An Interview with Sergio Leone

Sergio Leone came to the fore in the United States with Fistful of Dollars (1964), the first in a series of westerns that established Clint Eastwood as a major film star and gave legitimacy to the “spaghetti western” (a phrase coined by American film critics), a hitherto derided genre. The films that followed, For a Few Dollars More (1965); The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966); Once Upon a Time in the West (1968); Duck You Sucker (a.k.a. Once Upon a Time the Revolution [1971]); and Once Upon a Time in America (1983) all established the distinctive Leone style: the use of quick editing, extreme close-ups, startling transitions, mythic landscapes (usually shot in Almeria, Spain), affected acting, unnatural sound, accompanied by a strong and evocative Ennio Morricone score (frequently composed in advance of the films being shot), heavy-handed humor, and unrestrained  violence.

Leone's distinct approach was initially hugely successful in his native Italy and and his first three Westerns were box office smashes across Europe. They were then released in the United States between February 1967 and January 1968, to mixed reviews but impressive box office success. A typical response of the time from critics however, was that European Westerns were "nothing more than cold-blooded attempts at sterile emulation," according to David McGillivray's evaluation in Films and Filming. In English-speaking countries, no major re-evaluation of Leone's work occurred until the 1970s. European films were still mostly neglected in American discussions of the Western genre, Christopher Frayling's 1981 book Spaghetti Westerns had a crucial role in a reassessment of the genre and of Leone in particular.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, filmmakers such as Chabrol, Bertolucci, and Pasolini produced "critical cinema," to which Frayling believes Leone's work belongs. Leone deliberately evokes the themes, characters, and settings of the American Western, distancing these elements from their ideological and historical bases in order to consider aspects of frontier history and mythology that Hollywood studio productions had evaded or ignored, particularly in Once Upon a Time in the West. 

Leone's explicit use of reflexive genre clichés in Once Upon a Time in the West, and again in his final film, Once Upon a Time in America, would appear to cast him as a trailblazing post-modernist, but there is a significant difference between Leone's referential system and the ‘blank irony’ identified by Frederic Jameson as central to a post-modern aesthetic.

Leone has a deep emotional and intellectual stake in the cinematic mythology he investigates, no matter how tainted and clichéd they may have become. As a result, as his films become more conscious of the ‘lost' classical American filmic legacy they are leaning on, they begin to take on a pensive, sombre aspect that is utterly absent from the first trilogy's frenetic exuberance. In his book Once Upon a Time in America, Adrian Martin aptly summarised this feature of Leone's latter work: 

“It was as if, for Leone, such disembodied ‘quotations’ – if they could be made to retain their mythic intensity and potency – might provide a kind of catharsis or ecstasy for modern-day cinephiles pining over their precious ‘lost object’. That is why, finally, form can never be ‘pure’ in Leone’s work: at stake in it is a psychic investment, a whole elaborate machine of selfhood, culture and longing…”

Leone's films are, in this sense, primarily about interrogating the image of 'America,' without ever really being American in themselves. From a certain perspective, his films make up a small but powerful body of work that may be understood as an extended commemoration, examination, and ultimate sense of loss of the beliefs that underpin twentieth-century American filmmaking. Leone's films have always centred around a concept of America as a ubiquitous cultural presence viewed from a distance. An exciting, violent, intense, and frequently absurd vision.

The following excerpt is from Interview with Sergio Leone, by Pete Hamill. Published in American Film, June 1984.

Question: You seem to be fascinated with American myths, first the myth of the West, now that of the gangster. Why is this?

Leone: I am not fascinated, as you say, by the myth of the West, or by the myth of the gangster. I am not hypnotized, like everyone east of New York and west of Los Angeles, by the mythical notions of America. I’m talking about the individual, and the endless hori­zon—El Dorado. I believe that cinema, except in some very rare and outstand­ing cases, has never done much to incor­porate these ideas. And if you think about it, America itself has never made much of an effort in that direction ei­ther. But there is no doubt that cinema, unlike political democracy, has done what it can. Just consider Easy Rider, Taxi Driver, Scarface, or Rio Bravo. I love the vast spaces of John Ford and the metropolitan claustrophobia of Martin Scorsese, the alternating petals of the American daisy. America speaks like fairies in a fairy tale: “You desire the unconditional, then your wishes are granted. But in a form you will never recognize.” My moviemaking plays games with these parables. I appreciate sociology all right, but I am still en­chanted by fables, especially by their dark side. I think, in any case, that my next film won’t be another American fable. But I say that here and I deny it here, too.

Question: Why does the Western seem to be dead as a movie genre? Has the gangster film taken its place?

Leone: The Western isn’t dead, either yesterday or now. It’s really the cin­ema—alas!—that’s dying. Maybe the gangster movie, in contrast to the West­ern, enjoys the precarious privilege of not having been consumed to the bones by the professors of sociological truth, by the schoolteachers of demystification ad nauseam. To make good movies, you need a lot of time, a lot of money, and a lot of goodwill. And you need twice as much of it today as you needed yesterday. And the old golden vein, in California’s movieland, where these riches once glistened so close to the surface, unfortunately seems almost completely dried up now. A few coura­geous miners insist on digging still, whimpering and cursing television, fate, and the era of the spectaculars which impoverished the world’s studios. But they are dinosaurs, delivered to extinc­tion.

Question: What was it that you saw in Clint Eastwood that no one in America had seen at that time?

Leone: The story is told that when Michelangelo was asked what he had seen in the one particular block of mar­ble, which he chose among hundreds of others, he replied that he saw Moses. I would offer the same answer to your question—only backwards. When they ask me what I ever saw in Clint East­wood, who was playing I don’t know what kind of second-rate role in a West­ern TV series in 1964, I reply that what I saw, simply, was a block of marble.

Question: How would you compare an actor like Eastwood to someone like Robert De Niro?

