Criterion Collection - Online Cinematheque

The following essay originally appeared in The Logic of Images, a collection of Wim Wenders’s writing that was published in 1992.

In the last few years, since Paris, Texas, Berlin has been the place where I’ve stopped off. I started to feel at home there, in spite of the fact that I see the city with the eyes of someone who’s spent a lot of time away.

Up until now, the stories in my films were always told from the point of view of a main character. This time, I rejected the idea of some returning hero who rediscovers Berlin and Germany for himself. I couldn’t imagine the character through whose eyes I would see Berlin; such a person could only have been another version of myself. Besides, Travis had been a man returning to a city.

I really don’t know what gave me the idea of angels. One day I wrote “angels” in my notebook, and the next day “the unemployed.” Maybe it was because I was reading Rilke at the time—nothing to do with films—and realizing as I read how much of his writing is inhabited by angels. Reading Rilke every night, perhaps I got used to the idea of angels being around.

After a while, I began to doubt whether it would amount to a film. I tried to push the idea away, but it was never quite extinguished.  

Wings of Desire

Wim Wenders

1987

127 min

Color & Black and White

1.66:1

The following, written in 1986, is from the first treatment for Wings of Desire.

And we, spectators always, everywhere,

looking at, never out of, everything!
—Rilke, “The Eighth Elegy”

At first it’s not possible to describe anything beyond a wish or a desire.

That’s how it begins, making a film, writing a book, painting a picture, composing a tune, generally creating something.

You have a wish.

You wish that something might exist, and then you work on it until it does. You want to give something to the world, something truer, more beautiful, more painstaking, more serviceable, or simply something other than what already exists. And right at the start, simultaneous with the wish, you imagine what that “something other” might be like, or at least you see something flash by. And then you set off in the direction of the flash, and you hope you don’t lose your orientation, or forget or betray the wish you had at the beginning.

And in the end, you have a picture or pictures of something, you have music, or something that operates in some new way, or a story, or this quite extraordinary combination of all these things: a film. Only with a film—as opposed to paintings, novels, music, or inventions—you have to present an account of your desire; more, you even have to describe in advance the path you want to go with your film. No wonder, then, that so many films lose their first flash, their comet.

The thing I wished for and saw flashing was a film in and about Berlin.

A film that might convey something of the history of the city since 1945. A film that might succeed in capturing what I miss in so many films that are set here, something that seems to be so palpably there when you arrive in Berlin: a feeling in the air and under your feet and in people’s faces that makes life in this city so different from life in other cities.  

Wings of Desire

Wim Wenders

1987

127 min

Color & Black and White

1.66:1

We’ve pieced together comments from production designer Donald Burt and property master Hope Parrish of working with the supermeticulous and precise David Fincher on perfecting the atmosphere and historical accuracy of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You can click here for a closer look at one particular aspect of Parrish’s astonishing work: Benjamin’s postcards and diary. And our special edition DVD and Blu-ray releases feature hours of interviews and behind-the-scenes footage exploring the Academy Award–winning visual effects.

Donald Burt: Working with David is rewarding because he is so very detail oriented—and always for the purpose of the story. He absolutely knows his film and is able to clearly articulate it. It is a wonderful experience to work with a director so committed to his vision and with a passionate work ethic.

Hope Parrish: I think that one of the reasons I love to work with David Fincher is that he is so meticulous. As I said in a Christmas letter two years ago, David pushes me beyond best. He has an amazing eye for detail. I am not always sure when I have nailed it, but he lets me know when he says, “We’re done.” He sometimes can be a real challenge for me, but he has hired me to make it happen for him and his film. This was my second film for him, and each time I know I walked away having learned more from him. To me, he is a prop master’s dream.

Donald Burt: Our initial visual approach to the film was based on historical research of scripted locales, within specific time periods. Restraint was as important as consistent tonality in representing the passage of time visually in the film. We were especially conscious with the set dressing and propping in this regard, not wanting to proliferate sets with objects that blatantly reflected an era but rather to have a “progressive mix” of elements that would show a change in period without disregarding the history of things that are carried through life. We also wanted to maintain a certain mundaneness to this expression, so as to keep it very real and subtle. This approach was particularly important in portraying New Orleans in the story. New Orleans is very much a city of suspended time, not only socially but visually. It was important for us to keep the visual language of the film simple and consistent.  

