BELOW ARE THE DIRECTOR'S NOTES APPEARING IN THE PROGRAM OF THE STRANGER, RUNNING DEC. 6TH THRU 22ND, 2001 AT THE RED ROOM, 85 E 4TH ST, NYC.  USE THE BACK BUTTON ON YOUR BROWSER TO RETURN TO THE PREVIOUS PAGE.

The film we know of as Orson Welles’ The Stranger (1946) bears, in fact, little relation to the film Welles intended to make. Then again, you could say this of nearly every film Welles made, with the exceptions of Kane, his very first completed film, and F For Fake, his last. What is interesting about The Stranger, though, is that it represents the most severe and damaging shift in tone and intent from its original form--even more so, arguably, than Ambersons. The film which has been circulating under this title for sixty years has been dismissed or condescended to as a competent but unremarkable thriller, notable chiefly for Welles’ typically stunning framing and compositions, Edward G. Robinson’s excellent performance as Wilson, and its unexpected and still controversial use of actual footage from the liberation of concentration camps. Otherwise, it is no more or less interesting or compelling than any other post-WWII melodrama dealing with the aftermath of the war and its numerous subterfuges and dangers.

In its original form, however, it was, by all surviving accounts, a nightmarish, relentless dissection of the nature of evil, the banality of evil, of how we all become scarred and changed, day by day, by our quiet acceptance of each of the little evils that build to the more overwhelming cruelties and inhumanities of war and despotism. Not surprisingly, B-movie producer Sam Spiegel, for whom the film was made, hacked out nearly everything not directly related to film’s rather predictable plot. I’ve taken enormous liberties with the film’s text to try to restore some of the more mournful, desperate nature of the original film, to restore as many missing scenes as possible, and to try to explore what I’ve always felt to be the most interesting aspect of the film, and of all of Welles’ work— the nature of the past, of how our past lives, past judgments and actions, can color and affect our present and future, and the idea that some actions, no matter how accidental, no matter how much we may refute or disown them, are so huge, either in their heinousness or in their pettiness, that they can never be forgotten, much less repaid.

I would also feel remiss in not noting the subject matter of tonight’s show. To be honest, this show has frightened me since I began working on it in earnest nearly a year ago, mostly out of a fear that my typically grandiose style and operatic inclinations would appear unseemly, as well as an admittedly irrational worry that perhaps I did not have the right to tackle such an overwhelming topic. In the end, it was this very fear that convinced me that I had to do the show, if only to confront my own feelings and fears, and to exorcise some of my own personal demons in the process. After our current war started (let’s get one thing straight: Sept. 11 was not a “tragedy”, it was an act of war. Let’s all stop pussyfooting around that, shall we?), I worried for a brief moment as to whether we should press on with the production. Michele wisely insisted that we carry on, that it was even more important in light of current events, and, as she often is, she was right. Thus, the end result carries even more weight, outrage, and melancholy than it would otherwise.

I want to publicly thank Sam Schneider for his words of encouragement and advice (even if they did all come third party, they still helped my spirits and confidence), and the cast for their patience with my uncharacteristically distant nature during production — this show means a great deal to me, and I am immeasurably proud of it and everyone working on it. I never print notes like this in programs — I prefer to let the work speak for itself — but these are strange times, and, well, dammit, this is one strange effing show. It seemed only right. Forgive my indulgence. I hope this work affects you as it has those of us who created it, and, if it touches you for more personal reasons, I sincerely hope we have earned that privilege.

Thank you.

Frank Cwiklik, director