This second volume of Simon Callow's immense three-volume biography of Orson Welles begins with our hero on top of the world following the release of Citizen Kane. Even his enemies (perhaps especially his enemies) acclaim him as a genius, the US government is dying to work with him, he commands unheard-of fees for someone with such a short track record. He is the Boy Wonder and raconteur, his body filling out into a suitable size for his prodigious energies and appetites. He seems to feel he can do just about anything. With multiple projects on the go, he makes The Magnificent Ambersons, which even allowing for its impressively crafted setpieces is still an odd choice for this moment in history, perhaps even a total misreading of what the film world is about at the mass-market level. More's the point, as Callow points out - perhaps a few times too many - why on earth did Welles keep moving on at just the wrong moment and allowing others to wreck his films in post-production when he had put so much care into creating an artistic vision? He runs away and then spends so much time on firing wounded book-length memos from a distance that one wonders if there was actually a pathology in this - that he couldn't bear to have to be the only captain of the ship he had built and preferred to play Bligh railing at the mutineers…
The truth is Callow, otherwise painstaking and insightful, blunders into repeating a few refrains that keep coming up throughout the text. He almost seems to become exasperated at this distance with the obviously flawed game plan of such a talented individual. And so are we, truth be told, so perhaps it is not that easy to avoid this kind of hand-wringing. Could Welles really not realise that he was causing mayhem at RKO and undermining his patron George Schaefer with his Brazilian exploits and lazy timekeeping? Could he not imagine that a leisurely return over the course of a month through South America was not the way to deal with the clamouring voices of criticism from personalities racist and otherwise? Could he not realise that often he was simply biting the hand that fed him?
In fact, this period, only 5 years in total, was full of so many projects, including a position as a spokesman for civil rights that went far beyond what any of the left-leaning artists of today put forth, that it is astounding to imagine one person achieving so much. Radio shows, radio comedy, stage extravaganzas, Shakespeare plays, thrillers, documentaries, newspaper columns, political roadshows… Oh, he was brilliant, all right. His light was kept under no bushel. His name was known to everyone. But he kept waving that light around to burn the bridges he was crossing. Restless, omnivorous, questing. Even his lesser films are glorious failures, filled with the element of wonder. It seems, by all accounts, that he also brought that quality to the stage. And he was still in his 20s. But he made too many enemies and eventually had to look further afield, to places where those enemies had less power.
Callow, as a fine actor in his own right, and a scholar of this period in film and stage, is on sure ground when he ponders the issue of Welles the actor/director/producer/screenwriter etc. etc. He sees clearly the trap that Welles was setting himself when he agreed to make Jane Eyre in 1944, arguing for all kinds of different billings that would avoid him being seen as "merely" an actor. He sets out Welles' prodigious gifts alongside his occasional flaws, such as a tendency to overwhelm as an actor, unable to share a whole film or a stage. Indeed, Kane aside, we remember him best as an actor when he took second-line or fleeting roles. Harry Lime seen fleetingly in The Third Man is all the more powerful for it, the priest in Moby Dick giving a sermon is a vivid counterweight to the famous search for the white whale, while even his role as corrupt cop Hank Quinlan, billed below Charlton Heston, is a masterpiece of grumbling Falstaffian japery (he was only 43 when he filmed it!).
But I'm getting ahead of myself: Touch of Evil comes in the next instalment. Here, Welles, with his big voice and big body and big talent, had problems sharing space with others. And this led him, over the half-decade illustrated in this volume, to move through a series of almost haphazard projects, leaving ample evidence of his dedication and showmanlike abilities, but not creating a coherent statement that could overcome the snipers when they came for him. The people were thus regaled with tales of his supposed profligacy which were actually inaccurate, but were believable. The racists, of course, hated the very thought of him, and it's curious, now that racism is again on the rise, that there is no comparable figure to compare to him. He dropped that potato pretty quickly too, disillusioned by Harry Truman's rise and the incipient Cold War. All the things that looked like they could be built from the ashes of the Second World War were somehow lost, and all the movements forward that human societies seemed ready to make were also checked. He went from accepting nearly every invitation to speak, to passing on the whole wheeze.
Again, Callow spends some fruitful time on this period, which is perhaps lesser-known than the feature film tales, but is ultimately essential in getting to understand the complicated combination of a need to please and amaze, and a need to be left alone to do things his way, and a need to convince people of the primacy of certain self-evident truths.
There is also a curious aside towards the end, where Callow discusses the theory that Welles was in some way involved with the Black Dahlia murder, as was claimed by one of the victim's friends. There are in fact some curious coincidences that align with the woman's fanciful(?) tale. No one else has gone there with their theories, but it's an interesting insight into this turbulent period in Welles' life, as he spurned the most-wanted woman in the world at the time (the emotionally needy Rita Hayworth) for prostitutes and tomcatting.
The volume ends with Welles on his way to Europe. Of course, we know how this story ultimately ends, but it is a testament to Welles' undimmed art and Callow's indefatigable examination of this lifelong glittering swan dive that we are eager to see how the fallen prince will be able to make his way through the shattered postwar panorama of the Old Continent. And we know there are some stunning films (and way too many TV ads) still to come.