Leone: It’s difficult to compare East­wood and De Niro. The first is a mask of wax. In reality, if you think about it, they don’t even belong to the same profession. Robert De Niro throws him­self into this or that role, putting on a personality the way someone else might put on his coat, naturally and with ele­gance, while Clint Eastwood throws himself into a suit of armor and lowers the visor with a rusty clang. It’s exactly that lowered visor which composes his character. And that creaky clang it makes as it snaps down, dry as a martini in Harry’s Bar in Venice, is also his character. Look at him carefully. East­wood moves like a sleepwalker between explosions and hails of bullets, and he is always the same—a block of marble. Bobby, first of all, is an actor. Clint, first of all, is a star. Bobby suffers, Clint yawns.

Question: Does it surprise you that an actor could become president of the United States? Should it have been a director?

Leone: I’ll tell you, very frankly, that nothing surprises me any more. It wouldn’t even surprise me to read in the newspapers that a president of the United States, for a change, had be­come an actor. I wouldn’t be able to hide my surprise if all he did was take on worse films than those done by cer­tain actors who became presidents of the United States. Anyway, I don’t know many presidents, but I do know too many actors. So I know with cer­tainty that actors are like children— trusting, narcissistic, capricious. There­fore, for the sake of symmetry, I imag­ine presidents, too, are like children. Only a child who became an actor and then a president, for example, could seriously believe that The Day After concealed who knows what new yellow peril.

A director, if possible, would be the least adapted of any to be president. I can picture him more as the head of the Secret Service. He would move the pawns and they would dance, accord­ingly, to the end, to produce, if nothing else, a good show. If the scene works, great. Otherwise, you redo it. Old Yuri Andropov, if he had been a director instead of a cop, would have enjoyed greater professional satisfaction and— who knows?—he might have lived longer.

Question: Most of your films are very masculine. Do you have anything against women?

Leone: I have nothing against women, and, as a matter of fact, my best friends are women. What could you be think­ing? I tolerate minorities. I respect and kiss the hand of the majorities, so you can just about imagine then how I genu­flect three or four times before the image of the other half of the heavens. I even, imagine this, married a woman, and, besides having a wretch of a son, I also have two women as daughters. So if women have been neglected in my films, at least up until now, it’s not because I’m misogynist, or chauvinist. That’s not it. The fact is, I’ve always made epic films and the epic, by defini­tion, is a masculine universe.

The character played by Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West seems a decent female character to me. If I can say so, she was a fairly unusual and violent character. At any rate, for a couple of years now. I’ve been harboring the notion of a movie about a woman. Every evening, before going to sleep. I rummage over in my mind a couple of not bad story ideas for it. But either out of prudence or superstition— as is only human, and even too human, I prefer not to talk about it now. I remem­ber that once in 1966 or ’67, I spoke with Warren Beatty about my project for a film on American gangsters and, a few weeks later, he announced that he would produce and star in Bonnie and Clyde. All these coincidences and vi­sions disturb me.

Question: How do you think you fit among the Italian and other European directors? Which directors do you ad­mire? Which are overrated?

Leone: Yes. without a doubt, I, too, occupy a place in cinema history. I come right after the letter L in the director’s repertory, in fact a few entries before my friend Mario Monicelli and right after Alexander Korda, Stanley Kubrick, and Akira Kurosawa, who signed his name to the superb Yojimbo, inspired by an American detective novel, while I was inspired by his film in the making of A Fistful of Dollars. My producer [on that film] wasn’t all that bright. He forgot to pay Kurosawa for the rights, and Kurosawa would cer­tainly have been satisfied with very lit­tle and so, afterwards, my producer had to make him rich, paying him millions in penalties. But that’s how the world goes. At any rate, that is my place in cinema history. Down there, between the K’s and the M’s generally to be found somewhere between pages 250 and 320 of any good filmmakers direc­tory. If I’d been named Antelope in­stead of Leone, I would have been num­ber one. But I prefer Leone; I’m a hunter by nature, not a prey.

To get to the second part of the question, I have a great love for the young American and British directors. I like Fellini and Truffaut. However, I’m not an expert on overrating. You should ask a critic—the only recognized ex­perts on over-, under-, or tepid ratings. The critic is a public servant, and he doesn’t know who he’s working for.

Question: Which comes first: the writer or director?

Leone: The director comes first. Writers should have no illusions about that. But the writer comes second. Directors, too, should have no illusions about that.

Question: What advice would you have for young people who want to be direc­tors?

Leone: I would say, read a lot of comic books, watch TV often, and, above all, make up your minds that cinema is not just something for snobs, other movie­makers, and the mothers of petulant critics. A successful movie communi­cates with the lowbrow and the high­brow public alike. Otherwise, it’s like a hole without the doughnut around it.

Question: F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “Action is character.” Do you agree?

Leone: The truth is that I am not a director of action, as, in my view, nei­ther was John Ford. I’m more a director of gestures and silences. And an orator of images. However, if you really want it. I’ll declare that I agree with old F. Scott Fitzgerald. I often say myself that action is character. But it’s true that, to be more precise, I say, “Ciack! Action and character, please.” Certainly we must mean the same thing. At other times—for example when I’m at the dinner table—I sometimes say, “Ciack! Let’s eat. Pass the salt.”

Takashi Miike: Violence, Creativity, Cinema

Takashi Miike’s prodigious output can be linked to two factors: the emergence of digital video and a reluctance to become tied to a single genre, showing a flexibility in style and theme that is unmatched amongst contemporary filmmakers. In the last couple of decades he has produced gangster films (the Dead or Alive trilogy) thrillers(Shield of Straw) horror (Audition) superhero movies (Zebraman) dramas (The Bird People in China), through to children’s films, fantastical films, Westerns, dark musicals and manga. 

Miike began his career as an apprentice to the renowned director Shoehei Imamura. Miike was assistant director on two films Zegen and Black Rain. Miike struck out on his own making several V-Cinema titles, low budget direct to video product, made with considerable directorial flair. It was 1999s Audition, a disturbing female vengeance thriller that made Miike’s name and brought him to international attention. It highlighted key aspects of Miike’s style: an unflinching focus on the grotesque, a black sense of humour and a willingness to go down an extremely twisted path. 

