, but when Keaton discovered motion pictures, something just clicked.

In the early days of cinema, shorts were an important part of the movie-going experience. Keaton made some of the most beloved. However, his reputation rests on his indisputably classic features, particularly Sherlock Jr., Steamboat Bill, and The General. Then he signed with MGM and everything changed. After that, he only directed a few shorts and a handful of gags incorporated in other filmmaker’s features.

Yet, Bogdanovich and his talking heads find unexpected gold in the many commercials and industrial films he made late in life. He also did some respectable work as part of the so-called “golden age” of television, but somehow Keaton’s guest-starring role in the Twilight Zone episode “Once Upon a Time” is overlooked. Still, it is frustrating and arguably even tragic that no Hollywood decision makers were willing to bankroll a new film directed by Keaton.

Bogdanovich (who also serves as narrator) had access to a first-class cast of talking heads, including Dick Van Dyke, Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, Werner Herzog, and Bill Irwin. Some of the big names do not bring that much to the table (like Quentin Tarantino), whereas many of the best insights and most poignant memories come from his late-career co-stars James Karen (in Samuel Becket’s Film) and Paul Dooley (from commercial work).

The Great Buster definitely gives viewers context to fully appreciate Keaton’s masterworks, but the extent to which it “rehabilitates” the comedy legend’s later years is an even greater contribution to cinema studies. It is a highly watchable film that effectively showcases Keaton as the ultimate movie clown, who could also make you cry. Highly recommended for Keaton fans and students of film history, The Great Buster opens thus Friday (10/5) in New York, at the Quad Cinema.