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Orson Welles in middle age

Orson Welles: One-Man Band by Simon Callow shows how Welles was an often chaotic yet masterful film-maker in his middle age.

By the end of the 1950s, Orson Welles was perilously fat. It hurt him to be reminded of it but what could he do? He had been scoffing whole chickens and plates of foie gras for lunch – and lunch could last all day, then lurch ponderously into the night. In Citizen Kane, Jedediah Leland (Joseph Cotten) finds his old friend Charlie (Welles) at his office, casually chomping away as dawn breaks outside. “Are you still eating?” he asks in disbelief. Charlie – soon to become the mythic newspaperman Charles Foster Kane – replies, “I’m still hungry.” Welles felt that hunger as much as Kane ever did and it rarely went away. But unlike the fictional Kane, who dies a thin man, Welles in middle age was now “a fastidious yet insatiable glutton . . . perilously fat”.

That acid description had oozed from the pen of Kenneth Tynan, who was making careers and causing backstage tantrums in roughly equal measure as a theatre critic at the Observer. Tynan had known Welles for a decade, having, as a young man, “materialised out of a puff of Paris fog” (or so Welles recalled it) to “bamboozle” the film-maker into writing a complimentary foreword for his first published book, He That Plays the King. Always attracted to those who disdained convention, Welles decided he liked this erudite, heavy-smoking boy from Birmingham and took his subsequent pronouncements on his work to heart.

It proved a dangerous decision, because Welles’s heart was mush. “Tynan says I’m an amateur,” he telegraphed his then patron Laurence Olivier when the reviews came in for his 1951 British stage production of Othello. Other reviews, some of them positive, were of little consolation. It was yet another case of “Et tu, Brute?” – betrayal at the hands of a disciple he had once inspired. A couple of nights after the offending article was published, the critic went backstage to greet his childhood hero. But as Elaine Dundy, Tynan’s wife at the time, remembered, “Welles uttered one word with a bellow that shook everything in the room that was made of glass: ‘Out!’”

Orson Welles the child prodigy, the visionary who had reinvented the stage for Roosevelt’s Federal Theatre Project, the prankster who had turned science fiction into fact with his newsreel-style War of the Worlds radio broadcast in 1938, the iconoclast whose final-cut contract had kept the fools and fuddy-duddies out of the studio long enough for him to rewrite the rules of Hollywood cinema in 1941 with Citizen Kane: that Orson Welles was still there, somewhere, underneath all those layers of perilous fat. It was perhaps the relatively recent memory of that glorious, youthful Welles that brought out the venom in his former idolaters. They betrayed him because he had betrayed them first, by breaking his early promise. Now, what films he was able to make tanked at the box office and his baroque style – which had once seemed so inventive – jarred with the “realism” touted by the Italians and the newly emerging Method actors.

Time and again, his best friends became his worst enemies (though, like Tynan, they could on occasion find themselves back in his favour). Most notable among them was John Houseman, the British-American actor with whom Welles had founded the Mercury Theatre in the late 1930s, and who followed him to Hollywood to “babysit” the alcoholic screenwriter Herman J Mankiewicz as he worked on Citizen Kane.

Houseman and Welles were, according to the biographer David Thomson in his 1996 book Rosebud, once so close that they were “sometimes reckoned as lovers by their colleagues”. When misbehaviour on both sides caused a rift, they did not drift apart but rather engaged in a sort of cold war. Shortly before Welles’s death in 1985, his protégé Peter Bogdanovich described Houseman as Welles’s “single most destructive enemy”.

Welles had a raging appetite for destruction as well as food. Simon Callow’s third volume of his definitive biography, spanning a typically busy period between 1947 and 1966, shows the actor-director-writer-magician-raconteur at his most charming and his most obnoxious. He had so many enemies, it seems, because he made them compulsively. His bullshit threshold was low, unless the bullshit was his own bullshit. Callow is a committed admirer of his subject but wisely tackles Welles’s “childlike elements” – his “tantrums”, his “cruelty”, his “destructiveness” – directly. “One cannot simply brush this side of his nature aside . . . for it explains a great deal of what it was like to be around Welles, and also a great deal of what it was like to be Welles,” he says in his introduction.

