The Extraordinary Image: Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick, and the Reimagining of Cinema

The Extraordinary Image

The Extraordinary Image

Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick, and the Reimagining of Cinema

Robert P. Kolker

Rutgers University Press

New Brunswick, New Jersey, and London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kolker, Robert Phillip author.

Title: The extraordinary image: Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick, and the reimagining of cinema / Robert P. Kolker.

Description: New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Inlcudes filmography.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016012316| ISBN 9780813583099 (hardcover: alk. paper) | ISBN 9780813583112 (e-book (epub)) | ISBN 9780813583129 (e-book (web pdf))

Subjects: LCSH: Motion pictures—United States. | Welles, Orson, 1915–1985—Criticism and interpretation. | Hitchcock, Alfred, 1899–1980—Criticism and interpretation. | Kubrick, Stanley—Criticism and interpretation.

Classification: LCC PN1993.5.U6 .K58 2016 | DDC 791.430973—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016012316

A British Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Copyright © 2017 by Robert P. Kolker

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is fair use as defined by U.S. copyright law.

www.rutgersuniversitypress.org

The Imagination is not a State: it is Human Existence itself.

—William Blake

The greatness of images isn’t in the coherence of their narrative logic, or the nuance of their dramatic implications, but in their excess—not in what they mean but in what they are.

—Richard Brody

It’s funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen.

—Alex in A Clockwork Orange

Contents

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgments

Prelude

The Passion of Film

What We Talk about When We Talk about Film

The Body of Work

Origins

The Films They Made

The Work of the Body

Hunger Artists

Apollo, Dionysus, and Nemesis

Embodiment and Performance

Form, Time, and Space

Spatial Illusions

Conventional Spaces

Against Realism

Touch of Evil and Psycho

Labyrinths, Lost Time, Dying Falls

Hitchcock and the Abyss

The Dreamworld

The Spaces of Space Fiction

Cycles and Symmetry

Photograph of a Photograph

Power and Sexuality

The Art of Feeling

Coda: An Immense Shadow

Chronology of Films by Welles, Hitchcock, and Kubrick

Notes

Select Bibliography

Index

About the Author

Illustrations

Figure 1. Alfred Hitchcock tries to catch a bus in North by Northwest

Figure 2. Orson Welles in F for Fake

Figure 3. Stanley Kubrick composes Jack Nicholson in the documentary about the making of The Shining

Figure 4. The darkness of The Magnificent Ambersons

Figure 5. The labyrinth of Orson Welles’s The Trial

Figure 6. Seducer and seductress in Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita

Figure 7. The threatening close-up of Uncle Charlie at the dinner table in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt

Figure 8. Heywood Floyd reads instructions for the zero gravity toilet in 2001: A Space Odyssey

Figures 9–12. Some incarnations of Orson Welles: Harry Lime in Carol Reed’s The Third Man; Mr. Arkadin; Hank Quinlan in Touch of Evil; Falstaff in Chimes at Midnight

Figure 13. Alex on display in A Clockwork Orange

Figure 14. The return of the gaze. Lars Thorwald sees Jeffries (and, by implication, the audience) in Hitchcock’s Rear Window

Figure 15. Shadow of a Doubt: Young Charlie and Uncle Charlie in a film noir bar: And I brought you nightmares.

Figures 16–17. Tony Perkins in Psycho and The Trial

Figure 18. The sad, lost woman: Emma in Shadow of a Doubt

Figure 19. A triptych of despair and frustration. The end of Thompson’s first visit to Susan Alexander at the nightclub in Citizen Kane

Figure 20. Deep focus in Citizen Kane. Young Charlie’s mother signs him over to Mr. Thatcher.

Figure 21. Mike O’Hara tells his story about the sharks—to the sharks, in The Lady from Shanghai

Figure 22. Shootout in the hall of mirrors in The Lady from Shanghai

Figure 23. Akim Tamiroff as Jakob Zouk in Mr. Arkadin

Figure 24. Vargas wrestles with the acid thrower in Touch of Evil

Figure 25. The influence of Touch of Evil on Psycho

Figure 26. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. The end of Psycho.

