Orson Welles (“Citizen Kane”) was a man of many passions. In his mid-20s, he was a hit host on CBS Radio, a Broadway director for the Mercury Theatre, a master in the art of sleight of hand and, of course, a film director. Not just any filmmaker, though; Welles debuted with “Citizen Kane,” one of the greatest films of all time. He was the bard, the master magician and the boy wonder.
But a lesser known title for Welles was “el torero”: the bullfighter. Seven years before “Citizen Kane,” Welles found himself in Seville, Spain, training to be a bullfighter. It was the brutality of the “art” that attracted him. He loved the tragedy in three acts: the story of an innocent beast giving its last and greatest hurrah to the indomitable power of man. Then, he abruptly quit. “I had seen enough of those animals die,” he reasoned.
But Welles never quit the institution of bullfighting entirely, remaining a lifetime aficionado. Upon his death, he requested that his ashes be buried next to Antonio Ordóñez, a legendary torero. For a man who had quit donning the red cape after seeing enough bloodshed, it may be puzzling that he still appreciated this vulgar spectacle. But perhaps Welles’ interest went beyond admiration for the tragedy. Perhaps his soul and ashes found themselves swirling in the bullring because he identified with the sacred beasts. After all, it was a caged animal who, due to its fighting spirit, was forced to die a long and cruel death. In a similar way, Welles’s films, imbued with his passion and integrity, constantly fought for their right to exist. Perhaps what Welles saw in the charging bull was his own career, his art getting stabbed, tortured and killed — in three tragic acts.
You see, Welles and film studios never quite saw eye to eye. Welles wanted to make good movies, and the studios wanted to make a good buck off the boy wonder. Their conflicts were innumerable. “Touch of Evil” was deemed too commercially unviable, so the studio rushed production and horribly reedited the film, prompting Welles to write a passionate 58-page memo addressing every change he wanted. His ideal version of the film didn’t come to light until 13 years after his death and 40 years after the film’s initial release. “The Lady of Shanghai” encountered an endless spree of reshoots and dubious reedits because studio executives couldn’t understand Welles’s artistic choices, which frustrated him to no end. But that’s not the worst of it. Following “Citizen Kane” was a greater tragedy than any bullfight. It was the mutilation of his sophomore effort, “The Magnificent Ambersons.”
This is from the official trailer for “The Magnificent Ambersons,” distributed by the Criterion Collection.
“The Magnificent Ambersons” was supposed to be Welles’s masterpiece, an even greater film than “Citizen Kane.” Every person in the cast and crew believed they were involved in a very, very special project.
In the contract that Welles signed with film studio RKO, he had conceded the rights to the final cut of “Ambersons.” Welles didn’t think it was a big deal though, as he believed he could retain creative control by working with editor Robert Wise (“The Sound of Music”). In 1941, Welles and Wise chopped up a 131-minute rough cut for RKO. Then, Welles left for Brazil — due to the Good Neighbor Policy — to film a documentary, unable to bring Wise along to edit “Ambersons.” Welles was still expected to finish the film though, as RKO had sent him the film’s reels.
When Welles left, RKO test-screened the rough cut. To their absolute horror, the boy wonder didn’t deliver a commercially viable film. Of the many initial responses to the rough cut, a notable one said, “We do not need trouble pictures, especially now … Make pictures to make us forget, not remember.” So, RKO did what any overbearing parent does when their kid leaves their room: They went into Welles’s space and rearranged everything to their liking. They exercised their right to the final cut and demanded that Wise remove about 45 minutes of footage — mostly in the back half of the film. The studio also refilmed the ending to wrap the story in a nicer, cuter bow — one that would leave audiences forgetting about their troubles. Welles could do nothing about it.
In its intended vision, “Ambersons” was a morose slow burn following George Amberson as the well of his family’s wealth dries. The film served as Welles’s commentary on capitalism, the hubris of the rich and powerful. It was his pessimistic meditation on Father Time, a deeply rich story about how the forces of change could not be resisted, be it for good or evil. “Ambersons” was indeed a “trouble picture,” but it was a poignant one.
