Jean-Paul Sartre Reviews Orson Welles’ Masterwork (1945): “Citizen Kane Is Not Cinema”

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You may recall our post­ing last year of Jorge Luis Borges’ review of Orson Welles’ Cit­i­zen Kane — sure­ly one of the most Open Cul­ture-wor­thy inter­sec­tions of 20th cen­tu­ry lumi­nar­ies ever to occur. Borges described Welles’ mas­ter­work as pos­sessed of one side that, “point­less­ly banal, attempts to milk applause from dimwits,” and anoth­er, a “kind of meta­phys­i­cal detec­tive sto­ry” whose “sub­ject (both psy­cho­log­i­cal and alle­gor­i­cal) is the inves­ti­ga­tion of a man’s inner self, through the works he has wrought, the words he has spo­ken, the many lives he has ruined.” On the whole, the author of Labyrinths called the pic­ture “not intel­li­gent, though it is the work of genius.”

Not long after our post, the Paris Review’s Dan Piepen­bring wrote one that also quot­ed anoth­er, lat­er review of Cit­i­zen Kane by none oth­er than Jean-Paul Sartre:

Kane might have been inter­est­ing for the Amer­i­cans, [but] it is com­plete­ly passé for us, because the whole film is based on a mis­con­cep­tion of what cin­e­ma is all about. The film is in the past tense, where­as we all know that cin­e­ma has got to be in the present tense. ‘I am the man who is kiss­ing, I am the girl who is being kissed, I am the Indi­an who is being pur­sued, I am the man pur­su­ing the Indi­an.’ And film in the past tense is the antithe­sis of cin­e­ma. There­fore Cit­i­zen Kane is not cin­e­ma.

The 1945 review orig­i­nal­ly ran in high-mind­ed film jour­nal L’Écran français under the head­line “Quand Hol­ly­wood veut faire penser … Cit­i­zen Kane d’Orson Welles,” or, “When Hol­ly­wood Wants to Make Us Think … Orson Welles’ Cit­i­zen Kane.” Accord­ing to The Writ­ings of Jean-Paul Sartre: A Bib­li­o­graph­i­cal Life, “in re-read­ing this [review], which he did not remem­ber at all, Sartre hard­ly rec­og­nized his style and expressed some doubt about the authen­tic­i­ty of his sig­na­ture. On the oth­er hand, he did find in it the ideas Cit­i­zen Kane sug­gest­ed to him when he first saw it in the Unit­ed States. After he saw the film again in France, Sartre had a slight­ly more favor­able opin­ion of it, but he still thinks it is undoubt­ed­ly no mas­ter­piece.”

But at the time, writes Simon Leys, “the impact of this con­dem­na­tion was dev­as­tat­ing. The Mag­nif­i­cent Amber­sons was shown soon after­wards in Paris but failed mis­er­ably. The cul­ti­vat­ed pub­lic always fol­lows the direc­tives of a few pro­pa­gan­da com­mis­sars: there is much more con­for­mi­ty among intel­lec­tu­als than among plumbers or car mechan­ics.” Or at least the cul­ti­vat­ed pub­lic did so in 1940s Paris; the mechan­ics of cul­ture have changed some­what since then, but as far as Cit­i­zen Kane goes, high-pro­file opin­ions about it have grown only more pos­i­tive over time. Sure, Ver­ti­go recent­ly knocked it down a peg in the Sight and Sound poll, but that just makes me won­der what Sartre thought of Hitch­cock­’s mas­ter­work — a film that might have had a res­o­nance or two in the mind of an exis­ten­tial­ist.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jorge Luis Borges, Film Crit­ic, Reviews Cit­i­zen Kane — and Gets a Response from Orson Welles

Orson Welles Explains Why Igno­rance Was His Major “Gift” to Cit­i­zen Kane

Jean-Paul Sartre Rejects the Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture in 1964: “It Was Mon­strous!”