Figure 27. Hank and Tana in Touch of Evil

Figure 28. Titorelli’s room in The Trial

Figure 29. A triptych of the battle sequence in Chimes at Midnight

Figure 30. A high-angle shot in Shadow of a Doubt

Figure 31. Two corridors: Midge disappears, and the ghost of Madeleine appears in the hallways of Vertigo

Figure 32. This matter is best disposed of from a great height . . . over water. North by Northwest

Figure 33. Alex in the record boutique in A Clockwork Orange

Figure 34. A nightmare of an orgy in Eyes Wide Shut

Figure 35. Reconciliation in the toy store at the end of Eyes Wide Shut

Figure 36. Heywood Floyd delivers a boring speech in a conference hall on the moon in 2001: A Space Odyssey

Figure 37. Ziegler’s bathroom in Eyes Wide Shut

Figure 38. Dave sees himself old and dying at the end of 2001

Figure 39. Dave dismantles HAL while a prerecorded message on a television monitor informs him that HAL is in control of the mission in 2001

Figure 40. Elster’s power over Scottie is seen in his dominance in the frame in Vertigo

Figure 41. Saving Alicia in Notorious

Figure 42. Trash talk in the latrine in Full Metal Jacket

Figure 43. Mein Führer, I can walk! The Nazi reborn in Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Figure 44. I have heard it before. . . . Levinsky and the seashell in The Immortal Story

Figure 45. It’s not hot. It’s cold. Aunt Fanny breaks down in The Magnificent Ambersons

Figures 46–47. Scottie and Midge discuss their relationship in Vertigo. The high-angle extreme close-up of Midge speaks volumes.–195

Figure 48. The surreal allegory of the camps in Welles’s The Trial

Figure 49. Apocalyptic fornication: Major Kong rides the bomb to Doomsday in Dr. Strangelove

Figure 50. The last sequence of Barry Lyndon: a ceremony of accounting and loss

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Marsha Gordon, who read the manuscript more than once and helped give it form and coherence. Any lapses in these pages are mine alone.

Nathan Abrams, my colleague in Kubrick, read the proofs with a sharp and knowing eye.

David Wyatt, a steady intellectual companion, was a source of ideas, encouragement, and good humor. Parts of this book were directly influenced by his work.

Many thanks to Marilyn Campbell at Rutgers University Press and Joe Abbott, who copyedited the book with an acute eye.

Leslie Mitchner, my editor at Rutgers, saw the potential of The Extraordinary Image when it was only an idea. She supported, corrected, and pressed me to realize that potential.

Prelude

Movies are about making images and editing them into stories. Editing is an art. Image making, as its root meaning suggests, is about imagination. For me, the most important thing about a movie, often secondary even to its story, is the image: what filmmakers show us and what we make of what we see. The French director Jean-Luc Godard made a pun about the images in his films: Ce n’est pas une image juste, c’est juste une image: It’s not a perfectly right image; it’s just an image. Godard’s pun, a disingenuous act of modesty from a filmmaker whose images (and editing) in the 1960s changed the look of film worldwide, contains some useful wisdom: if what we see when we look at a film is just an image, and most films are made of perfectly ordinary images, just images, we tend to look through them at the story they tell. And this is what most directors want to happen. I just want to tell a good story, they will say if pressed. But what happens if a director creates une image juste, a perfect, precise, extraordinary image, even, as Richard Brody suggests, an excessive image. John Ford made extraordinary images. His compositions of westerners riding between the crags of Monument Valley create an imaginary vision of the country’s past, an indelible representation of a history that exists only in Ford’s films. Other directors have flashes of extraordinary image making, moments of visionary greatness. Robert Altman’s anti-Ford western McCabe and Mrs. Miller creates a frigid world of figures scurrying through the blue cold of a half-built frontier town or the golden light of a saloon or brothel, nervously composed by his fluid zoom lens. Oliver Stone makes extraordinary images. His great films of the early 1990s—JFK, Natural Born Killers, and Nixon—are not only made by strong, bold images but by tying the images together to create powerful montages of history and violence. Paul Thomas Anderson, in There Will be Blood and The Master, makes strong, arresting images.

There are others, directors who take their time to interpret the world, indeed create it through a cinematic eye. Three of these depend so thoroughly on the image, sometimes working outside of, even against, the conventions of popular movies, that their films can be placed in a class of their own. They fascinate and move me enough to write a book about them. Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stanley Kubrick show a consistent regard for building their images and telling their stories by means of them. These images differ markedly for each director, but within their specific originality is a regard for the eye, for the world that is uniquely seen and interpreted.

Alfred Hitchcock told François Truffaut: The placing of the images on the screen, in terms of what you’re exactly expressing, should never be dealt with in a factual manner. Never! You can get anything you want through the proper use of cinematic techniques, which enable you to work out any image you need. There’s no justification for a short cut and no reason to settle for a compromise between the image you wanted and the image you get. One of the reasons most films aren’t sufficiently rigorous is that so few people in the industry know anything about imagery. Hitchcock, Welles, and Kubrick knew everything about imagery. They knew that the stories they want to tell are based on the ways in which they are seen and communicated. They depend on our willingness to come the terms with them in a compact that few other filmmakers are daring enough to make, that we will be willing to meet them on their terms, to read a Hitchcockian high-angle shot, an uncanny Kubrickian symmetrical composition, a sinuous Wellesian tracking shot. Read them, respond to them, and understand them. Few directors are as daring in their approach and as daring in their demand that the viewer be with them.