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

David Fincher

2008

165 min

Color

2.40:1

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button property master Hope Parrish writes: “When it came to the postcards and the diary, David was involved every step of the way. I found hundreds of postcards that he narrowed down to the ones he liked: we had them for Caroline’s birthdays over the years, and then the postcards in the box with ribbon from Benjamin to Daisy. Each was handpicked, and the messages on the back of them needed to be in Brad’s handwriting (something the audience doesn’t actually see, but it was great for Julia as a working tool to help her with her performance), which artist Jules Kmetzko managed to copy perfectly. She also did all the writing in the book. It was a very long process. But David saw updates and added or changed little things as it grew. It was important that the diary had layers. I had the diary made from scratch. Once David signed off on the writing and images, I had the pages bound, and then the real fun part of my work began: aging it and putting all the bits and bobbles in."  

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

David Fincher

2008

165 min

Color

2.40:1

When science fiction guru Forrest J Ackerman died last December, he was remembered for many firsts. Born November 24, 1916, Ackerman (known as Forry by fans and friends) purchased his first science fiction magazine in 1926. He founded the first science fiction fan group (the Boys’ Scientifiction Club) in 1929, and wrote for the genre’s first fanzine (The Time Traveler) in 1932. That same year, he published the first known list of fantastic films (thirty-four titles). Forry printed Ray Bradbury’s first story in 1938, and in 1954 coined the term sci-fi. Working with publisher James Warren in 1969, Ackerman created the iconic comic book character Vampirella—a bloodsucking femme fatale from outer space.

But it was Forry’s editorship of Warren’s Famous Monsters of Filmland that knocked the earth from its axis and spun it into an entirely new dimension. Published from 1958 to 1983, “the world’s first filmonster magazine” inspired generations of young moviemakers and ushered horror fandom into the mainstream. Filled with behind-the-scenes articles, rare photos, and Ackerman’s trademark puns (“You Axed for It!” was the title of a regular feature), Famous Monsters was the Cahiers du cinéma for fright flicks. George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Guillermo del Toro all count the magazine as an influence, and thousands of other “monster kids” spent their adolescence experimenting with stop-motion dinosaurs and ghoulish makeup effects under Ackerman’s tutelage.

For decades, Forry gave public tours of his Los Angeles “Ackermansion”—a Taj Mahal of terror containing the world’s largest collection of sci-fi/horror memorabilia and movie props. Among his estimated fifty thousand visitors was a teenage Dennis Muren, who conspired with a group of other Famous Monsters fans to make the cult DIY creature feature Equinox (1970). Muren would later help revolutionize modern visual effects with his Oscar-winning work on films like Star Wars (1977), The Abyss (1989), and Jurassic Park (1993).

Sadly, many of Forry’s prized possessions were sold or stolen over the years, and much of what’s left will be auctioned off on April 30 and May 1. Despite his steadfast efforts to do so, Ackerman never found a permanent home for his treasure (a portion of it can be viewed at Seattle’s Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame). The myriad of marvels to be sold this week include a monocle worn by Fritz Lang during the making of Metropolis (1926), prosthetic teeth from Lon Chaney Sr.’s makeup kit, and a first American edition of Dracula, signed by Bram Stoker, Bela Lugosi, and Christopher Lee.

Some of these relics will find their way to fans eager to share them as Forry did. Others may vanish forever. But even as the Ackermansion slips into memory, monster kids of all ages know that Forrest J Ackerman will never die. The wonder-packed pages of Famous Monsters of Filmland—collected, studied, and adored to this day—endure as his living museum.

For more information on the Ackerman estate auction, click here. And watch a clip of Ackerman talking about Equinox, a film he championed in the pages of Famous Monsters (“because it showed the talents of young readers like Dennis Muren and Mark McGee” and “gave hope and inspiration to others to follow in their footsteps”), from an interview on Criterion’s 2006 release.

Equinox

Jack Woods

1970

82 min

Color

1.33:1

Fifty years ago today . . .

