In praise of Orson Welles’ F For Fake | Little White Lies

In Praise Of

In praise of Orson Welles’ F For Fake

02 Dec 2017

Words by Phil Concannon

A man with a grey beard wearing a hat and gloves, gesturing with his hand in a dimly lit environment.
A man with a grey beard wearing a hat and gloves, gesturing with his hand in a dimly lit environment.
Come and see the mae­stro’s final big trick on a 35mm print at the ICA cin­e­ma with MUBI and Lit­tle White Lies.

How should we describe F for Fake? Orson Welles’ penul­ti­mate com­plet­ed fea­ture (to be fol­lowed by the made-for-tele­vi­sion Film­ing Oth­el­lo) has been labelled as both a doc­u­men­tary and an essay film, but nei­ther descrip­tion seems an entire­ly com­fort­able fit for this slip­pery, shape-shift­ing cre­ation. Welles him­self was unwill­ing to defin­i­tive­ly cat­e­gorise it, only ven­tur­ing to describe it as a new kind of film” and a con­scious depar­ture from any­thing he had pro­duced in his career to that point.

Per­haps the best way to approach F for Fake is to view it as a cin­e­mat­ic mag­ic trick – the work of a mas­ter illu­sion­ist. The film opens with Welles demon­strat­ing his sleight-of-hand for an awestruck child, and this intro­duc­tion sets the tone, with the direc­tor shuf­fling the dif­fer­ent ele­ments of his sto­ry as eas­i­ly as a deck of cards. I’m a char­la­tan,” he cheer­ful­ly admits at the start of the film, before quick­ly adopt­ing a grave tone and mak­ing a solemn promise: Dur­ing the next hour, every­thing you hear from us is real­ly true and based on sol­id fact.” Like any good con­jur­er, Welles is tak­ing this oppor­tu­ni­ty to pro­fess that he has noth­ing up his sleeves before he pro­ceeds to trans­fix, dis­tract and hood­wink his audience.

F for Fake is pre­sent­ed as a series of nest­ed sto­ries, begin­ning with the tale of two forg­ers. Much of the footage in its first half is tak­en from a doc­u­men­tary that François Reichen­bach had been film­ing about the noto­ri­ous art forg­er Elmyr de Hory and his soon-to-be-noto­ri­ous biog­ra­ph­er Clif­ford Irv­ing, whose fake mem­oirs of Howard Hugh­es emerged dur­ing the course of this film’s pro­duc­tion and became one of the scan­dals of the decade.

That the author of Fake!, a book about a fak­er, was him­self a fak­er, and the author of a fake to end all fakes, and that he must have been cook­ing it up when we were film­ing him…” Welles sums up with evi­dent glee in his near-con­stant nar­ra­tion, which ties the myr­i­ad of com­po­nents togeth­er with the seduc­tive flair of the great racon­teur. He also uses this voiceover to muse on the nature of art, truth and trick­ery. Is it art? Well, how is it val­ued? The val­ue depends on opin­ion. Opin­ion depends on the experts. A fak­er like Elmyr makes fools of the experts, so who’s the expert? Who’s the faker?”

The tone is play­ful, but point­ed and self-aware. Welles appears to see some­thing of him­self in these men. He recalls his time as a starv­ing young artist in Ire­land, when he got his break at the Gate The­atre by con­coct­ing an impres­sive but non-exis­tent Broad­way his­to­ry for him­self. He then achieved noto­ri­ety in the US with his pan­ic-induc­ing radio broad­cast of The War of the Worlds – two instances of fraud for which he was rich­ly rewarded.

In fact, the fur­ther F for Fake pro­gress­es, the more it feels like a tac­it act of auto­bi­og­ra­phy. When he con­tem­plates the over­whelm­ing beau­ty of Chartres Cathe­dral in the film’s most melan­choly sequence, Welles describes it as the pre­mier work of man per­haps in the whole West­ern world, and it’s with­out a sig­na­ture.” Great works of art will stand tall long after we are all dust, he sug­gests, so why are we so con­cerned with assign­ing authorship?

Welles had a num­ber of co-authors on F for Fake. Aside from Reichen­bach, there was his part­ner Oja Kodar, who plays a key role in the tall tale that con­cludes the film, and the edi­tors Marie-Sophie Dubus and Dominique Enger­er, with whom Welles worked around the clock for a sol­id year in order to put this film togeth­er. It remains one of the most aston­ish­ing feats of edit­ing in cin­e­ma – he drew footage from mul­ti­ple sources, filmed over the course of years, and every­thing was assem­bled togeth­er into a seam­less whole.

Every cut for Welles is anoth­er oppor­tu­ni­ty for mis­di­rec­tion; he takes shots of peo­ple in dif­fer­ent coun­tries and at dif­fer­ent times and makes it appear as if they are stand­ing in the same room. He includes appar­ent mis­takes, such as a spool of film com­ing loose in the mid­dle of a take, like a magi­cian who bum­bles his way through an act to make us drop our guard. Is this anoth­er form of forgery, or is it sim­ply the art of good sto­ry­telling? As Welles reminds us when he quotes Picas­so towards the end of the film, Art is a lie — a lie that makes us realise the truth.”

Welles had hoped that this new kind of film” would mark the begin­ning of a fresh phase in his career. He lat­er told Cahiers du ciné­ma that he had con­scious­ly avoid­ed any shots that might be regard­ed as typ­i­cal­ly Welle­sian”, but the irony is that F for Fake is prob­a­bly the most Welle­sian film he could have ever made. His spir­it and per­son­al­i­ty infuse every frame. He sits at the cen­tre of the film as a cig­ar-puff­ing mas­ter of cer­e­monies, delight­ing in his abil­i­ty to manip­u­late sound and image, to rein­vent the form before our eyes, and remind­ing us that he was nev­er a more com­pelling and charis­mat­ic screen pres­ence than when he was play­ing himself.

F For Fake plays as part of Light Show #1 – a sea­son of films on 35mm curat­ed by MUBI, the ICA and Lit­tle White Lies. The film screens on Fri­day 8 Decem­ber at 8.30pm. Book tick­ets here.

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