Citizen Kane

So, after a rewatch on TCM this afternoon I turn to the 900-pound gorilla of American cinema, Orson Welles' Citizen Kane (1941). Consistently rated the best film of all time for the last fifty years, it's a movie whose reputation is constantly challenged by both the ignorant film plebs and a certain breed of snob who seem to think that their own tastes represent an objective opinion. How in the hell is Citizen Kane the greatest movie? Isn't The Godfather better? 8 1/2? Lawrence of Arabia? The Seven Samurai? 2001? Transformers? (Wait... nevermind that last one.) What gives?

Well, I'm not going to argue for or against this position, as that would be an exercise in futility. The whole idea of the greatest movie of all time is completely subjective, and no two people will agree on any list of great films. I myself can think of 50 films off the top of my head that I think are better than Kane, and many more if we're delving into the even murkier concept of films I like better. But it's a film fully deserving of such a title, even if, in my humble and solitary opinion, it doesn't quite obtain that status. It is an undisputed masterpiece, with brilliant aristry and plot and character depth that reveals itself more and more with each viewing - the mark of a truly great film.

We all know the basic story of Citizen Kane - it's a cultural touchstone, much like Casablanca and Gone With the Wind, where everyone is familiar with at least some of the cliches - Rosebud, the deep focus photography, Xanadu, Orson Welles, the opera scene, the slow clap. The story of its making, its struggles in production and then release against the critics and the studios and William Randolph Hearst's media empire, are just well-known, and no less dramatic than the film itself.

Of course, Citizen Kane is primarily a character study of an empty man. It's not so much how Kane is portrayed that's fascinating, but the way he is. Established by an overlong newsreel introduction establishing him as a great if controversial power-player, it seems no one really knows him - he's just a big name in a newspaper headline. As the cub reporter (William Alland) finds out, Kane cannot simply be pinned down. The movie seems to go with Jed Leland (Joseph Cotten)'s idea that Kane was simply an unloved man desperate for people to adore him, which allows us some degree of sympathy with Kane, but even this seems incomplete. To be horribly reductive myself, however, the film is about a man in love himself and unable to connect with others. A tragic figure, but one whose downfall is largely his own doing.

It's hard to have a lot of sympathy for Kane, when his biggest and most consistent character trait is his willingness to destroy and use others for his personal gain. Kane's second wife Susan (Dorothy Comingore) is perhaps the most obvious example; forced into a career as a singer that she never wanted, she must humiliate herself night after night for the sake of her husband's ego (the scene where Kane half-heartedly applauds his wife's performance shows what a hollow lie the whole thing is). His attempts to comfort her lead only to more disappointment; Susan is a bird trapped in a gilded cage, unable to experience the world or get any benefit out of being rich or married to such a wealthy and powerful man. Kane is satisfied so long as everything is exactly as he wants it; he doesn't demand much, but merely, in Jed's words, "love on (his) own terms".

Susan is the most obvious example, but the entire cast is a victim of Kane's whim. First wife Emily (Ruth Warrick) is used more for her political connections - as the niece of a President - than love. Kane's guardian and benefactor Thatcher (George Coulouris) is thrown under the bus, his business ruined, for Kane's personal whims. Jed Leland is reduced from Kane's best friend and confidante to a cynical drunkard, his honesty betrayed and undermined by Kane's overweening narcissism. In this light, even the evil Boss Gettys (Ray Collins) is given a glimmer of humanity - he is humiliated by Kane's smearing him for political gain. If we could believe Kane did have a political cause, it might be excusable - but it seems merely an extension of the same egomania and misanthropy that trapped Jed and Emily and Susan. Kane's is the story of the American Dream gone sour, a reverse Horatio Alger - if a man makes it all the way to the top without friends, lovers or happiness, then what has he really achieved? He dies alone, a pathetic man haunted by emptiness, loneliness and despair. The characters around him reap the often unhappy results of Kane's obsessive egomania, but at least they aren't Charlie Kane.

Orson Welles is simply remarkable. Just 27 years old at the time, he delivered an absolutely brilliant trifecta as director, actor and co-writer of the film. He plays Kane perfectly, keeping him sympathetic and likeable at times, but never afraid to shy away from the character's unsavory side. Viewing the film in light of Welles' subsequent life and career - struggling to stay afloat in Hollywood, then being exiled to work as a struggling director and bit actor in Europe - is irresistible and cliche, but in the end it makes the whole thing more poignant and pertinent.

What Kane is best-remembered for, however, is its cinematography and direction. Gregg Toland's gorgeous deep-focus photography is easy to point out, and remains quite striking. There are many other aspects to Toland's work, however, that are deserving of praise. His and Welles' (and art director Van Nest Polglaste)'s use of space is remarkable - the impossibly cavernous and labrynthian Xanadu - in this movie, the choreography, the art direction, the arrangement of everything is as important as the camera work itself. Scenes like Kane seemingly towering over Jed Leland, before walking up to him and being brought down to size, the wonderfully shot political rally, and Susan's descent into the distance through a never-ending series of doors, are absolutely brilliant touches - they've been copied any number of times but rarely if ever bettered.

The film doesn't get nearly enough recognition for its brilliant editing, by soon-to-be director Robert Wise (The Sound of Music, The Sand Pebbles). The film experiments with "jump" and "match cuts" that wouldn't become common place for almost twenty years. The slow dissolves between scenes - leaving part of an image intact as the next scene begins - are quite striking, adding immeasuribly to the film's effect. The film makes brilliant use of montage - particularly the amazing sequence where Kane and Emily's marriage unravels via a series of increasingly somber and quiet breakfasts. (This isn't even to mention Welles' and Herman Manckwiez's screenplay, or Bernard Herrman's elegant score, but with such a film we could list everyone on the film set, down to the clap loader, as deserving of praise.)

Welles' use of non-star actors - the Mercury players - as his supporting cast pays great dividends as well. Of the main cast, only Agnes Moorehead and Joseph Cotten would go onto any particular acclaim outside of Kane, but all play their roles perfectly. All the actors give professional performances, not lacking in theatrical flair but completely convincing, all natural screen actors; it's hard to guess that none of them had appeared on screen prior to this.

Is Citizen Kane the greatest film of all time? Probably not, but such distinctions are subjective and arbitrary anyway. It's unquestionably an important, innovative and artistically brilliant film, regardless of how you perceive it. And it's damned entertaining, to boot. So, I can't say I have much problem with giving it the title of greatest film.

Rating: 9/10 - Highest Recommended