Godard wrote this New Wave battle cry for the April 22, 1959, issue of the French journal Arts, on the news of François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows being selected to represent France at the Cannes Film Festival (thanks to the machinations of French culture minister and New Wave champion André Malraux). The year before, Truffaut had been barred from Cannes as a critic because of his Cahiers du cinéma attacks on the festival.

As soon as the screening was over, the lights came up in the tiny auditorium. There was silence for a few moments. Then Philippe Erlanger, representing the Quai d’Orsay, leaned over to André Malraux. “Is this film really to represent France at the Cannes festival?” “Certainly, certainly.” And so the minister for cultural affairs ratified the selection committee’s decision to send to Cannes, as France’s sole official entry, François Truffaut’s first full-length feature, The 400 Blows.

What matters is that for the first time a young film has been officially designated by the powers that be to reveal the true face of the French cinema to the entire world. And what one can say of Truffaut could equally well be said of Alain Resnais, of Claude Chabrol if Les cousins had been chosen to represent France at Cannes, of Georges Franju and Head Against the Wall, of Jean-Pierre Melville and Two Men in Manhattan, of Jean Rouch and Moi, un noir. And the same words apply to other Jeans, their brothers and their masters: Renoir and his Testament du Docteur Cordelier, and Cocteau, of course, had Raoul Lévy at last made up his mind to produce Testament of Orpheus.

The face of the French cinema has changed.  

The 400 Blows

François Truffaut

1959

99 min

2.35:1

Breathless

Jean-Luc Godard

1960

90 min

Black and White

1.33:1

Writer, critic, and film lecturer Teruyo Nogami also served as one of Akira Kurosawa’s principal assistants. Hired as script supervisor on 1950’s Rashomon, Nogami went on to work on all of Kurosawa’s subsequent films, later chronicling their unique relationship in her 2001 illustrated memoir Waiting on the Weather: Making Movies with Akira Kurosawa. We asked Nogami to recall what it was like on the set of Dodes’ka-den, a film that came at a crucial point in the master filmmaker’s life. Nogami also contributed original sketches, inspired by Dodes’ka-den, for this release.

Can you tell us a few stories from the film’s production?

A lot did happen, but one episode that particularly stands out in my mind came on the first day of shooting. That was April 23, 1970. The previous year, after Kurosawa was let go as director of Twentieth Century Fox’s Tora! Tora! Tora!, a rumor got started that his mental health was deteriorating, so to lay that notion to rest he needed to make a good film. With the help of many people, now he was finally able to do that. Production got started on his first film in five years, after Red Beard, with a scene where the character Rokuchan is driving an imaginary streetcar. They rehearsed it again and again, and at last they were ready for a take. Kurosawa’s voice rang out: “Places!” Then, after a pause, “Action!” His voice had a quaver in it, even a hint of tears. When the crew and cast heard him, everyone thought, Ah, the old Kurosawa is back. The mood was electric. I’ll never forget how moving it was.

Did Kurosawa have any concerns or hesitations about working in color?

Well, Kurosawa was also a painter, you know, so of course he enjoyed the chance to use color for the first time. I remember
he told the crew to come to work in colorful clothes. He said that now that we were working in color, we might as well have a good time. For the colors on the set, he had an assistant hold a paint box while he held the brush and painted for all he was worth.  

Dodes’ka-den

Akira Kurosawa

1970

144 min

Color

1.33:1

If Dillinger is dead, who will take revenge? There were movies once that began, “Custer is dead,” in which you could reckon that a lot of Indians were going to pay the price. This bizarre film by Marco Ferreri (only just released in the United States, forty years after it was made) is a most peculiar story about the way in which one man on the brink of alienation deals with his wife and his mistress and gets away to Tahiti as a ship’s cook on a three-masted schooner.

The man is Michel Piccoli. He seems to be an executive at some chic factory that makes masks that will enable workers to function in toxic atmospheres. A colleague reads him an article asserting that the masks are a metaphor for dehumanization. Has everybody got the point?

Dillinger Is Dead was made in that disgusted blast against advertising and the modern age that is also in evidence early in Godard’s Pierrot le fou, as the film travesties the language and languor of commercials. But whereas Jean-Paul Belmondo is a forlorn fighter in Godard’s great film, desperate to hold on to love, no matter that he only believes in lost love, Piccoli here is . . . well, he’s Piccoli.  