In The Daemon Knows: Literary Greatness and the American Sublime, Harold Bloom talks about his selection of writers (Hawthorne, Melville, Whitman, James, Frost, Eliot, Faulkner, among others) as writers who represent our incessant effort to transcend the human without forsaking humanism. These are writers driven to reach beyond the quotidian, who attempt to discover how far they can go before their reach exceeds their grasp. They redefine the human, they traffic with the uncanny, and they engage the form of their art with incredible passion. They are also writers who touch Bloom himself deeply, passionately and define for him what he calls the American sublime "extraordinary hyperbole—not an exaggeration but an untamed casting, in which the images of voice break or scatter ashes and sparks." If I substitute the eye for Bloom’s voice, we have an adequate description of all three of our directors. Sparks are scattered by each of them.

Ashes are scattered far more by Hitchcock and Kubrick, for their vision is dark and violent. Welles scatters fire as well as sparks. His is the sublime of excess, which, as William Blake knew, leads to the palace of wisdom. But all three understand that wisdom lies in the knowledge that seeing too much is never seeing enough, that the more the camera probes, explores, and shatters what it sees, the more there is to see still more.

I’m struck by how close Bloom’s definitions of his choices come to my own choice of filmmakers in this book. These are filmmakers of the sublime. They move me out of myself; they outstrip the ordinary and create worlds distinctly cinematic, expressively personal, resonant with complex ironies. Welles is a consummate humanist; Kubrick often looks at the ways the human is transcended or, more often, diminished; Hitchcock, in his own sublimity, is never quite sure about where humans stand in their exposure to violence and their sexual confusion. But no matter what, the work of these filmmakers remains inimitable, and yet their influence extends to almost everything we see on the screen.

The Passion of Film

Writing about film is a great pleasure. My love for film, my emotional and intellectual engagement with movies, with the moving image itself, has allowed me to trace that engagement across many books. My particular attachment to and enthusiasm for the films of Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stanley Kubrick have made me want to talk about their films, get closer to them, share the intimacy that I feel toward these extraordinary artists, whom I know only through their work. My hope is that the reader will share my pleasure, will want to be engaged with a pursuit through their films, to enjoy a conversation with them, about them, in a proximity to their work.

But why these three when there are so many more to talk about? Part of it is sticking power. I watch a lot of movies, so many that given my old, not fully functional memory, I need to refer to a list to remember what I’ve seen. When I’m asked by friends what I can recommend, I need to offer to e-mail them recommendations after I look them up in my Netflix history. Add to that, as far as contemporary film goes, the reality is that I’m finding more interesting original material on HBO, Netflix, or Amazon streaming, and there is a real experience of being overwhelmed by images and the narratives made out of them, whether they are extraordinary or not.

The problem is amplified further by the fact that I’m not a film snob. My tastes are crazy—from high serious to low comedy to shoot ’em ups. Vertigo may be a favorite, Touch of Evil a constant source of pleasure, 2001: A Space Odyssey guaranteed to excite no matter how many times I’ve seen it, but for my wife and me the 1930s screwball comedy The Awful Truth is our film, and the latest Melissa McCarthy film will make us laugh immoderately. I love to watch Jason Statham or Liam Neeson firing away at Russian mafiosi. I concluded a recent textbook with a comparison, not unfavorably, of Vertigo and Judd Apatow’s This Is 40. All of this is to say, despite my attachment to strong image making, that film in so many of its manifestations gives me enormous pleasure, which is carried over into writing about film and its delights.

At the same time, writing about film has certain risks when talking seriously about a subject that is often not so serious and not taken seriously. Serious film criticism is a relatively young discipline and doesn’t quite have the history and gravitas of more established humanities fields like literary studies, art history, or history itself—good film criticism borrows from all of these. People may want a poem or a painting explained but not necessarily a film. And most filmmakers don’t want to make films that require an explanation. Writing about film therefore requires a passion that overcomes these certain risks and a means of communicating that passion. If I am forever intrigued and delighted by the way films create their imaginative worlds and invite us to briefly live in them, I want to believe that a reader will share that delight. To paraphrase George Toles, I want to know, as I watch, what a director intends to do—will he move his camera, create an interesting composition, create a startling edit, do something that moves me beyond the plot? Will the plot itself reveal a new way of thinking about how characters interact, about how the filmmaker thinks of the world? Will you, reading this, see how thrilling this can be?

