In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree
                                          Coleridge

Sixty-five years have passed since the release of Citizen Kane and still today it’s far ahead of the times in comparison to the garbage coming out of Hollywood week-in and week-out. Jesus wept, and so does your humble reviewer when reminded that this masterpiece hit the screen in 1941 and tanked!

A dissertation could be written on almost any single scene in this film; each daring move of the camera and each exquisite frame jam-packed with detail, irony, and ambiguity.

Think about it. Many times the first film of a great director turns out to be his best work. Why? Because he’s learning to make a film and trying the impossible because old fogies haven’t told him “you can’t do that.”

The life of Orson Welles is somewhat akin to Mozart’s. As a youngster he toured Europe with his father, and early on he was touted as “the boy wonder.” He began his artistic career as a director in radio with a troupe of veteran actors he called “The Mercury Players” – most of whom appeared in Kane. In the late thirties they turned the country into a frenzy with their radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. Little did anyone imagine that five years later Mr. Welles would begin another “war of the worlds” even greater than the former. Thus with a bushel basket of notoriety, at age 24, he arrived in Hollywood to make a film. The Tinseltown sharks waited with bated breath to see what the “boy genius” would come up with.

And he gave them all they could handle – and more. He and his co-writer Herman J. Mankiewicz (brother of the more famous director, Joseph Mankiewicz) dreamed up – or should I say “nightmared up” – an idea that would rock the film world: to make a film on the life of a living person. But they didn’t select just any living person, but William Randolph Hearst, one of the most powerful men in the world. He controlled a newspaper empire (among hundreds of other businesses) and was photographed daily with U.S. presidents and dignitaries of every description – including such luminaries as Adolf Hitler. He had the power to begin and end wars; and many considered him either: a communist, fascist, or patriot. Whatever the case, Hearst was the man the word “ruthless” was coined for – and “coin” was his métier.

On the other hand, Orson Welles was no angel himself, and in many ways he was a mirror image of Hearst (and not the red herring of “Rosebud” fame). But this, perhaps, is the key to this film. Welles was really writing about himself; not the literal reality, but the psyche. He was headstrong, spoiled, and would have his way no matter who was trampled under foot and ruined. But his was one of the most brilliant artistic minds of the twentieth century.

Only the most knowledgeable titan in the dirty business of big-time filmmaking knew what was afoot with Welles’ movie, and many begged and pleaded with him not to undertake this perilous venture. But Welles proceeded on a closed set – a really closed set – like an armed camp, and by the time it was made and released, a scorched battlefield strewn with ruined lives and reputations littered the bloody landscape. It was a dirty two-fisted back-alley brawl that would have even tested the descriptive powers of one of the greatest pugilist-poets of all, Charles Bukowski.

The inside story of Citizen Kane comes close to being as outrageous as the film itself; a no-holds-barred caged fight that drew in every producer in Hollywood with blackmail, filthy homosexual sex photographs, and a ton of Jew baiting. This story is told in a superb little film made for HBO a few years ago called RKO 281, the lot number on which the film was made. It stars Liev Schreiber as Welles, and is a must-see companion piece for anyone who wants the real skinny on Citizen Kane.

Bear in mind here that merely encapsulating the narrative could not possibly capture the depth and resonance of this film because it’s overwhelming greatness lies in the technique and sweeping style of pure film art; a thing nearly impossible to convey via written description. But here goes:

The film begins and ends like a Frankenstein horror movie: the camera surveys a creepy castle that was Kane’s home, “Xanada,” after the Coleridge poem Kubla Khan. Then, suddenly, a boisterous biograph newsreel bursts onto the screen telling the tempestuous life of the deceased tycoon. It ends as the lights go up on a roomful of newspaper reporters whose assignment is to discover the real story behind the superficial details, and most particularly learn the significance of Kane’s last dying words: “Rosebud” (perhaps the most famous word in cinematic history).

