LOVE STORY

by

John Fante

and

Norman Foster

This is a story of simple people. It begins when
your mother and mine were girls. It teaches no moral and
proves nothing. But it really happened, and it may be the
story of your mother and father. It took place back in
1909 in San Francisco, but it could have been any year or
any town. There isn't much more to say - it starts like
this:

NORTH BEACH AMUSMENT PARK. Blatant band music.
A husky young man stands before a penny picture machine
which reads: "SINS OF PARIS - For Men Only." He is an
Italian-American and his name is Rocco Stefani. His hands
are calloused and his clothes seem too new and stiff. He
drops a penny into the slot, tilts back his derby and squints
into the machine with a leer of anticipation. He cranks the
handle and the pictures drop in quick succession: an Apache
drinks absinthe from a bottle at a cafe table. Another tough
enters, seizes the bottle from him and drains it. The Apache
leaps to his feet, draws a knife and buries it in the heart
of the intruder. Shuddering in horror, the Apache surveys
his heinous crime, then collapses face down on the table. Finis.

bk

CARNIVAL

This is a picture divided into several parts. It is not,
however, an arbitrary selection of short subjects, nor is it
vaudeville.

This is a new sort of picture.

It is neither a play, nor a novel in movie form -- it is
a *magazine*.

CARNAVAL as a sequence in this picture can best be
understood if we consider it as an item in a magazine -- as a
*feature story*, not as a short story.

Feature stories in Collier's, let's say, or The Saturday
Evening Post, contribute quiteasmuch to the readability and
consequent circulation of those periodicals as works of fiction.
As a form or pattern for a movie, the feature story needs no
apology.

The subject of our feature story is popular music -- a
form of popular music. Popular music by definition is
entertainment. That makes it sound very easy. But, of course, it
isn't at all, and it hasn't been. We were assigned to make a
complete and coherent film without stars or actors or story, in a
country whose language is foreign to our own. It's the toughest
job we've ever had.

"Entertainment value" is an elusive quantity.

Entertainment itself cannot by translated literally from one
medium to another. It cost a lot of money for us to come down
here -- the biggest single item in our expenditures. The only way
that cost could be justified was for us to make here a picture and
not a travelogue, to make a Carnaval Sequence which would define,
in itself, the difference between a documentary and a feature

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story. That took money and a lot of time. It took more pains
than anybody can guess. We haven't always been sure -- but now
we're very sure -- it's going to be worth it. The time and the
money haven't been wasted.

Carnaval, which exists in the very hottest latitudes of
human hilarity, is uncharted and unexplored. Literature records
it as "indescribable" and lets it go at that. Hollywood has never
before exploited any part of its color or atmosphere. A dozen
Carnaval pictures may be made this year in North America, but none
of them can possibly have anything to do with the real thing.
This defies studio reproduction. The sheer immensity of Rio's
Carnaval is hopelessly beyond the scope of any Hollywood spectacle.
Quite unavailable elsewhere are the vivacity and spirit of
Carnaval's celebrants.

Above everything else, there is the music. Music, as I
have said, is the basis of our picture. First it had to be good.
It's now entirely safe to announce that our music is superlative.

(Please refer to Note 1 in Appendix, Page A)

It is our very good luck that our music is Samba.

The United States, indeed the whole of the American
hemisphere, is just now waking up to the Samba's incomparable
dancibility. A movie about Samba couldn't be better timed to
reach the maximum point in public acceptability and interest.

In the states Rhumba musicians abound. On the other
hand, Samba musicians are non-existent. The presence of fine
Tango and Conga orchestras in Hollywood and New York brings
Mexican, Central American and Argentine backgrounds within the
capacities of Hollywood musical comedy. Until Brazil's top bands
leave Rio, however, Carnaval itself can only be captured on film
here where Carnaval happens.

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It adds up to this: R.K.O. controls the market on Samba, filmed in its entirety in Rio, but the picture itself cannot be made except in Hollywood.

Because of the expense of shipping film, because of the elements of time and distance, it has been naturally impossible for us here to refer to rushes, and we have had to work without the critical advantage of nightly session in projection and cutting rooms. This is an important reason why it has been necessary to shoot an unusually large quantity of film. Put it this way: We'vw had to take out all the paying dirt and ship it half way around the world from the place where it was mined. We won't get the gold till we go back to where operations are possible.

That's the chief reason why so much film has been shot. To state the reason is to define a great part of our problem in making this picture --

Except where its elements may be segregated and controlled, the problem of shooting Carnaval may be compared to the problem of shooting a storm. We often had no choice but to set up our camera and grind away until we got something usable.

We shot without a script. We were forced to.

A script was impossible. Our Carnaval film will have a script only after its completion in the cutting room. It must also be explained that no story line exists or can exist -- no important narrative pattern involving personalities and human events. Even in those sequences over which it has been possible to exercise directorial control -- to make calls, build sets, determine music, and select artists, I, as director, was always the one to be informed rather than the people working under me.

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In other words, I couldn't tell them what to do. They had to tell me. Everything had to be worked out during shooting from knowledge gained during shooting.

It was understood by all concerned before I left that Carnaval would be shot on the cuff.

None of us knew anything about it before we came here, nor were sources of information available. Even a second unit assigned to shoot background material goes on location armed with a comprehensive catalogue of what material is to be obtained. We were entirely ignorant of our subject. We had to learn everything after we got here and there was, and still is, a great deal to learn. Besides, we are not a second unit. We were not assigned to shoot background plates and atmosphere shots. We came here to make the total footage of a complete feature. Since that feature was to be entirely unrelieved by story (or what is generally considered story), our treatment of the Carnaval subject and of Brazilian music had to be definitive, and beyond reproach. Above all, it had to be entertainment.

The task of learning about Carnaval, and translating what we learned into film, has been very far from easy. In the first place, during the actual Carnaval days, our sources of information and help served as often to mislead us to guide us; and this despite the fact that we relied on official departments.

(Please refer to Note 2 in Appendix, Page C)

In addition, our technical equipment was barely satisfactory at best, and more often than not it made certain projected shots untenable. That we were able to get any light at all, or any sound, during Carnaval is a matter of wonder and pride to us now as we look back.

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But even had our information been the most accurate, and
our equipment the most effective, we should have been unable to
get a thorough coverage of Carnaval during the actual days it
lasted. To do this would have required us to be everywhere at
once, at all hours of every day and every night. Recognizing the
situation for what it was, we knew almost at once that it would be
necessary to restage many episodes and customs of Carnaval; and
when we spoke in these terms to the authorities, we were met with
nothing but enthusiasm and offers of full cooperation. In fact,
the Department of Press and Propaganda offered to see that anything
we might want to restage would be put together again at any time
convenient.

Suffice it to say by way of comment that the entire job
of shooting Carnaval-afterCarnaval has rested with us. Whatever
help we have received has been either because we've paid for it or
because we've helped ourselves.

So that everything we shot would be as authentic as
possible, we've solicited the advice of a half dozen or more
authorities on the various phases and contributing elements of
Carnaval.

(Please refer to Note 3 in Appendix, Page F)

Further, as I've said, we consulted at all times with
the people -- the Brazilian artists and singers and musicians --
it was a big job for us to get hold of these. Auditions had to be
held and a casting office set up. (Please refer to Note 4 in
Appendix, Page I) These endeavors brought their quota of headaches,
but we ended up with a really exhaustive and comprehensive catalogue
-- a sort of "Who's Who" of Brazilian artists. That's how we knew
who to put into the picture and what they should do.

6

I must point out again that no actors were brought to
Rio, no big names were made available to the picture, none of the
usual cast of characters was present to build around. Finding new
people, therefore -- Brazilian people -- and using them effectively
and correctly, was one of our biggest jobs. Yet we always had to
remember that this Carnaval part of the picture was less about
individuals, or musical numbers, or dances, than about Carnaval
itself. Therefore talents, in every instance, had to be integrated
into the bigger theme.

But finding authoritative subject matter and authoritative
artists by no means solved all our problems. With us almost
constantly was a multitude of lesser or equal difficulties: the
arrival of all of the equipment, to begin with; the augmenting of
this equipment; the maintenance of film shipments; the keeping open
of our gasoline supply; the failure of promised help to materialize
in many of the bigger shots. (Please refer to Note 5 in Appendix,
Page H) Such problems are to be expected, perhaps, but it doesn't
do to forget them, or leave them out of appraisals of work done,
simply because they *are* to be expected.

The main point in considering what has been accomplished
is this: if Carnaval is a feature story, does it truly succeed in
covering the ground honestly and entertainingly?

Filming Carnaval has taken a long time. It cannot have
seemed longer to those interested in Hollywood and Washington than
it has to us here in Rio. Our handicaps have been enormous, delays
cruelly unavoidable, but we, at least, have had the advantage of
contact with our subject, and it is not too much to say that in
spite of the impossibility of working from a set script, we have
at all times known what we were doing, and most of the time, at
least, we've know where we were going.

7

Here's an important point: before I left I was careful to advise against permitting anyone to look at rushes. It would be better for all concerned if no one had. Thousands of feet of apparently repititious material of people dancing and more people dancing, thousands of feet of crowds and more crowds -- all this footage cannot surely have produced enthusiasm, much less enlightenment, in the minds of those curious enough to sit through any part of it. Music would have helped -- not enough, though, to make the vital difference between bewildered despair, and that real excitement and pleasure we here are confident the completed film is going to deliver.

I've just said that at all time we knew where we were going, and we did -- but always in such general terms that no regular script or mere outline could adequately chart our course for the benefit of those unacquainted with Carnaval itself, its cinematic problems and potentialities.

Basic notions were formulated almost immediately, and these have remained virtually unchanged from week to week. But these notions haven't been specific enough to allow of satisfactory definition on paper. Specifics warranting record were obtainable only with the accomplishment of actual filming.

Nor would any form of day by day, or week to week, accounting have served as a key to footage arriving in Hollywood.

A script is dialogue. The Carnaval Sequence contains no dialogue. A story line requires a story. Carnaval, as we have stated, is a feature story, and a feature story can only be broken down in terms of notes.

We have been writing the Carnaval picture every night. What shows up on paper after these discussions, can mean little to anybody except ourselves. For purposes of illustration, however,

8

we append excerpts from what might be called the minutes of these
meetings. These will be found on Page J of the Appendix. Except
to the extent that we have subtracted only those sections dealing
with a single subject of discussion, these notes are unedited. Our
choice of subject is quite arbitrary. The material is not intended
to explain any part of the film we have sent, but to serve as an
example of the sort of daily work which has necessarily taken the
place of actual writing.

These notes cover a single subject of discussion. A
similar selection of notes could be made up to show how we have
dealt with every phase of the picture so far.

Taken altogether, these reports of nightly meetings
constitute the nearest thing we have to a script. The complete
file is a hundred times longer than any shooting script would be,
and it's also a hundred times less readable.

But a script is expected and requested. We have no
choice, therefore, but to compose a special outline designed to
comply with this request alone.

What follows is that outline. It is less full than we
would like it to be, because we are here engaged in a task which
takes every moment of our waking hours. This is the best we could
do in the time we could find.

Here follows, then, a design for the main architectural
lines of the Carnaval film.

CARNAVAL

There's one thing that everyone agrees about Carnaval
in Rio: it's incapable of any facile definition. It has many
colors, many sounds, many sensations, moods, effects -- no one
of its component parts can be taken in insulation from all the
others and used as a key to the whole. Carnaval is only to
be understood and appreciated in the full sum of its parts.

These varied aspects can't be compressed into a
convenient little capsule to be swallowed at one gulp. Carnaval
is much too big. A beginning point must be found, and then
it's necessary to develop from there in such a way as to unfold
gradually the meaning and nature, above everything the popular
appreciation, of a unique institution.

