Orson Welles “physically” despised Woody Allen: “I dislike that kind of man”
One of the most innovative masterminds of Hollywood’s Golden Age, Orson Welles will be remembered for centuries to come among cinema’s formative alchemists. Welles’ directional debut, Citizen Kane, was released in May 1941, just before his 26th birthday. The movie’s progressive narrative structure and cinematographic approach earned it a rightful place as one of celluloid’s most cherished artefacts.
Although Citizen Kane was critically favoured, a dissatisfactory promotional campaign led to net losses at the box office. Undeterred, the famously forthright and resilient actor and auteur pushed on to become one of his generation’s most successful and respected filmmakers, with subsequent accomplishments including The Stranger, The Lady from Shanghai, Touch of Evil, The Trial and Chimes at Midnight.
Throughout his career, Welles grappled with the abrasion inevitable in such a lofty position, whether from the critics or fellow filmmakers. Hence, he developed a thick skin and took great pleasure in criticising his peers with whom he couldn’t get along, either personally or artistically. To many, Welles was the original film rebel—the kind of auteur who didn’t so much defy the rules as barely even knew that they existed. A whirlwind of charm, arrogance, and unrelenting brilliance, Welles was the boy wonder, the bad boy on the air who convinced America that the Martians were here and made the film that would haunt all the directors who came after him.
Fast-forward a few years to the 1960s, and riding the wave of cinematic brilliance that had come before him, a new director named Woody Allen rose to prominence with a series of widely acclaimed comedy movies, beginning in 1965 with What’s New Pussycat? As an actor and director, Allen enjoyed reverence from peers and fans alike, but Welles never bought it for a second.
In a 1983 interview with fellow director Henry Jaglom, Welles revealed that he had a rather feverish reaction to being in the presence of Woody Allen. Not only was he sceptical of Allen’s approach to comedy, but he was vehemently averse to the hungry ego it served.
“I hate Woody Allen physically; I dislike that kind of man,” he said. Adding: “Oh yes, I can hardly bear to talk to him. He has the Chaplin disease. That particular combination of arrogance and timidity sets my teeth on edge.”
Jaglom countered Welles’ assertions, suggesting that Allen was a shy man and, therefore, surely couldn’t be labelled as arrogant. “He is arrogant,” Welles persisted in retort. “Like all people with timid personalities, his arrogance is unlimited. Anybody who speaks quietly and shrivels up in company is unbelievably arrogant. He acts shy, but he’s not. He’s scared. He hates himself, and he loves himself, a very tense situation. It’s people like me who have to carry on and pretend to be modest.”
Humouring Welles’ assertion, Jaglom suggested Allen was perhaps an indulgent creative who took himself too seriously despite the comedic nature of his movies.
“Very seriously,” Welles concurred. “I think his movies show it. To me, it’s the most embarrassing thing in the world: a man who presents himself at his worst to get laughs in order to free himself from his hang-ups. Everything he does on the screen is therapeutic.”
Welles’ hatred for Allen appears a tad overzealous for a reaction to art. Ostensibly, more was at play on a personal level between the filmmakers, but then again, Welles was notoriously hostile toward many of his peers, with similarly unyielding appraisals voiced for Alfred Hitchcock and Jean-Luc Godard.