Jean-Paul Sartre Breaks Down the Bad Faith of Intel­lec­tu­als

Human, All Too Human: 3‑Part Doc­u­men­tary Pro­files Niet­zsche, Hei­deg­ger & Sartre

Niet­zsche, Wittgen­stein & Sartre Explained with Mon­ty Python-Style Ani­ma­tions by The School of Life

Down­load Wal­ter Kaufmann’s Lec­tures on Niet­zsche, Kierkegaard, Sartre & Mod­ern Thought (1960)

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch Lost World (1925), the Granddaddy of Giant Monster Movies Like The Lost World: Jurassic Park

Movie audi­ences love dinosaurs. Ask the mak­ers of Juras­sic World, a reboot of Steven Spielberg’s ven­er­a­ble fran­chise that raked in over $1.5 bil­lion this year. There is some­thing about see­ing humanity’s ambi­tions crum­ble in the face of a mas­sive, toothy lizard (or are they sup­posed to be a giant feath­er­less bird now?) that just cap­tures the imag­i­na­tion of the inner 5 year-old in all of us.

So if you enjoyed Juras­sic World, you will dig The Lost World (1925), the grand­dad­dy of giant mon­ster movies. Adapt­ed from Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1912 nov­el, the sto­ry of The Lost World should be famil­iar to any­one who has watched King Kong or The Lost World: Juras­sic Park. The film is about an eccen­tric sci­en­tist, Pro­fes­sor Chal­lenger (played by Wal­lace Beery in a Karl Marx beard), who ven­tures to a South Amer­i­can plateau deep in the heart of the Ama­zon­ian jun­gle where dinosaurs still exist. When he cap­tures a Bron­tosaurus and lugs it back to Lon­don, the beast escapes and runs wild in the streets, smash­ing build­ings, stomp­ing on peo­ple and trash­ing cher­ished nation­al land­marks. Exot­ic loca­tions filled with equal­ly exot­ic crea­tures? Check. Implic­it cri­tique of man’s hubris­tic ambi­tion? Check. Way cool spe­cial effects? Check. Lost World has all the hall­marks of the genre even though it came out 90 years ago.

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Audi­ences at the time were blown away by footage of tricer­atops, allosaurus­es and stegosaurus­es. Though they might seem about as ter­ri­fy­ing to today’s jad­ed audi­ences as a Gum­by car­toon, they were noth­ing short of a rev­e­la­tion in the 1920s. In 1922, Conan Doyle showed clips of the movie with­out reveal­ing its ori­gins to The Soci­ety of Amer­i­can Magi­cians, an audi­ence that includ­ed none oth­er than Har­ry Hou­di­ni. The next day, The New York Times breath­less­ly wrote that Conan Doyle’s “mon­sters of the ancient world, or of the new world which he has dis­cov­ered in the ether, were extra­or­di­nar­i­ly life­like. If fakes, they were mas­ter­pieces.” In fact, the dinosaurs were the handy work of Willis O’Brien who would take his expe­ri­ence on this film and make the 1933 mas­ter­piece King Kong.

You can watch the full movie above. And it will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:
Kim Jong-il’s Godzil­la Movie & His Free Writ­ings on Film The­o­ry

101 Free Silent Films: The Great Clas­sics

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Thieves Steal F.W. Murnau’s Skull, But His Greatest Films Still Remain Free Online

After the great direc­tor F.W. Mur­nau died in a car crash in Cal­i­for­nia at the young age of 42, his body was flown back to his native Ger­many to be buried, and that’s where he has rest­ed since 1931.

Until this week, that is, when some­body made off with the director’s skull.

Reports are sketchy and rely on this report from Ger­man news out­let BZ, but, accord­ing to police, some­body opened up Murnau’s met­al cof­fin and removed the head from the embalmed corpse. Wax and a can­dle were found at the scene, sug­gest­ing to some that the theft had occult ties.

It’s not the first time that Murnau’s grave has been dis­turbed. The cof­fin was van­dal­ized in the 1970s, but this time the theft has Olaf Ihle­feldt, the cemetery’s man­ag­er, call­ing it a scan­dal. (The ceme­tery also holds the bod­ies of com­pos­er Engel­bert Humperdinck and Bauhaus School mem­ber Wal­ter Gropius.)

It’s rare for an artist’s grave to be robbed–fans pre­fer to cov­er grave­stones with mean­ing­ful graffiti–while it is world lead­ers that usu­al­ly get their bits stolen, like Geronimo’s skull, Mussolini’s brain, and, for some rea­son, Napoleon’s penis.