Our starting-off place was music -- and Carnaval's
music is the Samba.

Where was Samba born and how nurtured? Samba comes
from the hills that rise above Rio, from the people who live
in those hills -- but there are those authorities who maintain
that Samba is principally a product of Rio's Tin Pan Alley.
The best opinion and, most importantly, dramatic interest,
sustain the hill theory.

The point needs to be proved and illustrated. For
this the best references are the Schools of the Samba.
Scattered profusely throughout the hills and suburbs of Rio,
they serve a diversity of social purposes; community meeting
places, clubs, but chiefly as musical societies. Samba
schools are homegrown and unselfconscious, but they are dedicated
seriously to the preservation of the Samba tradition, to
playing, singing, and dancing the Samba. Popular music and

2

folk music have produced nowhere else in the world a comparable
phenomenon.

Our Carnaval picture opens in the hills, in this
huge conservatory of the Samba. Another part of the Americas
comes to mind, and Rio's kinship to old New Orleans is pointed
out. The analogy is pursued, and we come to the conclusion
that these cities are closer than they seem on the map, that
between American Jazz and American Samba there is much in
common.

Here we are, then, up in the hills. Here is the
jungle, trying to push its way back down into the city; and
below us, profuse and glittering, is the city itself, the
bays and the beaches, the skyscrapers -- beyond, the
breathtaking monuments of other hills. We're up in the Favellas
now, rude dwellings (now being replaced by the Government of
Brazil with better homes for the people). Here, in a special
place of its own, distinguished by its special structure,
its flowers, its curtains, its large fenced-in yard, is a
typical School of the Samba.

Carnaval won't start for some weeks yet, so things
are quiet up here. Somewhere people are singing dark sweet
music in counterpoint to Ave Maria, for this is dusk. Church
bells choir throughout the city and the people are praying.

Our School of the Samba, like all the rest of them,
is a private house. Its president and lord and master is
asleep on a bench outside; his wife and children are within,
and just now they are praying at the family shrine. The bells
scho into silence. The far-off singing changes texture --
throbs expectantly. The prayers are finished and Ruth, the

3

young girl, walks to the window and leans on the sill. She is
attracted by the whispered call of a boy peering over the
fence. He wants to know if there's going to be a Samba tonight.
His name is Othello.

Remember that name. It belongs to the performer
himself and this isn't the last time you will encounter it.
This is only his first American picture, and he's a big hit
in it for sure. Othello likes to be compared to Mickey Rooney,
but he's closer to a young Chaplin or Jimmy Savo.

From his introduction here until the end of the
Carnaval, Othello will appear in several of our episodes.
Through him a personalization of many aspects of Carnaval
has been possible and has been managed, we think, in terms
of uproarious entertainment.

Right now Othello takes Ruth's affirmative answer
as a cue to hop gleefully over the fence and dance into the
house in search of a tamborim to play. The president has
been awakened by his wife and is now raising the Samba School
flag on the flagpole as a signal that tonight a meeting will
be held.

The members of the club begin to gather, greeting
each other, tightening the skins of their drums and tamborins
over little fires, practising rhythms, and in general
preparing themselves. A new Samba is to be introduced. Just
before the composer arrives, Othello setting a pattern of
action, gets in trouble because of Ruth and is hustled away
from her by her mother.

The new Samba is sung by its author and is an
immediate success. As soon as the words are distributed,

4

everyone begins singing and dancing and the scene builds to
a truly exciting and fast-moving climax.

The song ("Si Alguem Disce") is picked up immediately
in a more commercial -- more sophisticated rendition, by a
woman's voice; and in the ensuing sequence it is sung in a
radio station by a pretty and popular sambista. The city has
taken up the new Samba.

At this point, as narrator, I wonder whether it
isn't presuming too much to present the samba rhythm this
directly. It's not, after all, a beat immediately understandable
to the uninitiated ear. So perhaps, before going on, it would
be wise to take a moment for a brief investigation into what
I call -- the anatomy of Samba.

(Here follows a series of close shots of Samba's
rhythm instruments as they are played. Accompanying this
interlude on the sound track is a description of the function
of the instruments, amusing information about their construction,
and some interesting points about how to play them.)

This interlude can't be described without making
it seem on paper to be a mere illustrated lecture. The
effect in the picture, however, will be highly amusing.

All the rhythm instruments playing together add up
to something called the Bateria, and this is an indispensable
ingrediente of Carnaval. But there are other ingredients, and
while we've paused for the one, we might as well introduce
them all. Through a comedy trick montage of animated props,
therefore, the audience is introduced to perfume-throwers
(and the art of perfume-throwing!), masks, serpentina, confetti,
noisemakers, and all the other paraphernalia essential to

5

Rio's Carnaval.

The gaiety of color of this sequence makes a logical
segue to the Bailes.

Bailes are costume balls, masquerade parties, big
dances, which are held during Carnaval in every available
club, hall, theatre, opera house, or cabaret. They vary
only in size and in the class of people which attend them.
All are indescribably gay. Bailes start several weeks before
Carnaval and are celebrated until Carnaval is over. We selected
for the picture four typical and widely contrasting locations:

(1) The Teatro Municipal, where the biggest, swankiest Baile was held under the patronage of Madame Vargas.

(2) The Independencia, a small hall where the lower middle-class whoops it up -- and we really mean whoops it up.

(3) The Teatro de Republica, where the negroes
have their traditional Baile.

(4) A club, representative of the many sports
clubs in Rio, each of which has its own
Baile -- young high society.

(The film in these sequences adds up to a thorough
coverage of Carnaval music and of people dancing to it inside.)

There are long shots of tremendous masses, medium
shots of people at tables and disporting themselves according
to the best Carnaval fashion, close shots of dancers and
instrumentalists in the orchestras, and in general a
thoroughgoing documentation of "Carnaval, interior, night."
Since it is the nature of Cariocas in such circumstances to

6

entertain themselves and others almost without let-up, there
can be no danger of this section of the film being anything
but tremendously alive, really astounding, and, we use the word
advisedly, sexy.

A considerable part of the music for the Bailes
will be Marchas. Many of the most popular songs of each
Carnaval belong to this category, which is what its Portuguese
name looks like, the category of Marchas. And though the
Marcha scarcely equals the Samba for interest of rhythm or
musical distinction, it is something to conjure with when
you appreciate the effect it has on the millions of people
celebrating Carnaval. The themes of the Marchas are most
often light and the lyrics easy to learn, so that it's not
unusual to hear literally hundreds of voices singing with
the orchestra. Editing our Baile film so that it builds into
the astonishing spectacle these Bailes actually present will
be the least difficult part of a big cutting job. Our
guiding idea will be to leave our audiences as open-mouthed
and goggle-eyed as we were who shot the action.

The sports club, where one of the four Bailes is
held, is known to us as the Rio Tennis Clube. Music and
dancing and general hilarity here are as much in evidence as
in the other places; but what distinguishes this clube from
the others is an intermission in the music, during which the
dancers break up into small groups and couples. They go out
onto the terrace, or down into the garden, to catch their
breath -- or lose it in other forms of activity than dancing.

One of the musicians, a mandolin player, picks out
a few introductory bars to some song: his challenge is

7

immediately accepted by a young girl. She starts to sing.
The song is a Choro, which is to say it differs from a
Samba or a Marcha as a Waltz differs from a Fox Trot or a
Polka. This one is a sentimental and instantly likeable tune
called "Carinhoso," and that means "Affectionately." The
girl's voice carries to other parts of the garden -- to one
young man in particular who leaves the girl he's with and
goes hunting for the singer. When he finds her, (a feat he
accomplishes with no trouble and in a moment's time) he
joins her in the singing. The general reaction throughout
the garden might best be described as the intimate side of
Carnaval; and when the duet is finished, the intimacy
becomes active. This is because the musicians pick up the
tempo of the second chorus and everyone starts dancing in
out-of-the-way places. They've hardly had time to finish
chorus the second, however, when Carnaval music strikes up
again; the musicians in the garden rush back to their bandstand
inside and everyone follows. The interlude is over and the
wild tempo of Carnaval is on again, obviously to last through
the night -- through the city.

After the night comes the day; and just as certainly
as day follows night, one hour of Carnaval celebration is
succeeded by another. There is no stopping.

The people come down from the hills early, dressed
up in the costumes they've been preparing for weeks: clowns,
Hawaiians, Cossacks, Bahianas, tramps, animals, Indians,
monsters -- everything and anything. Down they come from
the hills, down the paths and rough roads to the paved streets
and the little plazas in the suburbs. They come down in Blocos --

8

small groups; in Cordoes -- larger groups; or in Ranchos -- still
larger groups.

Along with the others, Othello is now to be found
dancing and flinging himself around the public squares and
streets in a sort of wild and happy determination to outdo
everybody -- and then to outdo himself.

The crowds jamming the city's outskirts choke the
narrow streets and the wide streets: a rising river of
humanity that moves together in the channels defined by the
shops and houses. There is nothing placid about this movement:
it is all whirlpools and eddies. And always there are the
rhythms of Carnaval's music, the gay noise of thousands of
voices singing without inhibition in the open air.

The movement is towards the heart of the city and
the most common means of transportation is the streetcar.
Open for its entire length on both sides, this rickety vehicle
is jam-packed with people; if they can't get inside, they
clamber onto whatever hand - or foothold seems plausible; and
by the time the streetcar can be said to be on its way,
it resembles nothing so little as a streetcar. It's really a
great clinging globule of humanity with a trolley sticking
out on top.

By this and other means, the people move and gather
in the center of Rio. The tens have become hundreds, the
hundreds thousands, and the thousands a million. Their voices
combined in song now produce a mighty roar that sifts into
the farthest alley and rises up to the top of the tallest
skyscraper.

9

(here follows a dialogue scene. It is written out
as such. However, in most cases it hasn't been possible to
approximate the actual wordage for what will have to be called,
for want of a better name, "The Narration" -- that is, my part
of the picture. This will have to wait for the first rough cut.)

A great many of the ideas presented in this treatment,
and more besides, will be contained in the part I will play
in the picture.)

10

INT. ROOF SKYSCRAPER - DAY. A roof garden on top of a skyscraper in the middle of the city. All around are more skyscrapers, some finished, some in work. Beyond are Rio's sumptuously beautiful hills. From the street below there rises the huge roar of Carnaval, throbbing like a powerhouse. Close to us the people are singing the samba "Farewell, Praca Onze." This is distinct from the multiplicity of other sounds, other rhythms -- increasingly so during the following scene.

An architect's stand on trestles displays a plaster model of part of the city. Standing beside this is a young lady whom we will call Donna Maria. She looks efficient and very attractive. There is no mistaking her officialdom nor her sex appeal.

My voice as narrator is heard as we FADE IN. Still speaking, I walk into the scene and take my place beside Donna Maria

## WELLES

(continuing)

-- And now here's a very charming Brazilian lady who works for the Brazilian government -- Donna Maria.

Donna Maria smiles hello to the leans.

## WELLES (cont'd)

She's going to tell us about Praca Onze.

## DONNA MARIA

Praca Onze -- You can hear them singing about it down there in the steets -- "Farewell, Praca Onze." It's a beautiful song, isn't it?

## WELLES

It's the hit tune of the Carnaval --

## DONNA MARIA

Praca Onze is the name of a famous public square. You can see it from here.

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WELLES

And now it has to go to make room for a big
new street -- "Farewell, Praca Onze" --

DONNA MARIA

The people love it very much -- so they made
up this song about it to bid it bood-bye.
Senhor Orson, you've never been to Rio before,
so you can't know how our city's been changing.
Over there we used to have a mountain. A
little while ago we moved it away. Now the
city is several degrees cooler and the traffic
problem is simplified.

WELLES

I think Rio can spare a few mountains and
still be the loveliest city in America.

