Conrad was more than a mere influence. He was also a direct source of story material. Welles considered himself “made for Conrad” and frequently returned to Conrad’s original stories. Adaptation often functioned as Welles’s most intensive process of reading – honouring, personalising, and arguing with – his favourite books. He directed Heart of Darkness twice for radio and narrated an abridged audiobook of “The Secret Sharer” shortly before his death. But in cinema his Conrad aspirations were frustrated. Declaring that “every Conrad story is a movie,” he always met obstacles in producing one himself.
* * *
From early on, Joseph Conrad seized Orson Welles’s creative imagination and became a lifelong literary touchstone. Conrad’s cosmopolitan wanderers – his sailors and fortune hunters, outcasts and megalomaniacs – are virtual prototypes for many of the characters we meet in Welles’s work. The fictions also sketch in advance the kind of exotic twentieth-century milieus so effectively conjured by Welles’s cinematic shadows and fog in films such as The Lady from Shanghai (1947) and Mr. Arkadin (1955).
Conrad was more than a mere influence. He was also a direct source of story material. Welles considered himself “made for Conrad” and frequently returned to Conrad’s original stories.1 Adaptation often functioned as Welles’s most intensive process of reading – honouring, personalising, and arguing with – his favourite books. He directed Heart of Darkness twice for radio and narrated an abridged audiobook of “The Secret Sharer” shortly before his death. But in cinema his Conrad aspirations were frustrated. Declaring that “every Conrad story is a movie,” he always met obstacles in producing one himself.2 He scripted at least three. A Lord Jim screenplay, written in the early 1960s,3 does not appear to have survived in any of the Welles archives. Happily, Welles’s adaptations of Heart of Darkness and Victory endure in screenplay form and illustrate the extent of his aesthetic, critical, and political engagement with Conrad’s fictional world – at sea, in port, and up the river.
- The Quest for Kurtz
That Welles repeatedly adapted Heart of Darkness (1899) – thrice attempted, twice achieved – suggests more than the inherent dramatic qualities of Conrad’s most famous story. In Marlow’s journey up the Congo to find the rogue ivory trader Kurtz, Welles seems to have found what would become one of his archetypal scenarios: an everyman’s quest for the truth behind an enigmatic “great man” who has succumbed to moral corruption, megalomania, and fascistic abuse of power. It isn’t surprising that Welles eventually elected to play both Marlow and Kurtz on radio and screen, as the story allowed him to simultaneously explore his conflicting identifications with the democratic and aristocratic man.
Initially, however, Ray Collins played Marlow to Welles’s Kurtz in a 1938 Mercury Theatre on the Air production. Howard Koch scripted that brief and underwhelming radio adaptation, and perhaps also the prefatory comments read by its director (who repeated most of them in his second and much improved radio production in 1945 for This Is My Best):
The Heart of Darkness [sic.] could be described as a deliberate masterpiece or a downright incantation. A fine piece of prose work at the least, its best aspects are an artful compound of sympathy for humankind and a high tragical disgust. Its successful contrivance of mood hides its craft as an octopus hides in its own ink. And almost we are persuaded that there is something after all, something essential, waiting for all of us in the dark alleys of the world, aboriginally loathsome, immeasurable and certainly nameless.4
By the 1930s, the Conrad mood was everywhere, notably in the genre of the anti-fascist spy novel, indebted to the precedent of The Secret Agent (1907) and Under Western Eyes (1911). During his RKO years (1939-1943), Welles attempted to adapt a handful of such contemporary Conradian spy novels, although only Eric Ambler’s Journey into Fear (1940) actually made it to the screen at the end of that period. Simultaneously, Welles returned to the source and playfully transposed Heart of Darkness into the Ambleresque present. As on the radio, the English Marlow would be an American. It was to be Welles’s first feature film, and he admitted privately and “frankly” it was intended to be “an attack on the Nazi system.”5
Welles’s extensive pre-production work went as far as a “Revised Estimating Script” credited solely to himself and dated November 30, 1939, just weeks after Britain declared war on Germany.6 The scripted prologue would feature Welles as himself to introduce the film’s experimental gimmick: Marlow’s subjective point of view would be represented throughout by the eye of the camera. Welles’s craft in this instance was not exactly hidden in octopus ink.
