Me and Orson Welles (2009)

Before Orson Welles created one of the greatest film masterpieces of all time, Citizen Kane — and before he made headlines across the country for his infamous radio broadcast of The War Of The Worlds — he caused a sensation on Broadway when his Mercury Theatre debuted with a legendary staging of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Performed on a nearly bare stage, in modern dress and military-style uniforms, the production evoked parallels with the fascist dictatorships then on the rise in Europe. This famous theatrical production is the subject of Me And Orson Welles, where we learn that Julius Caesar isn’t the only dictator treading the boards of the stage.

The film centers on Richard (Zac Efron), a moony-eyed 17-year-old high school student who dreams of acting, or, at least, of some sort of arts-related future. Even in New York City, those were high aspirations for 1937, as the nation was in the grip of the Great Depression.

Richard rides the train into Manhattan, meets a kindred soul (Zoe Kazan) in a music store, and then investigates the sidewalk commotion caused by a ragtag group of actors awaiting their director. When Mr. Welles (Christian McKay) makes his commanding entrance and inquires of the newcomer in their midst, Richard manages to impress him with an impromptu display of his talents, along with more than a little ego-stroking. The Mercury’s production of Julius Caesar opens in a week, and, conveniently, Welles has just fired the actor playing Lucius.

Richard is thrust into a theatrical whirlwind, intensely coached on both his role and the interpersonal dynamics of life within the Mercury Players by Sonja (Claire Danes at her most radiant), the office manager and Mr. Welles’ assistant. Richard hits it off with her, much to the chagrin and amusement of two of his fellow cast members and future stars, jokester Norman Lloyd (Leo Bill) and womanizer Joseph Cotten (James Tupper). But these two are a cakewalk compared to their compulsively driven dynamo of a boss.

At the mere age of 22, Orson Welles is already a visionary director with this bold, expressionistic rendition of a classic tragedy. His wide-ranging knowledge is remarkable. He’s talented enough to improvise an entire monologue in the middle of a radio drama he hasn’t even read yet. He’s larger than life, traversing the city using an ambulance for a limousine. He’s also a tyrant inside the theatre, barking directions at the cast even as he rehearses with them in his role of Brutus. He’s coached the cast and crew with a code phrase should his pregnant wife unexpectedly appear while he’s trying to score with his leading lady. He vociferously argues with his partner and co-founder, John Houseman (Eddie Marsan); his weak-willed Marc Antony, George Coulouris (Ben Chaplin); and even the poor set designer whose name has been left out of the playbill thanks to the director’s massive ego. “You don’t like the way I work here, there’s the door!” Welles bellows. Yet no one leaves, even though they’ve been berated and paid next to nothing. Why? Because it’s obvious that he’s brilliant and destined for greatness.

Adapted from a work of fiction based on real-life events, Me And Orson Welles is at its weakest when dealing with the framing device of Richard’s life and relationships. Even though he’s the “Me” in the title, we only get a faint smattering of details about Richard’s background, family, or school life. From the moment Gretta appears, her story arc is predictable, and her scenes with Richard are awkwardly written and slow the film’s momentum. Conversely, Richard and Sonja suffer from too much chemistry together — Efron and Danes are attractive people in likable roles, and it’s odd when she has to be more mature than him, name-dropping luminaries like Broadway critic Brooks Atkinson and film producer David O. Selznick. Their storyline grows predictable, too, but not enough to bring the film down.

Director Richard Linklater (Dazed And Confused, School Of Rock) does an admirable job crafting this period film on a smaller budget. The outdoor scenes are skillfully staged without wide angles to avoid extensive (and expensive) art direction — though the real Orson Welles might have taken umbrage at that very idea.

Like his titular antihero, Linklater makes his best magic happen inside the theatre. We see actors crawling beneath trap doors, and occasionally falling into them; the music conductor trying to decipher the director’s cues; an actress vainly obsessed with her lighting; misplaced props, nerve-wracked actors, full-blown disasters, and the rarely heralded stage manager who, as any actor will tell you, is the real hero of every theatrical show. Linklater delivers these details with a behind-the-scenery authenticity I haven’t seen since Albert Finney’s classic The Dresser. It’s wonderful to see these too-brief recreations of pivotal moments from this progenitor of many future modernist restagings of Shakespeare and other works, and they still seem fresh and captivating more than 70 years later.

Christian McKay is the most noteworthy part of the film, thanks to his eerily perfect portrayal of Orson Welles. McKay has the man down pat, in looks, voice, and, most importantly, in attitude. He’s effortlessly magnetic every moment he’s on screen, as Welles was himself. It’s not merely an impersonation, however, but a fully shaded performance. McKay deftly handles more intimate moments, particularly when he discusses the book that will later become Welles’ cinematic disaster, The Magnificent Ambersons. Likewise, James Tupper channels Joseph Cotten so well that it seems he just stepped off the set of The Third Man.

Me And Orson Welles is tinged with sappiness and occasionally burdened by excessive talk of the arts. But when it stops talking and actually shows this unique artistic genius at work, that’s when the film rises to another level.