I don’t know if I liked The Other Side of The Wind. I don’t know if I liked it. Loved it. Loathed it.
But I do know for certain, I’m glad it exists. A piece of history we all thought was lost to the world is available for all to see.
With the imminent loss of FilmStruck later this month, Netflix’s release is all the more timely.
Here we have a piece of cinema that its author thought would never see the light of the day. I remember reading about The Other Side of the Wind back in high school when I was first introduced to Citizen Kane. Because Kane introduced the world to the cinematic brilliance of Orson Welles, the two will forever be linked as Welles’ first and last breath in celluloid.
I was fascinated with the possibility that a new Welles film could be released in my lifetime. The closest I ever got to his work in real-time was his voice role in The Transformers: The Movie, and even that was released a decade before I was born.
The meta narrative he was chasing for years making The Other Side of the Wind was intriguing and right in my wheelhouse. Imagine getting something like The Player from Welles! He was the most influential voice to New Hollywood, it seemed only appropriate that he make a New Hollywood movie himself and see how it stacks up against Scorsese, Altman, Coppola, and the exciting wave of talent from the 70s.
Like I said earlier, the verdict’s still out on this one.
There’s a reason this was not produced in its final form before Welles passed. There’s a reason he took five years filming single aspects of it. There’s a reason Netflix came to the rescue too, and to understand that, the streaming-giant released a documentary They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead to coincide with Welles’ ultimate film.
I can’t think of a more apt title. It starts a dialogue for people that may not know how to process The Other Side.
When the credits crawled, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’m not smart enough to grasp what was just viewed. But it’s massively acclaimed. It feels almost impossible that the reception would be as strong today if Welles released it himself. The reception may be well deserved, rewarding the patient and those like Rian Johnson that decided to watch it three times for the full effect.
The Other Side Of The Wind is out this weekend in a handful of theaters. I think it's a stone cold masterpiece, and it rewards the kind of undivided attention I find I can only give a movie in a theater. https://t.co/UC5Gc1XuYp
— Rian Johnson (@rianjohnson) November 3, 2018
The Other Side of the Wind is best compared to an archeological dig. You think something is there, and it’s great if you find anything just under the surface, but those that stay in the dirt long enough are rewarded the most…or overwhelmed with disappointment that what used to be is no more.
Is Welles brilliance no more or is it ever present taking on a form unlike anything else ever seen?
The accompanying doc helps shed a bit of light on that.
When I watched The Other Side of the Wind, its structure as a documentary following storied director Jake Hannaford alongside his struggle to produce his last film was jarring. It works thematically even when you throw out the parallel to Welles’ life, but the content is superfluous.
I wouldn’t blame someone for thinking Welles is a bit supercilious. His films always seemed to operate above audiences, and he liked that.
The reflection of our obsession with media and those that produce it is strong, as its own reaction against itself as high-art. But what’s contained inside, Hannaford’s troubled production, is garbage.
Or is it?
It looks gorgeous. The cinematography is divine, and the production all around is orchestrated just right. But it feels like something from the most talented film student that has all these ideas but nothing to say.
When a large portion of the film is Hannaford’s film itself, it’s difficult to react to the rest of The Other Side. The film’s reflection of a tortured artist with a god complex shines through, but the content therein is questionable. But without it, there’s no conflict or reflection.
They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead helps look inward more. In some old footage, Welles’ said that the greatest thing in movies are the “divine accidents.” It was his intent to create a movie entirely made of those moments. He did. It doesn’t feel like that.
On that count, Welles separates himself from Hannaford. If everything was truly improvised like Hannaford’s movie without a script, he did the impossible. Welles is a masterful maestro, cobbling together a narrative out of content his alter ego could not. The process is frustrating but simultaneously magnificent.
Speaking of magnificent, now we wait for someone to uncover the missing footage of The Magnificent Ambersons. The holy grail was found, now it’s time to find the next.
