Haircuts shouldn’t be underestimated. Not the most profound thing I will ever write, but true. William Wyler, director of Roman Holiday (1953), knew this. Billy Wilder, director of Sabrina (1954), also knew this. And that is why, at pivotal points in both films, Audrey Hepburn’s hair gets fairly unceremoniously lopped off. In both films, the moment that we see her without her ponytail for the first time, is the moment she becomes the real protagonist of the film. Sabrina sitting in a tree gazing at David isn’t the real Sabrina. Humphrey Bogart didn’t fall in love with that Sabrina, he dragged her out of garage and made fun of her pitiful suicide attempt. The ponytail is a reassuring symbol for the audience, as we know that whatever happens to her before the chop will be resolved when she gets a haircut and some gumption.

In Roman Holiday, Hepburn’s haircut is her first real act of  rebellion. Of course, before that she hops over the palace wall  and into the real world, but she is loopy on sedatives, and promptly has to be rescued by the handsome and streetwise Gregory Peck. The next morning, however, she is thinking clearly again, and walks into a salon and tells the hairdresser to cut it all off. In fact, it takes two attempts to assert this independence, as the bob he gives her is a crashing anti-climax.

When he finally crops her hair and rolls the edges, she suddenly  becomes royalty. Not the little princess drowned in her ankle-  length nightdress and waist-length hair, dutifully drinking milk  before bed, but a regal and dignified woman.

Sabrina may cut her hair for the wrong reason, but it has the same effect. It takes a year at cooking school, a friendship with a wealthy octogenarian, and a haircut to transform Sabrina the chauffeur’s daughter, into Sabrina the woman.

When the Baron rightly identifies why Sabrina’s souffle is a flop, (“a woman happily in love, she burn the souffle…a woman unhappily in love forgets to turn on the oven”), he gives her the best piece of advice she could hope for. Her father may have sent her to cookery school in Paris, but the Baron told her she looked like a horse – the ponytail had to go. And just like that, on her return to Long Island, Sabrina and David are equals. Her appearance is the ultimate status symbol.

“Oh Sabrina, where have you been all my life?”

“Right over the garage.”

By Geo Ong

Everyone in Los Angeles has a screenplay, just as I’m sure everyone in New York has a novel, everyone in high school has a band, and everyone in Paris has a baguette. I’m no different: the last time I was in Paris, I bought a baguette (because I could say ‘baguette’); I was part of a band in high school (bassist for No Clue – we had no clue what we were doing); when I move to New York in the next couple of years, I’m sure I will still be working on my novel, and though I am no longer a practising screenwriter, for I never had the knack for it (Margaret and I took classes together, and she can vouch for this fact: ‘It’s like you’re writing a novel. Why don’t you just write a novel?’), I too have a screenplay.

It’s really good. I am the main character (meta). I’m thinking 8 1/2 meets Manhattan meets King Kong (1976). There’s no real story to it – that’s what makes it so great! It’s episodic, a fish-out-of-water story – actually an urchin-out-of-whater story, and here the water represents sanity. I think I should play me. Or possibly Chris Cooper. I’d like to present proudly a scene from my screenplay-in-progress… The Urchin Gets Misunderstood!

INT. PARTY – NIGHT

GEO ONG sits by the raw vegetable tray. A GUY he does not know approaches him.

GUY: I hear you’re a writer.
GEO: Yeah.
GUY: What do you write about?
GEO: What?
GUY: That’s cool, man. What kind of stuff do you write?
GEO: What do you mean?
GUY: Screenplays?
GEO: No.
GUY: Short stories?
GEO: Not for a while. I’m working on a novel right now.
GUY: What’s it about?
GEO: It’s about a city I made up.
GUY: Cool, man. Let me know when it’s finished.
GEO: Oh, absolutely.

Geo turns to walk away.

GUY: So who’s…
GEO: Oh, we’re not done?
GUY: …your favourite writer?
GEO: Joyce.

GUY wrinkles brow.

GEO: He wrote Ulysses. He’s Irish.
GUY: Oh, that guy! Hey, wasn’t he gay?
GEO (drops a carrot): No.
GUY: Pretty sure he was.
GEO: Maybe you’re thinking of Wilde?
GUY: Wasn’t Wilde a director?
GEO: I think you’re thinking of Wilder.
GUY: That’s right. Old school. Didn’t he do Ben-Hur?
GEO: That was Wyler.
GUY: Wasn’t he on ER? I didn’t know he writes.
GEO: Fucking hell.

Periódicamente un servidor tiene que discutir, más o menos acaloradamente, con lectores y comentaristas de éste y otros blogs cuando uno se queja amargamente de la dependencia del cine-espectáculo actual de los aparatitos con teclas, botoncitos, pantallitas y numeritos. En esos casos, uno generalmente recibe amables calificativos que van desde el tan manido “gafapasta” hasta sarcasmos e ironías bastante ridículos en cuanto a la supuesta avanzada edad de mi menda o a la antigüedad de los gustos de uno aplicables a otras esferas de la vida más personales, hechos que, según estos humanoides, dificultarían la adaptación de un servidor a la vida moderna, eso por no hablar de las proclamaciones públicas como ignorantes de quienes no sabemos apreciar las virtudes del cine colonizado por el videojuego.