DONNA MARIA

We thought so, too. Now here's a model of our
new avenue -- the Avenida Getulio Vargas.

INS

INSERT - MODEL OF AVENIDA GETULIO VARGAS.

WELLES'S VOICE

Right there --

(my hand points)

Isn't that where Praca Onze is now?

BACK TO SCENE:

DONNA MARIA

It won't be by the time this picture's shown
on the screen. The city's going to be
tremendously improved, but, of course, lots of
people will still have _saudades_ for Praca Onze.

WELLES

_Saudades_ --. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm no
interpreter, but I now offer you a Portuguese
expression the English language ought to adopt
because we haven't got its equivalent --
_saudades_.

DISSOLVE during the next few words to title:

SAUDADES

Over this I continue.

WELLES'S VOICE (cont'd)

Saudades.... It means heartache -- something
like that -- Sentimental memory, lonesomeness --
a longing remembrance of something past, or of
someone gone away.

12

DISSOLVE back to scene. (I continue without stopping through both dissolves.)

WELLES (cont'd)

It really can't be translated, and that's
why I make a point of it. It's a word we
haven't got for something we all feel:
saudades --

DONNA MARIA

You know our other great Carnaval song
this year --

WELLES

"Amelia?"

The refrain of "Amelia" can be heard now on the streets, distinct
for just as long as "Amelia" is the topic of conversation.

DONNA MARIA

That's about saudades, too. According
to the words of the song, Amelia was a
girl who didn't care anything about
money, or nice clothes, or jewelry, who
didn't even mind going hungry as long
as she was with the man she loved. He
says "(Portuguese)." She was really
a wonderful girl.

WELLES

She certainly was.

DONNA MARIA

He says he has saudades for her.

WELLES

I should think he would.

DONNA MARIA

I hope you put "Amelia" in your picture,
Senhor Orson.

WELLES

I'm going to.
(to camera)

That comes later. But now, about
"Farewell, Praca Onze."

"Praca Onze" is again the song audible from the crowd in the
streets below.

WELLES (cont'd)

Ordinarily Carnaval tunes change every
year. I think this song about Praca
Onze is going to last -- like "Swanee
River" or "Basin Street Blues."

13

### DONNA MARIA

Listen -- there it is again.
(gives line
of lyrics
and English
translation)

### WELLES

No, Donna Maria, I don't think you Cariocas
are going to forget Praca Onze -- that song
won't let you. Next year, of course, there'll
be a new samba about the new street, and I'm
all for that -- for new sambas and new streets.
(to camera)

You know, Rio's one of the only beautiful old
towns where new things are even more beautiful
than the old ones. Of course, it's just as
hard here as it is anywhere else to say
good-bye to the past -- but you can always
keep your mind off the past if you're busy
enough with the future, and Rio's plenty busy.
Right, Donna Maria? You've got even more plans
here than you have memories -- more hopes than
regrets, more dreams than saudades.

### DONNA MARIA

The hills up there, for instance, where the
poor people live, where the Schools of the
Samba come from -- you were up there
photographing one of them, Senhor Orson --
do you know we've got new housing projects
for all those places -- model homes? They're
going up right now.

### WELLES

That's fine.

### DONNA MARIA

Just wait and see --

The "Praca Onze" tune sounds louder, more insistently. She smiles, acknowledging its effect.

### DONNA MARIA (cont'd)

Of course, we can't deny we're sentimental.

### WELLES

Well, I guess we all are, here in America.
Just listen to that -- "Adeus, Praca Onze,
Adeus." Where I come from we sing about our
"Old Kentucky Home" and "The Beautiful Ohio."
I guess we all like our little saudades --
And why not? That's why "Praca Onze" is a
great song.

### FADE OUT

The samba "Farewell, Praca Onze" grows in clarity and intensity as the fade out completes itself.

14

In Praca Onze itself, now, the music seems distant far away. Carnaval day is over, and the celebrants here have chosen the moments of twilight for a little rest; they're stretched out on the ground, an unceremonious mass of bright costumes. It's time out, but it won't last. A long night of Carnaval lies ahead.

A drumbeat sounds. Eyes turn; toes twitch. The drummer enters the scene, beating a slow rhythm, but since it is a rhythm, nobody can sit still. They start to rise, one by one, and then in groups of a hundred at a time. The drummer has been banging his drum through habit, perhaps, or some kind of relex. With the awakening of the crowd he picks up the rhythm, thumps away with more spirit. It isn't long before everybody's up and everybody's dancing and singing "Praca Onze."

The theme has been stated -- now we know what the song "Praca Onze" is about, and we know the tune. What follows here are variations on the theme. We construct, in picture and sound, a sort of "Praca Onze Suite." From the dervish crowds in the square itself, we move to dervish crowds inside, in one of the Bailes. We hear and see a pretty girl sing part of the chorus. We see, from above, a spontaneous circle of dancers formed; one of them moves into the center of the circle and improvises some steps; then she designates another dancer, who follows with another improvisation, and this continues. At a table in another part of the city, the samba rhythm prompts a sudden burst of confetti-throwing, perfume-squirting, and general high jinx. Standing before a Negro orchestra in still another place, a girl in Bahiana costume sings a few lines of the song. Musicians of all sizes, playing instruments of all sorts, are devoting themselves in locations of all kinds, to the playing of "Praca Onze" as it seems to them it must be played. We continue

15

throughout the city in this way, following "Praca Onze."

In the end, we come back to the streets, and the song
begins to die out. After all, it isn't the only samba this
Carnaval. There is, as has been noted, another very popular one --
"Amelia." And as "Praca Onze" fades, "Amelia" begins to be heard,
distantly at first, and by only a few voices, and then more closely
and by more voices.

What we see during this is a very small boy quite far
off in the night. On either side of the picture there are small
groups dancing, but in the center, seemingly miles away, there is
no one but the boy. His name is Pery, and along with Othello, he's
a star of the Carnaval picture by virtue of a very considerable
talent. Pery is only four years old, but this fact is belied by
everything except his size. Now, as he approaches the camera, he
naturally gets bigger, but not much. He seems preoccupied with
something, despite the fact that he sings an occasional phrase
from the song, "Amelia," and when he cries out for his mother, we
realize that he's lost. Just as he seems most disconcerted by his
situation, he is almost bowled over by a hurtling thing that
rushes past the camera toward him. It's Othello, headed as fast
as he can for Praca Onze and the festivities. He asks Pery's
pardon and then rushes on without pausing to make out what the boy
screams at him. Pery is good and sore now. He continues
scowlingly through the thickening crowd, shouting for his mama
and singing "Amelia."

This is another statement for another theme, and just as
there was constructed a form of montage cencert for "Praca Onze,"
so now there is presented a "Suite for Amelia." These two songs,
being not only the most typical and popular, but the most
expressive of certain key ideas about Carnaval and life in Brazil,

16

deserve this special treatment. There is a mutual relationality as the songs themselves are revealed, and they in turn reveal various aspects of Carnaval. Now, for example, parts of "Amelia" are played or sung in five highly different styles; and to each style belongs a particular setting, a particular side of Carnaval. Taken all together quickly like this, tied together by the device of the song, the various settings and styles add up to an excellent likeness of Carnaval itself.

Of the five styles comprising this sequence, the fourth consists of an interestingly conventionalized solo by Chucho Martinez, whose highly sympatico lyric tenor is surely one of the best today in the Americas. The biggest hit of this year's theatrical season in Brazil was Chucho's version of "Amelia." The fact that Chucho is a Mexican speaks eloquently for practical pan-Americanism and for the singer's persuasiveness.

When Martinez has finished with the song, we hear a tiny voice pick it up in another key. It's Pery, who of the two things -- his mother whom he's lost and the song which he likes to sing -- has apparently chosen the song to concentrate on -- for the moment at least. Without a second's misstep in rhythm, without a fraction's loss of key, he struggles purposefully through "Amelia." Such things are not to be taken lightly by him, and so most of the time he's on the serious side; but he's enjoying himself immensely and would be quite willing to sing it again for the crowd gathered around him, if it weren't for an interruption --

It is Othello who is again responsible for an infringement on Pery's peace. Singing another song altogether, and with a gusto thoroughly suited to Carnaval, Othello, at the head of a sizeable group, barges right through Pery's crowd and carries Pery along despite himself. The crowd grows by the minute,

17

and soon Othello finds himself at the head of a really big mob of
dancers and shouters -- truly an irresistible force. Its momentum
impels it through any obstacle.

At the other end of the square another group, even
larger than Othello's, is still singing "Praca Onze." Skipping
before it is a customer in a black derby, clearing a way through
the crowd for his bloco, which has clearly acquired its own
relentless momentum.

Unavoidably these two irresistible forces must meet,
Othello's and the derby hat's.

The physical clash is anticipated by the collision, in
sound, of the two songs. Each group naturally goes on singing what
it has been singing. At the actual meeting there is a split second
of apparent mutual respect between the groups, but this is a false
truce and lasts less time than it takes to tell about. The fight
starts, and we mean the fight. No preliminaries are indulged in,
no "I dare you to cross that line," no palaver of any kind. One
minute the armistice is observed, with the people milling around;
in the next the fight is on, the people milling around at a tempo
some hundred times faster.

The method of fighting is "capoeira," an extremely
diverting and unique Brazilian institution, comparable to jiu
jitsu and le becque, but unlike anything. Interestingly enough,
the samba as a dance is a close relative, and no examination of
either the samba or of Carnaval would be complete without a little
capoeira.

A large circle forms around the fighters, and Pery finds
himself trapped inside it, with legs and arms and parts of
costumes flying dangerously close to him. Before he can escape
through the legs of a tall man, the fight has attained its maximum

18

pitch. Othello is lifted up bodily and is being swung around in the air, brandishing an umbrella and getting in licks whenever he can.

It's a wonderful fight, staged with all the alacrity and fidelity to the real thing that Cariocas are capable of. Perhaps "staged" is the wrong word, since real bruises and sprains were sustained during the filming, and a number of teeth lost. A similar scene couldn't have been made in Hollywood. An approximation would have cost a small fortune in stunt men.

Pery, safe out of the danger zone, resumes his wanderings, in search of his mother --

Other less violent but no less active expressions of Carnaval are to be found in other parts of the city. We look in on these. At the Casino de Urca, for instance, Linda Baptista has been leading a line of girls in and around the tables. The Casino is very probably the gayest and most popular institution of its kind in this hemisphere; and the same goes for Linda. As a sambista, which is to say, as a girl who sings samba, she has no peer. Now she's singing a catchy one called "Batuque No Morro." The composer is following her. He plays the pandeiro with as much sheer style and shameless virtuosity as it is humanly possible to play any instrument. The pandeiro is a good instrument for virtuosity, and this character's name is Russo do Pandeiro, just to keep things clear. Between the two of them -- Linda and Russo -- the joint is really rocking.

Meanwhile, out in the streets Othello has got his breath, or enough of it, and is now indulging himself in the faintly censorable occupation of taking parts of girls' costumes away from them. Nobody minds, and in short order he's done himself up in a hasty but hilarious caricature of a Bahiana -- and is singing a

19

song to match. Conveniently enough, his song is the same Linda
Baptista is singing in the Casino da Urca; and we intercut from
one to the other.

The contrast is one not only of voices, but of
directions; the Carnaval of tradition is a celebration of the
streets alone. But recent years have seen a trend indoors to the
Baile and the Casino. The contrast, as it's illustrated by this
song, isn't extreme -- but the raucous raggle-taggle jamboree of
the streets and the more professional, if equally enthusiastic
atmosphere of the night club, is interesting in juxtaposition, and
here we also have the opportunity of seeing two really fine
Brazilian artists performing an identical Brazilian song. Othello,
masquerading as a Bahiana, delivers his share of the song by way
of pardoy; in fact, it's easy to see that he's doing a take-off
on Carmen Miranda. Linda Baptista is Linda Baptista; no more
need be said.