Perhaps his most representative work is the frantic yakuza thriller Dead Or Alive, which follows a lowly yakuza attempting to rise through the hierarchy as an underworld conflict between the yakuza and Chinese triads breaks out, while an obsessive cop tries to bring them all down. 

Miike stretches the genre tropes of the gangster film literally to breaking point as the final shoot out between cop and gangster is so intense that the result is an apocalyptic planetary implosion. 

Miike’s First Love from 2019 was a return to the formula of Dead Or Alive, with its battling yakuza and triad clans and criminals seeking to rise up the food chain. There’s a gentleness to it that seems more mature, yet there is a relish in cartoon-like violence that is as fresh and youthful as before. Miike’s love of mingling genres is on full display, from the action and gangster categories through to romantic drama and comedy, all underpinned by a multilayered narrative in which disparate characters and story lines coincide. The writer Masura Nakemura who had worked with Miike on several earlier projects is brought back and is largely responsible for the old school feeling in First Love. 

Nakumara’s script revolves around Leo, a talented young boxer struggling to come to terms with a medical diagnosis that robs him of a promising future, and Yuri, a drug addict forced into prostitution, who is haunted by her abusive father. The plot turns on a stolen drug consignment which brings a wild assortment of characters into the orbit of the young couple: a yakuza, a crime boss, a crooked cop, and a vengeful girl. 

In typical Miike style, the film rapidly transforms with caustic humour from brutal realism to high blown fantasy. Dream like fantasies abound, in which characters roam the night like ghosts, and the quests of the characters are dramatically punctuated by acts of extreme violence. The film swiftly develops into a major pursuit scene filled with bodies, followed by a big fight between competing gangs. It's gorgeously filmed and superbly acted, with hardly a dull minute. The symphonic soundtrack incorporates a jazz beat throughout the climactic scenes, to a thrilling conclusion, resulting in a bizarre, funny, exceedingly violent movie about true love.

After a successful showing at Cannes, Miike was interviewed by bloodydisgusting.com about First Love where he discussed violence in his films, the journey his career has taken, adapting other people’s works, and the experience of watching his own movies.

BD: First Love is such an interesting combination of ideas and themes. What about this story initially caught your interest?

Takashi Miike: “Absolutely. It’s a very simple story where there aren’t that many characters and some of the main characters are considered to be scum. They’re considered to be kind of useless to society. Then you have all of these people that have their desires and things that they want to achieve or obtain. From all of that, these two people fall in love, it becomes a love story, and everyone else kind of dies. But out of all of that death and chaos comes this one love story that will continue into the future, and I like that. I like the story. I like the idea. And so I decided I wanted to make this movie.”

BD: Was it a challenge to balance the romance and violence of this film? Were you concerned that there may be too much of one or not enough of the other?

Miike: “You’re right, there is a lot of violence and romance in the film, but I’m really not interested in objectively thinking about what the balance is like between them. The amount of violence is actually something that I don’t calculate myself. I actually kind of leave that up to the characters, so balance may be lost or completely broken in the film, but I think to some extent that can’t be helped because instead of me making the characters for the film, I focus on the characters in the script and I let them make the film. So honestly, I don’t particularly care if it’s a huge success or if there’s a balance there, but I just want to make a film that I like and I’m proud of how this one turned out.”

BD: I love the animated segment at the end of First Love. It made me think of the insane ending to Dead or Alive. Is it fun to sometimes make these crazy left turns at the end of your movies?

Miike: “Honestly, that scene in First Love speaks a lot to the current insecurities in the Japanese film industry. It’s because by the time that we got to that scene—and we added that scene at the end of the film in post-production—we were already over our budget. At the same time, there’s a big aversion to risks right now in the industry. Maybe there could be a car accident or something while we’re filming the scene. So because there’s an aversion to risk right now in Japan, a lot of the movies that are made are these big, warm, fuzzy movies that don’t really have any danger—like real physical danger—for the actors. So there are very few new stunt men that are being developed in Japan.”

“We could have said, “Okay, we can cut that scene because it’d be difficult to do with the current situation in the Japanese market. In a way, a car chase scene is almost clichéd for an action film, anyways.” But instead of cutting it, we decided that we’d find another way to do it and still honor that idea that was in the script. Now, if we had not filmed the movie in Hong Kong, we would have actually shot it, but we were, so we got creative.”

BD: That’s so interesting. To make something less physically dangerous, you turn it into what’s probably the most stylistically dangerous moment in the movie. On the topic of animation, a lot of directors struggle with bringing anime or manga series to life, but your adaptations are some of your best films. What’s so appealing to you about adapting anime?

Miike: “A lot of this can also be said about if I were adapting a novel as well, but specifically when dealing with a manga, when you’re turning that into a live-action film you’re doing that because you think that it’s just going to be fun. Or sometimes you read the original work and you’re like, “Okay, the original work is fun, so it’d be fun to turn that into a film while still respecting the intent and style of the original work and the writer’s intention. But at the same time, it’s more important for us to have fun with it than to rigidly stick to exactly what the original work was. When adapting someone else’s work you’re also freed in a sense because you want to respect the writer, but we don’t actually have that many meetings with the original writer—maybe just one “meet and greet” and that’s it, but what we do want to do is make something that the fans are going to love, even if we don’t specifically cater to them, but also a product that feels like it has my voice in it as well.”

BD: With the wide range of films that you have made, it really feels like you can literally adapt anything. Are there any projects that you’ve turned down out of fear?

Miike: “So this is maybe related to my experiences as an assistant director too, but what’s scary when you’re making a film is just realizing that it’s going to cost way too much money in some cases. At the same time, I’m not the one who’s funding the film, so I have to work within the constraints of my co-producers and sponsors. Now if they don’t think that we’re capable of making a certain film with the money we have, that’s fine, but what I try to always do is instead of cancelling or not accepting a project, I’ll brainstorm over modifications to make things cheaper, which usually also make things more interesting, too. We’re looking for a synergy there. A lot of people are usually funding these films, so we try to look at all of the possible ideas from everyone involved. Again, during my time as an assistant director I saw a lot of troubleshooting to pull off interesting ideas within budget.”

BD: You’ve done some very memorable work in the horror genre, but what do you think is your scariest film and why?