But I haven’t yet answered the question about why I’ve chosen, in this book, to concentrate on Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stanley Kubrick. Allow me to arrive at this with some background. In the fall of 1968 I went with some friends to a screening at the New York Film Festival of Orson Welles’s new film, his first in color (at least the first in color that got released—he shot color footage for his unreleased It’s All True documentary in the early 1940s), a short film made for French television, The Immortal Story. The previous spring, I had returned from nine months in London, where Columbia University sent me with a generous fellowship to research my doctoral dissertation on William Blake and eighteenth-century poetics. It was called The Altering Eye. During my London stay I spent most afternoons at the British Museum, reading eighteenth-century books. Most evenings were spent at the National Film Theatre with my late friend David Gold, a fellow who in those days would have been called a film buff. Those evenings were happier and more satisfying than the afternoons at the dimly lit BM reading room. There, I learned a lot about how ideas of poetry, of perception itself, were changing in the late 1700s. What I learned about the eighteenth-century concept of the sublime has influenced this book. At the NFT I learned about the power of narrative images—or perhaps more accurately, I felt the power of those images. The learning was still to come.

I always went to the movies. Living in Long Island City, with many movie theaters in our neighborhood, my parents took me regularly. When I reached an independent age, I took myself. I remember seeing The Third Man (in which Orson Welles has a prominent role) with them in 1949, and I recall a nightmare after seeing Nicholas Ray’s Knock on Any Door. In 1951 I ran out of the theater in terror when the alien’s arm was severed in Howard Hawks and Christian Nyby’s The Thing from Another World. I was movie impressionable. The fright over The Thing did not dampen my love for science fiction, but soon other things intervened in my moviegoing life. There was a gap during the late 1950s and early 1960s while I was in college. My interests were first in science and then in English literature. I spent my time reading, listening to Jean Shepherd on the radio, and investigating the endless possibilities of New York. I was a regular at the Village Vanguard’s Sunday afternoon jazz sessions (admission ninety-nine cents), where I saw every major jazz artist and some comedians like Mike Nichols and Elaine May. My earliest public writing was a jazz column for the Queens College paper.

I was reintroduced to film when I was at Syracuse University, preparing for my MA in English literature. My thesis was titled Toward a Definition of Myth in Literature and was influenced, as is everything I have written since, by Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism. The university theater mounted a season of films by Luis Buñuel, the great Spanish surrealist, whose films ranged from the early Un chien andalou, made in collaboration with Salvador Dalí, and L’âge d’or, to the late Belle de jour and That Obscure Object of Desire. The films I saw in Syracuse were largely from Buñuel’s Mexican period (he was exiled from Spain during the Franco reign), films like Los olvidados, but also Viridiana, which he made quietly back in Spain until the film was discovered and Buñuel was kicked out again. The effect on me was astonishing, my eye altered: I could see a visible continuity and coherence from film to film—not merely in what Buñuel was saying in the films but, even more important for me, a formal continuity, the way the films looked, the way Buñuel and his frequent cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa managed the subtle grayscale and the composition of the images from film to film. The idea of coherence and continuity is of course basic to the study of literature. It is commonplace that an author or poet develops a recognizable style and coherent set of themes that are developed from work to work. The anonymity of film, before the dawn of film studies, worked against the notion of continuity. Each film was thought to come fresh born out of nowhere. And, with few exceptions (like Hitchcock, who worked to assure his recognition), the director was rarely known or recognized. The stars were the ones who drew attention.

In the course of viewing the Buñuel films, I was apparently discovering for myself the auteur theory of film criticism. The French had already done that in the late 1950s. I came to it, naively and independently, just as many others at the beginning of film studies were doing, though perhaps with less naiveté. Andrew Sarris was creating the auteur theory for American film in his columns for the Village Voice and in his 1968 book, American Cinema. He also published, in English, a year’s worth of the French auteurist journal Cahiers du cinéma. Pauline Kael would be busy attacking auteurism in the New Yorker. But Sarris’s book was an important landmark. While there might never be any doubt that Luis Buñuel was the creative force behind his films, as was the case with many other European directors, American cinema had suffered from that inherent anonymity I noted earlier. The studio system banked on stars, not the creative craftspeople behind the camera. Beginning in the 1950s the French began speaking authoritatively and passionately about filmmakers like Howard Hawks, John Ford, Orson Welles, and Alfred Hitchcock. American film was being rediscovered through the use