F for Fake

F FOR FAKE             B+                  

France  Iran  Germany  (88 mi)  1973 d:  Orson Welles     co-director:  François Reichenbach

If my work hangs in a museum long enough, it becomes real.

—Elmyr de Hory, renowned art forger

A bemused Welles speculates about the creation of all things and their subsequent worth, becoming omnisciently Godlike for a moment, able to see through what’s real and imagined, as he cuts through the fakery of our existence, offering as many lies as truths, yet isn’t the illusion at least as valuable as what’s real?  Even when left to the experts, it’s often pure speculation as to what artworks are real and which paintings currently hanging in museums are actually fakes.  If the public can’t tell the difference, then what does it matter, as there’s an inherent cultural value in the work either way, as it represents the essence of the artist (who is usually centuries long dead) and worthy of our celebration.  The final completed film in the lifetime of Welles, this is largely an edited masterpiece, as Welles cleverly stitches together his own footage onto an existing unfinished film documentary on art forger Elmyr de Hory shot by French documentarist François Reichenbach.  The question that immediately comes to mind is if most of the film is shot by Reichenbach, how is this an Orson Welles film?  By the end, however, the unmistakable imprint of Welles’ mischievous personality hovers over every frame of this film, where there’s little doubt who the author is.  Welles makes an opening declaration that viewers will, at least for an hour, be told the truth, yet “This is a film about trickery, fraud, about lies,” with the word “Fake!” constantly filling the screen, recalling his own majestic The War of the Worlds radio hoax in 1938 that had an uninformed population in a frenzied panic mode, actually believing we were being invaded by aliens from Mars, with Welles going further here, elaborating in ways he never initially imagined, with flying saucers seen everywhere, crashing into bridges and national monuments, even the White House, resembling TEAM AMERICA: WORLD POLICE (2004) footage from the South Park creators, with President Roosevelt actually forced to meet the Martian invaders.  While the idea of science fiction openly flirts with the world of make believe, what’s riveting about it is how much it resembles a world around us that we chillingly recognize.  Without the notoriety accumulated from that brazenly captivating hoax upon the American public, Welles would never have been able to make his first film CITIZEN KANE (1941).  Developing a theme for the film, “What we professional liars hope to serve is truth.  I’m afraid the pompous word for that is ‘art’.”  Welles is also a practicing magician by trade, with a lifelong love of magic and illusion, where he loved card tricks and magic acts, performing one for a young boy at the opening of the film, dressed in a magician’s cloak, using a sleight-of-hand to make a key disappear and turn into a coin and back again, where it eventually ends up in the boy’s pocket.  This introduces us to that innocent childlike love of magic and illusion, which, he suggests, makes us so susceptible to hucksters, trickery, and fraud, identifying as a con artist himself, confessing “I am a charlatan,” where this film is a cleverly disguised essay on truth and illusion, where, like the little boy, it’s so easy to find ourselves fascinated by acts of deceit.   

Introducing his mistress and co-author of a later segment of this film, Oja Kodar, a girl he met during the shooting of THE TRIAL (1962), Welles juxtaposes images of her wearing a miniskirt and walking confidently down the street, described as “bait,” with Candid Camera style footage suggesting she’s stopping traffic, causing a ruckus from all the attention from prowling male eyes, with the reactions shot elsewhere along the streets of Rome, using jarring car skids and sound effects to suggest a heightened state of hysteria from girl-watching, and while convincing, it’s totally fake.  While it all feels very tongue-in-cheek, at this point he introduces viewers to de Hory, a classically trained Hungarian artist who studied in Munich and Paris, yet also experienced the Holocaust, where a good part of his life was spent concealing everything about his past, reinventing a new persona that led to a lucrative career as an art forger, reproducing the works of Modigliani, Matisse, and even Picasso, where telling the truth was not one of his specialties since concealing the truth was his real lifelong profession.  (Insinuated but never acknowledged in the film, de Hory earlier served a 2-month prison stint in Spain for homosexuality and consorting with criminals).  Welles finds him on the reclusive Spanish island of Ibiza (where Welles himself resides) living in a lavish estate, home of one of his unscrupulous art dealers who is supposedly offering a goodwill gesture for making him so wealthy, or so the story is told.  Juxtaposing his own footage into the Reichenbach documentary, Welles brings his subject into new life, even signing a painting with a forgery of Welles’ signature, which of course the director admires.  De Hory hosts gala dinner parties with the upper crest of jet setters and social elite, typically mingling with the aristocracy, evading any and all questions about any criminal enterprise, though he is known for selling fake paintings to museums and collectors all over the world, exiled to Spain with the intent to avoid criminal prosecution in France.  On another front, also living on that same remote island, Welles discovers American author Clifford Irving, who had already written a book in 1969 on de Hory entitled Fake: the Story of Elmyr de Hory: the Greatest Art Forger of Our Time, allegedly helping his friend de Hory with his mounting legal fees, with the BBC hiring Irving as their expert intermediary with de Hory for the Reichenbach documentary.  But those plans soured when Irving was hit with his own legal troubles, receiving an advance of $765,000 for the autobiography of the reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes, as told to him by Hughes himself, providing a signed document of authenticity from Hughes, which handwriting analysts declared authentic.  Of course, this turned out to be a fake, as Hughes denounced the book and sued the publisher, creating a gigantic media scandal while Welles was editing the footage for this film, with a contrite Irving confessing to the hoax, sentenced to a few years in prison, eventually serving 17 months.  Welles found these actions of curious interest, especially the philosophical implications, identifying with both con artists, confessing to some of his own trickery, like recalling at age 16 how he conned his way into a job at a Dublin theater by claiming he was a great American actor, when he hadn’t done anything yet, or like The War of the Worlds hoax, with Welles adding some exquisite footage from the Ray Harryhausen special effects in the B-movie EARTH VS. THE FLYING SAUCERS (1956), revealed in a parody of the “News on the March” segment of CITIZEN KANE (1941), including an ironic revelation that Kane was originally going to be a fictionalized version of Howard Hughes.  

