Impersonation or performance? When larger-than-life historical figures -- particularly those in the entertainment biz -- get the inevitable big screen, based on true events treatment, that question almost always lingers. The answer is frequently somewhere between the two not-so extremes. As far as nailing a dead-on impersonation of Orson Welles on film, Vincent D'Onofrio and Maurice LaMarche may still take the cake (however brief a portrayal it may have been).
But in Me and Orson Welles -- a film based on the novel by Robert Kaplow -- British stage actor Christian McKay fleshes out everything Orson, from the gestures and vocal inflections down to the director/actor's burning passion and bombastic ego. That McKay is quite a few years too old to look exactly like a 22-year-old Welles circa his Julius Caesar days is irrelevant. The actor lives and breathes Welles, and fortunately, he's not alone in his fervor and dedication.
Rather than striving for a sweeping statement on art or even the particular artist in question, Me and Orson Welles wears its love for all things cinematic and theatrical on its sleeve. In taking a fictional account of the Mercury's Julius Caesar, director Richard Linklater and screenwriters Holly Gent Palmo and Vincent Palmo Jr. have the freedom to give an incredibly convincing look at young Welles through the eyes of an even younger aspiring actor.
Zac Effron Holds His Own Against Claire Daines, McKay and the Rest of the Mercury Theatre Gang
If Zac Effron is really trying to hang up those High School Musical shoes and play with the big boys, the role of Richard Samuels in Me and Orson Welles was a perfect choice for the transition. A street-wise high-school kid with musical/theatrical/literary aspirations, Samuels charms his way into the part of Lucius in the Mercury's debut, a radical imagining of Julius Caesar reflecting the rise of fascism in 1937. When he starts flirting with theatre hand Sonja Jones (Claire Danes), a young woman with big career aspirations, it looks as if Me and Orson could be headed toward the same old coming-of-age arch.
Young kid gets integrated into the business, gets corrupted, chewed up and spit out, changes (or changes those around him), learns lesson, wins the girl, the end. And sure, the film does more than a few of these notes, but never without impact and reason. Effron's sense of wonderment with the world of Welles and the Mercury -- and subsequent, the camera's reverential portrayal of both -- transfers right into the audience. As he gazes from the wings, watching the revolutionary unfolding of Welles's Caesar or Welles's work on CBS radio, we too are transported directly into this privileged position, where the process and the artistic product merge into one.
Welles, ever the genius and tyrant, is neither given the pedestal nor the wagging finger by Linklater and the Joneses. He is, as imagined by McKay, a tragic figure. Reading an excerpt from The Magnificent Ambersons -- the first of many future adaptations a studio would rip from Welles's hands -- McKay inhabits this towering figure and brings him to the most basic level that Samuels can connect to: just another appreciator of art.
Linklater Makes For An Inspired Choice of Director for Me and Orson Welles
For the entirety of Linklater's career, the Texas-born director has split the difference between his ultra low-budget indie fare and studio work, following a bit of the old "one for you, one for me" formula. Nothing in his filmography makes him a logical choice for Me and Orson Welles, aside from his general talent, and Linklater completely disappears into the material. His pacing is here is air tight as is his command of the ensemble, which includes wonderfully-cast Mercury personalities Joseph Cotton (James Tupper), John Houseman (Eddie Marsan), George Coulouris (Ben Chaplin) and Norman Lloyd (Leo Bill).
To capture the color and spirit of Mercury, Linklater could not have done any better than getting cinematographer Dick Pope on board, who not so coincidentally shot another modern theatre-based classic, Mike Leigh's Topsy-Turvy. 1930s New York has a lovely period gloss to it, but perhaps the greatest visual feat pulled off by Linklater/Pope is the recreation of the Caesar stage design.
In the opening performance scenes toward the end, the cast and crew "nail it to the back of the theatre" as Welles demands of his actors (which begs the questions, just how much of Caesar did Linklater shoot and can we expect to see more of it on future home video releases?). It's the perfect exclamation point to the whole film, which by nature, renders the finally wrapping up of all loose ends a little less compelling. If undoubtedly predictable, Samuels's encounters with an aspiring young writer (Zoe Kazan) serve as an appropriate breather away from the Mercury action, a glimpse at normality away from the fury and excitement of working in Welles's shadow.
No mere cautionary love tale, Me and Orson lays down all that is spectacular and awful about show business, making no apologies along the way.
Join the Conversation