Mur­nau is best known for the spook­i­est Drac­u­la tale ever told in cel­lu­loid, 1922’s Nos­fer­atu, which had coffins aplen­ty. It is also, by the way, free to view above. He also delved into the Satan­ic with his ver­sion of Faust (1926), which fea­tures a march­ing band of skele­tons, among oth­er appari­tions:

Murnau’s fil­mog­ra­phy con­tains a 1920 ver­sion of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and The Hunch­back and the Dancer from the same year, though both films are lost. The direc­tor did tend towards hor­ror, but two of his finest films did not.


The Last Laugh (1924) is a poignant tale about a hotel door­man who can’t bear the shame of being fired, and con­tains one of cinema’s finest “direc­tor ex machi­na” with an improb­a­ble but hap­py end­ing. Once Mur­nau moved to Hol­ly­wood, he direct­ed Sun­rise (1927), which blend­ed the director’s expres­sion­is­tic style with a Tin­sel Town bud­get, a tale of a love near­ly lost then res­ur­rect­ed. Four years and anoth­er three films lat­er, Murnau’s career would be over. He died in a San­ta Bar­bara hos­pi­tal after a traf­fic acci­dent by the Rincon–now a famous surf­ing location–just a few miles from where I now write these words, 84 years lat­er.

You can find Mur­nau’s films added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free: F. W. Murnau’s Sun­rise, the 1927 Mas­ter­piece Vot­ed the 5th Best Movie of All Time

Time Out Lon­don Presents The 100 Best Hor­ror Films: Start by Watch­ing Four Hor­ror Clas­sics Free Online

101 Free Silent Films: The Great Clas­sics

Watch Häx­an, the Clas­sic Cin­e­mat­ic Study of Witch­craft Nar­rat­ed by William S. Bur­roughs (1922)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Watch the Very First Feature Documentary: Nanook of the North by Robert J. Flaherty (1922)

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A rudi­men­ta­ry dif­fer­ence between fic­tion nar­ra­tives and doc­u­men­tary film is sup­posed to be that one is cre­at­ed out of the imag­i­na­tion, and the oth­er is a record­ed doc­u­ment of real events. Yet if we go right back to the very first fea­ture length doc­u­men­tary, Robert J. Fla­her­ty’s Nanook of the North, we see that the line between fact and fic­tion was just as wob­bly then as now.

A pop­u­lar suc­cess when it was released in 1922, Nanook brought its hero­ic title char­ac­ter to an audi­ence who knew noth­ing about the Native tribes of the north. The film shows a way of life that was dis­ap­pear­ing as Fla­her­ty, orig­i­nal­ly an explor­er and prospec­tor, began to doc­u­ment it. We see the hardy Inu­it Nanook hunt­ing with spears, pulling up to a trad­ing sta­tion in a kayak and trad­ing with the white own­er. We see his wife and kids, the fam­i­ly build­ing an igloo and bed­ding down for the night. The film empha­sizes as much his self-reliance as it does Nanook’s naivety. And it ful­ly cement­ed the idea of the Eski­mo in pop­u­lar cul­ture. Nanook became a name as syn­ony­mous with the Inu­it as Pierre is to the French. Frank Zap­pa even wrote a song suite about Nanook.

Fla­her­ty was not trained in film, and learned what he could quick­ly about pho­tog­ra­phy when he decid­ed to shoot footage up north while work­ing for the Cana­di­an Pacif­ic Rail­way. He acci­den­tal­ly destroyed all of his orig­i­nal footage when he dropped a cig­a­rette on the flam­ma­ble nitrite film and set about rais­ing mon­ey for a reshoot. With­out prece­dent, Fla­her­ty rethought his doc into what we now rec­og­nize as clas­sic form: Instead of try­ing to cap­ture the cul­ture, he chose one man as his main char­ac­ter, an entry into an unknown world.

And in those reshoots we find the line between fic­tion and fact blurred. Nanook’s real name was Allakar­i­al­lak, and though he was a hunter, he and his tribe had long ditched the spear for the much more effec­tive gun. Fla­her­ty want­ed to rep­re­sent Inu­it life before the Euro­pean influ­ence, and Allakar­i­al­lak played along, not just hunt­ing with his spear, but pre­tend­ing at the trade out­post not to rec­og­nize a gramo­phone.

The scenes inside the igloo were staged for good rea­son: the cam­era was too big and the light­ing need­ed would have melt­ed the walls. So Allakar­i­al­lak and the crew built a cut­away igloo where the fam­i­ly could pre­tend to bed down for the night. (Oh, and the two women we see were actu­al­ly Flaherty’s com­mon law wives.)