Miike: “I’m actually quite a scaredy cat, myself. Since a child I’ve been this way. I’ve even a little afraid of the dark. If I’m alone in the dark I’ll sometimes feel that there’s a presence behind me and I’ll even be afraid to turn around, but then if I do get the courage to turn around, I’ll just be scared that whatever was there has just jumped over to the other side of me. This sounds really silly, but as a child I’ve always been a bit of a coward so I don’t watch many horrors films myself. I personally think I don’t want to pay money to go to a theater to get horribly frightened! So even after I finish making horror films, I usually don’t go to a theater to watch them myself.”

“All of this being said, the scariest of the projects that I’ve worked on is “Imprint,” my episode from Showtime’s Masters of Horror series. Everyone kept telling me that America’s a free country and that I could really do whatever I wanted. It’s cable TV, so don’t hold back at all and make it as scary as possible. So I did that and then when I showed it to the producers in Japan, they were like, “I know we told you that you can do anything, but this is going too far. This is way too far.” We even had to publish this article in the New York Times apologizing that said that this was supposed to be a 13-episode series, but an episode’s been cut because it was too scary, so now it’s just twelve episodes. “Imprint” was definitely the scariest project that I’ve worked on.”

Roger Corman: Horror and the Unconscious

The Tomb of Ligeia (Directed by Roger Corman)

The Corman/Poe cycle is an eight-film series directed by Roger Corman and produced by American International Pictures from 1960 to 1965, with narratives based on the work of Edgar Allan Poe. With the exception of one, all of the films feature Vincent Price. Initially, AIP requested two low-budget black-and-white pictures; however, Corman persuaded them to let him make one colour feature based on Poe's narrative "Fall of the House of Usher." After the box office success of House of Usher, the idea for a series arose. 

Though most of the films deviate significantly from the original Poe tales (indeed, The Haunted Palace is based on an H.P. Lovecraft tale), the themes of terror, sorrow, and death that run throughout Poe's writings are masterfully translated to the screen. 

They're all outstanding creative feats, shot on a relatively cheap budget in a short amount of time. Though the most renowned moments are from Pit and the Pendulum and Masque of the Red Death, each picture is filmed with expertise and inventiveness. The Poe films seemed to represent a bridge between the new bold horror films of the late 1960s and the dreamy fantasy realms of the old Universal horror masterpieces of the 1930s, while being produced at the same time as the more widely known British Hammer horror films. 

House of Usher has been chosen for preservation by the National Film Registry. The films have had a tremendous effect on horror films and films in general, with the startling imagery being referenced in other films and media several times. Martin Scorsese is a noted admirer.

Filmmaking was always a precarious balance for Roger Corman between the pressures of commercialism and vision. Budget constraints made it simpler for a picture to repay its expenditures at the box office. Nonetheless, several of his resourceful decisions, Corman turned to his advantage. Corman built his own cinematic universe in the Poe films, a realm of garish colour, fog-enveloped castles, and labyrinthine dungeons, via his artistic and practical judgments as a filmmaker. 

Corman expertly recreated Poe's themes of metaphysical sorrow with a limited budget and infinite creativity, skillfully evoking the creeping dread as the lines between life and death, rationality and madness, self and other begin to disintegrate. It's a gloomy world filled with otherworldly and human horrors that are never far apart. 

Set in a gloomy, mythological past, Corman's Poe adaptations provide ideal ground for exploring humanity's deepest issues. A quotation from Poe's storey “The Premature Burial” used as a postscript in Corman's The Tomb of Ligeia could as well be the epigraph for the entire cycle: “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and where the other begins?” The plots and tones of the films differ, yet each one manages to negotiate this ambiguous space between life and death.

From House of Usher to Tomb of Ligeia, the entire series teems with evidence of sexual repression, with the gloomy mansions the characters inhabit clearly divided into two realms: the upper floors, where daily life and its “normal” activities and traditions find expression (analogue for the superego); and the lower dungeons, where the family dead reside (the attractive-repulsive realm of the id). Trips to this location occur more frequently as the male character's anxieties rise. 

The tormented male's need to discover the "secret" of his own past, of the influence of evil ancestors on current conditions, is usually seen in terms of a need to enter the crypt within the house rather than outside it – a "structural" symbol of death's preeminence – is usually seen in terms of a need to discover the "secret" of his own past, of the influence of evil ancestors on current conditions.

The following extract is an interview with Roger Corman by Patrick Schupp. From Séquences 78 (October 1974): 20–24. Translated by Gregory Laufer.

PS: Mr. Corman, can you tell me how you started your series on Edgar Poe?

RC: I was working at the time for a studio that had us make groups of two films with a small budget—about $100,000 or $200,000—in black and white. We sold them as a group.

PS: Attack of the Crab Monsters and Not of This Earth?

RC: Exactly. But I was more inclined toward science fiction, and I didn’t want to mix genres. All the films, however, had a common theme: horror. And then, one day, I was fed up with working like that, with a small budget and in black and white. I had been asked for two other films to be made in ten days, as usual. So I suggested that I make one instead, in color, and with fifteen days of filming, which was a lot more ambitious. I suggested a story by Poe that I like a lot, The Fall of the House of Usher. My studio, however, American International, a small company that had never done more than fifteen days of filming or put up a $200,000 budget, got scared. Finally, after several discussions, my bosses agreed and I started filming.

PS: Usher’s immediate success encouraged you to keep going, and probably the studio to keep paying. Poe was a goldmine, I believe. Based on his works, you directed The Pit and the Pendulum, Premature Burial, Tales of Terror, The Raven, The Terror, The Haunted Palace (which borrowed as much from Lovecraft as from Poe, if memory serves!), Masque of the Red Death, and Tomb of Ligeia. What connection have you drawn between films and books? I imagine that, in order to adequately translate the atmosphere created by Poe’s language in cinematographic terms, you must have run into some difficulties?