“Let me have men about me that are fat.”
—Julius Caesar, act 1, scene 2

Just as Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe admired small, brave men who stick to their principles, I like—in the movies at least—heavyset, flamboyant types who walk and talk as if life were a poem, whether dainty or grating, lyrical or bombastic. Not least because they pose an alternative to “lean and hungry” male leads, Oliver Hardy, W. C. Fields, Orson Welles, Sydney Greenstreet, Raimu, Francis L. Sullivan, Robert Morley, Philippe Noiret, Burl Ives, and Robbie Coltrane have privileged cinema with their weighty presence.

Charles Laughton (1899–1962) would have been extraordinary whatever his girth, but ampleness lent him enormous emotional heft. The screen can barely contain him at times: when, in The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933), his disgruntled Henry bloody-mindedly mocks Tudor politesse by tossing hunks of cooked fowl over his shoulder; when his Captain Bligh, a porcine sadist who might have been drawn by the eighteenth-century cartoonist Thomas Rowlandson, tells Fletcher Christian (Clark Gable) that he’s “a mutinous dog” in Mutiny on the Bounty (1935); when his pumped-up Lancastrian bootmaker, who lords it over his daughters in Hobson’s Choice (1954), half dances home in a beery haze. Laughton harnessed his bulk to his characters’ emotions rhythmically.  

The Private Life of Henry VIII

Alexander Korda

1933

96 min

Black and White

1.33:1

Rembrandt

Alexander Korda

1936

85 min

Black and White

1.33:1

Hobson's Choice

David Lean

1954

108 min

Black and White

1.33:1

It’s a clichéd truism that moviemaking is a collaborative art. Of course it is, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of examples of directors working time and again with the same crew members, trusted writers, cameramen, production designers, editors, even costume designers, to prove it. We all know about the collaborative relationship between Fellini and Nino Rota, between Hitchcock and Bernard Herrmann. But what interests us the most is the collaboration between a director and a star. The examples are legion: Griffith and Lillian Gish; John Ford and John Wayne; Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune; Rossellini and Ingrid Bergman; Hitchcock and Cary Grant, and also James Stewart; von Sternberg and Dietrich; Antonioni and Monica Vitti; Ingmar Bergman and, it seems, every actor in Sweden (Max von Sydow, Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson, Ingrid Thulin, Erland Josephson, Harriet Andersson, among others); Godard and Anna Karina; Truffaut and Jean-Pierre Léaud.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Make up your own list. It’s a good parlor game for movie mavens to play on rainy afternoons at the summer rental. In heyday Hollywood times, a director’s using the same actor or actors over and over again may have had more to do with studio contracts and who was available than with personal taste and affinities. For example, director Henry King made eleven films with Tyrone Power and six films with Gregory Peck. King and both actors were under long-term contract to 20th Century Fox, and there weren’t that many top male stars to choose from. Michael Curtiz and Errol Flynn made twelve movies together at Warner Bros. Obviously, they must have enjoyed working together, but it may have been more a marriage of convenience than of affinity.

One of the most important Hollywood director-actor partnerships was between Douglas Sirk (né Detlef Sierck in Hamburg) and Rock Hudson—nine movies at Universal, the smallest and least important of the major studios: Has Anybody Seen My Gal? (1952), Taza, Son of Cochise (1954), Magnificent Obsession (1954), Captain Lightfoot (1955), All That Heaven Allows (1955), Never Say Goodbye (1956), Written on the Wind (1956), Battle Hymn (1957), and The Tarnished Angels (1958). (Although Sirk is uncredited on Never Say Goodbye and disowned the movie, he did work on it, and there are so many similarities and points of reference in it to other Sirk movies, both thematically and emotionally, I feel it should be counted.) Maybe it was a shotgun marriage—Sirk was one of the studio’s most important directors, if not the most important, and Hudson was one of the very few stars at the company whose name meant anything at the box office. But there’s more to it than that.  

All That Heaven Allows

Douglas Sirk

1955

89 min

1.77:1

Magnificent Obsession

Douglas Sirk

1954

108 min

Color

2.00:1

Written on the Wind

Douglas Sirk

1956

99 min

Color

1.77:1