Heart of Darkness had its origins in Conrad’s work as a steamboat captain in the Belgian Congo in 1890. He had witnessed firsthand the outrageous economic exploitation and general lawlessness of Leopold II’s genocidal regime.7 Yet despite its almost unflinching depiction of greed and bloodlust, the novella expresses both an ambivalent attitude toward colonialism and a sometimes dehumanizing racism. Although Welles typically deferred respectfully to the worldview of his source fictions, an overtly anti-fascist Heart of Darkness had to engage in some of the productive antagonism that later defined his cinematic responses to Kafka and Hemingway. Welles was not particularly accurate when he later described his Heart of Darkness as “terribly loyal to Conrad,” a quality he felt absent in other Conrad film adaptations.8 He would transform political ambiguities into agitprop and invent a range of new characters, scenes, and speeches to present Kurtz as a prototypical fascist dictator and the river trading company as a front for the German infiltration of a British colonial protectorate. The secret fascist infiltration plot – a trope of the era’s spy fiction that ironically anticipates the McCarthyist paranoia of postwar America – was a standard device in Welles’s early thriller screenplays. It finally turned up on screen in The Stranger (1946).
While Conrad had not explicitly named the Congo in the novella, few could have doubted its setting at the time of publication. And yet anticipating Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979), Welles detaches the story’s historical anchor in the Congo’s decades of genocidal exploitation. He essentially treats the Conrad story as a mythical narrative. Welles sets the action in a vague contemporary land based on ostensibly ethnographic research into a variety of indigenous cultures. Scholar Margaret Rippy places the Heart of Darkness screenplay within a series of Welles’s experiments in “Expressionist Primitivism” such as the so-called “Voodoo” Macbeth (stage, 1938) and Algiers (radio, 1939).9
Welles frequently reworks Conrad’s text to create an explicitly anti-fascist work, with vague but repeated references to the situation in Europe and to theories of racial superiority; by Germanizing the names of the company men; finally by writing Kurtz’s dying confession: “I’m the first absolute dictator.” Kurtz elaborates: “There’s a man now in Europe trying to do what I’ve done in the jungle. He will fail. In his madness he thinks he can’t fail – but he will. A brute can rule only brutes.”10 This was wishful thinking in 1939.
Budgetary considerations at RKO led to the project’s cancellation.11 Nevertheless, Heart of Darkness would become a kind of Wellesian ur-text, its themes seeping into later film projects including Citizen Kane (1941), The Third Man (1948), and Mr. Arkadin.
- Treasure Islands
If not used as frequently as sea ports or old European capitals, island landscapes were nevertheless a favourite Welles backdrop. His 1952 radio episode “Buzzo Gospel” takes Harry Lime to Isola da Maliñha, a fictional republic in the Mediterranean.12 His unmade pirate comedy Soldier Soldier, scripted in 1969, swashbuckles across the invented island of Santo Spirito in the West Indies.13 Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883) was another popular destination, first on radio (1938) and then in a 1972 film partly based on a Welles screenplay (he claimed it overcame Stevenson’s vague island geography).14 Following his encounter with the treasure-fabricators of Ibiza in F for Fake (released in 1974), Welles turned to another island adventure that refracted the themes of some of his favourite literary works. Conrad’s Victory (1915) is simultaneously a Treasure Island in which the treasure is a mere rumour invented by a bitter colonial Iago, and a grimly ironic version of The Tempest, perhaps the supreme island tale. How could Orson resist?
Melancholy and fatalistic, Victory nevertheless has the basic ingredients of an exciting Hollywood melodrama – romance in an exotic land, a jealousy-fueled revenge plot, and eccentric villains anticipating the Casper Gutmans and Joel Cairos of the next generation. A Swede named Axel Heyst has remained on an island in the Dutch East Indies where he had once overseen a doomed coal mining operation. He lives alone and sees nobody except his Chinese servant, Wang. Visiting Java on minor business, Heyst rescues a young musician named Lena from a fate of servitude and likely prostitution. They return to the island to pursue a genuine if emotionally inept romance outside society. But Heyst’s chivalrous rescue has provoked the jealous hatred of Schomberg, a hotel proprietor on Java. Finding himself burdened by the presence of two sinister gangsters and their animal-like henchman, Schomberg spins a tale of stolen treasure to be seized on Heyst’s lonely island. The gangsters take the bait.