Fla­her­ty’s lega­cy was in com­bin­ing ethnog­ra­phy, trav­el­ogue, and show­ing how peo­ple live and work, none of which had been done before in film. Fla­her­ty con­tin­ued to make doc­u­men­taries into 1950, includ­ing Man of Aran (about life on the Irish isle of the same name) and Tabu, a Poly­ne­sian island tale direct­ed by F.W. Mur­nau, best known for Nos­fer­atu. But none had the impact of this film. When the Library of Con­gress first start­ed list­ing films in 1989 for preser­va­tion, spec­i­fy­ing ones that were “cul­tur­al­ly, his­tor­i­cal­ly, or aes­thet­i­cal­ly sig­nif­i­cant,” Nanook was in the first selec­tion of 25.

The idea of build­ing a liv­ing habi­tat in order to con­trol the action still hap­pens in nature doc­u­men­taries, and humans read­i­ly play­ing a ver­sion of them­selves to tell a cer­tain kind of nar­ra­tive is the basis of all real­i­ty TV. Fla­her­ty bent bor­ing truth to get to a dif­fer­ent, “essen­tial” truth. Is it bet­ter that we believe that Nanook died out on the ice, a vic­tim of the harsh real­i­ty of sur­vival on the ice, or to know that he actu­al­ly died at home from tuber­cu­lo­sis? The qual­i­ties that caused con­tro­ver­sy upon Nanook’s release aren’t the oppo­site of doc­u­men­tary, they *are* doc­u­men­tary.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 10 Great­est Doc­u­men­taries of All Time Accord­ing to 340 Film­mak­ers and Crit­ics

Watch Luis Buñuel’s Sur­re­al Trav­el Doc­u­men­tary A Land With­out Bread (1933)

Watch Dzi­ga Vertov’s Unset­tling Sovi­et Toys: The First Sovi­et Ani­mat­ed Movie Ever (1924)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Watch Stewart Brand’s 6‑Part Series How Buildings Learn, With Music by Brian Eno

Stew­art Brand came onto the cul­tur­al scene dur­ing the 1960s, help­ing to stage the Acid Tests made famous by Ken Kesey and the Mer­ry Pranksters, and lat­er launch­ing the influ­en­tial Whole Earth Cat­a­log (some­thing Steve Jobs described as “Google in paper­back form, 35 years before Google came along”). He also vig­or­ous­ly cam­paigned in 1966 to have NASA release a pho­to­graph show­ing the entire­ty of Earth from space — some­thing we take for grant­ed now, but fired human­i­ty’s imag­i­na­tion back then.

Dur­ing the 1970s and beyond, Brand found­ed CoEvo­lu­tion Quar­ter­ly, a suc­ces­sor to the Whole Earth Cat­a­log; The WELL (“Whole Earth ‘Lec­tron­ic Link”), “a pro­to­typ­i­cal, wide-rang­ing online com­mu­ni­ty for intel­li­gent, informed par­tic­i­pants the world over;” and even­tu­al­ly The Long Now Foun­da­tion, whose work we’ve high­light­ed here before. When not cre­at­ing new insti­tu­tions, he has poured his cre­ative ener­gies into books and films.

Above you can watch How Build­ings Learn, Brand’s six-part BBC TV series from 1997, which comes com­plete with music by Bri­an Eno. Based on his illus­trat­ed book shar­ing the same titlethe TV series offers a cri­tique of mod­ernist approach­es to archi­tec­ture (think Buck­min­ster Fuller, Frank Gehry, and Le Cor­busier) and instead argues for “an organ­ic kind of build­ing, based on four walls, which is easy to change and expand and grow as the ide­al form of build­ing.”

Brand made the series avail­able on his Youtube chan­nel, with these words: “Any­body is wel­come to use any­thing from this series in any way they like… Hack away. Do cred­it the BBC, who put con­sid­er­able time and tal­ent into the project.” And he added the note­wor­thy foot­note: “this was one of the first tele­vi­sion pro­duc­tions made entire­ly in dig­i­tal— shot dig­i­tal, edit­ed dig­i­tal.”