Quien escribe no es enemigo, ni mucho menos, del empleo de efectos especiales ni del uso de las nuevas tecnologías aplicadas al cine (sí de cruzar, eso sí, los límites insalvables de la dependencia de la tecnología contra los que ya nos advirtió, por ejemplo, Luis Buñuel, hábito de nuestro tiempo cuyo único fin suele ser recaudatorio y no artístico); lo contrario sería una estupidez: es propio del cine la investigación y la experimentación técnica y creativa como vehículo de retroalimentación. Lo que no entienden los partidarios del cine “de muñequitos” (término en absoluto despectivo con el que aquí nos referimos a esos circos de pirotecnia que copan por aplastamiento las multisalas) es que a veces hay modos mejores y más efectivos (y también más baratos) de hacer las cosas que el recurso al ordenador, y que muchas veces éste es una coartada para la falta de talento y de capacidad de los promotores de un filme. Los efectos digitales pueden apabullarnos la vista, cortocirtuitar nuestros cerebros, colman nuestras retinas, llenan nuestros ojos, pero rara vez, por no decir nunca, pasan de ahí, casi nunca llegan al alma o tocan el corazón: nada más espectacular e impactante que Matrix. Y también nada más frío, mecánico, distante y vacío.

Y lo que no entienden, y no entenderán jamás porque hablamos casi de una secta, los hooligans del actual cine “de muñequitos”, sea de superhéroes, adaptaciones de los tebeos o demás productos casi siempre prescindibles, es que una computadora, cueste los dólares que cueste, y un ingeniero, ídem de ídem, jamás podrán igualar el grado de perfección técnica y de emoción y calidez narrativas que ofrecen escenas como ésta, creada por ese genio de los efectos especiales y maestro del oficio de especialista que fue Yakima Canutt (el indio que cae a los pies de los caballos en La Diligencia de John Ford, 1939) para la nueva adaptación que del best-seller de Lewis Wallace, Ben-Hur, filmó William Wyler en 1959, protagonizada por Charlton Heston (la primera versión es de 1925 y no es menor en cuanto a espectacularidad y perfección técnica). La película ganó, entre muchos otros, el Oscar de la Academia a los mejores efectos especiales y hoy, cincuenta años después, no tenemos ninguna duda de que si optara al premio volvería a ganarlo de calle. Porque el cine de verdad posee un valor y, sobre todo, un estilo y una fuerza, en suma, un poder, que las vulgares imitaciones mecánicas del cine, hoy por hoy no van a igualar. Aunque claro, para estos esclavos de modernidad, 1959 es la prehistoria, y no digamos ya el cine en blanco y negro (pobres, no saben lo que se pierden), y como tal, hay que despreciarlo. Modernos que son, oye, aunque no se den cuenta de que no se es moderno sólo por parecerlo. Y también son, tristemente, un poco inconscientes.

Y en cuanto al cine “de muñequitos”, mientras no sea capaz de crear un prodigio técnico como el que sigue a continuación, seguirá siendo de segunda categoría.

Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953)

For a few weeks now I’ve been suffering with a fairly heavy cold, amongst other things, and a light, breezy classic was about as much as I could cope with this weeekend. Audrey Hepburn’s most famous role -Breakfast at Tiffany’s, of course-  had her as a hillbilly pretending to be a socialite. It was a back-to-front variation on her breakthrough role, as here she’s a monarch pretending to be a truant from school.

It’s the stock fairytale, prince & pauper scenario that’s fuelled countless films. She walks through a market, sits at a cafe and other commonplace things that we all do every day. The magic comes from knowing it’s the only chance in her life she’ll get to do any of this. But this film about the joys of absconding is moralistic, and has a work ethic; being sated by a day off, Princess Ann returns to the palace, now ready to accept her lot in life.

Gregory Peck’s hack also goes on a journey of self-improvement. He hangs around “Anya”, hoping to sell the story, until his conscience gets the better of him and he realises he doesn’t have it in him to betray the sweet kid. Unlike Tiffany’s the film goes against our expectations and keeps the love unrequited, each going back to their world and their duties. It’s a dignified, neatly poised finish in the vein of Lost in Translation.

Historically, what makes this neat little comedy important (apart from AH bursting onto the screen) is the extent of location filming. It must be one of the earliest mainstream Hollywood films to get out of the big studio sets and into the city streets. The great cinematographer Henri Alekan shows Rome off at its most touristy and photogenic, but it’s a start. I recently wrote about Carol Reed’s The Man Between, filmed in the ruins of Berlin, and it looks like Rome had a considerably better war than the Jerries. That or Rome was rebuilt in a day. One can only envy the relative scarcity of traffic and/or overcrowding.

After aerial postcard views of Rome and a stirring, Respighi-esque orchestral score, we meet Hepburn’s princess in a newsreel showing her European tour. London, Amsterdam, Paris- her home country is not specified. We catch up with her in a plush ballroom full of footmen in gowns; Ann is shaking hands with an endless procession of Papal representatives, Indians, Hungarians &c.

