Just started the latest instalment of Simon Callow’s epic. I couldn’t get enough of the first two.
The greatest challenge has been to deal with the simultaneity of his activities. A month of Welles’s life is worth a year, maybe a decade, of anyone else’s. He always seems to be, in Stephen Leacock’s immortal phrase, galloping off in all directions, whether in pursuit of a woman, a film, a theatre company or a history of world economy; he’s always editing, directing, acting, designing, screenwriting, making a speech, painting; in one moment paying loving homage to a long-forgotten style, in the next forging an entirely radical new one.