The novel’s parallels to The Tempest have been extensively explored.15 Welles never directed or acted in any production of that play, but he is said to have contemplated a version with Louis Armstrong as Caliban to his Prospero while on location in Morocco shooting Othello (1952).16 In later years John Gielgud, a long-aspiring movie Prospero, pursued Welles as his unlikely Caliban.17 But if there is no direct Welles Tempest, the director was drawn to its echoes in other works such as “The Immortal Story” by Isak Dinesen. In his 1968 film adaptation, Welles plays an impotent, would-be Prospero who first drowns his old account books and then fails to transform a tall tale into the true fate of a young and formerly shipwrecked sailor. Welles quotes the play in The Other Side of the Wind (1970-76; 2018) and plays a magician in F for Fake. A film version of Victory, then, could have capped the period’s series of refracted Tempests.
Welles made a deal to adapt and direct Victory on a budget of US$1.5 million. It was made possible by his friend Peter Bogdanovich’s influence as one of the founders, along with William Friedkin and Francis Ford Coppola, of the Directors Company, a largely autonomous production unit at Paramount Pictures. The screenplay would be the only fruit of Welles’s last employment by a major Hollywood studio.18
Living in Europe, Welles ignored a three-month WGA’s Writers’ Strike and wrote his version of Victory through March and April of 1973. It was probably written with his companion and frequent collaborator Oja Kodar. Welles moved the historical setting forward into the early 1920s, and transferred Conrad’s Java setting to another Dutch colony, but this time in the Caribbean: Surinam. “A lovely and romantic-sounding name,” Welles writes in his notes, but the ruling Dutch colonials are “the same sort of arrogant, smug, thick-necked, thin-lipped people who constitute the ‘master race’ in South Africa today.”19
The name “Heyst” may have been too distractingly reminiscent of Welles’s old nemesis William Randolph Hearst, so he seems to have “changed tycoons” and renamed the hero after the founder of Time magazine. James Luce is no longer Conrad’s erstwhile coal mining executive but now a Graham Greeneish priest who has lost his faith. Conrad’s hero was falsely rumoured to have swindled and betrayed his late business partner Morrison, an act said to be responsible for the man’s death; in Welles’s revision Luce is falsely accused of stealing church funds. Moreover, the late Morrison was resurrected (and renamed Lejac). Luce’s true act, giving financial aid to his indebted partner, would now run concurrent with his rescue of the young woman (renamed Geta, probably a role for Oja Kodar). According to Joseph McBride, Ryan O’Neal was the preferred actor to play Luce.20
On March 25, Welles wrote to Bogdanovich to offer him the role of Krammer, a reworking of Schomberg as an American. “Think of a young man in Whittier, California . . . as basically ordinary as the man who made it into the White House,” Welles suggested just weeks before the start of the Senate Watergate hearings.21 Although Welles drafted an adaptation of the opening half of Conrad’s novel, adding such signature comic grotesques as Krammer’s catatonic mother, he seems to have decided what’s past is expendable prologue.22 The Victory draft finished on April 20 restricts itself entirely to the novel’s action-filled second half on the smaller island, thereby eliminating the need for the Nixonian Krammer (and also most of Lejac’s role).23
It was a shrewd decision for a low-budget film. The approach matched the reduced scale of some of Welles’s other recent projects. The Immortal Story had been shot with just four actors, much of it inside Welles’s home in Madrid. The unfinished thriller The Deep had employed five actors on two yachts off the Dalmatian coast. For Victory Welles would make do with just six characters – Luce, Geta, Mr. Smith (Conrad’s Mr. Jones), Nacho (Conrad’s Ricardo), Pedro, and Wang – plus a couple of incidental cameos. Most of the drama could now be set in the vicinity of two bungalows and a jetty on a near-deserted island. Welles would thereby avoid the expense of constructing sets for Schomberg/Krammer’s hotel and musical pavilion, of finding period costumes for extras at the hotel, and of casting what he had tentatively named “Bertha Lavern’s All-Girl Orchestra.”24
Welles made some further judicious cuts and very minor changes to the April 20 draft to produce what appears to be his latest extant complete draft, the undated 131-page version called Surinam.25 His radical approach to the adaptation proved dramatically perceptive. The dialogue contains (almost) enough exposition to establish the backstory elaborated in the first two parts of Conrad’s novel. The result is something close to a Wellesian Straw Dogs, a lean and suspenseful siege narrative depicting a peaceful couple terrorised by the threat of rape and murder. The violent conclusion recalls both The Lady from Shanghai (1947) and Touch of Evil (1958): the villains (and Wang) kill each other in the night shadows of the ash-strewn island. Welles departs from the novel and allows the young couple to survive for a happy ending – as in the 1919 theatrical adaptation by Basil Macdonald Hastings (approved by Conrad).26 He also simplifies the ambiguities in the central romantic relationship.