RC: Indeed, that’s an excellent question. We ran into some difficulties. First, there’s the brevity of Poe’s stories, which rarely go beyond a few pages. That meant that we had to explore Poe’s psychology and recreate the atmosphere in which he worked as well as his themes. Then we went back to the story in order to check and to clarify. Do you want an example? In “The Pit and the Pendulum,” Poe describes only the torture chamber itself. So in a sense we invented a prologue, a first and a second act. The characters end up in the chamber, that is, in the third act. What counts is in the chamber and that’s where Poe’s story begins. That, in fact, is one of our techniques: using Poe’s story as the conclusion to a story whose premise we came up with.

The second point is that, in my view, Poe worked quite a bit in terms of the unconscious, in a middle world that Freud tried to explore in Austria in the nineteenth century. Poe in America, Dostoyevsky in Russia, Maupassant in France, even other artists, in literature, music, and painting, have followed the same path—the subjective exploration of the unconscious. You see, I firmly believe that the artistic and scientific fields are tightly interwoven, that numerous, apparently contradictory or opposing facets are in fact joined together, but in a context that is not always self-evident. And yet, since Poe’s works are situated directly in terms of the unconscious, I’ve tried to recreate a completely imaginary world by using technical studio equipment. At that time, however, I tended to work in a more realistic manner, in the outdoors, etc. . . . I have no trouble saying that Poe brought me back to more intellectualized studio work. There, I had perfect control over the film’s atmosphere with lighting, scenery, accessories, photos, etc. . . . And when we had to leave the studio for certain reasons . . .

PS: In the case of Tomb of Ligeia, I believe?

RC: Yes! Tomb of Ligeia was my last film about Poe, and in it I proved my theory! In fact, at the beginning, I wanted to maintain that imaginary world, except for some ocean shots. On that note, I have to talk to you about the ocean. There is a deep fascination in man with the sea, just like when you look at fire. There’s a sort of hypnotism. So once I shot the ocean, and another time there was a fire in the Hollywood hills. And I reworked my schedule in order to go all the way to the burned area, to film and in that way to preserve a few scenes of a landscape with a supernatural atmosphere.

PS: So those are your outdoor shots. Burned land. Is that what you used in the opening sequences of Haunted Palace?

RC: No, Usher. But for Haunted Palace, I remade a similar set, inspired by that fire. I admit that that was a few years ago and my memory may cause me to overlook some details. I know that, for Usher, I went to the burned area, and in Haunted Palace, I used the shots of the ground where I remade a similar set. But that had had enough of an impact on me to make me want to reuse that impression of otherworldliness, of absolute desolation that only fire can offer.

PS: That, in effect, is the impression I had gotten. But the resulting atmosphere was remarkably accurate in comparison with Lovecraft’s text, I mean in Haunted Palace. I am one of his great admirers, and I was wondering how the film would come out when I knew that it was in production with you.

RC: Me, too. I love Lovecraft, but I find Poe more interesting.

PS: Indeed, if only because of his themes . . .

RC: Lovecraft, however, is probably one of the best occult writers of the twentieth century. I worked only once on a script based on Lovecraft, in Haunted Palace. But my artistic director for the Poe films, Daniel Haller, directed The Dunwich Horror, which I financed.

PS: I really liked that film. Really well done. Especially the wave effect at the end.

RC: You see, there again we were using the idea of the sea!

PS: It was very effective, and magnificently offset the real by hinting at the invisibility of those unspeakable beings.

RC: In fact, we found ourselves in a world that was identical to Poe’s, but contemporary....

PS: I would like you to talk to us now about Vincent Price, who has appeared in almost all of your films, and whom you cast in spectacular fashion into a genre in which he will henceforth reign as an undisputed master. The link that exists between an actor and a director, in general, reached an exceptional level between you two, I believe.

RC: Indeed, you could say that! I chose Vincent for House of Usher first and foremost because I found him smart and distinguished. It also seems to me that Poe described himself or used certain aspects of his own personality in his characters, at the very least those that had a leading role. He never wrote an autobiographical story as such, but often used the first person. And so he was describing himself, if only to a certain point, of course. That is why I wanted an actor who was as smart as he was cultured. And there aren’t too many, to tell the truth, who exhibit these two traits while at the same time looking the part. So it was totally natural for me to choose Vincent because, in addition to bringing a real dignity to his characters, not to mention a great talent for acting in keeping with a given time period, he conferred on them a raw and unaffected authenticity. Certain actors, as good as they may be, are used to acting “modern,” and they have trouble “passing off” a character from the eighteenth or nineteenth century, which Vincent’s flawless theater training overcame.

Furthermore, over the course of several conversations, Vincent and I came to agree that horror comes from the unconscious. In fact, for years we have had this theory, developed little by little over the course of our working together, that horror and fear are two quite distinct things. Horror is in part the reconstruction of childhood fantasies, and in part the anxiety from the world that surrounds us. You always fear someone bigger and stronger than you, who could hurt you, even if it’s in your unconscious. Civilization advances, of course, and that fear is currently transforming into a fear / horror of a superior culture, one that is around us and watching over us, or that comes from a distant past that you can sense and that ordinary people don’t suspect . . . And each time Vincent admirably knew how to express that ancestral fear that spurs horror.

– Roger Corman: Interviews. Conversations with Filmmakers Series. Gerald Peary, General Editor.

Federico Fellini: On Imagination and Color

Federico Fellini: Juliet of the Spirits

Fellini started his career as a cartoonist at the end of the 1930s, before branching out into radio, and then working in movies as a screenwriter.

His collaboration on the screenplay for the neo-realist classic Rome, Open City (1945) by Roberto Rossellini was immediately rewarded with an Oscar nomination. Many more would later follow: eight nominations and four Oscars in the best foreign language film category.

Five years later, Fellini made his first film, together with director Alberto Lattuada: Variety Lights. The White Sheik (1952) was the first film he directed alone. His first films were in black-and-white, had a basis in neo-realism and focused on figures on the fringes of society. But unlike his fellow countrymen who remained true to neo-realism, Fellini came to employ fantasy and fairytale, poetic and playful elements to his cinematic cosmos.

This first became evident with La Strada, Fellini's first worldwide success. The world of the circus, magic and enchantment seemed to inspire and mesmerise Fellini. The carnival environment became one of his trademarks. 

