Capra is the last survivor of that great quartet of American comedy; Leo McCarey, Ernst Lubitsch, and Preston Sturges. An Italian, born in Palermo, he brought to Hollywood the secrets of the commedia dell’arte. He was a navigator who knew how to steer his characters into the deepest dimensions of desperate human situations (I have often wept during the tragic moments of Capra’s comedies) before he reestablished a balance and brought off the the miracle that let us leave the theater with a renewed confidence in life.
François Truffaut, 1974
Truffaut describes the brilliance of Frank Capra with precision. When you finish watching a Frank Capra film, you absolutely feel a renewed confidence in life.
Truffaut, François. The films in my life. New York, Hachette Books, 1994.
My work, come to think about it, does seem often to consist of filming scenes I’ve experienced myself that I want to bring back, scenes I’d like to live through and scenes I’d be afraid to live or relive. With that system, which is worth what it’s worth, once the theme is chosen, the script almost writes itself, and I don’t fuss too much over whatever significance comes out of it.
François Truffaut
From: Interview by Serge Daney, Jean Narboni, and Serge Toubiana, Cahiers du Cinéma, no. 316, October 1980
In all my films there are people who send each other letters, a young girl who writes in her diary. Nor can I move from one place to another without a map. That is simply not done anymore, but it’s in my character: to leave even one person uninformed distresses me. The taste for writing has been pursuing me ever since I concerned myself as a critic with the form of the screenplay. I didn’t think I’d become a filmmaker, but rather, a scriptwriter.
François Truffaut
From: Interview by Anne de Gasperi, Le Quotidien de Paris, May 2, 1975
Truffaut, François. Truffaut by Truffaut. New York: Harry N. Abrams Inc, 1985.
Only Herzog could denounce being an artist and simultaneously make himself more of an artist.
Are you an artist?
Never. All I’ve ever wanted to be is a foot soldier of cinema. My films aren’t art. In fact, I’m ambivalent about the very concept of “the artist” It just doesn’t feel right to me. King Farouk of Egypt, in exile and completely obese, wolfing down one leg of lamb after another, said something beautiful: “There are no kings left in the world any more, with the exception of four: the King of Hearts, the King of Diamonds, the King of Spades and the King of Clubs.” Just as the notion of royalty is meaningless today, the concept of being an artist is also somehow outdated. There is only one place left where you find such people: the circus, with its trapeze artists, jugglers, even hunger artists. Equally suspicious to me is the concept of “genius,” which has no place in contemporary society. It belongs to centuries gone by, the eras of pistol duels at dawn and damsels in distress fainting onto chaises longues.
Cronin, Paul. Werner Herzog – A Guide for the Perplexed. London: Faber & Faber, 2020. pp147
Herzog also claims his films are poetry, not art. And prefers a craftsman’s approach:
What are your films, if not art?
Poetry. I’m a craftsman, and feel closest to the late-mediaeval artisans who produced their work anonymously – like the master who created the Köln triptych – and never considered themselves artists. To remain anonymous behind what you have created means the work has a stronger life of it’s own, though today, in our increasingly connected world, it’s an illusion to think you can remain hidden. Along with their apprentices, artisans had a genuine understanding of and feeling for the physical materials they worked with. Every sculptor before Michelangelo considered himself a stonemason; no one thought of himself as an artist until maybe the late fifteenth century. Before that they were master craftsmen with apprentices who produced work on commission for popes or Burgermeisters. Once, after snow had fallen in Florence, a particularly idiotic member of the Medici family asked Michelangelo to build a snowman in the courtyard of the family villa. He had no qualms about stepping outside, without a word, and completing this task. I like this attitude of absolute defiance.
Cronin, Paul. Werner Herzog – A Guide for the Perplexed. London: Faber & Faber, 2020. pp147
I wonder if Herzog’s claim that no one considered themselves artists until around the late 15th century is true.
If true, what triggered the change?
Was it more wealth, allowing master craftsman to create “art” in their spare time?
Was it the availability of materials? Did “art” supplies increase in abundance around the 15 century?
First Steven Spielberg, who is, if you make movies, if you direct movies, this is somebody who can help you. You look to his movie for solutions. He usually found a way to do it right. He’s one of my favorites.
To reproach Hitchcock for specializing in suspense is to accuse him of being the least boring of filmmakers; it is also tantamount to blaming a lover who instead of concentrating on his own pleasure insists on sharing it with his partner. The nature of Hitchcock’s cinema is to absorb the audience so completely that the Arab viewer will forget to shell his peanuts, the Frenchman will ignore the girl in the next seat, the Italian will suspend his chain smoking, the compulsive cougher will refrain from coughing, and the Swedes will interrupt their love-making in the aisles.
The introduction alone makes Hitchcock/Truffaut worthy of a place in your personal library. Plenty of ideas and tips to inspire writers and filmmakers alike.
Floodlights and Goalposts 