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.