In a mischievous, slightly Bunuelish touch, Wyler shows her bordeom by repeatedly cutting to close-ups of her feet under her gown; steeping out of their shoes, wiggling toes, scratching her leg. When her shoe falls over, all of her entourage is horrifed. The General helps her stand up, her enormous gown covering the errant shoe, and they waltz onto the dancefloor- the others following their lead. Now that’s breeding.

Ann dutifully dances with all sorts of pallid posh mannequins until it’s time for bed. “I hate my nightgowns. I’m not 200 years old”, she complains as her governess pulls her away from the window. The sounds of music and revellery drift up. The governess reads out Ann’s packed itinerary for the next day; factory visits and all that. Hepburn nibbles on a cracker (and nobody can eat a cracker quite like her), the tears welling up. Eventually she cracks, and screams as she pounds her fists into the mattress. The doctor is called out to give her a shot of morphine.

In bed, Ann contemplates the friezes of Venus in the four corners of her ceiling, then gets changed and sneaks out. From below, the camera shows her traversing the bannister around the edge of the ceiling; then from above, sneaking out of the palace and into the back of a goods truck. Euphoric music and clinking bottles as the truck exits the palace gates, giving a view of young couples on scooters, pavement diners, and Rome’s fountains. Hepburn is thrilled. This is real life!

Meanwhile, Joe Bradley (Peck) is bowing out of a late-night poker game with his American pals. Lots of smoking, loosened neckties. The morphine has hit Ann and Bradley finds her sleeping on a wall outside the Forum. Hepburn is quite feline, nonchalantly quoting Shelley in her sleep as Bradley tries to rouse her. She is, as ever, the vulnerable little girl that men want to take care of. Tough guy Bradley hails a taxi and gives the girl a slap.

“Where do you live?”

“The Coliseum.”

The taxi driver gives us a madcap cameo as both he and Bradley try to offload the sound-asleep girl onto each other (“I have bambino at home. You know bambino? Waah, waah”). When the cabbie mentions the police, Bradley decides to take the girl home as a last resort. Nowadays he’d probably be getting the lubricant out by this point, but this 1953 and Gregory Peck is a Gentleman. His place is a cramped, boho attic room; he demurs when the girl asks for help undressing and makes it clear that she’s on the couch, not the bed (maybe not such a Gentleman, then).

Bradley goes out for some air, allowing Ann a chance to sort herself out. When he returns she’s in bed and he tips her onto the couch. They wake to church bells at noon the next day, and Bradley is horrified- he was meant to be interviewing that princess at 11:45. After drinking coffee from the hands of a typist girl, he goes into his editor’s office and tries to bullshit him. What did the Princess think of European integration? “She said it would have two effects; the direct and the indirect.” The furious editor shows Bradley a newspaper annoucing the Princess’ illness and cancellation of her programme; Bradley realises he’s got the girl in his flat. How much would the editor pay for the most private and intimate thoughts of the Princess?

He has the concierge guard his door and his military drills are attracting kids by the time Bradley shows up. Gentle music as he studies the sleeping Hepburn and lifts her back into bed- the love story is being telegraphed. Half-awake, the Princess murmurs about the man in her dream; “He was strange, and so mean to me… it was wonderful” (she likes it rough). A glimpse of the ceiling, with a boiler instead of Botticelli, wakes her up. Ann realises where she is, how she’s spent the night, takes a few moments to soak up the realisation and consequences; then decides she likes it.

Bradley runs “Anya” a bath then calls his photographer Irving (a bearded Eddie Albert) from a payphone. Fun-loving Irving has a model at his place and protests that he’s “up to my ears in work”. Hepburn gets scolded in Italian by the cleaner and when she makes her excuses and leaves, the concierge spots Peck lending her some cash- he too seems to assume the worst. Peck follows from a distance as Hepburn enjoys herself passing scooters, cyclists and workmen in the streets.

Hepburn steps into a barber’s and has her long flowing tresses chopped off- she looks much better. The barber asks her to come dancing and she’s delighted that people fancy her; they’re seeing the girl and not the title. Buying a gelato, she enjoys her anonymity as much as the camera enjoys panning down the Spanish Steps. Meanwhile, at the Trevi fountain a primary school teacher catches Peck trying to mug one of her pupils for her camera.

Now seems an appropriate moment for Bradley to “bump into” Ann and suggest that they spend the day together. Ann says she’s playing truant and her father is in PR, Bradley says he’s a fertiliser salesman. I suppose they’re both telling the truth in their own ways. They meet Irving at a café and Peck’s face is priceless when Hepburn blithely orders champagne. As Ann smokes “her first cigarette”, Irving produces a hidden camera inside a lighter. They’ve struck gold. We cut to a plane from Ann’s homecountry, from which scores of Thomson Twin detectives emerge. “These men are supposed to be inconspicuous”, moans the general.

Peck and Hepburn ride through Rome on a scooter, he pointing out sights. Her spirits raised, Ann tries to ride off on the scooter herself and there follows a silent slapstick scene as she knocks over street painters, the police give chase, etc. We see the three in the station, gesticulating wildly and trying to mime their way out of trouble. Wagner’s bridal march blasts out as we deduce their story; we were trying to get to the church on time. They make a very gay threesome (in the old-fashioned sense), but it’s delicious to think that the two men are at present duping the Princess.