Once again circumstances thwarted a Welles film project. “He thought [the novel] was public domain and it wasn’t,” Bogdanovich remembered.27 Victory’s copyright period would actually lapse at the end of 1974, fifty years after Conrad’s death. Scrambling to save the project, Welles appears to have used a French intermediary, the lawyer Jacques Kem, to anonymously attempt to buy the “tail-end” of the film rights from its present owner for a cut-rate payment of $5,000.28 It doesn’t appear he was able to do so. By the time Conrad’s novel entered the public domain, the Directors Company was out of business.
- Sacred Promises
Despite the constant setbacks, Welles’s attraction to Conrad did not diminish as the years passed, and he later seized on another aspect of the writer’s work. In addition to Welles’s stories of contemporary politics and his stories of the people rendered obsolete by the passing of an age, he sometimes liked to cast off the burden of historical time altogether. A favourite escape was into a vague, static nineteenth century. In many of the tales of Conrad (as well as Dinesen and Melville) he found ready-made imaginary landscapes – or more often seascapes traversed by far-sailing ships, populated by cosmopolitan wanderers, and dotted with exotic ports and islands. Welles had himself been tugged to such exotic outposts in his youthful wanderings, before the twentieth century demanded his engagement with the present. With their distantly reminiscing narrators and sometimes elaborate storytelling frames, these tales indeed seem to have come from a world of hearsay. Unmoored from both historical forces and the bourgeois sensibilities of the atomic age, they provided Welles with another way to dramatize the play of values that had, to his mind, become antiquated. He described Dinesen’s stories, for example, as belonging “to a life we’ve left behind us in another century. They have to do with honour and irony . . . as well as love.”29
“The Secret Sharer” (1910), the tale of a dangerous transgression of duty in the service of a strange friendship, should be included in this category. Conrad admitted it was based on a story in “common possession of the whole fleet of merchant ships trading to India, China, and Australia.”30 It was not, however, a mythical “immortal story” but a real-life incident that took place on the Cutty Sark in Java in 1880.31 Having aided and abetted the escape of a first mate who had killed a sailor, the ship’s captain committed suicide. Conrad transformed the incident into a suspenseful work of fiction with a happier conclusion.
The story: While serving as the first mate of the Sephora, Leggatt had choked to death a sailor whose insubordination threatened the survival of the ship in a storm. Leggatt is bitter but hardly repentant; he had simply done a necessary thing for the greater good. Escaping into the sea, Leggatt finds unexpected refuge on another ship in the Gulf of Siam. Her captain (the narrator) hides Leggatt in his cabin for days until he is able to bring the ship perilously close to an island so the man can swim away into permanent exile.
Conrad had created other irresponsible captains including the dishonorable German in Lord Jim (1900) and the stupid, unimaginative MacWhirr in Typhoon (1901), but this later captain is no fool. He feels utterly alienated from his crew and despises the mediocrity of the captain of the Sephora, who seeks to turn the fugitive over to the authorities. This captain risks his ship and the lives of his men because of a strange, instantaneous bond he forms with a killer who might pass for his physical double. The captain seems to recognise Leggatt to be a superior man. His account of the ordeal is persuasive, but his hostility to his men and to conventional maritime law makes it a tale of moral ambiguity.