A financial flop when it was released, fixated on the quick cut methodology of the French New Wave, avoiding any shots that might be regarded as “typically Wellesian,” instead we find Welles in front of the camera like a master of ceremonies or a specialized guide narrating the film, always a master storyteller and he does not disappoint, despite the fact he didn’t shoot a good deal of the film, yet the way he integrates it into his own personal film essay, exploring how easily art is treated as a commodity, turning it into a financial windfall, with easily fooled experts placing a commercial value that must remain suspect, as after all, which is real and which is a forgery?  Ironically Welles himself dealt with this issue in the final scenes of CITIZEN KANE, with its hoard of crated treasures from around the globe that no one would ever enjoy.  What could possibly be their worth?  One of the most beautiful sequences show Welles alone sitting on a Parisian park bench under a canopy of trees as they change through the four seasons, suggesting there are some things in life you cannot change, that remain permanent, existing both in nature and the human condition.  Perhaps the only Welles film to make reference to current events, this is an altogether different vantage point for Welles, who also questions the idea of art both as an auteur and appropriator, easily demonstrating how a film is “authored” in the editing room, then reflecting over the outrageous claim that de Hory swore he never signed any of his forged paintings, thereby (in his eyes) refusing ownership, drawing a distinction between copies and originals, claiming he only painted originals.  Among the most illuminating sequences is an examination of the towering grandiosity of the Chartres cathedral built in the early 13th century, with the elevating spires and the original stained glass windows still intact, exhibiting a Gothic style complete with statues and flying buttresses, where the idea of authorship has no meaning whatsoever, yet the fact that it still stands in all its original glory is transcendent, as humans are all bound to die, yet art has the capacity to endure, to extend timelessly beyond generations and even centuries.  Standing outside the massive church, Welles ruminates in that deeply resonant voice of his, adding a poetic inflection as only he can, offering comments that couldn’t be more profound, suggesting art is larger than any one author, with Welles concluding, “I must believe that art is real,” elevating the playful tone of this film to a somber reflection for the ages, like an apt description for immortality:

Now this has been standing here for centuries.  The premier work of man perhaps in the whole western world and it’s without a signature: Chartres.

A celebration to God’s glory and to the dignity of man.  All that’s left most artists seem to feel these days, is man.  Naked, poor, forked radish.  There aren’t any celebrations.  Ours, the scientists keep telling us, is a universe, which is disposable.  You know it might be just this one anonymous glory of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose when all our cities are dust, to stand intact, to mark where we have been, to testify to what we had it in us, to accomplish.

Our works in stone, in paint, in print are spared, some of them for a few decades, or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash.  The triumphs and the frauds, the treasures and the fakes.  A fact of life.  We’re going to die.  “Be of good heart,” cry the dead artists out of the living past.  Our songs will all be silenced – but what of it?  Go on singing.  Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.