It’s during a slow dance, at a jazz concert by the Tiber, that Bradley begins to melt; Ann raises her head from his shoulder, gazes wide-eyed and whispers “Hello”. He looks distinctly awkward when she reflects on their day together and how “unselfish” he’s been. Irving is delighted when Ann dances with the barber from earlier, and makes sure he gets plenty of shots. The party is curtailed by a carful of the Thompson Twins detectives and a neatly-choreographed punch-up, where most of the goons end up in the river and Hepburn smashes a guitar over the head of one, beating The Clash and The Who by a good few years.

The two lovers are confirmed as such when they swim to the other shore and kiss. After the first snog they’re both terribly bashful, but it’s back to his place and Ann’s turn to have her conscience pricked. The news bulletin on the radio tells of her citizens’ grave concern at the mystery illness that has kept her from fulfilling her duties. Bradley drives her to round the corner from the palace, and they part amidst tears and kisses. He looks shaken.

At the palace, we see that this assertion of independence has turned the little girl into a woman. When her entourage attempt to give her a royal bollocking, Ann faces them down effortlessly; and she doesn’t want any crackers for supper either. Watching the sun come up in his bedsit, a preoccupied Bradley is visited by his editor. He’s decided that he has no story to tell. When Irving buts in, he is told to “go home and shave”.

The Princess’ appearance before the gentlemen of the press is rescheduled; Bradley and Irving are two of the many who filter through into a stupendous hall with vertiginously high ceilings and walls crammed solid with paintings. Questions from the floor are answered with impeccably impenetrable diplomat-spea, until Ann is asked which city was her favourite. “All of them… no, Rome”. At the end she steps down from the platform, announcing her wish to meet some journalists. The assembled hacks from Japan, France, Canada are touched by her gesture but we know her real motives. Irving sneaks her the many action photos that were meant for the exposé.

The final shots see the camera wobble a little, then pull back through this vast hall as Bradley -having waited for the hall to clear and wondered if the Princess might reappear- strides out, smiling. He turns back at the threshold, hesitates with a forlorn gaze and then walks out of the frame. He’s lost his love, but one senses that it’s been a wholly positive experience with no regrets. A love that is only for one night can never go stale or sour, but can instead be idealised for all time.

No creo que despúes de ver esta imagen haya más que decir. Tanto talento (aunque para ese entonces ya hayan pasado lo mejor de sus épocas) reunido en torno a un genio no sólo de la cinematografía, sino del arte en general.

De izquierda a derecha, arriba tenemos: Robert Mulligan, William Wyler, George Cukor, Robert Wise, Jean-Claude Carrière y Serge Silberman; abajo: Billy Wilder, George Stevens Jr., Luis Buñuel, Alfred Hitchcock y Rouben Mamoulian.

Admiración, respeto, nostalgia, tantos sentimientos encontrados al ver solamente una imagen. Juzguen por ustedes mismos y aprécienla, critíquenla, obsérvenla, adórenla. No hay cabida para las palabras en este lugar.

Pero por si quieren saber que pasó en ese desayuno, puden leer un fragmento que el mismo Buñuel escribió acerca de ese momento, obtenido de su libro Mi último suspiro, esto por cortesía de 39 escalones.

“No regresé a Los Ángeles hasta 1972, con motivo de la presentación en el festival de El discreto encanto de la burguesía (…). Un día, recibí de George Cukor una invitación a comer, invitación extraordinaria, pues no le conocía. Invitaba también a Serge Silberman y Jean-Claude Carrière, que estaban conmigo, y a mi hijo Rafael, que vive en Los Ángeles. Irían también, nos decía, “varios amigos”.

Fue una comida extraordinaria. Llegados los primeros a la magnífica mansión de Cukor, que nos recibió calurosamente, vimos entrar, medio llevado por una especie de esclavo negro provisto de poderosos músculos, a un viejo espectro vacilante, con un parche en el ojo, a quien reconocí como John Ford. Nunca habíamos coincidido. Con gran sorpresa por mi parte, pues creía que ignoraba hasta mi existencia, se sentó a mi lado en un sofá y dijo alegrarse de mi regreso a Hollywood. Me anunció, incluso, que preparaba una película -a big western-, cuando habría de morir pocos meses después.

En este momento de la conversación, oímos el arrastrarse de unos pasos sobre el parquet. Me volví. Hitchcock entraba en la sala, todo rechoncho y sonrosado, y se dirigía a mí con los brazos extendidos. Tampoco le conocía personalmente, pero sabía que en varias ocasiones había cantado públicamente mis alabanzas. Se sentó junto a mí y, luego, exigió estar a mi izquierda durante la comida. Con un brazo pasado sobre mis hombros, casi echado sobre mí, no cesaba de hablar de su bodega, de su régimen (comía muy poco) y, sobre todo, de la pierna cortada de Tristana: “¡Ah, esa pierna…!”