Fellini's films celebrate nostalgia and a yearning for the joys of childhood. Idlers, strays and petty criminals populate his films, just as prostitutes and outcasts do. Larger-than-life women, or men searching for the meaning of life: Fellini put them in the spotlight.

Fellini's 8 1/2  from 1963, his autobiographically inspired film about a director in crisis, would also usher in a new artistic phase in his work. From then on, his films became more fragmentary and sometimes even more playful, more opulent.

Whether bringing the old and the new Rome and its people in front of the cameras, whether following on the heels of a cynical Casanova in Venice or, such as in Amarcord, focusing on childhood and youth again: Fellini's image tableaux, his grotesque arsenal of figures, his opulent camera angles, at once sophisticated and grotesque, established his distinctive original style. You can recognize a Fellini film at first glance.

He provided the greatest roles for his wife Giulietta Masina and his alter ego Marcello Mastroianni. He relied on a few outstanding cameramen, and his composer Nino Rota became a star composer by working with him.

Fellini was invited to shoot in the US on several, occasions. He always refused; Rimini and Rome were his artistic inspiration, especially sonbecause he made his best work in the surroundings of Cinecittà Studios in Rome.

"La Dolce Vita" (1960) and "8½" (1963) are perennial favourites and his playful, free, carnivalesque style (in terms of both sound and vision) has generated some of cinema's most influential and spectacular moments.

In “La Dolce Vita” (1959) Fellini gave Marcello Mastroianni his first great role as a journalist who tries to balance the competing claims of his work, his marriage, his mistress, his erotic daydreams and his vague ambitions. 

“Juliet of the Spirits,” was Fellini's first film in color, and according to Roger Ebert “is the work of a director who has cut loose from the realism of his early work and is toying with the images, situations and obsessions that delight him. It is well known that young Federico experienced some kind of psychic fixation during his first visit to the circus, and all of his films feature processions or parades. It may not be too much to suggest that the sight of bizarre characters walking in time to music has a sexual component for Fellini, who almost always composes the scenes the same way: Characters in background and middle distance walk in procession in time with one another, and then a foreground face appears in frame, eager to comment.”

The following extract is from an interview with Federico Fellini by Bert Cardullo where Fellini discusses Juliet of the Spirits in detail. It is a fascinating glimpse of the great director’s creative process. 

BC: How does a project of yours come into being in the first place?

FF: The real ideas come to me when I sign a contract and get an advance that I don’t want to give back, when I’m obliged to make a picture. I’m kidding, naturally. I don’t want to appear brutal, like Groucho Marx, but I’m the kind of creator who needs to have a higher authority—a grand duke, the pope, an emperor, a producer, a bank—to push me. Such a vulgar condition puts me on the right track. It’s only then that I start thinking about what I can, and want to, do.

BC: Why do you think you decided to start using color—first for the episode in Boccaccio ’70 and then for Juliet of the Spirits? Was there an external factor, such as an offer from a producer, the sheer possibility of doing a film in color, or was this your own aesthetic choice?

FF: The two cases are different. For the episode in Boccaccio ’70, the choice wasn’t mine. It was an episodic or anthology film, and the producers decided that it was to be in color. I didn’t object at all. The playful air of the whole undertaking and the brief form of the episode seemed just right for an experiment with color without too great a commitment on my part. I didn’t think about the problem very seriously; I didn’t go into it deeply. In Juliet of the Spirits, on the other hand, color is an essential part of the film; it was born in color in my imagination. I don’t think I would have done it in black and white. It is a type of fantasy that is developed through colored illuminations. As you know, color is a part not only of the language of dreams but also of the idea and feeling behind them. Colors in a dream are concepts, not mere approximations or memories.

That said, I certainly prefer a good black-and-white picture to a bad one in color. All the more so because in some cases so-called “natural color” impoverishes the imagination. The more you mimic reality, the more you lose in the imitation. Black and white, in this sense, offers wider margins for the imagination. I know that after having seen a good black- and-white film, many spectators, when asked about its chromatic aspect, will say, “The colors were beautiful,” because each viewer lends to the otherwise black-and-white images the colors he has within himself.

BC: You seem to be saying that you prefer black-and-white to color cinematography, period.

FF: Well, making films in color is, I believe, an impossible operation, for cinema is movement, color immobility; to try to blend these two artistic expressions is a desperate ambition, like wanting to breathe under water. Let me explain. In order to truly express the chromatic values of a face, a landscape, some scene or other, it is necessary to light it according to certain criteria that are functions of both personal taste and technical exigency. And all goes well so long as the camera doesn’t move. But as soon as the camera moves in on the faces or objects to be lighted, the intensity of the light is heightened or lessened, and all the chromatic values are intensified or lessened as a result. In short: The camera moves, the light changes.

There is also an infinitude of contingencies that condition the color, aside from the grave errors that can occur at the laboratory, where the negative can be totally transformed by its development and printing. These contingencies are the innumerable and continual traps that have to be dealt with every day when you shoot in color. For instance, colors interfere or clash, set up “echoes,” are conditioned by one another. Once lighted, color runs over the outline that holds it, emanating a sort of luminous aureola around neighboring objects. Thus there is an incessant game of tennis, let us say, between the various colors. Sometimes it even happens that the result of these changes is agreeable, better than what one had imagined; but this is always a somewhat chancy, uncontrollable occurrence.

Finally, the human eye selects and in this way already does an artist’s work, because the human eye, the eye of man, sees chromatic reality through the prisms of nostalgia, of memory, of presentiment or imagina- tion. This is not the case with the lens, and it happens that you believe you are bringing out certain values in a face, a set, a costume, while the lens brings out others. In this way, writing with a camera—or caméra stylo, as Astruc put it—becomes very difficult. It is as if, while writing, a modi- fying word escapes your pen in capital letters, or, still worse, one adjective shows up instead of another, or some form of punctuation appears that completely changes the sense of a line.

