Mank (12A.)
Directed by David Fincher.
Starring Gary Oldman, Amanda Seyfried, Lily Collins, Tuppence Middleton, Tom Burke, Arliss Howard and Charles Dance. Black and white. Streaming on Netflix from 4th December. 131 mins.
That's Mank as in Mankiewicz and it's Mankiewicz as in Herman J. Mankiewicz and if you try typing that name into the Internet Movie Database by the time you have completed Herman it will fill you in “J. Mankiewicz, Writer, Citizen Kane, (1941.)” So, clearly there's a pressing need for a film about how he really wrote Citizen Kane. Fincher's project is many things: a loving evocation of 30s/40s Hollywood; a reopening of a tiff in '70s New York critics circle and a portrait of an alcoholic self-destructive genius. But, above all, it's yet another immaculately pointless David Fincher picture.
Arguments about who was the real genius behind Kane have rumbled on since Pauline Kael's 1971 book Raising Kane elevated Mankiewicz's contribution to a level on a par or even surpassing that of Welles. In taking on critics such as Andrew Sarris who were advocates of the Auteur theory, Kael's piece seemed motivated by a desire to stick up for screenwriters and to drag down the cult of the all powerful director. Both of these are very noble motivations, but her research has since been largely discredited and Welles was a perverse choice of target. However bloated you might think Awesome Welles's reputation is, it's hard to argue that a man who usually starred in, edited, wrote and directed his films, as well as raising most of the money needed to finance them, didn't have claim to be their major driving creative force.
(William Goldman claimed Russ Meyer was the only true auteur of American cinema but those weren't his boobs on screen, and the unsheathed mega-mammaries are the only reason to watch his films so I think he has to rank behind Welles, who was the chief draw on all his films.)
Auteur theory is the idea that some directors are the authors of their films, even if they do not write the script. That this was in any way in doubt may seem strange now because we are so accustomed to the director being spoken and written of as the creator of the film. That is though a nonsense. Film is a collaborative process and more often than not a good film is a happy accident. If there is one key figure behind its creation, it is most likely to be the director could also very easily be the lead actor, the editor, the cameraman, the producer or even the writer. Truth is, there is no way to know who did what on a movie, who is to blame and who is to be acclaimed, unless you were there; and if you were there you probably can't be trusted because your career prospects may depend on being associated, or disassociated, with the final product. So, I put the name of the director at the top of the review because it is a convenient shorthand, it's what I'm asked to do and, well, who am I to judge?
So the correct answer to the question of who really wrote Citizen Kane is who ****ing cares?
But having addressed the issue, Fincher fills his film with references to Hollywood lore. There are tales of Louis B. Mayer (Howard) and Irving Thalberg; of press baron William Randolph Hearst (Dance) and his love for movie star Marion Davies (Seyfried); of the creation of the Screenwriter's Guild and, a little unexpectedly, the derailing of left-wing author Upton Sinclair's run for Governor of California in 1934. If this is an era you know and care about, then this is full of things you know and care about; if not then there might be enough funny lines to keep you interested. The script, by Fincher's late father, Jack, plays up to the idea that the Hollywood scriptwriter of the golden era, lured west from Broadway by the promise of unfathomable riches, spent their whole time drinking and gambling and never allowed a sentence to exit their mouths that wasn't a perfectly polished witticism. Oldman's Mank doesn't deliver dialogue, just extracts from a memorable quotes wiki.
Reducing Orson to a bit part in a making-of-Kane film, and having the 24-year-old boy genius played by someone in their late thirties (Burke) seems cruel but this is a character assassination made with love; love for technology. The film is full of authentic period details, on and off screen, to make it resemble a film from the forties: it even has the reel change cue, the little circle that used to pop up in the corner of the screen during the days of manual projectionists. How much of this is even remotely noticeable on your telly is another matter. Lockdown prevented a cinema release so it's Netflix only.
In the press for this Fincher has been railing against the risk-aversion of modern Hollywood and its addiction to comic book franchises. But surely, a black'n'white film about a niche subject is an overcorrection. Since Se7en and Fight Club, Fincher has largely made expert films of dull topics. Maybe that was not all of his own choosing but given a free hand he's turned out a nostalgic paean to past glories and intrigues, and got Netflix to pay for it. For a supposed Industry disruptor, Netflix is a soft touch when it comes to old fashioned movie star glamour. You don't get Uber buying up old black cabs out of sentiment, but Netty cheerfully indulges the expensive whims of Hollywood big names like some dowager patron, desperately attempting to buy some artistic cachet.