Beside singing, Othello executes a satirical dance and
then breaks off his performance with the theme song of the Carnaval
of the streets -- "Praca Onze" again. His impromptu audience
joins in, and as "Praca Onze" swells into its accustomed roar,
our camera moves on through Carnaval.

We've seen people inside the clubs and dance halls at
night; we've seen them outside during the day. Now we see them
outside at night. We see them from the level of the streets
themselves, and from the roofs of buildings. The total effect is
breathtaking.

Observing this hilarious congestion, the streets and
squares brimming with individuals who have set aside their
self-consciousness and timidly and reticence, it's scarcely
believable that a little child without its mother, utterly alone,

20

could live in the thick of Carnaval, much less enjoy it, unharmed.
But our camera shows how this is possible.

Here we demonstrate another of the amazing truths about Carnaval: the unpoliced good behavior of Carnaval's mobs. Drunkenness has no part of the world's biggest good time, since only champagne and beer are obtainable during Carnaval days, and besides, Brazilian good humor is so unaggressive that brawls are hard to find.

The people are now mainly jammed around the Avenida, Rio's main street, to see the parade. There will be floats and bands and horsemen dressed in tuxedos. There will be satirical floats, floats celebrating the strength of Brazil, comic floats, and many expressing the theme of Pan-American solidarity. One will show a series of tall columns, five in all, with the fifth toppled over -- as the people believe it should be.

All of this announces and is part of the climax of our Carnaval picture. This is a musical climax, and its entertainment basis is a regularly staged production number -- or rather two numbers -- which take place in the Urca Casino. Part One is a grande reprise of Carnaval itself, the music and the costumes and the dances. The other is dedicated to Pan-Americanism.

The music itself was especially orchestrated by Paul Misraki, one of the top arrangers in the business, and our whole finale is played by the best popular band that Europe possessed before the war -- that of Ray Ventura. Augmenting Ventura's organization are a number of the finest instrumentalists in South America. Rehearsals were extensive and very painstaking. The result is track of outstanding effectiveness and real musical distincting.

The first part of this production number we based on

21

elements in an actual floor show featured by the Urca during the
weeks preceding Carnaval days. It was the best thing of its kind
I've ever seen in a night club, and our picture version is one
hundred per cent better than that. Besides the great superiority
of the music itself, our adaptation is very much faster and very
much bigger. We've added girls and costumes, and we revised the
choreography to suit camera requirements. The general effect is
that of a great total. Up until this point we presented the
various factors of Carnaval -- here we sum them up. There are a
few brilliant bars of all the hit songs -- with a pretty girl to
sing each selection; there are the costumes of Carnaval stepped
up to theatre pitch; there are the marches and the sambas; and
watching over all of this is King Momo himself, the monarch of
Carnaval. It's a real old-fashioned bang-up Grand Finale.

Beyond Carnaval there is a larger theme, a theme which
prompts and enlivens the making of our entire picture. This
theme is Pan-Americanism. This is articulated in the streets
through the great parade, and in the Urca through the Pan-American
number. By using these two expressions in counterpoint, and
immediately after the Carnaval medly or summing up, our musical
feature is assured of a magnificent climax. It's the old musical
comedy device where the entire cast comes on stage for the finale,
each principal doing a turn until the cumulative effect demands
an ovation, until finally, when it seems that everyting has been
shown, the star enters to top everything. In our case, the star
is the Americas.

In our sequence the twenty-two republics are represented
by dancers and singers passing in quick bright revue. With
everybody on stage the entire company joins in a rousing tribute
to all America. The crowd at the Urca goes wild -- serpentina,

22

hundreds of balloons, a riot of flame. Rio's Carnaval becomes
Pan-America's Carnaval. Here, you realize, is one way of saying
something that all of us in the Western Hemisphere are coming to
recognize. The Americas, all the Americas together, are joined
in fact as well as in idea, today rather than in the future.

One again, and for the last time, we are in Praca Onze.

It's four o'clock in the morning of the last day of
Carnaval. The great square is almost empty. People who haven't
gone home are asleep, young and old -- couples -- little children
curled up in piles of serpentina --

There's a tradition in the city of Rio that dawn of the
day after Carnaval finds not a single speck of confetti on the
pavements. The street cleaners are busy everywhere to this end.
Only after their diligent brooms reach the sleepers do they wake,
rise, yawn, stretch, stagger home.

Dust hangs in the air. Confetti, serpentina, noisemakers,
empty perfume-throwers form in great piles. Over this we hear,
distantly, the sweet, weirdly-sad strains of the samba, "Farewell,
Praca Onze"...in a minor key.

The refrain continues as we go to the steps of the
Teatro Municipal. Here more of Carnaval's hardiest celebrants
arouse themselves only at the insistence of Rio's white wings.
Little Pery goes unnoticed in a corner, continues sleeping.

Back in Praca Onze we find Othello snoring happily, his
head pillowed luxuriously on the legs of a snoozing candy butcher.
The broom reaches him. He blinks and then jumps up, ready to go
on with Carnaval. He tries to beat his tamborim; it is broken.
He looks around. Praca Onze is a desert --

"Farewell, Praca Onze" -- the haunting melody continues

23

as we return to the steps before the theatre. A policeman has
found Pery. He wakes the tiny boy gently. Pery looks around him
uncertainly.

POLICEMAN

What's wrong, little friend? Have you got lost?

PERY

No, I'm not lost. It's Carnaval.

POLICEMAN

Where's your mother?

PERY

She's lost.

POLICEMAN

What's your name?

PERY

My name is Pery Martins, and I live at 524
Avenida Atlantica --

By the last syllable of this address, Pery is asleep
again. The policeman picks him up and takes him in his arms.
As he settles him comfortably on his shoulder, Pery murmurs
sleepily his favorite samba -- the same that he sang earlier as a
 solo before an admiring audience -- "Saudades de Amelia" --

Again Praca Onze --

Along in the center of the square, Othello is bidding
his own farewell to Praca Onze. The music still sounds, but even
more distantly -- sorrowing and lovely. We see in Othello's eyes
all the color and noise and excitement and music that filled this
place only a few short hours ago --

The policeman, with little Pery sleeping in his arms,
walks away from the camera down the long dark streets, his
footsteps echoing on the pavements --

On his way home Othello has paused under a street lamp.
He throws his broken tamborim to the ground -- a gesture of
leavetaking unconsciously eloquent. -- "Adeus, Praca Onze, Adeus."

24

Good-bye to the last great Carnaval of the street. The sky is
turning grey. Othello's footsteps echo in the silence for a time
after he leaves the picture.

Then only the sweet murmur of the song remains, very
faint, a memory of sound -- there's nothing to see but the broken
tamborim in the glow of the street lamp, a pretty little casualty,
lonesome-looking on the fresh new sidewalk. Our camera looks up
to the lamp itself, to the sign "Praca Onze."

Now it's early day -- The light in the lamp goes out,
and at the same moment the song ends.

FADE OUT

25

We FADE IN on a very beautiful SHOT of the city of Rio. Fresh, young-looking in the rose and gold lights of daybreak.

A succession of these SHOTS --

As I speak of the jangadeiros' departure, we see them boarding a plane; then their faces pressed to the windows waving good-bye; then the plane's taking off.

Next comes Rio from the plane itself: the white and gold city, the silver beaches, violet bays, purple mountains. Finally, Corcovado, at once exclamatory and benign. Then, for our final tableau, the CAMERA GOES BACK to the ground from where we see the plane again, very tiny, a silhouette in the dawn sky. All this during the following:

## WELLES

This is the end we planned for our picture. Here are the jangadeiros; all four of them, as you see. They stay on for Carnaval as the guests of the city, and then their government sends them back to their homes again with good news for their comrades -- a better life, a better chance for their children.

The flight back really happened. This picture is all true. Bonito was pardoned; Carnaval was just as you've seen it; the four men from the North really sailed all those long miles to Rio on five logs of wood with only the stars to guide them, so they could talk to the President of their country.

Naturally our cameras weren't alway on the spot. Some of the action we had to reconstruct. Here, for instance -- Before we'd finished with our work, Jacare, the leader of the jangadeiros, had died in the sea.

But this is still the end of our picture, because this is the best place we know to stop. Also, it's true.

Jacare did go back to Ceara, and of course, he's still there -- alive in the love of his fellows; still there with us, like the Dragon of the Sea who told the slave traders he'd carry no more slaves. For Jacare lives now in American history. This picture is his: a humble, solemn dedication.

(cont'd)

# APPENDIX

The notes which follow are included to complete the record and are presented here in order to contribute to the readibility of the main body of this report.

APPENDIX

A

1 - Music

It was patently impossible to record Carnival music and
sound effects during Carnival with any degree of completeness or
accuracy. We therefore set ourselves immediately after Carnival
to the task of assembling musicians and artists.

Since we knew at the outset that our Carnival picture
would have to be made in the absence of sustained personal story,
it was obvious that an aesthetic for this picture should be based
on the conception of an illustrated musical contructed of Brazilian
popular tunes. No matter how good our visual material might be,
its interest could be no greater than the interest of the sound
track which accompanied it. Our music was not incidental -- it
was of primary importance. It wasn't something to be slapped on
afterwards. The two things had to be intergrated. Simply put,
they had to go together. Music had to do more than complement the
picture -- it must dictate what was to be seen.

In the interests of veracity and more importantly, of
entertainment, our music had to be native and truly of Carnival,
and our picture had to be true to the music. We had to discover
what Samba was before we found an architecture for our film.
Samba, we learned, comes from the hills, so our picture had to be
oriented to the hills.

Early in the game we were lucky enough to establish
connections with five or six Brazilians whose knowledge of
Brazilian customs, of Rio's Carnival, and Carnival's music,
provided us with ready and authoritative reference. In addition,
they were able to refer us to other authorities in matters where
they felt their own knowledge was insufficient.

The first week out, Mr. Wilson went to an official of

B

the DIP (Departamento de. Imprersa e Propaganda, or, Department of Press and Propaganda). the dead of the radio department, Arys de Andrade. As Mr. de Andrade is a music authority, he as asked for information from the DIP files on the subject. Mr. de Andrade personally prepared a small brochure of dull facts.

Inasmuch as it was impossible to get a true picture from any one person of the overall situation (in this and other instances), we hired six advisors -- and our attempt was always to gain as many different viewpoints as authoritatively stated on a given subject as possible. (NOTE: This committee of six advisors is not to be confused with the Brazilian Carnival authorities referred to earlier, whose help was voluntary and offered entirely out of personal friendship.)

Musical auditions were eventually held, the majority being made with the help and advice, to name only two, of Haroldo Barbosa and Senhor Almirante. Haroldo occupies a peculiar position in Brazilian radio since he is at one and the same time the sound engineer, the person in charge of recoding for the largest station in Rio, one of the few big radio writers in Brazil, and an encyclopaedia of all Brazilian artists. The connection with Haroldo, needless to say, has been a God-send to Mercury. For the first audition we also procured the help of a foremost authority on folk music in all of Brazil, Sr. Almirante.

With the cooperation of these two, we were able to hold auditions resulting in the discovery of a number of artist -- singers and musicians -- suitable for our picture. We also made the acquaintance of persons who were to be of similar help in later auditions -- more authorities, the e from the musical profession, whose advice and assistance we found invaluable during

C

the actual shooting of the picture. After a short time formal
auditions were unnecessary, however, since we soon knew enough
people in entertainment and musical circles to make it possible
for us to audition informally at no cost.

The net result of all this has been an accurate and
extremely profitable index of Brazil's leading entertainers, from
which we have drawn heavily during filming. Among the authorities
whom we encountered in the process just described was Herivelto
Martins.

