Citizen Kane

Someone asked me why I wanted to watch Citizen Kane. I started by saying I had read about the film in movie books when I was a teenager. That explanation was enough for the person. I’ll add, Citizen Kane was described as a film to see. It was “great”, even the greatest ever made and remarkably Orson Welles was only twenty-five when he got it made. Orson Welles was the producer, director, co-writer, and main actor, portraying the fictitious Charles Foster Kane, a newspaper magnate in the early 1900s, who some said was obviously based on newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst. Orson Welles delivers a fine performance as this empty shell of a man. When Kane stood for governor, a governor with a liberal flavor, his reaction to losing was one of Orson Welles’s many moments of movie acting presence. Supporting him one accentuates ‘support’ as though they all deliver great performances they are in the shadow of the monstrous Welles. The screenplay is so well defined that one imagines blood bled from the forehead, and the work that is realistically realized. The arrangement of scenes – from dream state, identifying with a character, ‘awaking’ from the dream, and back and forth in time – are seamlessly and expertly done. The technical aspects – noticeably the editing, lighting, cinematography, music, sound, and production design, see, for instance, the mansion of Xanadu for breath and width – are expert. Citizen Kane is the perfect dramatic film. Orson Welles helmed a film beyond its time, still standing on its merits and resonates. Citizen Kane is one of the greats, if not the greatest.

It’s tough to fairly critique a movie so widely lauded as one of the greats. How does one watch The Godfather with an open mind after fifty years of critical pressure? That goes double for Citizen Kane, given its additional age and notoriety. Older movies can be hard to contextualize, even for those already well-versed in the era’s cinematic language. In 1941, Hollywood had only been making talkies for a few years. For Kane, though, I actually see this elder status as a benefit: it does more than just hold up, it holds its own. Eight decades later, Orson Welles’s ambitious debut remains engaging and easy to watch, even by modern standards. There’s just something about a well-crafted story, told with care and conviction, that never goes out of style. Its plot is colorful and alluring, stuffed with dynamic, rounded characters. Its artistry is sharp and daring, richly designed and strikingly photographed. Each frame is deeply considered and imbued with meaning. There’s similar fire and passion in nearly every element. The big cast of stage veterans, eager to prove their worth on the screen. The iconography, expertly crafted and larger than life. The lingering mystery of “Rosebud,” befuddling and powerful as a story mover and rewarding as a final revelation. Welles has lined everything up just-so, an intricate web of large acts and small tells that come together to weave an irresistible saga. Citizen Kane’s framing device works extraordinarily well, dispensing a street-smart journalist to puzzle over a magnate’s last words while sifting through the spoken record to paint an outline of his life. He segues from one interview to another, capturing snippets of the man’s character from all angles, before finally arriving at the conclusion that no single word, no matter how enigmatic, could possibly explain a life so thoroughly lived. He’s completely wrong on that count. “Rosebud” speaks volumes about this man: his desperation to be admired and loved; his refusal to really open himself up in pursuit of those goals; his tireless efforts to meet an impossible expectation; his sharp dismissal of anyone who dares challenge his ideals. Unfortunately for our weary newsman, no living soul remains to express these nuances, nor to connect them to the word in question. Without that context, its origins mean nothing. Charles Foster Kane left plenty of observers in his wake - spurned comrades, embittered lovers, jaded employees, jealous observers - but the man they describe is only a projection. The image he wished the world to see, not the one which dwelt beneath the steely shell. That’s a relatively simple story, really. The man who seemingly has everything, overcompensating to satisfy an urge that most of us would take for granted. Welles adds cinematic flourishes, draws magnificent performances from his cast (including himself) and spices it with a tantalizing secret, but this wouldn’t be recognized as such a landmark achievement if that main arc weren’t so well-realized, recognizable and effective. Put it all together? Yeah, that’s deserving of all-timer status. A masterpiece of film.