This is a hefty tome, enough to call it a doorstopper of a book, at 800 pages. Peter Bogdanovich is the mensch who interviews a pantheon of Golden Age film directors:
Robert Aldrich, George Cukor, Allan Dwan, Howard Hawks, Alfred Hitchcock, Walter Huston, Chuck Jones, Fritz Lang, Joseph H. Lewis, Sidney Lumet, Leo McCarey, Otto Preminger, Don Siegel, Josef von Sternberg, Frank Tashlin, Edgar G. Ulmer, and Raoul Walsh.
Each conversation is prefaced with some words from Peter Bogdanovich, who has been critic, director, and few forget, and a journalist. In interviews that easily could have lapsed into ‘talking shop’ and alienated readers, Bog gives free rein to his subject. There is some tech talk: filming inside a studio versus outside. The majority of the conversations were centered on perception and process, the role of the director as a storyteller, as facilitator, who had to elicit performances from actors. I had read through this book slowly, and had skimmed here and there at times, while I was taking the TCM Summer of Noir course. The Chuck Jones chapter was intriguing because I hadn’t given much thought to animation (he gave us Bugs Bunny). Obviously, since I was studying film noir, I focused on Fitz Lang, Edgar Ulmer, and Raoul Walsh, before I visited Hawks and Preminger.
A lot of their discussions reinforced what I was learning in the online class: émigré directors fled one world of darkness and relayed it to the silver screen in that best metaphor of the times, film noir. The Studio System and traded talent around, a practice that was accepted as a given. The personalities are distinctive. Fritz Lang came across as a very difficult man, a perfectionist, if not somewhat sadistic. Preminger didn’t seem too far from the same mold. Von Sternberg is repressed. Huston was a prodigious reader and astute writer. That Cukor was gay, discreet for the era, but hardly closeted, was a revelation. The Howard Hawks chapter was my favorite because I have enjoyed so many of his films; he did it all: screwball comedies, film noir, and westerns. He speaks lovingly of his actors: the laconic John Wayne, the volatile Bogart, and the terrified Dean Martin, and I suspect that HH had had a crush on Bacall. I had not known that Hawks had died as a result of complications from tripping over his dog.
This book is a historical document, a treasure for cinephiles. Sidney Lumet left us in 2011. I will look for Bog’s conversations with actors.