Theo Angelopoulos’s Philosophy of Film – Part Two

Days of '36 (1972), the first film in what would become Angelopoulos' self-described trilogy of history, which also includes The Travelling Players and O Megalexandros, continued the tradition of depicting the changing cultural environment of rural Greece via stories from modern history. The film is a subversive indictment of the then-ruling military junta (1967–1975), whose heavy-handed method of governance and retention of power relied on violence, intimidation, and censorship of the opposition. It is ostensibly inspired by an actual prison hostage situation involving a parliament official in 1936. 

While the events depicted in Days of '36 were compressed over a short period of time, Angelopoulos' epic masterpiece, The Travelling Players, is pivotally set in the years 1939–1952, and provides an expansive framework that spans the pro-monarchy Metaxas dictatorship (1936–1941), the German occupation of Athens (1941–1944) during World War II, and the Greek Civil War (1944–1949). The film follows a poor travelling theatre group as they strive to present (but never manage to finish) a pastoral play named Golpho the Sheperdess amid the violent unravelling of Greek history during the mid-twentieth century. 

The problematic pattern of foreign intervention in Greek sovereignty depicted in The Travelling Players is also visible in O Megalexandros, a densely structured film that interweaves two of Angelopoulos' predilections—history (the late 19th century kidnapping of aristocratic British tourists by Greek bandits in Marathon) and myth (the bandit leader who believes he is the reincarnation of the Greek god Zeus) (utopia). Angelopoulos' filmmaking had already begun to reflect on his generation's failing idealism, a disappointment that he would later communicate in Ulysses' Gaze with the elegiac image of Lenin's demolished monument atop a drifting salvage barge. 

Angelopoulos' use of allusive, iconic representation in O Megalexandros is also evident in The Hunters (1977), a thematic epilogue to the historical trilogy about a group of middle-aged hunters who discover the perfectly preserved, 30-year-old frozen remains of a partisan (bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Byzantine image of Jesus Christ) and are compelled to resurrect him. The film, set in post-junta Greece, is a modern metaphor on the country's willful repression of unpleasant and ugly past, as well as communal denial of personal responsibility. 

Angelopoulos aimed to depict the human toll of its sad legacy after bringing his daring re-evaluation of 20th century Greek history to modern-day Greece. The result is a series of haunting, incisive, intimate, and deeply moving odysseys through consciousness, myth, and memory that the filmmaker refers to as the "trilogy of silence": the silence of history (Voyage to Cythera), the silence of love (The Beekeeper [1986]), and the silence of God (The Beekeeper [1986]). (Landscape in the Mist).

This is the second part of an interview by Gerald O’Grady with Theo Angelopoulos in Athens, 1990. Translated by Steve Dandolos and Ste­fanos Papazacharias.

GO: It seems to me that, more than any other director on the world scene, your characters inhabit not only a distinct place, but also a distinct time. There is no question but that your screen vibrates with a physical presence of Greece-the stones, the streets, the walls, the roofs, the skies, the rain, the fog. You have few, if any, peers in conveying this sense of place. But I think your feeling for time, for history, is what makes you different. Your first film, Reconstruction, is a reenact­ment of a real murder, based on newspaper accounts and court records; the histori­cal trilogy speaks for itself; and even Spyros, as he travels from the north to the south of Greece in The Beekeeper, remembers, in almost cinema-verite-like flash­ backs, scenes of his earlier life. You really bind the mind to actuality, to history, even if you acknowledge that it is a reconstruction, and, of course, you continually refer your characters to heroes in earlier Greek history, through allusions to the classics, mentioned above. How do you explain this acute sense of history, this "documentary" thrust in your films?

TA: I wouldn’t call this sense of history "a documentary thrust." I rather think it is a Greek tradition. If we recall the Greek classics, we notice that most of them work with myths referring to much older periods, and in this context history is used as a continuous backdrop, independent of any the­matic concerns. My attachment to our history derives from the fact that I am Greek, from the overall relationship of history with Greek art and specifically with literature, and in this century, with Greek cinema. For many years, in my country, no unconventional approach to history was conceivable; the general consensus was the only acceptable attitude. But after the collapse of the dictatorship in 1974, there was a real explosion in Greece in terms of historical-political films. These films should have been done years ago. I am not referring, of course, to my own films, because I was exploring this terri­tory already during the dictatorship. I mean the Greek cinema in general, which started discussing these things only after they were gone, and by then it was too late. At the same time, one has to concede that the Greek cinema, due to lack of resources, was dependent on comedies or star-studded tearjerk­ ers, thus bringing forward mostly farces and melodramas for domestic con­ sumption. Once in a while, there was a film that contained elements of real tragedy, like Cacoyannis’s Stella, Drakos by Kondouros, based on folklore, or Paranomi, by the same Kondouros, based on history.

If we are to speak about time, we must divide it into historical time and "timing." Usually, a move in time is achieved through flashbacks, through a cut that never attempts to manipulate historical time. In an old American film by Laszlo Benendek the movement from present to past takes place within the same space through a simple change in lighting. In a Swedish film, Miss Julie, time moves through the personal reminiscences of the char­acters; in other words, every time one of them recollects something from the past, we are taken back to it. What I did was something that was achieved for the first time in the history of cinema. My own work is based on what we call collective memory, and more than collective individual memory, on col­lective historical memory, mixing time in the same space, changing time not through_a flashback that corresponds to a person but to a collective memory, and this was accomplished without a cut. The change was made within the same shot in such a way that three or four different historical periods coexist within the space of this shot, a series of frightening leaps into time. For example, in The Travelling Players an actor is talking about Asia Minor while the train is travelling in the year 1940, the beginning of the war. When the train stops, the actor gets off and looking straight into the camera he goes on talking about the war in Asia Minor that happened in 1922. But when he looks into the camera saying all these things, that moment is now, now being each time one sees the film. In this manner three different historical times are being juxtaposed, the present, 1940, and 1922. In another scene, the new cast of the travelling players are seen walking down a street in the year 1952 until they vanish, and in that moment the shot becomes panoramic and we see a Ger­man vintage car entering the same shot in 1942. As the camera refocuses on the spot where the travelling players had vanished, we now see German sol­diers, as the shot is pursued without any interruption. This becomes a con­tinuous, dialectic presentation of different historical moments, but at the same time preventing any factual relationship between them. Therefore, while watching this scene, a second emotion, provided by the cinema lan­guage, is added to the initial one. I mean that in the way I use time, time becomes space and space, in a strange way, becomes time. I don’t know if what I say makes sense, but there exists an accordion of time and space, a continuous accordion that lends a different dimension to the events being shown on the screen.