In 1985, during the last months of his life, Welles was hired to narrate a series of audiobooks in English for the Japanese market. He seems to have had a great deal of creative control over the project, as some of the texts on his list are by his favourite writers. Only a small proportion of Welles’s readings, those of texts in the public domain, were commercially released after his death.32 The available recordings, which include “The Secret Sharer,” are among his last performances of distinction. As Welles was working with the original (albeit abridged) texts rather than dramatized adaptations, he had to restrict the boundaries of his interpretation to the nuances of his marvelous reading voice. Near the end, the self-described one-man band went a cappella.
Welles’s reading of “The Secret Sharer” runs just under an hour. Although the shape of the plot remains intact, the text was judiciously cut to just 40 percent of Conrad’s original 17,000 words. (According to Joseph McBride, Welles abridged the audiobook texts himself33.) The tone of the reading is often a near-whispered confession. Welles’s voice, now fixed in a deeper register than ever before, seems occasionally starved of breath yet retains his remarkable clarity of diction and expressiveness.
“The Secret Sharer” complements and echoes other stories in the Welles oeuvre. The basic moral situation – a man’s impulsive decision to become the accessory to a crime committed by a stranger, consequently betraying his responsibilities – appears in the catalytic plot event shared by Welles’s unmade screenplays Ivanka (1968-1969) and The Big Brass Ring (1982).34 In the latter incarnation, US politician Blake Pellarin decides to become the accomplice of a maid he discovers stealing his wife’s jewels from their yacht – even after the jewels are revealed to be fake. Why? “The craziest promise is the sacred one,” Pellarin explains. Welles seems to have been fascinated by such strange commitments.
“The Secret Sharer” also echoes the backstory of The Lady from Shanghai. Like his fellow sailor Leggatt, Mike O’Hara has killed a man. By the 1940s, this had become a conventional literary trope. Fitzgerald’s Gatsby dragged behind him the rumour, too, and it had become a cliché by the time of Casablanca (1942); recall Captain Renaud quipping to the mysterious Rick, “I like to think you killed a man – it’s the romantic in me.” In the act of killing, both Leggatt and O’Hara act out of a sense of higher moral duty. Leggatt, like O’Hara, could fit into Welles’s category of natural aristocrats. In Welles’s terms, “aristocratic” was less about class than about “something connected to the old ideas of chivalry, with very ancient European roots.” The aristocratic figure lives outside “sentimental bourgeois morality.”35 Sticking to an obsolete code of honour in a fallen and cynical age, O’Hara can only be a Quixotic fool. His principled killing merely qualifies O’Hara as a patsy for exploitation by the vulgar and murderous rich. O’Hara’s subsequent criminal trial in San Francisco is a farce. Likewise in “The Secret Sharer,” Leggatt believes his actions will not be understood by “an old fellow in a wig and twelve respectable tradesmen” (Welles rewrote this contemptuous evocation of the unimaginative English bourgeoisie as “a judge and jury back in England”). Leggatt asks: “What can they know whether I am guilty or not – or of what I am guilty, either? That’s my affair.” Welles saves his deepest, most haunting whisper for Leggatt’s stoic acceptance that he must exile himself forever from European society, evoking God’s expulsion of Cain in the book of Genesis. “‘What does the Bible say? ‘Driven off the face of the earth.’ Very well. I am off the face of the earth now.”
The captain just barely avoids shipwreck as Leggatt vanishes into the sea, into the greater unmapped world. The resolution is an uneasy triumph and its tone precisely struck by Welles’s mesmerising voice.