Find the first three parts above, and the remain­ing parts below:

You can find How Build­ings Learn added to our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of West­ern Archi­tec­ture: From Ancient Greece to Roco­co (A Free Online Course)

The Acid Test Reels: Ken Kesey & The Grate­ful Dead’s Sound­track for the 1960s Famous LSD Par­ties

Ken Kesey’s First LSD Trip Ani­mat­ed

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Andrei Tarkovsky Calls Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey a “Phony” Film “With Only Pretensions to Truth”

2001 stanley kubrick

Yes­ter­day we ran a list of 93 films beloved by Stan­ley Kubrick, which includes two by Andrei Tarkovsky: 1972’s Solaris and 1986’s The Sac­ri­fice. You expect one auteur to appre­ci­ate the work of anoth­er — “game rec­og­nize game,” to use the mod­ern par­lance — but the selec­tion of Solaris makes spe­cial sense. Just four years before it, Kubrick had, of course, made his own psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly and visu­al­ly-intense cin­e­mat­ic voy­age out from Earth into the great beyond, 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The appre­ci­a­tion, alas, was­n’t mutu­al. “Tarkovsky sup­pos­ed­ly made Solaris in an attempt to one-up Kubrick after he had seen 2001 (which he referred to as cold and ster­ile),” writes Joshua War­ren at criterion.com. “Inter­est­ing­ly enough, Kubrick appar­ent­ly real­ly liked Solaris and I’m sure he found it amus­ing that it was mar­ket­ed as ‘the Russ­ian answer to 2001.’ ” Jonathan Crow recent­ly quot­ed Tarkovsky as say­ing: “2001: A Space Odyssey is pho­ny on many points, even for spe­cial­ists. For a true work of art, the fake must be elim­i­nat­ed.”

That pro­nounce­ment comes from a 1970, pre-Solaris inter­view with Tarkovsky by Naum Abramov. The Russ­ian auteur indicts what he sees as 2001’s lack of emo­tion­al truth due to its exces­sive tech­no­log­i­cal inven­tion, effec­tive­ly declar­ing that, in his own for­ay into the realm of sci­ence-fic­tion, “every­thing would be as it should. That means to cre­ate psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly, not an exot­ic but a real, every­day envi­ron­ment that would be con­veyed to the view­er through the per­cep­tion of the film’s char­ac­ters. That’s why a detailed ‘exam­i­na­tion’ of the tech­no­log­i­cal process­es of the future trans­forms the emo­tion­al foun­da­tion of a film, as a work of art, into a life­less schema with only pre­ten­sions to truth.”

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Crit­ic Philip Lopate writes that “the media played up the cold-war angle of the Sovi­et director’s deter­mi­na­tion to make an ‘anti-2001,’ and cer­tain­ly Tarkovsky used more intense­ly indi­vid­ual char­ac­ters and a more pas­sion­ate human dra­ma at the cen­ter than Kubrick.” And the films do have sim­i­lar­i­ties, from their “leisure­ly, lan­guid” nar­ra­tives to their “widescreen mise-en-scène approach that draws on supe­ri­or art direc­tion” to their “air of mys­tery that invites count­less expla­na­tions.” But Lopate argues that the themes of Solaris resem­ble those of 2001 less than those of Hitch­cock­’s Ver­ti­go: “the inabil­i­ty of the male to pro­tect the female, the mul­ti­ple dis­guis­es or ‘res­ur­rec­tions’ of the loved one, the inevitabil­i­ty of repeat­ing past mis­takes.”

As a lover of both Kubrick and Tarkovsky’s work, I can hard­ly take sides. Maybe I just need to watch both 2001 and Solaris yet again, one after anoth­er, in order to bet­ter com­pare them. (Find Tarkovsky’s films free online here.) And maybe I need to throw Ver­ti­go into the evening as well. Now that’s what I call a triple fea­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Solaris (1972), Andrei Tarkovsky’s Haunt­ing Vision of the Future

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Shot by Shot: A 22-Minute Break­down of the Director’s Film­mak­ing

Tarkovsky Films Now Free Online

Watch Stalk­er, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mind-Bend­ing Mas­ter­piece Free Online

The Mas­ter­ful Polaroid Pic­tures Tak­en by Film­mak­er Andrei Tarkovsky

Tarkovsky’s Advice to Young Film­mak­ers: Sac­ri­fice Your­self for Cin­e­ma

A Poet in Cin­e­ma: Andrei Tarkovsky Reveals the Director’s Deep Thoughts on Film­mak­ing and Life