Thus an investigative reporter is sent out per diem to interview all who knew the great man – now all old geezers. He also spends boring days in private libraries reading dusty old tomes buried in vaults for part of two centuries. Hearst’s life unfolds in sweepingly lengthy flashbacks and flash-forwards. The boy wonder himself, Orson Welles, plays the title role; but not until we meet Kane first as a little boy sledding in the Colorado snows. Through a quirk of fate in his family tree, a tremendous fortune is bestowed on the poor little brat in a godforsaken backwater town where he lives with this dirt-poor mother and father. Against this backdrop a lawyer appears at their home all the way from bustling, super-prosperous metropolis of New York City (it was still the 19th century circa 1871). The boy is then spirited away from his life of poverty and placed in one where he grows to maturity in riches and splendor. Very Dickensian.

From minute one we see the boy as an uncorrigible rascal, if not a downright bad-seed. He drives his benefactor, Walter Parks Thatcher, to the brink of insanity until the day he dies. [Back then, everyone seemed to use their middle names] Young Kane was uncontrollable, getting kicked out of almost every Ivy-covered school on the East Coast and Switzerland.

But the narrative really begins one sunny morning when Kane pulls up in an overloaded truck in front of a shabby building which houses a dying old newspaper with a circulation plummeting toward zilch. He’s full of piss and vinegar, accompanied by his college pal Jedediah Leland (Joseph Cotton), and a funny little man named Mr. Bernstein (Everett Sloan) who is unlike anyone else in the scenario – and never once do we hear his first name. But he’s a plucky little rooster with an eagle’s beak who will be Kane’s most faithful and supportive friend to the end.

On a whim Kane thinks, “It would be fun to run a newspaper,” and thus he bursts into the place like a hurricane and changes everything on the spot, taking up residence in the stodgy old editor’s office. From that point forward he’s hell-bent on creating a muckraking scandal sheet that will rock the country with low-down dirty “journalism” for the benefit of “the working man.” He was, in a way, the prototype for today’s vulgar Bill O’Reilly, and in this respect the newspaper business was turned on its ear. This legacy resonates to our current age with today’s cable news TV channels where opinion is news and news is opinion.

With shots of the presses rolling and a collage of bloated headlines, Hearst becomes a bazillionaire. He steals away the best writers from other newspapers with mega-salaries like a Gutenberg George Steinbrenner. And at the height of his health and wealth he throws a humdinger of an employee wiener party (as the frat-boys call them) with party hats and a paid chorus line of gum-chewing dance girls.

For me, this raucous, self-congratulatory party is the film’s centerpiece, for it’s here that Hearst and Welles merge into the same person. How can I explain? When Brando played Don Corleone, we knew it was Brando up there on the screen, yet he was the precise soul and embodiment of Don Corleone. The same applies to his performance as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire, and as Terry Malloy in On the Waterfront. Welles’ acting talent approached this excellence as well. However, for pure versatility he is unmatched – director, actor, writer – genius. (Please understand, I speak here of acting, not imitating.) Anyway, the chorus whores sing a stupid “Charley Hearst oh Charley Hearst” ditty, and Hearst even jumps up on stage and joins in dancing like fool. He’s completely full of himself; and its here, through the viewpoint of his old college chum and arts editor, Jedediah Leland, that we see the film’s foremost twist – a Proustian frown amidst the noisy monkeyshine which belies Hearst’s downward slide into muck.

Act two: Hearst now becomes a world traveler, especially through Europe, where he collects priceless works of art with no joy other than the evil pride of possession. And he surprises everyone when he collects the niece of a United States president as his bride. A youngster is conceived, but this marriage is doomed from minute one. Year fades into year, and Hearst is busy ingratiating himself into the world of the rich (today, 2006, we’d call it “The New World Order”). One example is when old Charley does his damndest to pump up the Spanish-American War. When a correspondent wires him that “there’s no war here,” Hearst replies: “Dear sir: you supply the purple prose and I’ll supply the war!” He was also there as an appeaser as the shadow of Hitler fell across Europe.

Still, he thought himself a man of the people and entered the political arena in a filthy, mudslinging campaign against Boss Jim W. Getties, making bombastic speeches that weren’t ineffective. He was a bullshitter, but he was a great bullshitter – not unlike our director, Herr von Welles – for behind the scenes of making Citizen Kane was a war going on that made the clash with Boss Getties look tame.

