CINEMA: Orson Welles and Oja Kodar in F For Fake
Orson Welles and Oja Kodar in F For Fake
Published: 23 April, 2012
by DAN CARRIER
F For Fake
Directed by Orson Welles
Certificate PG
Rating: 4 Out Of 5 Stars
OUT there, gracing the walls of the homes of people with more money than sense, are stunning works of art by masters whose names are synonymous with the pinnacle of human creative achievement.
But for the rich numpties who buy art not for its beauty but for the scrawled painter’s signature, which is for them a logo, the idea that their treasured possession might not be by Picasso, Matisse or Renoir, but by the Hungarian forger Elmyr de Hory, is rather lovely.
The life and work of de Hory feature in this rather perverse and richly layered piece of cinematic trickery by Orson Welles, a strange and heady tale of de Hory’s ego-rampant life, the travails of his biographer Clifford Irving, and musings by the man who told Americans they had been invaded by aliens on whether truth matters more than imagination.
First released in 1977, the film did not initially do very well, but like a fine wine it has improved with age.
This is for a few reasons: first, it watches like a wonderful period piece.
The very best of the kitschy 1970s beautiful people are on display.
It’s like an Austin Powers-style spoof at times, and is really quite hilarious.
The second reason is to watch Orson Welles tell a story he obviously has a lot of passion for.
His voice alone is enough, but his arched brows and eccentric dress sense will leave you wishing our current film stars were a little more like him.
The third reason is the interesting question that Welles asks us to ponder: namely, if a picture is nice to look at, does it actually matter who painted it?
If I am able to create something that looks rather nice and could be by Picasso, does it matter that it’s by me, and not the master?
It prompts thoughts about what makes a painting worth cash, ideas of the inherent snobbery within the art world, and the way artists and dealers try to protect their incomes by declaring whether or not something is a fake or an original.
This was the last film to be made by Welles and he has thrown together in a jagged way something that is part documentary, part essay and also a liberal dash of fiction.
At times it is a little hard to understand exactly what is going on as Welles seems to assume the viewer is well-versed in the stories of forger de Hory, who is the darling of the 1970s Sunday supplements, a sure-fire column filler, and Irving, known for faking a biography of Howard Hughes.
But no matter – if you are entirely ignorant of the background (I was) then it really doesn’t matter as to watch de Hory flounce around Ibiza, wearing his chunky studded leather belt and inviting beautiful people to party is humorous enough, as is his pronunciation of various places, which lights up each scene whenever he opens his pretentious mouth.
Above all, this is a film of interest simply because we get to see Welles on screen banging on about something he finds hugely interesting.
That alone is worth the price of a ticket.
A wonderful, weird, and hugely dated piece of 1970s cinema: fake, real, whatever, it’s genuinely lovely.