One-Man Band has been published to coincide with the centenary year of Welles’s birth and, like the earlier volumes, it brings to life the distinctly 20th-century milieu in which he lived. Welles raged in 1951 when Tynan labelled him an “amateur” but later gloried in that word (in the 1973 film F for Fake, he calls himself a “charlatan”). His amateurishness was what freed him from the stick-in-the-mud conventionalism that bored him to the point of anger; it emboldened him to reinvent and conquer almost every form he worked in, from the stage to radio and film. Here, Welles lights out for virgin territory once again, this time in Europe, to experiment with television on the payroll of the still-young BBC. No one had yet decided what TV should offer and amateurism was allowed, even invited, in a way that seems fantastical today.

Orson Welles’s Sketch Book was a simple show, in which he addressed the camera directly and improvised anecdotes about ballet, bullfighting, magic, murder – anything that piqued his interest at that moment. The premise sounds unremarkable now, when our airwaves are clogged with talking-heads programmes of all kinds, but in 1955 the plain-spokenness of Welles’s approach was revelatory. In comparison, similar shows by others had been “stiff affairs, essentially lectures”, Callow writes. “No one before Welles had understood the essential characteristic of television, its intimacy.”

The British viewing public agreed. “If Orson Welles were to join one or other of the two main political parties, I guarantee that some 15 minutes of him on television would sway the electorate for his side,” the London Evening News declared. He worked on a few other programmes but then his interest waned. So he ditched the medium (at least for the time being), burning bridges along the way, to pursue his true vocation: film-making.

The next Welles movie granted a US release was Touch Of Evil (1958) – the blackest in Hollywood’s noir cycle and perhaps the best. After a successful shoot, clashes with the studio over editing decisions led to the film’s stillbirth: it emerged as a B-picture on a double bill with Harry Keller’s now largely forgotten melodrama The Female Animal.

The narrative of Welles the genius was matched in his lifetime by another, equally powerful narrative: that of him as an unruly mess. He was pained by its corrosive influence when scrabbling for funding to make new work but he also encouraged it, habitually disappearing to prepare for other projects before whatever work at hand was completed, blowing budgets in pursuit of grand visions that no studio could afford to bring to the screen. Failure suited his romantic temperament; after all, what is more romantic than a ruin, a monument to some lost glory too perfect for this world of accountants and war and corruption?

Yet Welles was no failure. There’s an old Hollywood story about a producer who would give any movie, good or bad, a standing ovation because it was so difficult to get a film made at all. Welles completed 11 feature films, six of them masterpieces (Callow closes this volume with the greatest, Chimes at Midnight, in which Welles plays Shakespeare’s Falstaff). He urged us to think of his career as a series of what-ifs. By charming, bullying, wooing and betraying all around him, however, Welles often succeeded in satisfying his hunger for wonder – and we are all richer for his greed.

Orson Welles: One-Man Band by Simon Callow is published by Jonathan Cape (466pp, £25)

Yo Zushi’s latest album, “It Never Entered My Mind”, is released by Eidola Records

Yo Zushi is a contributing writer for the New Statesman. His latest album, It Never Entered My Mind, is out now on Eidola Records and is on Spotify here.

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The age of terror

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Who will win Great British Bake Off 2017 based on the contestants’ Twitters

An extremely serious and damning investigation. 

It was morning but the sky was as dark as the night – and the night was as dark as a quite dark rat. He walked in. A real smooth gent with legs for seconds. His pins were draped in the finest boot-cut jeans money could buy, and bad news was written all over his face. “I’m Paul,” he said. “I know”. My hooch ran dry that night – but the conversation never did. By nightfall, it was clear as a see-through rat.   

Some might say that going amateur detective to figure out which contestants win and lose in this year’s Great British Bake Off is spoiling the fun faster than a Baked Alaska left out of the freezer. To those people I’d say: yes. The following article is not fun. It is a serious and intense week-by-week breakdown of who will leave GBBO in 2017. How? Using the contestants’ Twitter and Instagram accounts, of course.

The clues are simple but manifold, like a rat with cousins. They include:

  • The date a contestant signed up for social media (was it during, or after, the competition?)
  • Whether a contestant follows any of the others (indicating they had a chance to bond)
  • A contestant’s personal blog and headshots (has the contestant already snaffled a PR?)
  • Pictures of the contestant's baking.
  • Whether a baker refers to themselves as a “baker” or “contestant” (I still haven’t figured this one out but FOR GOD’S SAKE WATSON, THERE’S SOMETHING IN IT)

Using these and other damning, damning, damning clues, I have broken down the contestants into early leavers, mid-season departures, and finalists. I apologise for what I have done.

