why do writers write?

    Why do writers write indeed? Suffice to say the question is a complex one as it touches on matters psychological, philosophical, ethical and teleological, with no clear-cut answers. It’s like asking what motivates football players to submit themselves to such, literally mind-numbing, violence (no comparisons to writers intended), or why do stand-up comics want to do their schtick (here perhaps the analogy is more to the point). In any case  as the question applies to writing greater minds than mine have weighed in on the subject, and there seems to be no consensus. But as for me it’s a constantly fascinating topic that won’t go away, and I thought it worth a look, though truth be told I have little new or original to add.

    Thus to invoke the analysis of one of my favorite thinkers, which we might dub The Orwell Thesis. Aside: was it Hemingway who famously said that anyone who writes for a reason other than money is a fool? [1] As for Orwell’s take on the matter, there’s much to admire and little I can take issue with. Like Orwell I would argue that the motives are more complex and subtle than the purely financial, though this is a consideration. Orwell’s comments below apply equally to those who love – or hate – to write, but in either case feel compelled to do so. And while I find much of Orwell’s digression on writing a bit too, well, digressive, his basic points are well-taken and never go out of style. I offer a condensed version of his thesis below.

     “Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:
   (i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen – in short, with the whole top crust of humanity … gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
   (ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story … The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons.   
  (iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
   (iv) Political purpose. Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.”

“ … Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don’t want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.”

    I just love all those one’s. So British. And while the passage is a little overwrought, to my way of thinking it’s still very much on the money. Orwell says it all so well it’s hard to find anything of value to add. The urge, compulsion some would insist, to write, say, a mystery novel is a mystery. [2] It’s not necessarily borne out of pleasure or financial motives. The inspiration, or malady, strikes some of us, present writer included, in varying degrees over time. I confess after penning several books, reviews and more blog posts than I care to remember, the motivation of my compulsion to write eludes me. Not for fun, certainly. Some have opined that what all writers must have in common is a tendency to the masochistic, especially considering the vagaries of the audience and critical response.
     Film director Billy Wilder quipped that directing a movie is a lot more fun than writing the script, that writing is hard labor, going so far as to famously have inscribed on his tombstone ‘I’m a writer but nobody’s perfect.’ As for me the drive to writing goes way back, at least to high school years, when I enjoyed the essay parts of my English classes. I wasn’t very good but took to the assignments like catnip, and was always flattered when the instructor chose one of my pieces to read in class. It culminated in my being co-editor of my high school yearbook, and as the saying goes, the rest is history. Getting back to Orwell, I especially like and identify with this passage: “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand.” [3] As Orwell might say, hear, hear.

    [1] Further research suggests the quote, or something like it, was actually said by Dr. Johnson, though no doubt others have expressed the same, or similar, sentiment.  
    [2] Especially so given the subsequent critical reception if one has the courage to go public with a literary creation. Perhaps the comparison isn’t totally felicitous but I recall a quote about war attributed to Queen Elizabeth I, which might well apply to creating a book: “I do not like war. It is costly and the outcome uncertain”
    [3] To be sure, there are dissenting voices to the writing-is-a-horrible-torture point of view. See here, para. 3, for one example.

who are the greatest geniuses in cinema history?

 We admire geniuses, we love them, but they discourage us. They are great concentrations of intellect and emotion, we feel that they have soaked up all the available power, monopolizing it and leaving none for us. We feel that if we cannot be as they, we can be nothing. Beside them we are so plain, so hopelessly threadbare. How they glitter, and with what an imperious way they seem to deal with circumstances, even when they are wrong.

   - Lionel Trilling, Introduction to Orwell's Homage to Catalonia


   The idea of genius, along with attempts to explain or define it, has always been a slippery slope. Greater thinkers than I have opined on the subject, at length, and there’s no shortage of commentaries on the ‘Net. But just what is genius? What are its precise boundaries? Is genius something we’re born with, or can it be learned and cultivated? Are ‘geniuses’ that different from the rest of us? Do some individuals simply have a greater flair for publicity and image? Who can say where genius ends and self-promotion begins? Are 'geniuses' really grifters in disguise?

   Or do those we deem genius simply have more energy, determination and persistence than the rest of us? Were these the only qualities necessary then figures like Ed Wood and Harry Stephen Keeler would be right up there among the all time greats. And for all their respective cult followings, the conventional wisdom would vote against calling Wood or Keeler a genius. Obviously some qualitative factors have to enter into the equation: at minimum a true genius has to be good at his chosen artistic (or otherwise) mode of expression.

   But more to the point, how can we apply the notion of genius to the movies? [1] Does it even make sense to mention the term in connection with the movies? Interesting that other art forms – music, literature, painting, sculpture – have canons that are pretty well solidified. Accordingly, the individuals who merit the title have long been identified.

