Citizen Kane (1941) - Orson Welles

I watched this in hi-def last night and was blown away. I hear about how innovative it was “for it’s time,” however, it’s 70 years later and a more modern film has yet to be made.

Citizen Kane is a relentless barrage of tightly constructed experimentalism. Hinting at the avant-garde with its editing (a screeching bird announces a startling transition, chronology shifts seamlessly) lighting (the newsman’s darkened silhouette radiating in the glow of the theater projector, the mysterious rays from on high illuminating the table in the darkened Thatcher library), and overall dreamlike photography and atmosphere (the celebratory song and dance number in the Inquirer office strikes me as particularly surreal). All the while, Kane maintains a polished craftsmanship, driving the story forward with a disciplined precision. While viewing Kane, I am so enchanted by certain segments of the film, that when the narrative pulls back, I am reminded that I have merely been witnessing one character’s recollection of events.

While other films from Kane’s era certainly deserve their praise, even the best of those is viewed with a faint hint of “for its time” admiration. This is where Kane stands apart. While The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, or The Grapes of Wrath are amazing, landmark films, do you really feel a radical and visionary artistic spirit behind them or do you see them as the finest results of a flourishing Hollywood studio system intent on entertaining its audience?  Orson Welles was not concerned with entertaining storytelling as much as a daring, experimental, and uniquely cinematic brand of art. Film lovers can only mourn his unfulfilled potential.

To sum up Citizen Kane’s singular achievement, I reflect on a question that no other film so intensely raises in me: How could this have possibly been made?

Several weeks ago, my PopMatters article entitled “Paul McCartney: An Auteur” caused quite a stir. In that piece, I attempt to position Paul McCartney as an artist of the highest standard, one whose entire body of work must be taken seriously. Many of the comments I received criticized my lack of reasoning and found fault in positioning McCartney as a man who can do no wrong. I also received some feedback asserting that the Auteur Theory can only be applied to film due to the director’s position within a system of producers, screenwriters, actors, etc. The reasoning behind rejecting auteurism in music: it is laudatory that a director working within a hollywood studio system would be able to consistently leave a personal stamp on each of his films, but what is so impressive about a musician placing a personal stamp on his/her solo albums? This logic is sound; however, I wish to apply another aspect of the theory to music. Instead of using auteurism in the sense of a distinct creative vision persevering through studio interference, I believe it can apply to music in the way it forces an audience to evaluate an artist’s entire output.  Without this theory in place, I may not have been aware of many “lesser” films by great filmmakers. I recently viewed Scorsese’s New York, New York. Based on its disappointing box office returns and lukewarm reviews, one would think this was a poorly received, self-indulgent and anachronistic musical not worth watching. Rather than approaching it as a stand-alone film, auteurism forces us to perceive it as part of something greater: an important step in the development of a filmic genius. Placed in its proper context as the coked out artificially retro experiment between Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, New York, New York becomes a must see. I see no reason why this aspect of Auteur Theory can’t be applied to music. An album should not be examined as a stand-alone entity, but rather a piece to a larger puzzle. The artist’s personal and musical history must factor in the appreciation of a serious work. And all works by an artist/band containing genus must be considered serious works. You would be right to say that the “Auteur Theory” can not directly be applied to music. The musician does not shine in the spite of writer/actor/studio involvement like a film auteur can. Given this, perhaps the word “Auteur” is not the best word choice for this form of musical criticism. There are other connotations Truffaut’s Auteurism held that could be applied to music; however, specifically the genius identifying. I believe one could alter Truffaut’s famous one liner to my preferred brand of musical criticism: There are no good and bad albums, only good and bad musicians. In this way, I believe the greatest musicians can transcend the status of a rock star or a popular artist into the realm of fine artists.

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