In RKO’s mutilation, most of this was lost. Though the opening hour remarkably retained Welles’s vision, it consisted of a flowery set-up. It was in the second hour, the hour that RKO had butchered beyond recognition, where “Ambersons” themes would have come to the fore. RKO had neutered “Ambersons,” turning it into a film about rich people resisting change and being fine in the end. These changes were so significant that in 1980, Welles, after viewing the first hour, shut off the film and said, “From here on, it becomes their movie.” Despite the mutilation, “Ambersons” still flopped at the box office — but at least it was unchallenging! Strangely, RKO’s status-quo-friendly adjustments were likely the reason why “Ambersons” performed adequately at award season, much to the bitter dismay of Welles.
In bullfighting, at least the bull dies. With RKO’s “Ambersons,” the film was paraded around as a masterpiece, despite being rendered half alive and the work of everyone on the cast and crew being distorted. As the years rolled on, it became apparent how RKO had let the film down, especially as filmmaking sensibilities shifted to appreciate Welles’s grim vision. For one, the audience responses weren’t as negative as RKO made it seem. Though the initial responses were mixed, a second test-screening of the same rough cut was overwhelmingly positive, as evidenced by an audience member writing, “No word at my command can express the emotion that this story aroused in me.” RKO did not forward these enthusiastic responses to Welles. By the time more production issues and deception came to light, it was too little too late. RKO destroyed the rough cut to make more space for their other productions, and Welles’s reels of “Ambersons” were lost in Brazil.
What remained of “Ambersons” was the memory of it, one that became a victim to the sands of time, leaving in its passing the ghostly whispers of what could have been. Perhaps, the great tragedy here is the inherent irony of it: A film that was supposed to be about how the rich and powerful get forgotten was instead what had slowly been forgotten by the hands of a greedy, close-minded studio.
The production story of “Ambersons” ends here. A cheap ending, just like the one RKO forced onto the film. Half of a story with no arc, no oomph. It’s a rather anti-climactic conclusion … or so, many thought.
This image is from the official trailer for Brian Rose’s Ambersons Project.
In bullfighting, there isn’t just the bull and the torero. There’s an audience, too. The ready crowds roar “Olé!” if they approve of the torero’s performance, and if they want to spare the bull, the audience waves their handkerchiefs before its supposed death. Bullfighting is a vulgar spectacle, but not without its formalities. Film is no different. In fact, audiences have huge sway in what gets pumped out by the studios — more today than ever before.
Look no further than Zack Snyder’s (“Man of Steel”) “Justice League,” which, like “Ambersons,” had been refilmed and reduced to standard Hollywood paltry in the wake of Snyder’s unexpected tragedy. It was only thanks to the pressure of fans did Snyder’s version come to life. The rise of social media has contributed to advocacy, but the internet has also allowed DIY culture to flourish, especially for film. Fan edits for films are everywhere, but there are a select few fans who go the extra mile. Petr “Harmy” Harmáček, for instance, has been reconstructing the original Star Wars trilogy since 2010. After George Lucas (“Star Wars”) added in shoddy special effects to the franchise’s home release — a decision which Harmy deemed “an act of cultural vandalism” — he has been hard at work, bringing back the Star Wars he grew up with. For “Ambersons,” the person to correct RKO’s act of vandalism is Brian Rose (“ReConnect”).
Rose is an accomplished filmmaker in his own right, and since 2019, he has been reconstructing “Ambersons” as test audiences in 1941 had seen it, as Welles would have wanted it. Despite the missing footage, the original film is well-documented. Armed with the original storyboards as well as its script, Rose used animation and voice actors to recreate the lost footage. His labor of love was finally completed in 2024, a solo endeavor that unfortunately may not see a theatrical release because the property rights regarding his reconstruction are hazy.
Regardless, the very nature of Rose’s reconstruction raises a few questions. Firstly, is Rose’s reconstruction even Orson Welles’ film anymore? Indeed, Rose had meticulously researched “Ambersons” to make this project an academic and scholarly one, but it is still his own interpretation of what Welles laid down, consisting of Rose’s hiring of specific voice actors, his pacing of each scene, his specific animation choices, etc. If his reconstruction were somehow completely accurate, we run into another question: Is Welles’s film still lost? The question is similar to the ship of Theseus paradox, which asks whether an object that has all its components replaced is still the same object. Here, despite the replacement being animation, does its existence resuscitate Welles’s “Ambersons”? And then, there’s the question of whether Welles’s intended film was that good to begin with. Perhaps its splendor had been blown out of proportion by a small group of mournful fans, growing larger as the memory of Welles’s “Ambersons” died and became myth.