   However … (and it’s a big however), film is a unique art form. Among other things it combines several art forms in its final product, all of which makes it more difficult to arrive at parameters, much less who qualifies. The challenges, it seems, are many, but can be broken down into a few basics. First, for all the huffing and puffing of the auteur theory, film is ultimately a collaborative art (alas, among the downsides of said collaborative art is studio interference in the finished product, perhaps most [in]famously practiced in the various mangled productions of Orson Welles). There's also the reality that film is largely dominated by technology, and the witches’ brew final product is almost always a case of the whole never quite equaling the sum of the parts. The other issue is that cinema is, for better or worse, a quintessentially commercial art, and matters of aesthetics can never be completely separated from mass, some would say crass, consumerism.

   Further, movies didn’t always have the highbrow cachet they enjoy today. Indeed, for the first half century or so of their very existence the movies were viewed as a commodity, and the idea that they were great art was considered folly at best. All that changed in 1952 with the U. S. Supreme Court’s decision on Joseph Burstyn, Inc. v. Wilson (also referred to as the Miracle Decision) in which the court held that cinema was indeed an artistic medium and among other things entitled to First Amendment protection.

   For our deliberations here, however, it’s the aforementioned collaborative nature of cinema that’s the monkey wrench. To wit, and for better or worse, in the context of cinema we use the term ‘genius’ almost solely in connection with directors [2]. Occasionally screenwriters, cinematographers, and performers get a mention, and, very occasionally, producers. But this reveals a decided prejudice for the creative side and diminishes those active in the, arguably equally important, technical, management and promotional areas. In the technical and -like areas, along with the obvious candidates of editors and cinematographers, do we include wardrobe designers, art directors, set designers, special effects wizards, makeup artists, hairdressers, film restoration specialists, titles designers?

   If we define genius as someone who made a signal impact and influence on the art, we’d have to give serious consideration to the much maligned movie moguls, especially those of the Golden Age, the Harry Cohns and Louis Mayers of this world, alongside the more aesthetically correct auteur producers like Val Lewton, Irving Thalberg and Daryl Zanuck. But if we include studio executives, how about the powers behind the throne like Ida Koverman at MGM during Mayer’s reign? And while we’re talking management, should agents figure into the mix? In the technical department, a case might be made for Technicolor guru Natalie Kalmus.

   Whatever the parameters, be they aesthetic, commercial or technical, is a consistent body of high level work over a long period of time sufficient? Do we forgive the occasional misfire? Is one transcendent work sufficient? Do historical elements figure into the mix? Are the works of Sofia Coppola and Kathryn Bigelow less significant because they appeared a century after those of Lois Weber and Germaine Dulac?

   Here I invoke the oft-noted and self-defeating caveat that it’s meaningless to create lists like these, perhaps worse than meaningless, since tastes, perceptions, and even definitions inevitably change over time (translation: it’s all very subjective). And yet, and for all my long winded reservations above, I thought it might be fun to list my choices of the top ten cinematic geniuses of all time. It pained me to cut it off at ten – I was tempted to lengthen it to twenty. (Confession: there are two ties, so to be perfectly technical, this is a list of twelve). In any event, as a compromise I include an honorable mention section of arguably lesser lights whose contributions, while significant, and all possessing at least some spark of genius, were nonetheless in my opinion more specialized or of a lesser degree in areas like aesthetics, impact, and influence.

   I’ll admit my selections betray a certain favoritism for the offbeat, experimental, independent and subversive. There’s also an undeniable Hollywood/Euro bias, along with a preference for the artistic side over the technical or managerial. Still, perspicacious readers may find themselves scratching their heads at the absence of some pretty big names. Indeed, a few of the entries, especially the honorable mentions, may well be cringe inducing to some tastes. And no, in case you wondered, Ed Wood doesn’t make the cut, though the thought did occur to me. Nonetheless, and echoing the sentiment above, some of the all-time greats are conspicuously absent. They are familiar and we needn’t mention them by name. In one sense these greats of cinema, and here I refer mostly to directors, made the same film over and over, and did so supremely well within the confines of budget, studio, genre and era. The stories, performers and techniques may have varied, but the underlying philosophic and aesthetic vision was always the same, most of the time anyway. Such individuals were expert at creating expert films, films that were exceptionally well made but lacking that special something – dare I say, genius – that characterizes the work of perhaps less proficient, less consistent, artists who nonetheless created films that were more compelling and exciting.

   In any event, my own bottom line: to be designated a cinematic genius, an individual had to create works that were not only of high intrinsic value, but more important, new, exciting or groundbreaking, that allowed us to experience the medium, and by extension the world, and perhaps ourselves, in fresh and unexplored ways. Helming a work, or works, that today we consider revolutionary wasn’t a requirement, but it didn’t hurt. 