Llegaron luego William Wyler, Billy Wilder, George Stevens, Rouben Mamoulian, Robert Wise y un director mucho más joven, Robert Mulligan (…). Se celebraba en mi honor una extraña reunión de fantasmas que nunca se habían encontrado así reunidos y que hablan todos de los good old days, de los buenos tiempos. De Ben-Hur a West Side Story, de Some like it hot a Notorious, de Stagecoach a Giant, cuántas películas alrededor de aquella mesa…

Después de la comida, alguien tuvo la idea de llamar a un fotógrafo de prensa para que tomase el retrato de familia (…). Desgraciadamente, John Ford no figura en ella. Su esclavo negro había ido a buscarlo en medio de la comida. Nos dijo débilmente adiós y se marchó para no volver a vernos más, tropezando con las mesas.

En el transcurso de la comida se hicieron varios brindis. George Stevens, en particular, levantó su copa “por lo que, pese a nuestras diferencias de origen y creencias, nos reúne alrededor de esta mesa”.

Yo me levanté y acepté brindar con él, pero, siempre receloso de la solidaridad cultural, con la que siempre se cuenta demasiado, “bebo -dije- pero me quedan mis dudas”.

Al día siguiente, Fritz Lang me invitó a visitarlo a su casa. Demasiado fatigado, no había podido asistir a la comida celebrada en casa de Cukor. Yo tenía entonces setenta y dos años. Fritz Lang rebasaba los ochenta.

Nos veíamos por primera vez. Charlamos durante una hora, y tuve tiempo de decirle el decisivo papel que sus películas habían ejercido en la elección de mi vida. Luego, antes de separarnos -y ello no entra dentro de mis costumbres-, le pedí que me dedicase una fotografía.

Bastante sorprendido, buscó una y me la firmó. Pero era una fotografía de su vejez. Le pregunté si no tendría, además, una fotografía de los años veinte, de la época de Der müde Tod y de Metropolis.

Encontró una y escribió una magnífica dedicatoria. Luego, me despedí de él y regresé al hotel.

No sé muy bien qué hice de esas fotografías. Una se la di al cineasta mexicano Arturo Ripstein. La otra debe de estar en alguna parte”.

“No regresé a Los Ángeles hasta 1972, con motivo de la presentación en el festival de El discreto encanto de la burguesía (…). Un día, recibí de George Cukor una invitación a comer, invitación extraordinaria, pues no le conocía. Invitaba también a Serge Silberman y Jean-Claude Carrière, que estaban conmigo, y a mi hijo Rafael, que vive en Los Ángeles. Irían también, nos decía, “varios amigos”.

Fue una comida extraordinaria. Llegados los primeros a la magnífica mansión de Cukor, que nos recibió calurosamente, vimos entrar, medio llevado por una especie de esclavo negro provisto de poderosos músculos, a un viejo espectro vacilante, con un parche en el ojo, a quien reconocí como John Ford. Nunca habíamos coincidido. Con gran sorpresa por mi parte, pues creía que ignoraba hasta mi existencia, se sentó a mi lado en un sofá y dijo alegrarse de mi regreso a Hollywood. Me anunció, incluso, que preparaba una película -a big western-, cuando habría de morir pocos meses después.

En este momento de la conversación, oímos el arrastrarse de unos pasos sobre el parquet. Me volví. Hitchcock entraba en la sala, todo rechoncho y sonrosado, y se dirigía a mí con los brazos extendidos. Tampoco le conocía personalmente, pero sabía que en varias ocasiones había cantado públicamente mis alabanzas. Se sentó junto a mí y, luego, exigió estar a mi izquierda durante la comida. Con un brazo pasado sobre mis hombros, casi echado sobre mí, no cesaba de hablar de su bodega, de su régimen (comía muy poco) y, sobre todo, de la pierna cortada de Tristana: “¡Ah, esa pierna…!”

Llegaron luego William Wyler, Billy Wilder, George Stevens, Rouben Mamoulian, Robert Wise y un director mucho más joven, Robert Mulligan (…). Se celebraba en mi honor una extraña reunión de fantasmas que nunca se habían encontrado así reunidos y que hablan todos de los good old days, de los buenos tiempos. De Ben-Hur a West Side Story, de Some like it hot a Notorious, de Stagecoach a Giant, cuántas películas alrededor de aquella mesa…

Después de la comida, alguien tuvo la idea de llamar a un fotógrafo de prensa para que tomase el retrato de familia (…). Desgraciadamente, John Ford no figura en ella. Su esclavo negro había ido a buscarlo en medio de la comida. Nos dijo débilmente adiós y se marchó para no volver a vernos más, tropezando con las mesas.

En el transcurso de la comida se hicieron varios brindis. George Stevens, en particular, levantó su copa “por lo que, pese a nuestras diferencias de origen y creencias, nos reúne alrededor de esta mesa”.

Yo me levanté y acepté brindar con él, pero, siempre receloso de la solidaridad cultural, con la que siempre se cuenta demasiado, “bebo -dije- pero me quedan mis dudas”.

Al día siguiente, Fritz Lang me invitó a visitarlo a su casa. Demasiado fatigado, no había podido asistir a la comida celebrada en casa de Cukor. Yo tenía entonces setenta y dos años. Fritz Lang rebasaba los ochenta.

Nos veíamos por primera vez. Charlamos durante una hora, y tuve tiempo de decirle el decisivo papel que sus películas habían ejercido en la elección de mi vida. Luego, antes de separarnos -y ello no entra dentro de mis costumbres-, le pedí que me dedicase una fotografía.