GO: Let’s try to discuss now what has become one of the defining visual characteristics of your work, the long take, the tracking shot, the 360 circular shot, all strate­gies to allow or "make" the viewer "really" see the shot and its specific duration. How did you hit upon it, what is your purpose, does it have anything to do with space or time, or their interaction? Is this at all related to the fact that some of your films are particularly long, and with your choice of placing contemporary characters in the context of the cultural history of your country?

TA: The characteristics of my own work derive, first of all, from my many years of viewing cinema. For years, I watched every type of film around me and absorbed things I found interesting, and when, later on, I attempted to write and to make films, it all came back to the surface and became style, writing, personal writing. If I have to explain this, I would say that my prefer­ence for the long shot, the sequence shot, stems from my rejection of what is generally referred to as parallel editing, for I consider it fabricated. For historical reasons I accept the work of all those who resorted to this type of montage, like Eisenstein, but this is not my kind of cinema. In a certain manner, for me, each shot is a living thing, with a breath of its own, that consists of inhaling and exhaling. This is a process that cannot accept any interference; it must have a natural opening and fading.

In today’s cinema, the so-called dead time-silence and pauses-has be­ come obsolete. This undefined time that functions between one act and an­ other has disappeared. For me, even silence needs to function in an almost musical way, not to be fabricated through cuts or through dead shots but to exist internally inside the shot. I have used fast and slow internal rhythms in the long shot in order to project a ceremonial element. Megalexandros is structured like a Byzantine liturgy containing this ceremonial element in the form of a theatrical gesture that needs to be completed in a specific timing. The term choreography has been often used in relation to my films. I would not call it that because faces cannot be choreographed. The space is being choreographed by the continuous action that forces this space to open and close like an accordion. The editing is internal and a sequence that might require ten shots in the conventional system of editing is now conveyed in one, which contains all ten because it can literally be cut in as many shots. I did this by not excluding the so-called dead time, the silences.

Contrary to the American model that demands multiple angles for every single scene, I believe that for each shot there is one angle and one angle only. This, for me, is a basic rule of the game. Something we have not dis­ cussed is the way I use the fixed shot. For example, the rape scene in my last film (Landscape in the Mist) is a fixed shot where the sound has more meaning than the image we see. In this fixed shot, the sound functions in a way that gives rhythm to the space, while simultaneously it creates a second level of meaning outside the film. It is like a painting that does not end inside the frame but continues outside of it. Likewise the power of suggestion is exer­cised dynamically in order to free the imagination of the audience, so they can create for themselves a picture inside the picture. The audience exists dynamically and not passively, when they add their imagination to that of the director. Of course you know very well that in Greek tragedy all the im­portant events take place on stage and never behind the stage. For me, the tracking shot creates an accordion of space through the travelling of the cam­ era. The space expands or shrinks depending on the proximity of the lens to the filmed objects; there is a continuous flow that brings incredible flexibility inside the shot, like the flow of running water.

For the filming of The Travelling Players the camera was always on a mov­ing track even if it had to move ten centimeters in order to create a flow. The 360-degree shot is used to emphasize the meaning of the circle that already exists as a concept inside the film. In Megalexandros, it is obvious the circle is part of all forms, and it evolves from the circular stage of the ancient theater where all action was being performed. Look, today when someone begins to make cinema, cinema is his starting point. My generation began differently. My development was influenced by literature. I began by writing poems and short stories and only then did I move to film. Therefore I am influenced by a different space, where the act of writing is the dominant rule of the game. Consequently I sought the same in cinema.

GO: Your New York retrospective opens with The Beekeeper, and I would like to pose two questions about that film, both relating to icons or images. It is the first film in which you have used a major international "star." Marcello Mastroianni offers a very distinct icon, developed over many other works, to any film in which he acts. How did you understand that icon, and how did you used it and, at the same time, refashion it? The other question involves the relationship between the written script and the actual process of shooting. Every aspect of the mise-en-scene- Spyros’s house, the hotels he stays in, his boyhood home, his destination itself, not to men­tion jukeboxes and soda pop stands-take on aspects of a beehive. Is that very complicated iconographic presence already designed at the outset or does it develop as the film is being shot, and how does this process take place?

TA: My intention was to use Mastroianni but to reverse the image he proj­ects. I was looking for an actor who could carry the film on his shoulders. The role excluded any display of virtuosity and demanded a style of acting that is esoteric and silent, and this, I think, is the opposite of the image Mastroianni has been projecting. I was afraid that any other actor and mainly the ones I know here in Greece would have been crushed by the weight of this role. Mastroianni, on the contrary, carried the film not only because he is a good actor but also by using this weight as an image.

Sometimes my films are the exact mirror of the script; other times, the script is in the form of notes and then the filming process is very dependent on improvisation. In some cases, there is a dynamic that allows you to use improvisations, while in others you have the feeling that you have to follow exactly the written script. This depends entirely on the material you have to work with and does not depend at all on the circumstances surrounding the making of the film. The circumstances I have encountered until now vary from the very good to the very bad, but it did not prevent me from doing what I intended to do. For example, Landscape in the Mist is an exact copy of the script while The Travelling Players began from notes. Voyage to Cythera is very far from the original script and The Beekeeper very close to it.

I write the scripts and try them on the various people I have conversations with, like a game of Ping-Pong, where they act either as devil’s advocates or as catalysts. This dialogue with other persons becomes essential to the writ­ing of the script; it is a process of continuous inventions that occur only during the time I converse with them. The image from which I began the Voyage to Cythera was of the two old people on a raft in the middle of the sea. For Landscape in the Mist the first image was that of a city covered in fog and a hand that dissolves it.