   I lean toward multi-taskers philosophically, and depending on how one defines these things, a majority of my top ten might be considered such, less so for the honorable mentions. In any case most of the top tier choices are hardly shocking, though a couple may raise eyebrows. It’s obvious I prefer the old over the new: the test of time has to count for something. On the other hand, as opined above, even a consistently high level of work over time in itself doesn’t qualify as genius [3]. I’ve demurred from any life’s work summaries as most of the folks on the list have had a ton written about them already. So, with drumroll, my choices are (listed more or less in chronological order):

Lois Weber
Charlie Chaplin
Fritz Lang
Irving Thalberg
Busby Berkeley
Orson Welles
tie: Val Lewton
       Maya Deren
Bernard Herrmann
Roger Corman
tie: Federico Fellini,
      Rainer Werner Fassbinder
  

  Honorable mention: John Alton, Kenneth Anger, Michelangelo Antonioni, Fred Astaire, Ingmar Bergan, Robert Bresson, Tod Browning, Jack Cardiff, William Castle, Jean Cocteau, Joan Crawford,  Walt Disney, Carl Dreyer, Germaine Dulac, Ray Harryhausen, Charles Laughton, Herschell Gordon Lewis, Peter Lorre, Guy Madden, Frances Marion, Georges Méliès,  Russ Meyer, Carmen Miranda, Alla Nazimova, Mabel Normand, Leni Riefenstahl, George Romero, Mack Sennett, Andrei Tarkovsky, Gregg Toland, Dalton Trumbo, Douglas Trumbull, Edgar Ulmer, Peter Ustinov, Jean Vigo, John Waters, James Whale, Daryl Zanuck.

[1] I’ve scoured the ‘Net and other sources and have yet to find a satisfactory definition, at least one that describes genius in scientific, measurable terms. Even the most reputable sources resort to a subjective, airy vagueness. This from the Cambridge Dictionary (actually a pretty good summary, but eminently lacking in particulars): “ … very great and rare natural ability or skill, especially in a particular area such as science or art.” Similarly the venerable OED chimes in with: “ … inborn exalted intellectual power; instinctive and extraordinary imaginative, creative, or inventive capacity, frequently opposed to talent.” Actually the OED version gets subtly closer to what I look for in a work or individual to merit the label ‘genius.’
    Still, such definitions are at best a good start; the phrases used to define genius could well describe any number of bright, talented folks who aren’t geniuses. What’s lacking is that special something, that magic that separates genius from the merely talented or gifted. The same principle applies to other, non-artistic, areas like physics, chemistry, mathematics, philosophy, and medicine. Then there are the problem fields like public service, commerce, sports and history. Can a head of state, government bureaucrat, military commander, lawyer, business tycoon, chess player, football coach, political operative, or historian (or any nonfiction author ... film critic, anyone?) ever merit the mantle of genius? By the way, not a new observation, but is genius merely the flip side, the sunny side if you like, of madness?

[2] Indeed, were a poll taken today to anoint the greatest cinema genius of all time, the consensus choice, at least among hardcore film buffs, would probably be Chaplin, though to be sure his would likely be a plurality choice. At the same time prestigious bodies routinely proclaim Hitchcock, Welles, or Ozu as the best director, though seldom Chaplin, all of which tends to illustrate just how elusive the concept can be.* 
    Further confirmation of the vagaries of assigning a ranking of genius, as least as it applies to film history, is that only two of Chaplin's films, City Lights and Modern Times, even cracked the top 250 of the august BFI/Sight & Sound 2022 poll of the 'greatest movies of all time,' placing tied for 36th and tied for 78th respectively. Both are honorable if not exactly top tier rankings, and incredibly, both finished below the likes of Taxi Driver, Do the Right Thing, and Mulholland Dr. 
    Chaplin films do somewhat better in the, similarly much-cited, AFI Top 100 poll (2007), with City Lights, The Gold Rush, and Modern Times placing 11th, 58th, and 78th respectively. The caveat is that the AFI poll considers only American produced films, though it also includes a few British-made films that were financed by American studios.

    * In the same above -referenced BFI/S&S poll [2022] Chaplin chimed in at 27th in the 'greatest directors of all      
  time' category, below quite a few, arguably lesser, lights.

[3] One might also assert that the difference between genius and the exceptionally talented craftsman is a sometimes fuzzy one, and to take it one step further, what separates the reliable professional from the dreaded moniker hack can be a precariously thin line. It’s only fair to add that history has taught us that the studios, certainly in the studio era, (almost) always preferred a reliable craftsman/hack at the helm to an erratic genius. Plus ça change …

Further reading:

Marjorie Garber, “Our Genius Problem,” Atlantic Monthly, v290n5 (Dec. 2002): 64-72.
Darrin T. McMahon, Divine Fury: A History of Genius, Basic Books, 2013.
Andrew Robinson, What Has Become of Genius?