Citizen Kane () Movie Script. Read the Citizen Kane full movie script online. SS is dedicated to The Simpsons and host to thousands of free TV show. The Citizen Kane script is the most important screenplay of all time, said Leila Dunbar, are featured in the article entitled, 'Welles and the Cameraman' [PDF]. Citizen Kane – June 18, final draft script by Orson Welles, Herman J. Mankiewicz – hosted by: Cinephilia and Beyond – in pdf format.
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CITIZEN KANE by. Herman J. Mankiewicz. &. Orson Welles. PROLOGUE. FADE IN: EXT. XANADU - FAINT DAWN - (MINIATURE). Window, very small in. Simply the largest collection of pdf screenplays. , , ] · CITIZEN KANE () [aka American] [p. 29] · Cityofthegods · City of joy · Clash Of The Titans. Citizen Kane script by Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson echecs16.info - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online.
It is something I had never realized before you pointed it out! Also, it's sort of amazing in getting such a mother lode of Orson Welles's scripts thrown into our laps all at once! What a treasure trove! And where do you begin! Well, the one thing that has struck me about all these scripts is how long they all are, and how much great material they contain that never actually made it to the screen. Why would they do this?
Just imagine if they decided to change the shots in a movie to make it "easier to read. The page numbers on the script are often crossed out, so they may not be totally accurate, but it still seems likely to be the longest script Welles wrote. Roger Ryan can probably tell us more, and compare it to the Criterion script that appeared on the Laserdisc edition.
I have a version that runs to pages. The final movie ran only 95 minutes. No wonder Welles thought it was a disaster, and the worse movie he ever directed! Thanks to Sam Spiegel for all his support. Yet the final movie only runs 87 minutes! Gone are all the wonderfully pieces that would have not only totally explained the plot to Harry Cohn, but given it texture and characterization.
Also missing: the beautiful soundtrack effects that Welles indicates in some detail in his script, where, in just one instance , a cross dissolve between a car horn would be taken up by a telephone ringing. My God, can you just imagine if Welles had convinced Harry Cohn to hire Bernard Herrmann to score this film, instead of the hack composer they eventually used!
Some of the conversation was written before; a lot of it was invented on the set and two or three days before, during rehearsal. PB: Just how important was [Herman J. It was enormous. PB: You want to talk about him? I loved him. People did. He was much admired, you know. PB: Except for his part in the writing of Kane. OW: Oh, the hell with lists—a lot of bad writers have wonderful credits. PB: Can you explain that?
The lucky bad writers got good directors who could write. Some of these, like Hawks and McCarey, wrote very well indeed. The big-studio system often made writers feel like second-class citizens, no matter how good the money was. They laughed it off, of course, and provided a good deal of the best fun—when Hollywood, you understand, was still a funny place. But basically, you know, a lot of them were pretty bitter and miserable. And nobody was more miserable, more bitter, and funnier than Mank,.
PB: How did the story of Kane begin? Basically, the idea Rashomon used later on. Mank liked it, so we started searching for the man it was going to be about. But we got pretty quickly to the press lords. OW: The actual writing came only after lots of talk, naturally,. PB: What about the Rashomon idea?
OW: It withered away from what was originally intended. I wanted the man to seem a very different person depending on who was talking about him.
More than a bit. PB: I read the script that went into production. In the script, Kane is arrogant and rather nasty to the typesetter. How did that evolve? OW: Well, all he had was charm—besides the money. Certainly not love; he was raised by a bank, remember. He uses charm the way such people often do. Charlie Kane was a man-eater. PB: Well, why was it in the script the other way? OW: I found out more about the character as I went along.
PB: And what were the reactions of Mankiewicz to these changes? OW: Well, he only came once to the set for a visit. Or, just maybe, it was twice. There are not enough standard movie conventions being observed including too few closeups and very little evidence of action. It is too much like a play, says Mr. PB: Before shooting began, how were differences about the script worked out between you?
So, after mutual agreements on story line and character, Mank went off with Houseman and did his version, while I stayed in Hollywood and wrote mine. At the end, naturally, I was the one who was making the picture, after all—who had to make the decisions. PB: How did your partnership work in the Mercury? And that, in a way, was his function with Mank for that six or eight weeks of their separate preparation for Kane.