93 Films Beloved by Stan­ley Kubrick: From Fritz Lang’s Metrop­o­lis (1927) to Ron Shelton’s White Men Can’t Jump (1992)

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

93 Films Stanley Kubrick Really Liked

Most cinephiles want to watch not just their favorite direc­tors’ films, but their favorite direc­tors’ favorite films. And how many cinephiles’ lists of favorite direc­tors fail to include Stan­ley Kubrick? In 2013, we fea­tured the only top-ten list the direc­tor of 2001: A Space Odyssey and A Clock­work Orange ever wrote, for Cin­e­ma mag­a­zine in 1963, which runs as fol­lows:

  • I Vitel­loni (Felli­ni, 1953)
  • Wild Straw­ber­ries (Bergman, 1957)
  • Cit­i­zen Kane (Welles, 1941)
  • The Trea­sure of the Sier­ra Madre (Hus­ton, 1948)
  • City Lights (Chap­lin, 1931)
  • Hen­ry V (Olivi­er, 1944)
  • La notte (Anto­nioni, 1961)
  • The Bank Dick (Fields, 1940)
  • Rox­ie Hart (Well­man, 1942)
  • Hell’s Angels (Hugh­es, 1930)

But fans eager to find out more of what shaped the cin­e­mat­ic taste of this auteur of all auteurs do have a few more resources to turn to. At criterion.com, Joshua War­ren has com­piledfrom inter­views with Kubrick­’s fam­i­ly, friends and col­leagues, an inter­view [Kubrick] did in 1957 for Cahiers du ciné­ma as well as an inter­view in 1963 for Cin­e­ma mag­a­zine and the ‘Mas­ter list’ by the BFI,” an anno­tat­ed list of Kubrick­’s favorite films.

And at the BFI’s site, Nick Wrigley (“with the help of Kubrick’s right-hand man, Jan Har­lan”) has anoth­er set of such lists. Their com­bined selec­tions, orga­nized by direc­tor, run as fol­lows. Note that one film on the extend­ed list, Fritz Lang’s 1927 mas­ter­piece Metrop­o­lis, can be viewed above.