Directed by David Fincher.
Starring Gary Oldman, Amanda Seyfried, Lily Collins, Tuppence Middleton, Tom Burke, Arliss Howard and Charles Dance. Black and white. Streaming on Netflix from 4th December. 131 mins.
That's Mank as in Mankiewicz and it's Mankiewicz as in Herman J. Mankiewicz and if you try typing that name into the Internet Movie Database by the time you have completed Herman it will fill you in “J. Mankiewicz, Writer, Citizen Kane, (1941.)” So, clearly there's a pressing need for a film about how he really wrote Citizen Kane. Fincher's project is many things: a loving evocation of 30s/40s Hollywood; a reopening of a tiff in '70s New York critics circle and a portrait of an alcoholic self-destructive genius. But, above all, it's yet another immaculately pointless David Fincher picture.
Arguments about who was the real genius behind Kane have rumbled on since Pauline Kael's 1971 book Raising Kane elevated Mankiewicz's contribution to a level on a par or even surpassing that of Welles. In taking on critics such as Andrew Sarris who were advocates of the Auteur theory, Kael's piece seemed motivated by a desire to stick up for screenwriters and to drag down the cult of the all powerful director. Both of these are very noble motivations, but her research has since been largely discredited and Welles was a perverse choice of target. However bloated you might think Awesome Welles's reputation is, it's hard to argue that a man who usually starred in, edited, wrote and directed his films, as well as raising most of the money needed to finance them, didn't have claim to be their major driving creative force.
(William Goldman claimed Russ Meyer was the only true auteur of American cinema but those weren't his boobs on screen, and the unsheathed mega-mammaries are the only reason to watch his films so I think he has to rank behind Welles, who was the chief draw on all his films.)
Auteur theory is the idea that some directors are the authors of their films, even if they do not write the script. That this was in any way in doubt may seem strange now because we are so accustomed to the director being spoken and written of as the creator of the film. That is though a nonsense. Film is a collaborative process and more often than not a good film is a happy accident. If there is one key figure behind its creation, it is most likely to be the director could also very easily be the lead actor, the editor, the cameraman, the producer or even the writer. Truth is, there is no way to know who did what on a movie, who is to blame and who is to be acclaimed, unless you were there; and if you were there you probably can't be trusted because your career prospects may depend on being associated, or disassociated, with the final product. So, I put the name of the director at the top of the review because it is a convenient shorthand, it's what I'm asked to do and, well, who am I to judge?
So the correct answer to the question of who really wrote Citizen Kane is who ****ing cares?
But having addressed the issue, Fincher fills his film with references to Hollywood lore. There are tales of Louis B. Mayer (Howard) and Irving Thalberg; of press baron William Randolph Hearst (Dance) and his love for movie star Marion Davies (Seyfried); of the creation of the Screenwriter's Guild and, a little unexpectedly, the derailing of left-wing author Upton Sinclair's run for Governor of California in 1934. If this is an era you know and care about, then this is full of things you know and care about; if not then there might be enough funny lines to keep you interested. The script, by Fincher's late father, Jack, plays up to the idea that the Hollywood scriptwriter of the golden era, lured west from Broadway by the promise of unfathomable riches, spent their whole time drinking and gambling and never allowed a sentence to exit their mouths that wasn't a perfectly polished witticism. Oldman's Mank doesn't deliver dialogue, just extracts from a memorable quotes wiki.
Reducing Orson to a bit part in a making-of-Kane film, and having the 24-year-old boy genius played by someone in their late thirties (Burke) seems cruel but this is a character assassination made with love; love for technology. The film is full of authentic period details, on and off screen, to make it resemble a film from the forties: it even has the reel change cue, the little circle that used to pop up in the corner of the screen during the days of manual projectionists. How much of this is even remotely noticeable on your telly is another matter. Lockdown prevented a cinema release so it's Netflix only.
In the press for this Fincher has been railing against the risk-aversion of modern Hollywood and its addiction to comic book franchises. But surely, a black'n'white film about a niche subject is an overcorrection. Since Se7en and Fight Club, Fincher has largely made expert films of dull topics. Maybe that was not all of his own choosing but given a free hand he's turned out a nostalgic paean to past glories and intrigues, and got Netflix to pay for it. For a supposed Industry disruptor, Netflix is a soft touch when it comes to old fashioned movie star glamour. You don't get Uber buying up old black cabs out of sentiment, but Netty cheerfully indulges the expensive whims of Hollywood big names like some dowager patron, desperately attempting to buy some artistic cachet.