## 2 - Cooperation

Before coming down we had asked for and had received
assurances from the authorities here that we would have their full
cooperation. Because the DIP is the department of information,
we had a right to expect that Mr. Welles wouldn't have to hire, at
his own expense, people to do research. We asked the DIP to let
us see their films, files, asked for synopses, outlining more or
less what we wanted. Inasmuch as this is the function of the DIP,
we felt we had a right to expect such information from them.

The truth is that only a meager amount was forthcoming.
The DIP sent us schedules of Carnaval that were invariably
inaccurate, and always incomplete. In the matter of providing us
with information concerning the actual Carnaval, for example, the
DIP not only failed, but it can be said in justice that they were
less than helpful. Only piecemeal information was tendered us
from day to day, in spite of repeated requests for a complete
schedule of Carnival events. Such material as was offered us was
heavily edited.

When Mr. Welles tried to find lights, when it was
realized that the boat wasn't coming, the DIP made an earnest

D

effort to find some. They finally located a few lights now suitable to Technicolor, and when even those were desperately wanted, they could do nothing about the exorbitant price of $3,000.00. Not that they would not -- truth is they _could_ not do anything.

The matter of getting the material through customs was a truly serious failure on the part of the DIP.

Informed of a DIP activity in the Carnaval, Welles would take his equipment there, only to find no DIP representative, no one in authority to help us. True, the organization is probably under-staffed, and couldn't send adequate representatives or police because our needs were too great for them.

The DIP never gave our group enough authority so we could act without consulting back to them. It was always their wish to exercise control.

In the matter of the boat sequence, the DIP did collaborate very successfully with our group. Also they did resurrect the Municipal Theatre Ball, for which the company paid the costs. This was a great personal achievement for Dr. Assis Figueiredo. Otherwise, however, when the DIP was called upon to fulfill its promise of re-staging various Carnaval events, it was found that nothing could be done.

Here's another instance of what we mean. We were, of course, extremely anxious to get air shots of Rio at Carnaval time: of the daytime Carnaval crowds in the streets, on the Avenida, and dancing in Praca Onze. At least ten days before Carnaval, we informed the DIP that we would like these and were assured that this could be arranged without much difficulty.

There is no doubt that the effects of the war are

E

particularly felt in aviation. At the same time, the government
should have been able to help us on this matter since at a later
date, working on our own, we have found no difficulty in obtaining
airplanes for special shots. But when it came to the day actually
scheduled for the air shots, and Duke Green, chief Technicolor
cameraman, went to the airport to inspect the plane, he was
informed that we were not to be allowed the use of it. We were
told that perhaps later we would be able to get a plane.

The DIP tried several other times at our request to
arrange a plane for some daytime scenic shots. Welles finally
agreed that if we were only to have the use of a plane for a single
day or so, one of our most important things would be to get air
shots of the reception of the jangadeiros in Rio harbor. When
this difficult production sequence was finally organized, we found
that everything was arranged except the planes again. At the last
moment we were informed that the DIP would not be able to secure
them for us.

One of our own staff members, a former member of the
Naval Reserve, through personal contacts and information, secured
a plane from the Naval Reserve. Other plane shots to date have
been arranged by our own staff as publicity exploitation stunts
for the N. A. B. lines.

Our last example of the DIP's failure to be of much real
assistance. After receiving many assurances that the boat with the
equipment would come, we were extremely anxious to obtain the use
of a studio to do rudimentary cover set work until the equipment
arrived. We also badly needed a place to store such equipment as
as already on hand. The Carmen Santos Studio was the logical
choice. The DIP participated in all of the negotiations for the

F

studio and finally even attempted a direct intervention in the
matter. RKO and the DIP were promised by the owner and proprietor,
Carmen Santos, that all she wished was two weeks in which to
finish the picute she was then working on. After this we were
assured the use of the studio. Dr. Assis Figuereido helped draw
up the contract and negotiate the terms. After a week had gone by
we were all notified that Santos would need an extra two weeks,
and in another week we were notified we would not have the use of
that studio at all. Shores and our own production staff quickly
opened negotiations with Studio Cinedia and we concluded a deal
within a few days.

Mr. Welles is very anxious for us to point out, however,
that the attitude of the DIP has been, at all times, one of
sincere good will and eagerness to help. Their failure, in most
cases, at least, to be of any valid assistance, has been due, ho
feels, to their limited experience in the problems which presented
themselves in the course of making this picture. Mr. Welles wishes
to make it most clear that the status of our official relationship
with the DIP is more than cordial, and that his own personal
friendship with Dr. Lourival Fontes, Dr. Assis Figeureido, George
Santos, Pessoa, et al, is very warm.

3 - Research

Before arriving in Brazil, Mr. Welles read all of the
material available on the subject of Carnaval, but this, as has
been said, was sadly limited in scope and often downright
inaccurate. From the little personal information he could obtain
in the states, it seemed that Carnaval couldn't be described and
probably couldn't be filmed. Anyway, it had to be seen.

In Rio Mr. Welles expected to find more available

G

material and was disappointed. He therefore discussed the problem
with every conceivable authority and every amateur on the subject
-- not always to our satisfaction. Authorities differed, often
flatly contradicted each other. The history of Carnaval and of
Samba and Carnaval music was not a matter of much coherent record.
People were hired to give advice, people were wheedled out of
advice free of charge.

It was absolutely essential to gether material on our
own -- extensive material, and to organize investigation and
research. To this end a number of Brazilian writers were hired
to pursue research and to write reports on specific subjects.
Work relating directly to the picture was, of course, charged to
production. It is important to note here, however, that the
greater part of this material, that is, the really valuable
research, was assumed as a personal expense by Mr. Welles. He
maintained this especially organized group of Brazilian writers
for some time, and through it he was able to check on the minutae
of a specialized subject, and the authenticity of every detail of
the picture as it was made.

Two of Brazil's best newspapermen, Rio's leading
historian, and one of Brazil's leading playwrights, were members
of this advisory staff. Their admirable execution of assignments
is reflected in the picture itself and in the popular and
cultural work of the entire project.

## 4 - Radio

Artists who were auditioned for radio were never used
for radio. The picture, however, has drawn on the results of
radio auditions. There were no movie auditions. Radio auditions,
therefore, affected a sizeable saving in time and money for the
picture. (See note 1)

H

## 5 - Difficulties

Mr. Welles arrived in Rio with no knowledge of what Carnaval was like, without equipment, no stars, no story. No one had any idea of what the picture was to be like -- nor how long it was to be.

Probably the classic difficulty of all was the organizing of the boats and personnel that enabled us to get production shots of the arrival of the jangadeiros. An examination of the difficulties our group met with in trying to get this would be a fair index of the effort it was necessary to expend to accomplish anything.

It must be remembered that our RKO group was practically pioneering in the motion picture business in Brazil; things a Hollywood studio, through its equipment and organization, could do in a matter of hours, required as many weeks. None of the organizations on which we could rely, namely, the DIP and the Rio RKO office, was accustomed to dealing with actual production problems, the North American tempo of work, or especially professional motion picture discipline. For instance, the sequence of the jangadeiros' arrival had to be filmed twice. Each time represented weeks of negotiations and preparation to organize the necessary elements.

As boats were not to be rented, we had to influence the Fishing Department in the Department of Agriculture, who in turn had to approach the fishermen themselves. The only day all parties could work was on a Sunday, and the fishermen, who had not only fished the whole night previous, but wished to have as much of Sunday off as possible, could hardly be expected to extend the amount of cooperation that such a difficult production sequence would need.

I

Therefore, the first Sunday it was tried, the crew on
half of the boats grew impatient and sailed away in the middle of
the most difficult portion of the work. No threats, bribes or
payments could hold them. A whole shooting day was lost and a long
period of preparatory work went for nothing. This has occurred
many many times with varying degrees of disaster in the course of
production. The human element in particular, the people, untrained
in the industry and ignorant of its problems, were many times quite
impossible to control.

Other headaches included the general Brazilian tempo of
business activity, such simple hazards as key people lacking
telephone service, two-hour lunch periods for business
establishments, gasoline shortages, etc., etc.

(This dreary catalogue of our troubles is not included
in this report for purposes of complaint or apology, but simply as
part of the record.)

K

## CHORO INTERLUDE

In line with Wilson's suggestion that a choro should be included in the picure, Meltzer held conversations with H. Barbosa, A. Corto, and de Moraes; Welles with Bettencourt and Martins.

All agreed for once.

State positively choro not true Carnival music.

Are Choros to be heard during Carnival time?

All except Corto agreed that they are, *but not in the streets*.

Meltzer withdraws objections in view of Welles' argument that since all of our sex appeal so far is presented in violent and vigorous form, one interlude is required presenting element of straight romance. If this can be included legitimately in a Carnival sequence, it should be...."Glamorous, rich young people doing something besides screaming their heads off....."

How can choro be used?

Wilson wanted choro because he thinks audiences will like fast choro. Welles' point different from Wilson's. Wilson insists fast choro is one of most ingratiating rhythms in South American music. Meltzer points out that a fine slow choro can be played fast in the second chorus, and thus Wilson will have his way. Is everybody happy?

Which is best choro for purpose?

Meltzer assigned task collecting all available choro recordings and, where possible, sheet music.

Since Welles' point in wanting choro will be visual, his job is to figure out location for this sequence.

(The following night)

Meltzer spend two hours with records and at piano on choros.

No need to list titles here.

Further discussion unnecessary since all enthusiastic. Immediate and unanimous agreement about "CARINHOSO." Generally conceded to be best number of its kind ever written and sure hit tune for States.

Piava, who was present for this part of meeting, made point that Carinhoso is not new. Welles asks if this matters since choros are at most a musical diversion in the regular course of Carnival. In other words, Carnival music proper should certainly be one

L

lively entertain and Choro is here conterbalanced as a
sort of relaxation from Carnival's intensity, "as though a hot
piano player monkeyed around with a sentimental ballad while the
rest of the jazz band takes a smoke. The ballad would not be
typical of a jazz evening, but it would relieve the violence of an
all-jazz program, and enhance the total effect by virtue of
contrast."

Both Martins and Piava agree.

Meltzer asks if they feel Brazilian audiences will agree. They
answer in the affirmative.

Meltzer himself agrees but will make inquiries among other
Brazilian authorities.

(From notes on the next evening)

## WELLES' IDEA FOR SEQUENCE

### Private Club.

Action should take place in garden or terrace outside private
club, such as Fluminense, Botafogo, Flamengo.

Many reasons for this.

"For one thing, bailes in private clubes are a very important
aspect of Carnival and we have made no other allowance for showing
this."

"For another thing, all of our locations are necessarily big,
noisy, popular -- that is, streets, public squares, dance halls,
the Municipal, casionos, night clubs, etc., etc., etc. No
opportunity is afforded in any of these locations for Romance. (!)"

Welles feels strongly romance absolutely necessary inclusion.
Wishes opportunity to show "spooners in the moonlight, young
people holding hands, equivalent to couples drifting away from
country club dance back in the States." Recognition value here
excellent identification point for American audiences. Dramaturgic
considerations recommend this also for reasons of contrast and
relief."

Welles and Meltzer meet again late this night for further
discussions.

"Carinhoso excellent opportunity for flute solo plus vocal,
naturally."

Meltzer suggest use Pixininho who wrote song. Welles agrees.
Meltzer assigned to line up tentative musical combination, also
vocalists -- man and girl.

M

## WELLES' IDEA FOR SEQUENCE

Orchestra playing at clube baile durning Carnaval breaks for smoke. Part of the band moves out into the garden, starts idly playing. Work into Carinhoso. Pretty girl (clube member) starts singing with combination. Elsewhere in garden good-looking boy hears her voice, deserts his girl, looking for girl singing, sings himself as he goes. Boy and girl join, complete first chorus. Girl singer deserts her boy-friend to sing with boy singer. Jilted boy and jilted girl join up for fast choro dance. This is with others when orchestra -- now complete -- changes tempo.