Bastante sorprendido, buscó una y me la firmó. Pero era una fotografía de su vejez. Le pregunté si no tendría, además, una fotografía de los años veinte, de la época de Der müde Tod y de Metropolis.

Encontró una y escribió una magnífica dedicatoria. Luego, me despedí de él y regresé al hotel.

No sé muy bien qué hice de esas fotografías. Una se la di al cineasta mexicano Arturo Ripstein. La otra debe de estar en alguna parte”.

Luis Buñuel. Mi último suspiro.

Fotografía. De izquierda a derecha, arriba: Robert Mulligan, William Wyler, Georges Cukor, Robert Wise, Jean Claude Carriere y Serge Silberman; abajo: Billy Wilder, Georges Stevens, Luis Buñuel, Alfred Hitchcock y Rouben Mamoulian.

Le n° 2 de DVD Park II est en ligne.
Un 12 pages numérique contenant plus de 20 chroniques de films édités en vidéo ces dernières semaines.
Plus de 30 titres à (re)découvrir, et un mode d’emploi indispensable pour préparer vos prochaines soirées DVD !

Disponible en téléchargement seul, ou en “pack” avec l’un des deux (ou les deux) numéros de VERSUS épuisés et toujours très demandés :
VERSUS n° 5 et VERSUS n° 7 (couvertures ci-dessous).

À la une de ce DVD Park II : Le Jour le plus long en Blu-ray.
Et de nombreaux autres temps forts à vivre ou revivre : Le Jour des morts-vivants Blu-ray, Pour elle, In The Shadow Of The Moon…

Téléchargez ce supplément (plusieurs formules au choix) à l’adresse suivante :
www.versusmag.fr/dvdpark2

Le Jour le plus long Bande annonce / Trailer extrait en VO non-ST

Le Jour des morts-vivants, extrait en VO non-ST

Pour elle, Bande-Annonce

1958: The Big Country di William Wyler

“Western monumentale (più di due ore e mezzo) e pacifista… Quasi una mitica lotta tra due giganti perché il “grande paese” possa passare dalla preistoria alla storia… (FilmTv.It).

Tratto da un romanzo di David Hamilton, Il Grande Paese (diretto nel 1958 da uno dei maestri di Hollywood, William Wyler, pseudonimo di Wilhelm Weiller) non è un semplice western, ma una potente saga familiare, una complessa e coinvolgente duplice storia d’amore, un mirabile affresco della nascita -segnata da violenza e sopraffazione- di una nazione (alcuni critici vi hanno anche visto una metafora della guerra fredda tra Usa e Urss).

Massimamente spettacolare, avvincente ed emozionante, con una colonna sonora giustamente famosa ed esaltante, è soprattutto un inno alla non violenza, alla tolleranza, alla ragionevolezza, alla “fiducia nelle risorse della civile persuasione… Temi ricorrenti nella migliore produzione americana, da ‘Il Gigante” e ‘Il cavaliere della valle solitaria’ di Stevens a ‘La legge del Signore’ dello stesso Wyler a ‘Un uomo tranquillo’ di Ford” (Adelio Ferrero “Cinema Nuovo”).
“Uno dei più grandi registi di Hollywood ed un cast formato da vere leggende dello schermo, si uniscono per offrire un racconto coraggioso e forte… Un’avventura ricca d’azione… Un racconto epico splendidamente piacevole… suspense sfrenata ed un’esplosiva tensione drammatica in grande stile…” (Bol.it).
“Il film, prodotto con grande dispiegamento di mezzi da Gregory Peck e dal regista William Wyler, è considerato un classico nel suo genere e, allo stesso tempo, un western decisamente atipico per l’epoca” (Delcinema.it).
“The film contains some memorable acting, some inspired scenery, and that big theme song” (John Nesbit).
“It is inspiring to watch, expertly directed, superbly cast, beautifully photographed and edited into a tale that needed to be told about the American west” (RobertG. Williams).
“The Big Country is a Big Movie, long, majestic, and filled with Shakespearean overtones” (Christopher Null).
“William Wyler’s epic is one the most beloved classics of the Western genre” (Hdfest.com).
Eccezionale e carismatico il cast: Gregory Peck, Jean Simmons, Carroll Baker, Charlton Heston, Burl Ives, Charles Brickford.

p.s.

Nella videorecensione è possibile ascoltare la celebre colonna sonora originale

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premi e riconoscimenti

Robert Wise

Robert Earl Wise (September 10, 1914 – September 14, 2005) was an American sound effects editor, film editor, film producer and director. Among his films are Citizen Kane (as an editor); The Sand Pebbles; The Sound of Music; West Side Story; The Hindenburg; Star Trek: The Motion Picture; The Day the Earth Stood Still; Run Silent, Run Deep; The Andromeda Strain; The Set-Up; The Haunting; and The Body Snatcher. Wise’s working period spanned the 1930s to the 1990s.