- Orson Welles & Peter Bogdanovich, This Is Orson Welles, ed. Jonathan Rosenbaum (New York: Harper Perennial, 1993 [1992]), 32. [↩]
- Welles & Bogdanovich, This Is Orson Welles, 32. [↩]
- Joseph McBride, Whatever Happened to Orson Welles? A Portrait of an Independent Career (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2006), 270. [↩]
- “Heart of Darkness/Life with Father,” Mercury Theatre on the Air (CBS Radio, 6 Nov 1938). https://orsonwelles.indiana.edu/items/show/1973 [Accessed 25 September 2019]. [↩]
- Michael Denning, “The Politics of Magic: Orson Welles’s Allegories of Anti-Fascism,” in James Naremore (ed.), Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane: A Casebook (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 186. [↩]
- Orson Welles, Heart of Darkness (screenplay 30 Nov 1939). https://www.scribd.com/document/200623651/Heart-of-Darkness-by-Orson-Welles [Accessed 25 September 2019] [↩]
- See Adam Hochschild, King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1998). [↩]
- Welles & Bogdanovich, This Is Orson Welles, 32. [↩]
- See Chapter 3 of Marguerite H. Rippy, Orson Welles and the Unfinished RKO Projects: A Postmodern Perspective (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2009). [↩]
- Welles, Heart of Darkness, 162. [↩]
- See Jonathan Rosenbaum, “The Voice and the Eye: A Commentary on the Heart of Darkness Script,” in Discovering Orson Welles, 28-48. [↩]
- Isola da Maliñha was reprised when Welles expanded the “Buzzo Gospel” radio script into a screenplay, V.I.P. This was also novelized as V.I.P. and published in Maurice Bessy’s French translation as Une Grosse Legume (Paris: Gallimard, 1953). The lost English-language version, which I discovered in the archives of National Film Museum in Turin in 2018, has never been published. It is credited to Orson Welles, but its true authorship remains questionable. [↩]
- Subseries “Soldier Soldier 1969,” folders 86-88, Fondo Orson Welles (1960–1976), Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin. [↩]
- Welles & Bogdanovich, This Is Orson Welles, 268-69. [↩]
- See David Lodge, “Conrad’s Victory and The Tempest: An amplification,” Modern Language Review, 59 (1964), pp. 195-199. [↩]
- Simon Callow, Orson Welles: One Man Band (London: Jonathan Cape, 2015), 42. [↩]
- Todd Tarbox (ed.), Orson Welles and Roger Hill: A Friendship in Three Acts (BearManor Media, 2013), 289. [↩]
- Peter Tonguette (ed.), Peter Bogdanovich: Interviews, (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2014), 170. [↩]
- Surinam/Victory, Draft pages (annotated typescript), Pre-production materials, [1971] [sic.]. Box 7, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- McBride, Whatever Happened to Orson Welles?, 270. [↩]
- Memo from Welles to Peter [Bogdanovich], 25 March [1973]. Surinam/Victory, Draft pages (annotated typescript), Pre-production materials, [1971] [sic.]. Box 7, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- Surinam/Victory, Draft pages (annotated typescript), Pre-production materials, [1971] [sic.]. Box 7, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- Subseries “Surinam (Victory) 1973,” folder 93, Fondo Orson Welles, 1960–1976, Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin, Italy. [↩]
- Surinam/Victory, Draft pages (annotated typescript), Pre-production materials, [1971] [sic.]. Box 7, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- Subseries “Surinam (Victory) 1973,” folder 95, Fondo Orson Welles, 1960–1976, Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin, Italy. [↩]
- See Richard J. Hand, Conrad’s Victory: The Play and Reviews (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2009), 25. [↩]
- Tonguette (ed.), Peter Bogdanovich: Interviews, 170. [↩]
- Undated draft letter from Jacques Kem to “Arnold Shane, etc.,” Pre-production materials, [1971] [sic.]. Box 7, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- Uncredited [Orson Welles], The Old Chevalier, Script (mimeograph, 1978). Box 11, Orson Welles–Oja Kodar Papers, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. [↩]
- Joseph Conrad, “Twixt Land and Sea: Three Tales (London: Dent, 1947), viii. [↩]
- Jocelyn Baines, Joseph Conrad: A Critical Biography (London: Penguin, 1986 [1960]), 426. [↩]
- Welles & Bogdanovich, This Is Orson Welles, 452; A selection of the readings, including “The Secret Sharer,” were released on CD as The Orson Welles Library (Blackstone Audio, 2007). [↩]
- McBride, Whatever Happened to Orson Welles? 226. [↩]
- Subseries “Ivanka 1968-1969,” folders 52-54, Fondo Orson Welles, 1960–1976, Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin, Italy; Orson Welles with Oja Kodar, The Big Brass Ring: An Original Screenplay (Santa Barbara: Santa Teresa Press, 1987). [↩]
- Welles quoted in 1958 in André Bazin, Charles Bitsch, and Jean Domarchi, “Interview with Orson Welles (II),” reprinted in Mark W. Estrin (ed.), Orson Welles: Interviews, 63. [↩]