While all these questions were swirling in my head, an even greater irony about “Ambersons” hit me: No one cares about “Ambersons” anymore. That was the central theme of the original film, and now it’s being played out. Nearly 82 years have passed since the release of “Ambersons,” and no one who had worked on the film is still alive. The media attention for Rose’s reconstruction is relegated to a few dedicated fans, and that’s about it. If there were more people who cared, then Rose wouldn’t have been steering a one-man ship, unsure of whether his project infringed on property rights.
There have been numerous attempts to reconstruct “Ambersons” in the past — even Welles tried to refilm the second half in 1970. That project never got off the ground because time, that delicate thing, waits for no one. It will pass us by, desert us, leave us wanting. By 1970, it was simply too late. The “trouble picture” that had once stirred test audiences slowly became less troubling as the culture shifted. No one was clamoring to revive a relic of the past. Rose’s 2024 reconstruction leaves “Ambersons” in an even weirder spot than Welles’s attempt in 1970. Rose has now brought back a film that was ahead of its time in a world where it is so far behind the times, where its political commentary may seem scant.
They say that there are two deaths, one where we physically die and the other when everyone forgets about us. “Ambersons” had suffered the first two, as it was half-dead and mostly forgotten about. But Rose’s resurrection has brought up another, more “timeless” death: one where no one even acknowledges our existence. A bullfight where only a few aficionados watch, where no crowd erupts with “Olé,” where no one tearfully waves their handkerchiefs. A death that occurs when we aren’t dead.
The intended ending of Welles’s “Ambersons” alludes to this fate. It’s a gloomy scene with minimal dialogue: Two of the main characters, now in their old age, have seen the wealthy Ambersons family dwindle into obscurity. They sit by a fire, and they don’t say much to each other. Nothing much needs to be said. They both know the raw deal. They know nothing can be done. And so, they sit. Their chairs rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Time takes no prisoners.
This is an image of Orson Welles on set for a Paul Masson Wine commercial, courtesy of Peter Shillingford
So, why do I tell you all this?
Because we’re all in this bullring of entertainment. It’s a vulgar spectacle: Artists get chewed up and spat out, and then forgotten. But we are part of the show. We wave the handkerchiefs, we yell “Olé,” we buy the tickets. We can support the bards, the magicians and the boy wonders. We have the power to bring box office flops like “The Big Lebowski” or “Blade Runner 2049” back into the mainstream or turn panned films into cult classics — like “Jennifer’s Body,” “Showgirls,” “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Audiences have the power to bring back Snyder’s stolen “Justice League,” and some of us can reconstruct lost films, even when no one bats an eye.
I don’t expect anyone to care about “Ambersons” more than they did before. But its production encapsulates how studios can destroy the artist and their art, especially when they’re unfettered by the public. Welles was never the same after “Ambersons.” He once glumly said, “They (RKO) destroyed Ambersons, and it destroyed me.” Until the day he died, Welles worked himself tirelessly, starring in wine ads and dozens of random films that he could not care a lick about. Why? Because he was done with studios, because he wanted to finance his own films and be able to tell his story.
“Ambersons” has been buried in three different ways: mutilated, forgotten and ignored. Rose’s effort is more likely than not a failed resurgence, an act of preservation too far removed from the film’s time period to have any cultural impact. And that’s the result of RKO having sealed the film’s fate 82 years ago — when audiences didn’t have the power to protest it. When studios ruin art, no one wins.
While studios back then had a heavier hand in altering films, it’s not as though the same practices don’t exist today. They’re just wearing mittens now. Despite the potential movement toward bolder films, most movies in theaters are still sanitized and neutered. Our art has become a victim to the profit-first content machine, and we’re all worse for the wear when our corporate overlords feed us mindless schlock. If we care about the expression of our art, we don’t need to wait for time to pass and help great works resurge again — we run the risk of letting time decide the film’s fate. For every “Blade Runner 2049” or “The Big Lebowski,” there are hundreds of other films that don’t have the chance to curry public favor. Let’s not make the same mistake again. We have the power today — with our wallets, with our online presence — to support films with diverse casts, with strong political messages, with a steady, beating heart.
“Ambersons” is a cautionary tale. It’s a tragedy about how a studio killed a film. It’s also a story about how audiences lacked the means to protest cultural vandalism — until it was too late. Today, we have the handkerchiefs. Let’s spare the bull next time.
Daily Arts Writer Ben Luu can be reached at benllv@umich.edu.
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