Often contrasted with contemporary “auteur” directors such as Stanley Kubrick who tended to bring a distinctive directorial “look” to a particular genre, Wise is famously viewed to have allowed his (sometimes studio assigned) story dictate style. Later critics such as Martin Scorsese would go on to expand that characterization, insisting that despite Wise’s notorious workaday concentration on stylistic perfection within the confines of genre and budget, his choice of subject matter and approach still functioned to identify Wise as an artist and not merely an artisan. Through whatever means, Wise’s approach would bring him critical success as a director in many different traditional film genres: from horror to noir to Western to war films to science fiction, to musical and drama, with many repeat hits within each genre. Wise’s tendency towards professionalism led to a degree of preparedness which, though nominally motivated by studio budget constraints, nevertheless advanced the moviemaking art, with many Academy Award-winning films the result. Robert Wise received the AFI Life Achievement Award in 1998.

Star Trek the Motion Picture

Trivia:

Was an avid fan of commercial Indian cinema.

1971-75: President of the Directors Guild of America (DGA).

Biography in: John Wakeman, editor. “World Film Directors, Volume One, 1890-1945.” Pages 1210-1219. New York: The H.W. Wilson Company, 1987.

Directed nine different actors in Oscar-nominated performances: Nina Foch, Susan Hayward, Rita Moreno, George Chakiris, Julie Andrews, Peggy Wood, Steve McQueen, Mako, and Daniel Massey. Hayward, Moreno and Chakiris won Oscars.

1987: He accepted the Oscar for “Best Actor in a Leading Role” on behalf of Paul Newman, who wasn’t present at the awards ceremony.

1982: Awarded honorary membership in the Society of Operating Cameramen (SOC).

Was the last surviving crew member of Citizen Kane (1941).

2005: Celebrated his 91st birthday the weekend prior to his death.

1998: Received the American Film Institute Life Achievement award.

Agreed to direct The Sound of Music (1965) after it had been abandoned by William Wyler on the condition that 20th Century-Fox agree to finance The Sand Pebbles (1966). Wise, who also produced the musical, won his second Best Director Oscar and the Best Picture Oscar. The next year, “The Sand Pebbles” was nominated for Best Picture and Wise was awarded the Irving Thalberg Award, the highest honor for producers.

1992: He was awarded the American National Medal of the Arts by the National Endowment of the Arts in Washington, DC.

1985-1988: President of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences.

When he and Jerome Robbins won the Best Director Oscar in 1962 for West Side Story (1961), it was the first time that a directing Oscar was shared among collaborators.

Interviewed in “It Came from Horrorwood: Interviews with Moviemakers in the SF and Horror Tradition” by Tom Weaver (McFarland, 1996).

Only three times in Academy Award history have director-collaborators been nominated for Best Directing Oscars: Wise and Jerome Robbins for West Side Story (1961), Warren Beatty and Buck Henry for Heaven Can Wait (1978) and Joel Coen and Ethan Coen for No Country for Old Men (2007). (Wise/Robbins and the Coens actually won the award).

He was made a Fellow of the British Film Institute in recognition of his outstanding contribution to film culture.

Profiled in “Conversations with Directors: An Anthology of Interviews from Literature/Film Quarterly”, E.M. Walker, D.T. Johnson, eds. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2008.

Interviewed in Tom Weaver’s “It Came from Weaver Five” (McFarland & Co., 1996).

2005: Retrospective at the 53rd San Sebastián International Film Festival in Spain.

In preparation for “I want to live” in which Susan Hayward is executed, he actually attended a real execution.

Joe Bradley and Princess Ann introduce themselves for the last time in "Roman Holiday".

(William Wyler, 1953)

September 9, 2009

by Joel Crary

I had never seen the ending to “Roman Holiday”. I caught it on television in Toronto last year, but my friend’s TiVo had axed the last two minutes, just before Princess Ann (Audrey Hepburn) introduces herself (officially) to American reporter Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck). Imagine not having closure on one of the cinema’s great love affairs for over a year. After finally getting to see it, I realize that what makes the affair so effective is its lack of closure. Audiences of these kinds of pictures love to create scenarios for themselves in which the lovers, given the necessary space and time, reunite again one day. The cinema offers that possibility, suggesting a narrative that continues beyond the frame.

The plot is a classic case of mistaken identity. Feeling the stress of her obligations on a European tour, the princess wants to live like a pauper for a while and goes AWOL after being loaded up with a serum to calm her nerves. Bradley finds her sleeping drowsily in the middle of town and can’t get an address out of her. He stows her at his tiny apartment. The next morning, he makes the discovery and pursues her with the help of his trusty cameraman Irving (Eddie Albert), who snaps covert shots with a camera concealed in a cigarette lighter. The two hope to put together an exclusive news story that will bring them a lot of dough. Misadventures ensue and we marvel at the exoticism.

Hepburn is an actress I could watch forever. This was her first starring role, winning her an Academy Award. Her performance as Princess Ann is never overstated, never too dramatic – the character is funny, invigorating, always alluring and even pitiable despite her wealth. Small-shouldered and wide-eyed, Hepburn makes us believe she could weave through chaotic traffic effortlessly and emerge feverishly carefree. Bradley does not look after her so much as follow in the wake of her next wish fulfillment.