Oja Kodar returns, with Welles recounting a dubious but delightful story about her spending a sunny summer in the small village of Toussaint on the northern coast of France.  As it happened, Picasso  (who was still alive during the making of the film) was also renting a house there, with Oja passing directly in front of his house each and every day she walked to the beach, passing with such regularity that she became a distraction, mimicking the earlier footage, elaborating on the exaggerated effect she causes simply by walking down the street, as her mode of dress becomes more enticing, slowed down into slow motion, becoming more dreamlike, turning into a leering exhibition of the male gaze, with rapturous music by Michel Legrand suddenly romanticized and sweetened, with Oja becoming a spectral presence until Picasso eventually invites her in.  Seen in various states of undress, with suggestions that she becomes his muse, Picasso produces 22 paintings with her as a model, with Oja insisting that she be allowed to keep them, which she does.  But Picasso grows furious when he reads of a small art gallery in Paris selling 22 new Picasso paintings, flying there at once to confront the gallery owner, only to discover that every one was a fake.  Oja takes Picasso to meet her elderly Hungarian grandfather, an art forger that defended his work with a certain amount of pride, with Picasso angrily demanding the paintings back, only to be told they’ve been destroyed, so now only the forgeries exist.  Welles and Kodar dramatically re-enact this conversation with a special flair, with Welles finally pulling the plug and admitting it’s all a fake, that the story about a forgery was itself a forgery, apologizing to the audience before quoting Picasso, “Art is a lie that enables us to realize the truth.”  The real joy, however, is the omniscient presence of Welles himself, cleverly inserting himself throughout the film, placing himself front and center, where his flamboyant, larger-than-life personality is a tremendous asset, endearing and deliciously entertaining, like the moment he’s dining with friends at his favorite Parisian restaurant La Méditerranée, calmly handing the waiter his discarded plate of mussel shells, “Would you take this away and bring me the steak au poivre.”  Exhibiting a special grace and a captivating élan, he’s all manner and charm, deceptively making us believe he’s a well-intended host, yet he’s a devilish raconteur filled with endlessly probing surprises throughout, perhaps suggesting that his fabricated “crimes” (artworks) are even more outrageous than Irving or de Hory, where this is one of the few films that constantly challenges everything it reveals, as if questioning his own existence, becoming a declaration of terms, a manifesto for a living artist.     

Rules Don't Apply

RULES DON’T APPLY        C                   

USA  (126 mi)  2016  d:  Warren Beatty                    Official Site

A lighthearted Hollywood romance that aspires to be more, where Warren Beatty comes out of a 15-year absence to play the part of a doddering Howard Hughes near the twilight of his career, as he was making the transition from a semi-recluse in Los Angeles to a total recluse in Las Vegas.  Writing, directing, acting, and producing the film himself, after languishing on the shelf for a few years, you’d think there might be some new revelations about the character, but Beatty goes all ISHTAR (1987) on us, resorting to the same comic absurdity with which we are already quite familiar, where his stumbling eccentricities are key to understanding his overly flawed character, where you wonder how this guy could ever have earned a single dollar, much less a million and/or billion dollar empire, depending upon how much his wealth fluctuated.  The narcissistic view of himself is so over the top that you wonder if Beatty is making a comment on the Hollywood industry itself, where it thinks of itself exclusively at the expense of all other interests, remaining so out of touch with the real world that it’s only real invention is pure fantasy.  Since Hughes is known to us today as someone who went into hiding, where few ever had the chance to actually see him in his final days, it’s only natural that he remains hidden in the opening 30-minutes of the picture, where we hear about him, but never see him.  Instead the story revolves around one of the many rising starlets discovered by Hughes, flying them out to Hollywood, providing beautiful individual homes, maid service, and a private chauffeur taking them to a neverending litany of acting, singing, and dancing lessons, where all were steered into the dream of one day having the chance to appear in one of his RKO Studios motion pictures.  What they all had in common was a full-figured beauty on display, the supposed female desire of all American men, where Hughes was the original Hugh Hefner, displaying the 50’s Playboy magazine mentality even before Hefner started his enterprise.  As described in Charles Higham’s 1993 biography, Howard Hughes: The Secret Life, at least partially used in Scorsese’s depiction of Hughes in THE AVIATOR (2004):

The appropriate actress would be given the use of an elegant house in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, with a maid. At exactly 7 a.m., she must rise and take a shower and make up. At seven-thirty, the maid would serve her breakfast. At eight, a driver would take her to acting, dancing, and singing lessons. In the afternoon, she must rest or watch TV. Shopping was permitted once a week. In the evening she would go to one of six restaurants Hughes specified. She was forbidden to date. A driver would be her companion for dinner. … The drivers were told never to negotiate bumps in a road at more than two miles an hour as the jolt to the automobile might cause the girls’ breasts to sag.