Plus cuts young people in garden (or beach or terraces).
Picturesque, even *pretty* atmosphere...refined sex -- glamour --

## RIGHTS TO CARINHOSO

Wilson advises against going ahead without clearing but admits impossibility making film unless we proceed immediately because of other commitments. Long argument on this -- finally agreed sequence worth the gamble --

## WHERE IS LOCATION?

Welles certain that sets too elaborate and costly to build at Cinedia.

Meltzer suggests discussion with Curley and Rosenmeyer to check this. Welles positive this unnecessary, insists move to real clube such as Guanabara or Botafogo.

Several such clubs extended invitations during Carnaval.

Welles to check in files which did.

Have Wilson contact these.

Meltzer disapproves move because loss of shooting time -- difficulties with generator.

Welles again says set too big and expensive to build

Both agree would be a great shame to lose sequence and Carinhoso. Welles particularly alarmed at absence otherwise of romantic angle and lyric quality which very nature of Carnaval otherwise precludes. Meltzer convinced Carinhoso marvelous song and must stay in picture at all costs. Does not agree with Welles that baile is only method of presenting Carinhoso. Welles says baile should be included even without Carinhoso. Meltzer agrees to this.

Girl Welles found in Minaes has arrived Rio her own expense.
Wilson brought her to Meltzer earlier in day. Welles now suggests she sing vocal -- not actually singing it, but lipping it --

N

Agreed clube is best for production Carinhoso number. Some doubt
as to whether it can be cleared. Impossible obtain Botafogo or
Fluminense. Guanabara officials unavailable as yet.

Meltzer now agrees with Welles' suggestion to use Benedicto.
Reason: Benedicto white, Pixinginho colored. Also Benedicto
better showman with instrument. Also Pixinginho already recorded
on film in Republica sequence.

Welles says Martinez advises Carinhoso has been sung by Pedro Vargas
in Mexico but not in States.

Welles decision not to talk to Benedicto until Wilson given okay on
Carinhoso, also until location problem solved. Welles fearful
problem cannot be solved. Meltzer suggests further inquiries with
clubes, suggests making sequence by daylight to simplify move.
Welles disagrees because of romantic intention of sequence, but
agrees to shoot by daylight if no other choice.

(From meeting the next night)

Wilson says go ahead with Carinhoso. Now feels chances excellent
obtaining it.

## Welles Suggestion for Carinhoso Sequence

Use Cinedia buildings and gardens for Carinhoso setting. Put sign
over archway reading "Petropolis Tennis Clube." Use of Petropolis
interior footage in conjunction with Carinhoso -- this is to say,
before and after it. This puts excellent use to Petropolis
footage, gives it definite location, makes it easier to intergrate
this footage into film. Helps whole problem of baile montage.
Above all, solves impasse on question of building set or moving
to real clube.

Welles points out that Cinedia terrace and arbors, stairway, pool,
fountain, path, gateway, commissary, can be made to approximate
typical Rio clube exactly by choosing angles carefully. Only
necessary to decorate with bunting and string brightly colored
lights in garden. Welles will spend couple of hours late tomorrow
night after shooting working out angles.

Feels confiden can do entire sequence in Cinedia and match
quality to Petropolis interiors. Meltzer objects that Petropolis
is not real clube. Welles say makes no difference since
interiors shot at Petropolis are not identified, so that same
people could just as well be dancing in Rio clube. Welles will
discuss with J. C, J. A, and H. W. tomorrow.

(The next night)

## Carinhoso Sequence

Meltzer insists Petropolis too well-known to allow transplantation
to Rio. Welles says how does anyone know it is Petropolis.
Meltzer says it is called Petropolis Tennis Clube. Welles says why

it need not be called Petropolis Tennis Club. It might just as well
be called Tirandentes. Now clear Welles means to use Petropolis
interiors as Rio interiors. Establishing shot will read
Tirandentes Football Clube, or Tirandentes Tennis Clube. Wilson
will arrange with Production to have sign painted unless J. C.
feels his department can take care of this.

Benedicto and musicians arranged for.

Meltzer decided could not arrange for Luciano Perrione for Bateria
because his commitments too considerable. Welles feels percussion
instruments here should be light because of incidental nature of
presentation. Meltzer disagrees because of fast section. Welles
agrees regular trap drummer good investment.

Meltzer has obtained Odette Amaral at very low price for her, but
cannot get Alves for less than ten contos. Welles feels Alves
will come down, Meltzer insists no. Both agree amount of singing
necessary not considerable enough to justify big expenditure here.

Wilson advises not sure again about Carinhoso rights but agrees
wisest plan is to continue and start scheduling sequence as soon
as possible.

(The following night)

Welles conferred with J. C. and J. A.

Curley can make sign, cutting out letters in the shop himself.
Decoration bunting, etc., very simple to do, he says. Curley
feels entire layout can be ready on a day's notice.

Strings of electric lights in garden big problem. Bulbs necessary
are very expensive. On the other hand, garden scene will seem
flat without them. Considering what we are getting without a
move or building any set, expenditure on these lights should be
worth it, but under existing circumstances decided tonight to
discuss again tomorrow with Wild advisability double printing
lights.

Meltzer has obtained Moraes Netto for male vocal and neither
Netto nor Amaral is sufficiently photogenic. Minerva wonderful
for girl, need to find man. Will confer with Pisler.

Difficulty with Benedicto since shooting must necessarily be done
at night and Benedicto works at Copacabana.

Wilson will confer with Baron Stuka. By promising Dr. Guinle to
shoot sequence in Gold Room, cooperation on Benedicto matter may
be obtained. This promist worthwhile, particularly since Gold
Room very photographic and necessity getting American blonde girls
for Carnival sequence in Urca --

(The next night)

Received advice from Brazilian consultant Tirandentes being

P

wrong name and it should not be used to name a dancing clube.
After discussion compromise on Rio Tennis Clube. Welles insists
Meltzer check spelling of 'clube.' Feels Curley should not make
sign until best authority consulted on use of 'e' after 'b',
whether new or old spelling.

Carinhoso recording knock-out. Author of Carinhoso's lyrics
says this is best rendition of song he has ever heard.

No male juvenile as yet for action of Carinhoso. Two other
male juveniles and another very good-looking girl needed.
Pisler has not yet delivered. Will confer with Leo tomorrow.
If necessary, check extra lists personally, although this has
not proved satisfactory before.

Have Wilson communicate with Botafogo Clube. Thank them for
the offer and tell them we have made other arrangements.

...

25

57. CLOSE SHOT WELLES' CAR BEFORE HOTEL EARLY DAWN (STEREO OR PAINTING TO MATCH ABOVE)

DIALOGUE: 1 page

58. REVERSE ANGLE FOR ABOVE - DAWN SKY (STEREO)

DIALOGUE: Estimated above

59. MED. CLOSE SHOT - CAR - AT DOORWAY OF HOTEL - EARLY DAWN - SET

If something appropriate exists in stock, painting in long shot can match this -- if not, this should be built and might approximate Copa Cabana. CAMERA IS IN CLOSE to characters and girl's move from car to doors and through them is all we need to cary.

DIALOGUE: Estimated above

60. DAWN SKY PAINTING - (POSSIBLY MINIATURE)

CAMERA PANS DOWN off sky on to loud speakers as in opening shot of film. These are different loud speakers but shot is by intention very similar.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Most of the actual filming has been accomplished.
Only the Mexican sequence awaits completion -- and
the connecting scenes. These, besides binding the
three stories together, and explaining them, are
intended to add stature to the total effect of the
picture and broaden its popular appeal.

Narration is an important device in the film,
but it will be used in wholly new ways.

The three major sequences are *stories* --
complete in themselves, and the linking scenes form
another story. The film is never a documentary or
travelogue, or an illustrated lecture.

What follows is a general treatment of these
connecting scenes.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

TITLE

THE FILM YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE IS
CALLED "IT'S ALL TRUE," BECAUSE
THESE STORIES REALLY HAPPENED.

Orson Welles

A voice on a loud-speaker is heard:

"Will Mr. O. Welles step to the ticket desk, please."

We FADE IN on the ticket desk in the Washington
Airport. Welles walks into the scene. "May I see your
tickets?" says the clerk, and as Welles gets them out --
"Destination?"

"South America," Welles answers. "I'm going all
over. Chile, Argentina, Peru -- all over --"

The clerk looks at him. "Your first stop is Mexico."
Over this the loud-speaker has been heard announcing the
plane's departure. Welles grabs his bag and hurries out
of scene calling, "That's right!"

The loud-speaker tags the scene:

"Mexico City!"

THE CAMERA FOLLOWS Welles -- stops on the map mural
next to the ticket desk -- MOVES IN on a gaily illustrated
indication of Welles' first stop -- as we --

DISSOLVE TO:

The interior of the plane. On board are North and
Latin Americans, army people, an engineer, among others,

bb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

and two Mexicans, brother and sister. These last two are
young and attractive; both attend school in the states on
an exchange scholarship, and are bound home now for
vacation. By the time seat belts must be fastened for
the arrival in Mexico City, Welles and the young Mexicans
are calling each other by their first names.

Officials examining Welles' passport ask him if it's
true he is coming to Mexico to make moving pictures. He
says yes, which interests his new friends, and during the
customs examination they ask him questions. His answers
comprise the main argument of the picture. He has been
sent to Latin America, he tells them, to find material --
to find stories and to film them. Now that the United
Nations of America are getting to know each other better,
it's his job to help out with the introductions.

He confesses he doesn't know anything about the
subject -- although he's traveled all over the globe, he's
never seen the other half of his own hemisphere, and so
has no preconceived ideas. He wants to make friends and
let those friends tell him what they'd like to have
filmed.

These thoughts are established in fast, bright
dialogue. Welles doesn't preach -- (ever in the picture).
Here we learn his assignment, realize its importance, and

bb

"IT'S ALL TRUE

find Welles himself humble but happy at the prospect, even smilingly bewildered.

The family of the young Mexican and his sister are waiting for them at the other side of the barrier -- typically, a considerable turnout. Welles is swept into one of their cars, accepted completely as an old friend. The father insists upon dropping him at his hotel, telling officials and journalists Welles will see them there.

The action proceeds (thanks to process) before a colorful, constantly changing panorama of Mexican sights -- these commented upon occasionally, and always accenting -- lending movement and interest to the scene.

Patently Welles is pleased to find himself seated next to the girl.

The ensuing flirtation hasn't much voltage, but should prove entertaining -- the young lady's transformation, for instance, from Vassar girl to senorita with duena attached.

We find the whole family very likeable, and the ready warmth of their friendship and hospitality is divertingly true to the Mexican characteristic.

(NOTE: This is an upper class Mexican family. Since the focus of the main part of our picture is on simple people, the

"IT'S ALL TRUE

incidental characters in the linking
sequence are, wherever possible,
presented as cultivated and well-to-
do. The purposes of this tactic are,
I am sure, self-evident.)

