I am a bad film critic.
A good, bad film critic.
Because this is one of those films which requires a certain attention to detail.
Get the damn title right.
So what is it?
I have just watched the British version…we’ll call it (adhering to common practice) Confidential Report.
I had seen this once before.
To me it was always Mr. Arkadin. I didn’t realize the level of controversy surrounding this film’s numerous versions.
But let me point something out. All of the versions are within a few minutes of each other. Sure, some are in Spanish. That makes a difference. But at a certain point it is splitting hairs. Either you’ve seen this thing or you haven’t.
I can understand the legalistic approach to film preservation when it comes to this picture.
If the whole thing isn’t presented as a flashback, I can see how the composition might be negatively affected.
But who cares? Bogdanovich? Sure…I care too.
And so let’s get around to why one should even care in the first place.
This is a magnificent movie!
I didn’t really think so the first time I saw it.
It’s possible to see this film and be caught in a The Big Sleep haze.
So maybe it does depend on the version.
Maybe the film isn’t supposed to be confusing.
Yet, there’s something nice (pleasant) about being confused.
If this was a universal maxim, I would walk around with a smile on my face perpetually.
But the confusion here is a rare sort.
When I first saw Mr. Arkadin I mainly “retained” (absorbed?) only its mood.
Something was happening. Orson Welles was a shadowy character.
There wasn’t a sense of continuity.
But here’s another possibility.
This film needs (deserves) to be seen more than once.
The action moves fast.
Weird things are afoot.
The whole film is a sort of riddle.
And the symbolism is as stinky-strong as Roquefort.
Wikipedia might lead you to Basil Zaharoff, but my mind was wandering more towards George Soros and/or Rupert Murdoch.
Even Jeff Bezos…these guys who feel compelled to protect their corporate empires by buying the Wall Street Journal (or Washington Post).
We make fun of Kissinger because he got the Nobel Peace Prize.
We make fun of Obama for the same reason.
Neither deserved it. [the prize]
It is as repugnant as Orwell’s Ministry of Truth.
But really, we are dumb.
We lump together Kissinger with Brzezinski. And then we throw Soros in for good measure.
And to top it all off, we place Murdoch like a cherry atop the mystère.
There is no mystery.
Bouvard and Pécuchet are aghast.
Maybe he was born in Muğla.
Perhaps he died in Monte Carlo.
This is the dossier on Mr. Arkadin.
You are paying to have yourself spied on.
Whether you like it or not.
Because, with all you have been through, you can’t even remember your real identity.
Oh yes…the tired trope of super-soldier pap and shows like Blindspot.
We almost buy it.
It goes a long way.
But it falls short.
Too few comma splices.
Yes, too few.
I will, be, here with Pynchon. Is not a comma splice.
This is approaching the time in which firemen SET fires. Bradbury. Truffaut.
And among the contraband is Tropic of Cancer.
Yes, my heart rends a bit. As I reach out.
Julie Christie…the rumors are true.
A shamus hired by a murderer.
Orson Welles is painting a portrait of Europe.
A song for Europe.
Mother of pearl.
They say Rothschild came in.
Always came in. But with a nice glass of Lafite.
ONI was sniffing around. They were the first. Good old chaps!
War profiteering runs all through the story of Basil Zaharoff.
And Orson Welles borrows this story artfully.
As when Patricia Medina is drunk on the yacht.
All through the film. Those expressionist camera angles. Vertov. Ruttman.
But with the wine…more sinister. As Arkadin is lucid. Listening. Gathering intelligence.
We need a new generation of jet fighters. Though the last generation never saw action in a real war. Hasn’t been a real war since WWII. Profiteers are restricted in their movements.
The Spanish Empire finally collapsed because of this corruption. Will it happen in the exact same manner to the United States?
The parallels are more similar than Rome.
It is too much. The shoddiness of these machines. I must stop here.