While this reflected the Hughes rule, anyone failing to adhere to the strict protocol was fired on the spot, including the chauffeurs, who were instructed to have no intimate contact with the girls, with Hughes hiring private detectives to guarantee compliance.  In this restrictive, puritanical atmosphere of the Eisenhower era of the 50’s, a love story develops between an aspiring young actress, Marla Mabrey (Lily Collins), and her assigned chauffeur Frank Forbes, Alden Ahrenreich from Hail, Caesar! (2016), something that is strictly forbidden, but they sneak around corners and learn to live by their own titular mantra.  But initially it’s all eye contact, as Frank is assigned to pick up Marla and her overly possessive mother (Annette Bening) at the airport, learning Marla was crowned the Apple Blossom Queen back in Virginia, as he drives them to a gorgeous mansion overlooking the Hollywood Bowl.  It doesn’t take long before she realizes she’s just one of dozens of girls all striving for the same thing, each one promised a screen test by Hughes.  While they all come from a strict religious background, with Frank already engaged to a high school sweetheart back home in Fresno, not much happens under the watchful eye of her mother, yet Marla, the only vulnerable character in the film, has the kind of dreamy, wild-eyed enthusiasm and innocence that other star-struck actors wish they possessed, where her real intent is not acting, but writing songs.  Part of the comic absurdity is her mother sensing what’s really going on, indignant that no one has actually met Mr. Hughes, or had a screen test, believing it’s all a sham of some kind, as these girls are being exploited without actually having a chance to appear in pictures.  Defiantly, she heads back to Virginia in a huff, leaving Marla on her own, still tapping into her own personal dreams and ambitions, not yet ready to call it quits and head back to the University of Virginia as her fallback plan.  In this opening, Frank steps out of the shadows, another small-town kid with his own dreams, where he’s got his eyes set on some property on Mullholland Drive, but he needs an investor, hoping he can entice Mr. Hughes, if he ever meets him.  In his eyes (and the audience), Marla is perceived as an ideal, a paragon of virtue, expressing exactly the same kind of illusion Hollywood personified back in the 50’s, a good Baptist girl who doesn't drink, smoke, or “go all the way,” informing her she’s not like the others, who are overtly sexual, accentuating their buxom physiques, telling her she’s an exception, that “the rules don’t apply to you.”  Spontaneously writing a song for the occasion, the romantic overtones are inevitable. 

What holds the viewer’s attention early on is the complete absence of Howard Hughes, yet Marla has lofty thoughts of the kind of man he must be, extravagantly rich, everyone at his beck and call, so important and all, where she even dreams of him making a good President.  By the time she actually meets him, he appears out of the dark, tongue-tied, not even sure who she is, where they sit and eat Stouffer’s TV dinners on folding trays, peeling back the aluminum foil while Hughes awkwardly tries to think of something to say, invariably excusing himself as he attends to other pressing business, where he’s seen as a man stymied by his own changeable moods, often to the point of paralysis, where he rambles incoherently, repeats himself, and has a pathological fear that TWA executives attempting to purchase his aviation company are secretly trying to find him legally insane so they can take over the company, so he refuses to meet with them, or even reveal where he is.  In this hidden and secretive manner, he continues to conduct his company’s business, growing increasingly erratic.  Beatty seems to relish the idea of playing Hughes for laughs and comic amusement, often seen where he’s crazy as a loon, but watching a feeble old man whose best years are behind him isn’t really funny, especially when he’s obsessed by watching old movie footage of himself when he was an aviator and still a virile young man, continually reliving his youth, playing it out in his head so often he could almost believe it was still real.  This kind of pathetic display is more tragic than anything else, but the film reveals no backstory about Hughes, where we’re not given any details about what led him to this pitiful state.  The film really dovetails in exposing the mad eccentricities of the man, as it’s just not that interesting seeing someone so out of touch with himself gradually losing focus.  If he were a sympathetic figure, it might be different, but Hughes is larger than life, a demanding egomaniac obsessed only with himself, going on an outrageous binge where all he wants is Baskin Robbins banana nut ice cream, where his underlings are forced to buy all the remaining reserves as the company doesn’t make it any more, then just as quickly he changes his mind and wants something else.  The man is an infuriating business partner, where working for him is something of a nightmare.  While there are attempts to show a more intimate side of Hughes, quieter, perhaps more self-possessed, where incredibly he has romantic aspirations with Marla as well, who has grown so frustrated at the lack of progress in her career, overconsuming champagne, drinking alcohol for the first time in her life, allowing her to speak bluntly when she’s finally in the presence of the elusive one, singing a drunken arrangement of her song which plays with archival Hughes footage playing behind her, leaving the man in a trance of sensory overkill.  Out of control passions between the two lead to sex as a comical slapstick routine, becoming one of the true ick factors of the film, where he’s 79 and she looks considerably younger than 27, with more than a 50 year difference between them, where it’s hard not to see Beatty transforming into the aging Maurice Chevalier from GIGI (1958) singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” Thank Heaven for Little Girls from Gigi - YouTube (2:36).  While there are a few entertaining moments, mostly this is a coming out party for Lily Collins who dominates the film with her zest for life and youthful Audrey Hepburn appeal, literally stealing the film from a man who was once himself a youthful wonder and the talk of the town, rumored to have slept with nearly every female star in Hollywood, where according to Cher, “Warren has probably been with everybody I know.”  One popular theory on why Beatty turned down so many roles (prior to his marriage to Bening in 1992) was that he didn’t like interrupting his prolific love life to go to work.