The motor trip has expanded from a detour to a
veritable excursion. (The actual playing time of the scene,
however, is very short.) By now the great Pyramid ruins of
Teotihuacan are left behind and the car is proceeding
through the busy streets of the city itself. Welles' new
friends assure him he must see the country itself -- the
countryside and the real people of Mexico -- he wouldn't
want them to judge the United States by New York, would
he? -- Welles promises them that the country and the
people in it are what he's been sent to find out about.
He's ready to leave elaborate historical pageants to
other movie-makers. The way he looks at it, people are
interested in people, and he's going to use his camera
to show American people to each other. Where he can he's
going to try to photograph them doing what they like to
do -- their pastimes -- their sports -- their music. Good
neighborliness, says he, isn't a speech or a treaty. It's
folks in Chicago doing the Conga, and their cousins in
Cuba dancing something catchy from the Hit Parade. If

"IT'S ALL TRUE

everybody in our half of the globe followed the World Series, Brooklyn Dodger fans would be the only foreigners among us. Now, take the bull-fights of Mexico --

Welles' hoats look at each other. On his ranch the father raises fighting bulls. Tomorrow is the Tienta -- the testing of the cows. It's a wonderful spectacle and a big fiesta goes with it. The young people had hurried back so as not to miss it. If Orson would be interested, they would esteem it a pleasure to receive him as their guest at the hacienda --. Please not to refuse them -- a car will call for him at his hotel at dawn --

(NOTE: A great portion of the action which follows is already on film, but since the additional material is closely interwoven into it, some description of existant footage will be unavoidable.)

The Tienta is brilliant.

The simple people of the hacienda and the land surrounding are there in force. Mexico City society is well represented, and as is customary, several of the world's foremost matadors have been invited: Silverio Perez, and even the great Chucho Solorzano.

No more sympathetic introduction to the art of bull-fighting is possible.....

The cows are brave and dangerous, and since they

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

neither tortured nor killed, the magnificent work of the toreros can be fully appreciated by audiences with no previous knowledge of the subject, and without those humane objections which spoil the formal corrido for so many Anglo-Saxons.

The girl -- Marguerita is her hame -- explains things.

The cows are being tried for their valor. Those who fail will be summarily reduced to beef-steak. The brave ones who pass the tests will out-live the age of edibility. Such bulls as they beget will also be tested, and the very bravest are the lucky ones who will end their days gloriously in the plaza.

"Lucky?"

Welles is skeptical.

Marguerita insists that no beast ket by man anywhere on this earth lives in such pampered and splendid serenity as a fighting bull. Centuries of breeding and testing here, and earlier in Spain, have brought into being a creature braver than a jungle lion, and more dangerous -- a beast born to fight, whose destined struggle in the plaza, an angry -- never wretched -- fifteen minutes, is surely a better death than the ignominy of the slaughter-house.

To a background of the gay ranchero music always provided at these events, and behind a sequence of truly fabulous action shots, Welles voices the objections and

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"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 8

reservations always heard from those ignorant of -- or
antipathetic to -- the institution of bullfighting....

"It isn't fair. All the odds are with the man. The bull hasn't got a chance -- "

Marguerita doesn't disagree, but she points out that a bull fight isn't a game -- it's a spectacle. It isn't a sport -- it's a science. A bull fight is never a competition between a man and a beast -- it's a tragedy in three acts --

The Tiente ends and the little ring is given over to dancing -- a vivid tableau and a gay earful.

A DISSOLVE carries the party into the night.

Marguerita demonstrates the proper manufacture and consumption of a taco as the two finish the foregoing conversation at a barbecue fire. Welles notices a little boy who brings fresh wood to the bonfire. The child's round Indian eyes are swimming with tears.

In school-book Spanish, Welles asks him what's wrong? The boy looks up at him uncomprehendingly.

Marguerita helps out. "This is Jesus, and he is sad because tomorrow his pet is being taken off the ranch and shipped to the city to die in the bull ring."

"His pet? -- You mean this little boy has made a pet of a fighting bull?"

"It's hard to believe," Marguerita agrees, "if you knew the viciousness of the fighting bull, who at six

tz

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

weeks will charge anything -- anything that lives or
moves -- a motor car -- even a speeding locomotive -- and
I've seen that happen. Yes, if you realized the ferocity
of these creatures -- "

After what he has seen of the cows, Welles is ready
to acknowledge whatever is claimed for the fighting bull.

A friendship between such a bull and this small boy
is then a great wonder indeed.

Marguerita's father had heard of such a case many
years ago in Spain, but it happens very, very seldom.

Since fine bulls, like the best race-horses, are
expensive investments, it is unavoidable that the child's
pet must go to his fate, but all on the hacienda grieve
with him.

Bonito, for that is the name of the bull (all bulls,
like horses, it seems, have names), is magnificent, the
noblest animal ever raised on these lands. Great things
are expected of him in the plaza. There is only the
fear --

Chucho Solorzano expresses it.

The great matador has joined the party at the bonfire.

"From the moment of his birth, no man approaches a
bull alone without protection -- " says Chucho. "A bull
lives his life apart. He is a wild beast. This Bonito
might make history -- if the boy hasn't spoiled him."

tz

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Marguerita calls: "Jesus!"

.....But he has left. With an gry look at Solorzano
he has gone off by himself into the darkness. Solorzano is
the matador, we learn, who will fight Bonito next Sunday
and kill him (if Bonito doesn't kill Solorzano!) in the
great plaza in Mexico City.

The bullfighter throws his cigarette into the fire.
"I am sorry for the little boy," says he. "It is a curious
and wonderful thing, this friendship."

"I come often to this hacienda," he goes on. "I have watched Bonito grow. I tried him at the Tienta when he was young. Even then he was marvelous. He had the great quality. You know it at once. He was noble. We have that word for it -- noble."

A pause. Solorzano sighs musingly. "For this little
child, he is other things. Who knows what secrets those
two must share between them. What is the lad's name -- ?"

Marguerita remembers. "Jesus."

"Yes, Jesus -- you know, it was he who saved the
bull's life. The cow had died at the moment of birth. It
was Jesus, they say, who found the little Bonito uncared
for in the fields. It will interest you, Senor Welles, to
hear of it. It is a strange -- a very beatiful story -- "

(NOTE: The score will be written for
us by the distinguished Mexican
composer, Carlos Chavez.)

tz

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

WE DISSOLVE TO:

The open fields at dawn --

Little Jesus is happening upon little Bonito....

(NOTE: Because all the early sequences of this story were filmed over a year and a half ago, a difference in the size of Jesus will be very apparent -- an unpremeditated touch of realism!)

Now follows a complete camera account of the life of Bonito, the great fighting bull, and of his little friend, Jesus -- . The saga of their curious comradeship throughout their years of growing. Here is a lyric celebration of the changeless pastoral world of ancient Mexico -- a human story, simple, tender and warm, unfolding before a back-drop of the land itself: the very Mexican earth and the life it supports -- a climate of the spirit, solemn, beautiful and unutterably strange.

There is much incident. Such punctuation as the Blessing of the animals -- the Tienta -- and the Branding.

The beguiling comic creature little Jesus found bereft and unfriended in the fields is of a splendid and formidable maturity by the time we --

DISSOLVE

tz

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

We are back at the barbecue fire -- and the camera
shows us the matador Solorzano, who has told the story.

"He is a very great bull, Bonito," -- Solorzano is
still speaking. "It will surprise Senor Welles to learn
what a matador can feel for the bull he kills: contempt,
sometimes. When one is lucky, respect: fear -- very
often it is fear, terrible fear, and do not believe
otherwise. On some occasions high regard -- more -- a
kind of affection, strange but very real. This is a
secret a great bull and the man who kills him share
between them in the plaza. You won't understand, perhaps --
but this little boy and I -- we both love Bonito....."

FADE OUT

The FADE IN discovers the dining room of the hacienda,
early morning of the next day.

The family and a number of their guests, including
Welles, are at breakfast. Welles is being told by his
hostess that she regrets his intended departure, and
Marguerita is making him promise to join them all Sunday
at the bull right in Mexico City, when her brother --
Miguel is his name -- appears precipitantly in the doorway.

"Come along, Orson, if you really want to see
something," says he, interrupting a burst of Spanish.

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"IT'S ALL TRUE

Welles is bundled into an open car where the head of the family, old Don Alfredo himself, is already waiting. At the gates they are halted by the grizzled and venerable chief vaquaro, the same frequently encountered in the story of Bonito as told last night by the matador - The vaquero holds little Jesus none too gently by the ear. Jesus is packed into the back seat between Welles and Marguerita. He tries not to cry. Welles again attempts a little of his stilted Spanish, but Jesus can't understand, or can't explain, at least, what's troubling him.

"Wait and see," says Marguerita.

WE DISSOLVE:

A little village not far from the hacienda and on the way to Mexico City.

The entire town is in a state of siege. Windows and doors are blocked up -- many of the citizenry are cowering on the roof tops. The car stops at one side of the tiny square. Its occupants are seen to disembark. They look about them and then start into the cantina, to the interior of which we now cut...

A very queer tableau is discovered by the camera. Old Don Alfredo is standing on the bar with Marguerita, shielding her, and barricaded behind the table is the worthy vaquero and young Miguel. Clearly, all are

tz

"IT'S ALL TRUE

horrified. They are staring at something off-screen.

Welles, outside, calls: "May I come in?"

"Stay where you are!" Miguel shouts back.

"Run!" screams Marguerita. "Get help! We didn't know he was in here!"

Welles appears in the doorway.

"Who?" he asks innocently. "Who didn't you --?"

But here he stops, transfixed, and the camera shows us what he sees.

In the shadowy, far corner of the little cafe looms the gigantically menacing bulk of a fighting bull. He turns and charges. Welles, ungracefully, but with commen-dable dispatch, jumps out of the way at the instant the beast runs the side of the door, dislocating with a slam-ming crash the flimsy jam and plowing on through the dry adobe like a tank, or, more accurately perhaps, like a bomb exploding the clay wall. He is gone, and those in what remains of the cantina, are left staring at each other.

The old vaquero speaks to Welles, Miguel translating. "He say you are either very lucky, or a born torero. That bull missed you by inches."

"I'm no bullfighter", says Welles, helping Marguerit down from the bar top. "How did that bull get loose in here?"

"Since dawn he's been in charge of the whole town. Jesus did it."

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Welles is puzzled. "You mean the little boy -- ?"

It turns out the truck going to the railroad wasn't
locked, and the bars on the cage were all open.

"Jesus wanted him to escape," says Marguerita gravely.

From outside comes now the sound of a shrill whistle -
a familiar sound. We heard it often in the matador's story
it is the whistle of Jesus.

Marguerita, Don Alfredo, Miguel, the vaquero, with
Welles, crowd through the mutilated entrance way.

The bull is in the center of the square.

Little Jesus confronts him.

The old vaquero shouts at the child. A knowledge
of the Spanish language is not required to understand
that dreadful things are being said to him, and even more
dreadful things threatened. Jesus turns, very frightened,
at what he hears. And just as his eyes leave the bull,
the bull turns, to --

The bull moves toward the place from whence came to
him the noise of humans. Any minute and he'll charge.

There is a wild scuttle for safety. Some one, at
least, of the number, is surely just about to be killed,
when Jesus cries out: "Hi! Bonito!"

Bonito stops -- stops and looks slowly back to the
little boy -- who now comes down and stands beside him,
looking very small indeed next to the black immensity of
the bull. Jesus, too, is frightened -- but it isn't the

pp

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

bull that scares him. He speaks, and the words sound
timid -- breathlessly respectful.

Marguerita, in Welles' ear, translates. "He says
he will arrange it that Bonito returns peacefully to the
truck to be taken on his way again. He prays my father's
pardon. He did not mean for Bonito to escape. He opened
his cage only to get in with him. He entreats my father
in the name of Mercy to let him go along with the bull --
with Bonito --. He wants to be with him in Mexico City
until he must die."

A pause. Then Don Alfredo replies.

Marguerita's eyes are shining. "My father says he
can go with him."

The little Indian looks long and hard at the lord
and master of the hacienda, and now, with a funny little
bow, he turns and starts away across the square.

Bonito, a savage beast again, is left confronting
his enemies. These move restively under his baleful
stare. This might really have been the last minute --
who can tell, for Jesus starts back and calls to his
friend:

"Hi, Bonito!"

The bull stops, then trots obediently after him.

Welles sighs hearty relief as we --

FADE OUT

pp

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 17

## FADE IN

On the Zocalo.