Early leavers

Kate

Kate appears not to have a Twitter – or at least not one that the other contestants fancy following. This means she likely doesn’t have a book deal on the way, as she’d need to start building her social media presence now. Plus, look at how she’s holding that fork. That’s not how you hold a fork, Kate.

Estimated departure: Week 1

Julia

This year’s Bake Off began filming on 30 April and each series has ten episodes, meaning filming ran until at least 9 July. Julia first tweeted on 8 May – a Monday, presumably after a Sunday of filming. Her Instagram shows she baked throughout June and then – aha! – went on holiday. What does this mean? What does anything mean?

Estimated departure: Week 2

James

James has a swish blog that could indicate a PR pal (and a marketing agency recently followed him on Twitter). That said, after an April and May hiatus, James began tweeting regularly in June – DID HE PERHAPS HAVE A SUDDEN INFLUX OF FREE TIME? No one can say. Except me. I can and I am.

Estimated departure: Week 3

Tom

Token-hottie Tom is a real trickster, as a social media-savvy youngster. That said, he tweeted about being distracted at work today, indicating he is still in his old job as opposed to working on his latest range of wooden spoons. His Instagram is suspiciously private and his Twitter sparked into activity in June. What secrets lurk behind that mysteriously hot face? What is he trying to tell me, and only me, at this time?

Estimated departure: Week 4

Peter

Peter’s blog is EXCEPTIONALLY swish, but he does work in IT, meaning this isn’t a huge clue about any potential managers. Although Peter’s bakes look as beautiful as the moon itself, he joined Twitter in May and started blogging then too, suggesting he had a wee bit of spare time on his hands. What’s more, his blog says he likes to incorporate coconut as an ingredient in “everything” he bakes, and there is absolutely no bread-baking way Paul Hollywood will stand for that.

Estimated departure: Week 5

Mid-season departures

Stacey

Stacey’s buns ain’t got it going on. The mum of three only started tweeting today – and this was simply to retweet GBBO’s official announcements. That said, Stacey appears to have cooked a courgette cake on 9 June, indicating she stays in the competition until at least free-from week (or she’s just a massive sadist).

Estimated departure: Week 6

Chris

Chris is a tricky one, as he’s already verified on Twitter and was already solidly social media famous before GBBO. The one stinker of a clue he did leave, however, was tweeting about baking a cake without sugar on 5 June. As he was in London on 18 June (a Sunday, and therefore a GBBO filming day) and between the free-from week and this date he tweeted about bread and biscuits (which are traditionally filmed before free-from week in Bake Off history) I suspect he left just before, or slap bang on, Week 7. ARE YOU PROUD NOW, MOTHER?

Estimated departure: Week 7

Flo

Flo’s personal motto is “Flo leaves no clues”, or at least I assume it is because truly, the lady doesn’t. She’s the oldest Bake Off contestant ever, meaning we can forgive her for not logging onto the WWWs. I am certain she’ll join Twitter once she realises how many people love her, a bit like Val of seasons past. See you soon, Flo. See you soon.

Estimated departure: Week 8

Liam

Liam either left in Week 1 or Week 9 – with 0 percent chance it was any of the weeks in between. The boy is an enigma – a cupcake conundrum, a macaron mystery. His bagel-eyed Twitter profile picture could realistically either be a professional shot OR taken by an A-Level mate with his dad’s camera. He tweeted calling his other contestants “family”, but he also only follows ONE of them on the site. Oh, oh, oh, mysterious boy, I want to get close to you. Move your baking next to mine.

Estimated departure: Week 9

Finalists

Steven

Twitter bios are laden with hidden meanings and Steven Carter-Bailey’s doesn’t disappoint. His bio tells people to tune in “every” (every!) Tuesday and he has started his own hashtag, #StevenGBBO. As he only started tweeting 4 August (indicating he was a busy lil baker before this point) AND his cakes look exceptionally lovely, this boy stinks of finalist.  

(That said, he has never tweeted about bread, meaning he potentially got chucked out on week three, Paul Hollywood’s reckoning.)

Sophie

Sophie’s Twitter trail is the most revealing of the lot, as the bike-loving baker recently followed a talent agency on the site. This agency represents one of last year’s GBBO bakers who left just before the finale. It’s clear Sophie’s rising faster than some saffron-infused sourdough left overnight in Mary’s proving drawer. Either that or she's bolder than Candice's lipstick. 

Chuen-Yan

Since joining Twitter in April 2017, Yan has been remarkably silent. Does this indicate an early departure? Yes, probably. Despite this, I’m going to put her as a finalist. She looks really nice. 

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.