  • Annie Hall (Woody Allen, 1977)
  • Hus­bands and Wives (Woody Allen, 1992)
  • Man­hat­tan (Woody Allen, 1979)
  • Radio Days (Woody Allen, 1987)
  • McCabe & Mrs. Miller (Robert Alt­man, 1971)
  • If… (Lind­say Ander­son, 1968)
  • Boo­gie Nights (Paul Thomas Ander­son, 1998)
  • La notte (Michelan­ge­lo Anto­nioni, 1961)
  • Harold and Maude (Hal Ash­by, 1971)
  • Pelle the Con­queror (Bille August, 1987)
  • Babet­te’s Feast (Gabriel Axel, 1987)
  • Casque d’Or (Jacques Beck­er, 1952)
  • Édouard et Car­o­line (Jacques Beck­er, 1951)
  • Cries and Whis­pers (Ing­mar Bergman, 1972)
  • Smiles of a Sum­mer Night (Ing­mar Bergman, 1955)
  • Wild Straw­ber­ries (Ing­mar Bergman, 1972)
  • Deliv­er­ance (John Boor­man, 1972)
  • Hen­ry V (Ken­neth Branagh, 1989)
  • Mod­ern Romance (Albert Brooks, 1981)
  • Chil­dren of Par­adise (Mar­cel Carné, 1945)
  • City Lights (Charles Chap­lin, 1931)
  • The Bank Dick (Edward Cline, 1940)
  • Beau­ty and the Beast (Jean Cocteau, 1946)
  • Apoc­a­lypse Now (Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la, 1979)
  • The God­fa­ther (Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la, 1972)
  • The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991)
  • Alexan­der Nevsky (Sergei Eisen­stein, 1938)
  • The Spir­it of the Bee­hive (Vic­tor Erice, 1973)
  • La stra­da (Fed­eri­co Felli­ni, 1954)
  • I vitel­loni (Fed­eri­co Felli­ni, 1953)
  • La Ker­messe Héroïque (Jacques Fey­der, 1935)
  • Tora! Tora! Tora! (Richard Fleis­ch­er, 1970)
  • The Fire­man’s Ball (Miloš For­man, 1967)
  • One Flew Over the Cuck­oo’s Nest (Milos For­man, 1975)
  • Cabaret (Bob Fos­se, 1972)
  • The Exor­cist (William Fried­kin, 1973)
  • Get Carter (Mike Hodges, 1971)
  • The Ter­mi­nal Man (Mike Hodges, 1974)
  • The Texas Chain­saw Mas­sacre (Tobe Hoop­er, 1974)
  • Hel­l’s Angels (Howard Hugh­es, 1930)
  • The Trea­sure of Sier­ra Madre (John Hus­ton, 1947)
  • Deka­log (Krzysztof Kies­lows­ki, 1990)
  • Rashomon (Aki­ra Kuro­sawa, 1950)
  • Sev­en Samu­rai (Aki­ra Kuro­sawa, 1954)
  • Throne of Blood (Aki­ra Kuro­sawa, 1957)
  • Metrop­o­lis (Fritz Lang, 1927)
  • An Amer­i­can Were­wolf in Lon­don (John Lan­dis, 1981)
  • Abi­gail’s Par­ty (Mike Leigh, 1977)
  • La bonne année (Claude Lelouch, 1973)
  • Once Upon a Time in the West (Ser­gio Leone, 1968)
  • Very Nice, Very Nice (Arthur Lipsett, 1961)
  • Amer­i­can Graf­fi­ti (George Lucas, 1973)
  • Dog Day After­noon (Sid­ney Lumet, 1975)
  • Eraser­head (David Lynch, 1976)
  • House of Games (David Mamet, 1987)
  • The Red Squir­rel (Julio Medem, 1993)
  • Bob le flam­beur (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1956)
  • Close­ly Watched Trains (Jiří Men­zel, 1966)
  • Pacif­ic 231 (Jean Mit­ry, 1949)
  • Roger & Me (Michael Moore, 1989)
  • Hen­ry V (Lau­rence Olivi­er, 1944)
  • The Ear­rings of Madame de… (Max Ophuls, 1953)
  • Le plaisir (Max Ophuls, 1951)
  • La ronde (Max Ophuls, 1950)
  • Rose­mary’s Baby (Roman Polan­s­ki, 1968)
  • The Bat­tle of Algiers (Gillo Pon­tecor­vo, 1966)
  • Heimat (Edgar Reitz, 1984)
  • Blood Wed­ding (Car­los Saura, 1981)
  • Cría Cuer­vos (Car­los Saura, 1975)
  • Pep­per­mint Frap­pé (Car­los Saura, 1967)
  • Alien (Rid­ley Scott, 1977)
  • The Ander­son Pla­toon (Pierre Schoen­do­erf­fer, 1967)
  • White Men Can’t Jump (Ron Shel­ton, 1992)
  • Miss Julie (Alf Sjöberg, 1951)
  • The Phan­tom Car­riage (Vic­tor Sjöström, 1921)
  • The Van­ish­ing (George Sluiz­er, 1988)
  • Close Encoun­ters of the Third Kind (Steven Spiel­berg, 1977)
  • E.T. the Extra-ter­res­tri­al (Steven Spiel­berg, 1982)
  • Mary Pop­pins (Robert Steven­son, 1964)
  • Pla­toon (Oliv­er Stone, 1986)
  • Pulp Fic­tion (Quentin Taran­ti­no, 1994)
  • The Sac­ri­fice (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1986)
  • Solaris (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1972)
  • The Emi­grants (Jan Troell, 1970)
  • The Blue Angel (Josef von Stern­berg, 1930)
  • Dan­ton (Andrzej Waj­da, 1984)
  • Girl Friends (Clau­dia Weill, 1978)
  • The Cars that Ate Paris (Peter Weir, 1974)
  • Pic­nic at Hang­ing Rock (Peter Weir, 1975)
  • Cit­i­zen Kane (Orson Welles, 1941)
  • Rox­ie Hart (William Well­man, 1942)
  • Ådalen 31 (Bo Wider­berg, 1969)
  • The Siege of Man­ches­ter (Her­bert Wise, 1965)