Peck and Hepburn have terrific chemistry as they employ one another for physical comedy. In one scene, the two approach Rome’s “Mouth of Truth”, a circular marble sculpture with an open mouth thought to bite the hands of liars clean off. Peck places his hand in the mouth and reacts violently, causing Hepburn to cover her eyes in shock. That’s not acting. Peck was mimicking a Red Skelton gag and didn’t tell Hepburn beforehand. The sudden change in the score effectively catches us off guard, uniting the experience of viewer and actor alike.

The film is a travelogue for Roman adventure, making it clear off the top that all of its footage was shot in the city. Some scenes seem to exist simply to brag about their own ornamentation. Perhaps the film’s most famous scene is a scooter ride through the crowded city streets in which cars and cyclists are barely missed, artwork is torn and fruit stands are upset. All of this culminates into a bit of pantomime at the local police station after which everyone leaves happy. Director William Wyler keeps the danger only at the level of excitement without worrying too much about the repercussions, making “Roman Holiday” a lot of fun.

Hinging on being a screwball comedy, “Roman Holiday” spends a little too much time being light and breezy for Bradley’s character to realistically change his mind about his feelings for Ann. There are funny moments in which he abuses poor Irving, who always seems to say the wrong thing at the wrong moment. When it is time for Bradley to come clean, he does so with a bemused smirk, towering above every other reporter in the room. Ann says goodbye the same way she says hello: “So happy”. It’s the way “Roman Holiday” wants you to feel.

1951: Detective Story di William Wyler

Nato in Francia ma dall’età di 18 anni trasferito negli USA (chiamato dallo zio, tra i fondatori della Universal), William Wyler è stato sicuramente uno dei più importanti registi di Hollywood, tra i più intelligenti e originali, “dotato di una capacità di introspezione psicologica fuori del comune” (Fernaldo Di Giammatteo).

A lui si devono opere celebri e celebrate come La calunnia, La voce nella tempesta, Figlia del vento, Piccole volpi, La signora Miniver, I migliori anni della nostra vita, Gli occhi che non sorrisero, L’ereditiera, Vacanze romane, Ore disperate, La legge del Signore, Il grande paese, Quelle due, Ben Hur, Funny girl… Ha diretto le più grandi star: basti pensare a Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Merle Oberon, Laurence Olivier, Greer Garson, Fredic March, Myrna Loy, Olivia de Havilland, Montgpmery Clift, Barbara Stanwyck, Audrey Hepburn, Gregory Peck, Shirley MacLaine, Peter O’Toole, Jean Simmons, Charlton Heston, Barbra Streisand… tutti nomi che da soli fanno la storia del cinema americano.

Wyler, tra l’altro, è famoso per la sua abilità di dare il massimo di significato alla singola immagine, riuscendo a mantenere a fuoco più personaggi e quindi a diminuire l’importanza del montaggio a favore della costruzione interna all’inquadratura (i critici parlano di ‘Cinema democratico’ di contro all’autoritarismo del linguaggio classico dove è il regista a selezionare arbitrariamente ciò che si deve mostrare). Con la sua unità di tempo e di luogo quasi assoluta, Pietà per i giusti ne è un’ottima esemplificazione.

Su Film.Tv.it è scritto:
Wyler dirige con grande concentrazione spazio-temporale questo adattamento di un testo teatrale, di cui rispetta le tre unità. Sostenuto da brillanti prove degli attori fin nei ruoli più marginali, il film affronta senza reticenze un tema scottante in anni ancora di codice Hays…
William Wyler, regista abilissimo e “organizzatore” straordinario, riesce a rilanciare la grandezza del teatro al cinema e a ristabilire col pubblico un contatto più umano e diretto. “Pietà per i giusti” è caratterizzato da una forte impronta realistica attenuata da un’ironia flebile, e descrive (senza nessun sensazionalismo, con un gran rigore essenziale e immagini sapientemente organizzate) esistenze disastrate,confuse, disorientate fisicamente e moralmente.
Eleaonor Parker e Kirk Douglas collaborano con interpretazioni intense e realmente sofferte.

Un film dalla sorprendente modernità per il suo anticonformismo e che al contempo costituisce un formidabile ritratto della società degli anni Cinquanta, un film dal ritmo incalzante che non conosce un attimo di pausa, un film (doppiato benissimo) che ci offre l’opportunità di rivedere sullo schermo –tutti insieme- uno stuolo di celebri caratteristi che hanno reso grande Hollywood.

Un capolavoro assoluto, da studiare nelle Accademie per la tecnica registica e per l’arte interpretativa di tutti.
Afferma giustamente Leslie Halliwell:
Avrebbe potuto essere la negazione del cinema, ma l’abilità professionale con cui viene trattato ne mostra invece l’essenza.

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Note:

- Su IMDb i premi e riconoscimenti al film

- Lee Grant, messa sulla lista nera per le sue idee di sinistra dal maccartismo, vinse a Cannes il premio come migliore attrice.

Ben Hur di William Wyler (1959)

Messala (Stephen Boyd): Il mondo è di Roma: se vuoi viverci, devi far parte di esso! Resistere a Roma è stupido!

Ben Hur (Charlton Heston): Roma è la piaga. Roma è un affronto a Dio. Roma strangola il mio popolo, la mia terra, l’universo. Ma non per sempre. E ti dico che quando Roma cadrà, scoppierà un grido di sollievo.

Ben Hur di William Wyler (1959)