In the theater, he was the business, and also, you might say, the political, boss. That last was important, particularly in the WPA. I owe him much. Leave it at that. Was a thing like that done in the preparatory stages? OW: Yes, but the last preparatory stages—we were already rehearsing. PB: It has the beautiful economy of segue-ing on a radio show. OW: Yes, in a way, except faster than you could on radio. OW: That was invented after we shot it. PB: As a counterpoint?
I kind of based the whole scene around that song. We got some kind of lowdown New Orleans voice—but it was his number and his trio. PB: How did you work with Bernard Herrmann on the score? OW: Very intimately, as I always did for many years on radio.
Almost note for note. Benny Herrmann was an intimate member of the family. It was a delightful pastiche. From a telegram sent by Welles to Herrmann on July 18, , just a few days before shooting began on Kane: Opera sequence is early in shooting, so must have fully orchestrated recorded track before shooting.
Therefore suggest it be original. Suggest Salammbo [sic] which gives us phony production scene of ancient Rome and Carthage, and Susie can dress like grand opera neoclassic courtesan.
Here is a chance for you to do something witty and amusing—and now is the time for you to do it. I love you dearly. PB: When we go to Mrs. OW: Typical radio device. We used to do that all the time. That music is very good right there. Was a thing like that in the script? It was worked out later, of course. OW: The idea for the way it ended was contributed by our prop man. His name was Red.
We were just going to go up to them looking disgusted or something. Anyway, it was a big contribution. We had a couple of spies on the set, as I told you, but everyone else hated them, so they were completely in quarantine. We said we were making tests, because I had never directed a picture. Because we wanted to get started and be already into it before anybody knew about it.
What about a shot like the one after Susan has tried to commit suicide? Did you have to use an outsized bottle in order to hold focus? OW: No, it was just an ordinary, standard size. OW: You bet. It was a very dark scene until the door opens and I come in—and then you see this ID bracelet I had on by accident because I had a girlfriend who made me wear it. Every time I think of that scene, I think of my reaching down and you see this awful love charm—nothing at all to do with Kane.
PB: I never noticed it. You must have cursed yourself watching the rushes.
PB: I guess one always remembers the little things that nobody in the world would notice. OW: It glitters on the screen! He was superb. You know how I happened to get to work with Gregg? He asked me who did the lighting. I want to work with somebody who never made a movie. Behind me, of course, Gregg was balancing the lights and telling everybody 32 Peter Bogdanovich to shut their faces.
OW: Yes! And he had this extraordinary crew—his own men. You never heard a sound on a Toland set, except what came from the actors or the director. There was never a voice raised, only signs given. Almost Germanic, it was so hushed. Everybody wore neckties. Sounds depressing, but we had a jazz combo to keep our spirits up. With all his discipline, he was easygoing, and quite a swinger off the set.
PB: How did you get along with him after you found out that lighting was his job? OW: Wonderfully. I started asking for lots of strange, new things—depth-of-focus and so on.
PB: An elementary question: why did you want so much depthof-focus? OW: Well, in life you see everything in focus at the same time, so why not in the movies? We used split-screen sometimes, but mostly a wide-angle lens, lots of juice, and stopped way the hell down. OW: Of course not. Christ, he was the greatest gift any director—young or old—could ever, ever have. And he never tried to impress us that he was doing any miracles.
He just went ahead and performed them. I was calling for things only a beginner would have been ig- Interview with Orson Welles 33 norant enough to think anybody could ever do, and there he was, doing them. Well, that was Gregg for you—that was how big he was. OW: Up till then, cameramen were listed with about eight other names.
Nobody those days—only the stars, the director, and the producer—got separate cards. PB: What made you put on so many ceilings? OW: The simple thing is that movies still go on telling lies. You can hardly go into a room without seeing a ceiling, and I believe the camera ought to show what the eyes see normally looking at something. Not because I thought the ceiling in itself had anything beautiful to say.
But there are an awful lot of dull interiors—Kane is 34 Peter Bogdanovich full of them—which are by their nature not very interesting and which look better when the camera is low. I think I overdid it. PB: In the big scene between Kane and Leland after Kane loses the election, the whole thing is from an extreme low angle. PB: What was the purpose? I think that really called for the camera being there. And, of course, it was very low. I had fallen down the stairs in the scene where I threw Gettys out, and I was limping around in a steel brace.
