It's ironic that Orson Welles was so ignored, even dismissed, in his lifetime when he's so revered today. Even at those junctures when he received accolades for his work - the Academy presented him a special honorary Oscar® in 1971, the AFI gave Welles a Lifetime Achievement Award in 1975 - still no one in Hollywood would give him a job. At least they wouldn't give him financial backing to do what he did better than most: make movies. And even his peers, who should have known better, often gave him short shrift. I remember being at a luncheon in Los Angeles on the day Welles was to receive that AFI tribute. Several at the lunch were planning to attend that night's festivities but not director Henry Hathaway. "Why, Orson Welles?" he grumbled. "He's only made one movie." (Whoa! Even if that had been true, some movie it is.) But that was the attitude in many quarters. What a difference a few years, and better judgment, can make. Now the man often referred to as "awesome Orson" is revered as something of a cinematic god, not only for that "one movie" Citizen Kane but also for so many others, many of which have only come to be regarded as great works in recent years such as Mr. Arkadin.

Most film buffs and historians though would probably agreed that the following four films are key achievements: Kane, which stirred up so much controversy it was suggested by some that the negative be burned; also The Magnificent Ambersons, nominated for Oscar®'s Best Picture prize and a magnificent film although a box-office fizzle in 1942; The Lady from Shanghai (1948) and Touch of Evil (1958), both considered complete disasters by their studios at the time, but now ranked among the best film noir movies ever made. But Welles is also a formidable actor and unique screen presence, especially in some of his least-seen films (1942's Journey Into Fear, 1957's Man in the Shadow, 1973's F for Fake), some in which only that rich, melodious Welles voice is heard (1946's Duel in the Sun, 1961's King of Kings) and others in which he shares the screen with the likes of Woody Allen, Claudette Colbert, a pint-sized Natalie Wood, Edward G. Robinson, Leslie Caron, Elizabeth Taylor, even Victor Mature, a man who was once Welles' rival in real life for the affection of the movies' "love goddess" Rita Hayworth.

My own personal encounters with Welles were few but, to me, unforgettable. A friend of mine used to get me passes onto the 20th Century-Fox lot so I could watch Welles at work when he was making 1958's The Long, Hot Summer and 1959's Compulsion. On the latter he was especially a marvel to observe. He had been hired strictly as an actor, playing a lawyer patterned after the real-life Clarence Darrow; the director was Richard Fleischer but Welles was clearly in charge, instructing the extras how they should react, placing the lights and cameras where he wanted them, especially for one complicated courtroom scene in which Welles delivered a 15-minute monologue without a break. Fleischer was wise enough to let his star take charge - that man, after all, had made the classic Kane. I had many other Welles sightings but the last time I saw him he was near the end of his life, in a wheelchair, eating an enormous meal at a restaurant. At this point, he'd gained so much weight his legs could no longer hold him up for longer than a few minutes. The magnificent voice was still there, the mind still full of ideas but he still had no place to showcase them. How ironic that a whole generation of new filmmakers now yearn to be "another Orson Welles." For him, being "awesome Orson" wasn't a fraction as fulfilling, enriching or appreciated as it should have been.

by Robert Osborne