Hold your ground, Hadji.
You bring us these wonderful tapes of Welles speaking on his Art and on his life. You make observations about how his body language and gestures give indications of his inner emotions and motivations. And you do it masterfully. Do not let anyone shake the sensitive conclusions brought to you by your own eyes and ears. When Welles tells us something, when his gestures support or belie his words, you are wise not to ignore or deny the insights of your intuition.
As someone has reflected, I've been in the midst of this discussion before. My purpose here is not to become involved in old arguments -- Works of Art as partial reflections of their creator's psyche and experience vs. Masterpieces ex Machina -- but I do support the validity of your observations. It is idiocy to suggest that an artist's life, his strengths and weaknesses, his experience, is not reflected in his or her work. If that were true, men would have no trouble describing the inner feelings of childbirth, nor women the sleepy, depressed spentness which follows male orgasm.
Hadji, observe in particular, the gyres of S. Todd Baesen's logic.
Note how he claims above that those who do not hold his position have never looked at the facts, the records, the evidence, whether they be an Evil Davie Thomson, or even the Callow Simon. They simply have not searched for the correct balance sheet of IT'S ALL TRUE or MACBETH in the Lilly Library. Then, after typical and entertaining meandering observations, he launches forth the astonishing arrow that, "Even if I saw the final cost sheets from Republic Studios that said [MACBETH] had cost over $800,000, I wouldn't believe it for a second."
In other words, he disbelieves opinion about our beloved Welles and his works when it does not support his position, claiming such evidence to be false and unsupported, but if he were presented official "evidence" contrary to his conclusions, he would not believe that either.
Charming and talented as Sweeney Todd Baesen is, valuable to us, and to Larry French -- who has said, "Baesen cannot live without me, and in a sense, I without him" -- he nevertheless gives indications of being an example of that classic Jungian archetype: The Doppelganger.
As Laurence Olivier said of Baesen: "His was the tragedy of a man who could not make up his mind."
Many times, the terrible pressure of maintaining paradoxical positions in perfect alignment has caused his reason to temporarily snap. Larry and I have often chased him down Fillmore Street, as he waved a swizzle stick at oncoming traffic, crying in his cracked-emotional voice: "A gimlet, a Gimlet! My collection of lobby cards for a GIMLET!"
And so, Hadji, I don't know what you would find in Toronto, but if you ever come to San Francisco, and should Todd invite you out, keep him at the Ha-Ra Club, where he is among friends who are in awe of his quixotical erudition, and where he swallows his disappointment that there is sometimes not a label on the bottle. Do not allow him to lure you into the Blue Note District, to places he will insist on "a generous gimlet and some snacks." And if you cannot resist his comradeship, under no circumstances, at a beautiful place like the Sheba Lounge, allow him to order the meatballs, which come with tall toothpicks trailing pieces of red thread.
When you establish your authority, be warned, Baesen is liable to rear back with: "——And, by the faith of man,/ I know my price, I am worth no worse a place."
Just tell him, "It may be dollar book Freud, Toddy, but TOUGH CREDIT CARDS! Facts are facts. Six gimlets are enough!"
That simple frankness may save your being transferred, on the Midnight tide outside the Golden Gate, from a dingy, tossing lighter to the slimy, dark hold of a freighter bound for . . . Shanghai.
Glenn