Anyway, I wanted it like a big, kind of mythical encounter between the two. OW: Then. For my money. He does that, too, I believe. PB: He sometimes draws a little sketch for the cameraman. PB: Then it must be inconceivable to you, the idea of covering a scene from many different angles, as many directors do. Though I think the absolutely solid camera sense is not a sign of a great director. I think you can be a very great director and have only a very vague notion of what the camera does at all.
I happen to think I have total mastery of the camera. And everything else is doubtful to me. I never consult the operator or anything. There it is. PB: Was it that way on Kane, too? PB: Right away? OW: Right away. Where the camera goes. OW: Well, on Kane, I walked away once early in the morning— just quit for the day—and went home. Made a big scandal. I just had no idea what to do. Came back the next day. PB: What was the scene?
He was named, by the way, after the father of the wife of Roger Hill, my teacher at Todd. And I just went away. PB: When you came back, it worked? OW: Yeah. But I think that scene is a little overstated, visually. It shows some kind of insecurity, I think, visually. I can see it now. It came from that moment of doubt. You have to be absolutely on top of it. Or pay no attention to it.
One of the two. OW: It happened that way in rehearsal and then it was performed. He was that tired because he had to go to New York to join the road tour of The Philadelphia Story, which he originated on the stage.
PB: Well, Ambersons is much more relaxed. OW: Much. A sort of inhibition—which you combated by being daring to the point of self-consciousness at the time.
I stopped trying after Kane. PB: Well, OK. It came as a terrible shock. I kicked out at my little playmates and got black eyes for it. How wrong I was. What a name to be born with and not use—George Orson Welles! PB: All of it? You trust people with three names. PB: Were you named after someone? OW: George Ade, the great American humorist. Orson is a family name—descending so the legend goes from the Orsinis.
I hesitated, fearing old Mr. Wells would suspect my motives. But as a twelveyear-old I had my pride. I admired and loved him, but he was bitterly opposed to my interest in music and painting and everything like that. Because of her I was a sort of Wunderkind of music: a child conductor, violinist, pianist.
Then, when I was nine, she died. And why did you give that name to the character in Kane? PB: Sorry. OW: [laughs] That was a family joke. He was nothing like the character in the movie. I sketched out the character in our preliminary sessions—Mank did all the best writing for Bernstein.
He was practically my uncle, too. PB: Did you tell Stevens the character was based on him? I sent him the script before we began, of course, and while he was visiting me on the coast, I brought him on the set during shooting. Later he saw the movie and thought the old man would be thrilled by it. As it turned out, after Kane was released, Ashton was forbidden by his Hearst editors to even mention my name.
My father and Hearst were only close as young swingers. A gentleman. PB: Getting back to your guardian, Dr. OW: Well, he was an enormously important element in my life. But we seldom had the same tastes in anything.
Read them. Enjoy them. Act them. Shakespeare might not be surprised to know that his plays are still bringing money to producers and fame to actors throughout the world.
Put Shakespeare where he belongs—on the stage. OW: Roger is now eighty-something, runs a chartering service in Florida, and he helped me with the boats on The Deep when I shot in the Bahamas. PB: Todd School? He was the son of the owner. When I was there, he was the athletics coach. He only became the headmaster after I left. PB: How old were you? PB: And he? I wanted to be like him. PB: Or your father? OW: Or my father. My father was a very strange man. Great wit and great raconteur.
I got through school because I paid a boy called Guggenheim to take that sort of drudgery off my shoulders.
For a fee, Guggenheim did most of the paperwork on Latin declensions and geometry. I graduated magna cum laude. PB: I read in the Alva Johnston pieces in the Saturday Evening Post [January 20, 27, February 3, ] that you never wanted to be a child—that you wanted to escape childhood. PB: Have you ever wanted to return? OW: To childhood? OW: Because it was my reading primer. OW: Johnston wrote that I was. In fact, I believe I achieved literacy somewhat later on in life.
He got that, I suppose, from 42 Peter Bogdanovich Dr. Bernstein, who gilded the lily pretty thickly. I was a musician, all right, but as to book learning, I think I was rather backward. PB: Were you really a bad student in school? OW: All three years of it.
I attacked the textbooks rather than mastered them. I led student revolutions—comic ones.