As you might expect from a film­mak­er who entered a dif­fer­ent genre with every pic­ture, this list of all the movies he went on record as admir­ing includes all dif­fer­ent kinds of movies. We expect to find respect­ed films by his col­leagues in respect­ed auteur­hood like Woody Allen, Ing­mar Bergman, Andrei Tarkovsky, and Max Ophuls (who, said Kubrick, “pos­sessed every pos­si­ble qual­i­ty”). But per­haps more sur­pris­ing­ly, the list also includes thrillers like The Ter­mi­nal Man, exer­cis­es in hor­ror like The Texas Chain­saw Mas­sacre, and grotesque come­dies like The Cars That Ate Paris. But think about those movies for a moment, and you real­ize that, like Kubrick­’s own work, they all tran­scend their sup­posed gen­res. As for what he saw in White Men Can’t Jump — well, I sup­pose we’ve all got to take some secrets to the grave.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stan­ley Kubrick’s List of Top 10 Films (The First and Only List He Ever Cre­at­ed)

Ter­ry Gilliam: The Dif­fer­ence Between Kubrick (Great Film­mak­er) and Spiel­berg (Less So)

Napoleon: The Great­est Movie Stan­ley Kubrick Nev­er Made

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Behind-the-Scenes Footage of Jerry Lewis’ Ill-Conceived Holocaust Movie The Day The Clown Cried

The auteur respon­si­ble for The Dis­or­der­ly Order­lies might not be the obvi­ous choice to make a movie about the Holo­caust but that’s appar­ent­ly what hap­pened. For the hand­ful of peo­ple who have seen Jer­ry Lewis’s The Day the Clown Cried – his unre­leased 1972 film about a washed-up clown named Hel­mut Doork who amus­es a box­car of Jew­ish chil­dren all the way to an Auschwitz gas cham­ber — say that the movie is far, far worse than you might imag­ine.

“This film was real­ly awe-inspir­ing, in that you are rarely in the pres­ence of a per­fect object,” said Har­ry Shear­er in a 1992 Spy Mag­a­zine arti­cle about the movie. “This was a per­fect object. This movie is so dras­ti­cal­ly wrong, its pathos and its com­e­dy are so wild­ly mis­placed, that you could not, in your fan­ta­sy of what it might be like, improve on what it real­ly is. “Oh My God!” — that’s all you can say.” (Below you can hear Shear­er tell Howard Stern more about the film.)

There is report­ed­ly only one copy of the movie and that print is under lock and key. Lewis is adamant that the movie is nev­er going to be seen by the pub­lic while he still has a say in the mat­ter. “It was all bad and it was bad because I lost the mag­ic,” Lewis told an audi­ence at the 2013 Cannes Film Fes­ti­val. “You will nev­er see it, no-one will ever see it, because I am embar­rassed at the poor work.”

Its mind-bog­gling awful­ness and its inac­ces­si­bil­i­ty has placed The Day the Clown Cried into that rar­i­fied pan­theon of leg­endary lost films like the orig­i­nal cut of Erich von Stroheim’s Greed. Only the film is pur­pose­ful­ly kept in obscu­ri­ty. Every once in a while, a new frag­ment of the movie will pop up on the inter­net only to be quick­ly quashed.

The lat­est glimpse of this famous­ly wrong-head­ed pro­duc­tion comes in the form of a sev­en-minute clip of a mak­ing-of doc­u­men­tary on the film that aired on Flem­ish TV. You can watch it above. There’s a longer sec­tion here.

The clip opens with Lewis in clown face doing his rub­ber-faced slap­stick shtick. It’s not espe­cial­ly fun­ny out of con­text. In con­text one can only imag­ine that the rou­tine would be about as hilar­i­ous as a whoop­ie cush­ion dur­ing the My Lai mas­sacre.

Lat­er, the doc­u­men­tary shows Lewis behind the cam­era and he seems every bit the auteur. The voice over notes that Lewis is work­ing “as a clown, actor, direc­tor, con­duc­tor and pro­duc­er.” Lewis is even seen telling his French sound engi­neer how to use his Nagra tape recorder.

But per­haps the most sur­pris­ing moment in the clip is when that 1960s pow­er cou­ple Jane Birkin and Serge Gains­bourg are seen hang­ing around the set. There real­ly does seem to be some­thing with the French and Jer­ry Lewis.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Auschwitz Cap­tured in Haunt­ing Drone Footage (and a New Short Film by Steven Spiel­berg & Meryl Streep)

Mem­o­ry of the Camps (1985): The Holo­caust Doc­u­men­tary that Trau­ma­tized Alfred Hitch­cock, and Remained Unseen for 40 Years

Anne Frank: The Only Exist­ing Video Now Online

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

 

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