But in the film it’s the campaign for governor, and Hearst is overtaking his opponent in the polls. His lead comes crashing down around him, though, when crafty old Boss Getties exposes a back-street affair Kane is having with a sheet-music salesgirl who is a shaky coloratura at best. “Hearst Caught in Love Nest” shouted the headlines; and of course the election is lost, as is his family (later to die in a car crash).

But Hearst’s self-serving ego is never at rest, for the next abortive scheme is to promote his aptitude-challenged mistress to the opera stage. In a beastly tour she is crushed by critics and stagehands alike. His mistress is weak with no background; falling apart and attempting suicide as Charley eventually throws in the towel. But even in retreat and a long, slow slide into obscurity (still rich as King Croesus), he builds a humungous castle – Xanadu – in the middle of nowhere where he and his now alcoholic and whiny mistress dwell. This woman spends her time doing idiotic picture puzzles on the glossy, cold marble floors while screeching hysterically in the enormous rooms of the “pleasure dome.” Their fireplace is bigger than most people’s apartments, while Old Charley – now aging, balding, and packing on the pounds – suffers in silence, treating her like another one of his possessions. Speaking of which, statues and paintings are everywhere, including the cavernous basement – some still uncrated from when he originally purchased them.

But his wife/mistress – imprisoned and isolated in the ridiculous palace – is not quite as dumb as her chalkboard voice made her sound. She lines up her ducks and ultimately leaves him. He, on the other hand, now a pathetic old man, begs her to stay – and when she finally leaves he goes berserk and destroys her room, throwing and trashing everything in it that’s not nailed down in a tremendously long scene. At this stage he’s completely alone to grow old and die alone in Wellesian deep focus.

Thus, in the final scene a gaggle of reporters stand around lamenting the failure of learning the meaning of “Rosebud.” Meanwhile, we the audience watch an ancient wooden boy’s sled being thrown into a furnace as the word “Rosebud” comes peeling off the old wood in flames in a total jaw-dropping ending of this American epic.

Thus, if you could make an enormous loop of Citizen Kane, the gloomy castle and the ancient newsreel would begin anew.

EPILOGUE

You won’t find too many film experts and critics who will argue against Citizen Kane as the greatest film ever made.

But your triple coupon on Kane is the little TV movie I mentioned before, RKO 281. And here comes your dirty dish. The pressure to stop the release of Citizen Kane was colossal. Numerous books and documentaries are available on this slimy subject of the war of the worlds between these two giants – Hearst versus Welles. Hearst was old, terminally ill, and coming down the homestretch, but not too decrepit to fight with all the considerable power at his command. In the film, Welles cruelly and unfairly skewers Hearst’s woman as a ditz and lush who was, in reality, the fine semi-retired actress Marion Davies.

Hearst first fights with his money by taking it to the big shits who ruled Hollywood. He goes to Samuel Goldwyn to “persuade” him with the other studio heads to somehow acquire the film’s negative and have it destroyed. When this ploy fails, Hearst returns with photos from his vast newspaper’s “restricted” vaults of snapshots of studio heads (no pun intended) in homosexual acts with each other and giant black men (as well as other such material). Blackmail does the trick, and as he leaves Goldwyn’s office, the boorish Hearst invites Goldwyn, Louie B. Mayer, Jack Warner, and David Selznick – the kings of Hollywood – to join him for golf at his country club. But Mr. Goldwyn reminds him that none of these men – Jews all – would be allowed in Hearst’s club.

Hearst’s victory is all but won, but the unstoppable Welles flies to New York, and in front of a long conference table of New York money-men, makes the most brilliant speech of this career – one that will give you chills, and the day is won. Thus, we have forever the greatest work of art in cinematic history. Welles and Mankewicz created the most magnificent distraction in timeless art culture.

As for “Rosebud,” it existed nowhere but between the thighs of Hearst’s beautiful mistress (i.e. it was Hearst’s pet reference to her vagina); perhaps the only person he came close to loving in his wretched, rich life.