Welles and Marguerita (with duena!) are crossing the big square. "It's still early," Marguerita is saying. "The bull fights are after lunch. We have lot of time to walk around -- "

"Look," Welles interrupts, and the ladies follow his gaze. "That's little Jesus, isn't it? He's going into the Cathedral."

We see the little boy, hat in hand, disappearing through one of the big doors. His observers start after him.

Next we see the interior of the Cathedral. What shows on the screen is only a part of it, for all that can be made out is the stone floor patterned with sunlight, shafting trough the stained windows. Jesus, a tiny part of this picture, crosses himself and kneels, praying. Welles and the ladies are just inside the door. Welles says quietly, "He's praying for his bull, isn't he?"

Marguerita takes Welles' arm and indicates with her eyes another figure -- a raverent silhouette kneeling at the altar rail.

"See there," she says.

We recognize Solorzano.

"The matador!" Welles whispers.

pp

"IT'S ALL TRUE

Marguerita answers him gravely and very simply --
"He's praying for his life."

FADE OUT

Our FADE IN discovers the Plaza de Toros at the vivid and blood-tingling moment which is the start of the corrida -- the entrance of the toreros with their cuadrillas.

A wild paso doble fills the hot air with its brassy
shout.

Not a seat is empty.

On the shady side of the ring in a favored box sit
Don Alfredo and his family. Welles, their guest, has
been placed beside Marguerita, who is as beautiful today
as she is smartly dressed.

Everywhere there is the fiercest excitement. On the
sunny side of the ring this is absolutely unrestrained.

No crowd anywhere on our earth is the equal of an
audience of true aficionados. Here, in the cheap seats,
sit those whose favor can deify or damn utterly the man
who fights the bull. Here the camera finds little Jesus,
tragically out of tune with the spirit of the day, his
black eyes unblinkingly fixed on the terrible door --
that door through which Bonito will come when the trumpets
blow.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Chucho Solorzano stands before the box of Don Alfredo. He speaks, and turning, the great matador throws his hat over his shoulder expertly up into Marguerita's outstretched hands. Her eyes are jewel-bright as she receives it.

"He has dedicated the bull to her." Miguel speaks quietly to Welles. "Between us, I think we're going to hear soon of an engagement -- They are very much in love -- Perhaps I needn't have told you --" Then, taking Welles' eye, "-- or perhaps I should have."

The doors fly open, a bull thunders into the ring.

"Look! It's Bonito, isn't it?" Welles asks the question, sure of the answer. Miguel nods proudly.

"Who else?"

We won't describe the bull fight itself.

All the time requisite and the best effort of those concerned will be expended to record here in film, and within the limits of what is admissible to North American censorship, the finest possible sequence of exciting, dangerous and beautiful encounters between toro and torero.

We intercut with the crowd (a fascinating subject) -- with Marguerita, Welles and the others in the box; the old vaquero standing at the barrera is shown, and especially the camera concerns itself with little Jesus.

pp

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 20

It is a matter of history that Bonito fought as few
bulls have ever fought. This our film will make clear.

And now the climax --

Solorzano levels his sword for the kill -- but the
crowd, as one man, rises, waving handkerchiefs -- break-
ing waves of fluttering white. All are in tears.

Only Welles doesn't understand. Miguel explains it
to him. Marguerita would if she could speak.

"In our lifetime," Miguel gasps, "in our lifetime
this has only happened once -- twice, maybe -- He fought
so bravely, our Bonito -- so very bravely -- he has been
pardoned."

"Pardoned?"

"Yes, he is so brave, they will not let him die.
Here is how they say it. It is a classic phrase. You
are pardoned, they say to our Bonito -- pardoned, and
enjoined to go back to the place of your birth and beget
more of your kind."

Solorzano has left the ring, and Bonito, unchallenged,
rules over it, a lonely champion in a welter of seat
cushions and hats thrown to him by the thousands of his
admirers.

It seems he will not leave the plaza. The men of
the cuadrillas struggle in vain with this decision.

"He is very angry," Marguerita explains, finding
speech. "He will not go. He will stay there in the

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

ring and fight the world."

"There is no way to handle him," Miguel worries.

"He is possessed."

Indeed, those who sought to deal with Bonito are even now in ridiculous retreat. The safety of the barrera regained, they shout at him, farcial refugees from the lethal dignity of the great brute. And now a cry goesup. A little boy has jumped down into the ring - a child. It is sure he will be killed!

We hear the whistle, the old familiar call because, of course, this is Jesus.

"He is no longer tame. He won't know him," cries Miguel, anguished. "He's seen blood."

Marguerita shrieks, "Jesus!" the word ringing out against a fearful silence.

The crowd is hushed as if by signal, so sure is everyone that this little boy is now about to die before their eyes.

The bull shakes his great head, stamps and turns on the little one. They look at each other, this strange couple. And now Jesus speaks very gently, with no fear in his small voice.

"Hi! -- Bonito!"

The bull moves forward, quickens -- but then stops. We can't tell whether the child is certain of his friend or not. Whatever he feels, he turns deliberately away,

pp

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

his back all this while to the bull, and walks to the
entrance doors. He turns only to open the door. He holds
it open. The bull starts toward him -- breaks into a run --
a charge -- at the child? -- No! Through the door and out.

As he slams the gate we see his face. The big Indian
eyes are suddenly full of tears. Such a shout goes up as
never was heard before, even in the Plaza de Toros of
Mexico City.

FADE OUT -- very slowly.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

A title FADES IN:

TITLE

AFTER MAKING THE FILM YOU HAVE JUST
SEEN, THE PRODUCER LEFT MEXICO FOR
THE CONTINENT OF SOUTH AMERICA

A fresh musical theme isannounced as we FADE IN on --

Icy crags of the great Andes, all a-glitter with the
sun, but dangerous even to the eye -- lunar and forbidding.

Down the sheer face of one of these terrible peeks
the CAMERA LOWERS to apprehend a perilous roadway, and
the unlikely spectacle of a motor car inching gingerly
around a curve. Indians on foot, ahead of this machine,
and behind it, supervise its tentative progress. Welles,
sitting up in the back, is busy with a hand camera. At
closer range we see him run out of film, and then our
camera shows us what it was he wanted to photograph; a
condor kiting enormously up into the windy skies. Welles
watches it miserably, but turns now at a sound -- that
indescribable sound uttered uniquely by the llama.

On a CLOSE-UP of one of these improbable creatures,
laughing merrily in its own Andean and mysterious way, we --

DISSOLVE TO:

The main entrance of the Hotel Grande.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

The touring car, dustier and even more mud-spattered
than before, pulls to a stop in the foreground. Squeezed
in the back, deep in a pile of travel-stained luggage and
camera equipment, Welles sleeps fretfully. A scattering
of Indians, amusingly costumed, watch the driver wake him
up.

Welles, whose Spanish has improved, asks where he is,
and climbing down out of the car, complains that this was
the first sleep he'd had in days -- he knew it wouldn't
last. As he starts into the hotel, we --

DISSOLVE TO:

The reception desk. As Welles walks into the scene,
making Spanish excuses as he moves through a group of
smartly dressed Latin-Americans, the clerk greets him in
English.

"Ah, Mr. Welles, you found interesting our mountain
villages?"

Welles assures him in Spanish that everything he
saw was at least extraordinary. The clerk, of course,
insists on speaking English.

"The Incan Ruins? The Indian types? Formidable,
are they not? And now I know you'll welcome the hot
bath, I'm sure, and a real bed for a novelty."

A distinguished-looking, rather elderly gentleman,
stopping at the desk for his key, says pleasantly: "Do

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

you find material for motion pictures in our country,
Mr. Welles?"

"Senor, I don't know where to begin," Welles grins,
"or where to stop. This whole continent -- we know so
little about it in North America. You could make a
thousand pictures here."

"You are very kind," says the gentleman.

"It's very true," says Welles.

The clerk interrupts. "Senor Welles, there are
friends waiting for you in your room. They came while
you were gone. Your cameraman -- "

Welles is delighted. "Harry?"

"I think so. And your secretary."

"Shifra! That's the script girl -- . Please excuse me."

Welles hurries out of scene. We --

DISSOLVE TO:

His hotel room --

Harry, the aforementioned, in shirt sleeves, is
found plugging the connection of a portable movie projector
into a light socket. Shifra, the secretary, like
Harry, is a New Yorker, but differs from him in other
respects, being notably young and appealing. Harry
isn't young, and if he'd put his legs up on the table,
as Shifra has now, it wouldn't be worth mentioning here.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

thing. Head-hunters and liberators -- Conquistadors and bandits and pioneers -- But they're all big stories -- history. We'd need whole armies, and gosh knows what all -- even actors. We weren't going to use any actors, remember? -- just real people -- ordinary folks. This porter, for instance -- " Welles indicates the man who now is bringing in his luggage. " -- the son of Kings, to look at him. And that old gentleman downstairs.

Everybody has a story. But what is it?" Welles tosses the porter a coin and tells him to buy himself a bottle of pisco.

"Your Spanish has improved," says Shifra.

"I've learned a lot of things -- couldn't help it. I've been everywhere on this continent, pretty near, except Rio -- wild Indian country, the headwaters of the Amazon. I've been lost on the Altiplano. Does that sound like a story?"

Shifra groans. "It sounds like a travel book."

" -- And we're supposed to be making a movie."

Harry is drawing the curtains, closing out the sun.

"What are you doing?" Welles asks him.

The room is now in darkness.

"I'm going to show you these shots we got."

Shifra is very serious. "Just look at the faces of these men. Turn that thing off."

She means the radio.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 28

"Awwwww -- " from Harry.

Welles asks "Who's ahead?"

"The Giants. It's a double header -- "

"Turn it off!"

Silence, then the whir and click of the projector.
A little square of white light flashes on the far wall,
then a view of Guanabara Bay -- the Jangadeiros appear
on their raft sailing gaily into the harbor, hugely
attended by every sort of boat, little and big -- and an
escort of planes.

From Shifra, hopefully: "Just look at those faces."

"Faces." Welles sighs. "I've seen millions here
in South America -- wonderful faces -- Spanish, European,
Indian faces -- "

"Those boys on the raft there -- they're Indians,"
says Harry.

Welles goes on. "Marvelous. They all are. Even
supposing their story's worth making, though, the trick
is to get them to act in it."

"How about little Jesus?" Shifra reminds him. "You
got his story -- "

"Yes, and wait'll you hear this one," Harry enthuses.

"I knew we were too lucky in Mexico," Welles says,
watching the changing scene on the wall. "Their ship was
torpedoed, I guess."

During this last the movie has shown us a series
of quick cuts -- the harbor, the crowd of boats, the

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 29

four men sailing their Jangada.

"How'd they make that raft?"

"The wood comes from the Amazon."

"Listen, the city of Rio is further away from the mouth of the Amazon River than we are up here in the Andes."

"That's right."

"Hmm -- quite a reception they got."

"Like Lindbergh's in '27. The whole city turned out."

"That raft -- " adds Shifra " -- it's no makeshift. That's their fishing boat. They call it a Jangada."

"Those guys are Jangadeiros."

"That's Portuguese?" Welles groans when they tell him it is. "Just when my Spanish gets straightened out -- "

"That's Getulio Vargas talking to them," Shifra explains, as the screen shows this.

Harry says Vargas is the President of Brazil, and Welles says he knows that.

"Harry, what's it all about -- ?"

"That's a shot I got of them at the -- Darn it! The film broke."

The blank patch of light shows on the wall again, and Shifra opens the curtains, letting in the sun.

"This is going to take some time to fix," mutters Harry.

"It's just more of the same, though."

Harry says, "These Jangadeiros are front-page stuff."

"IT'S ALL TRUE

Page 30

"They're more than that -- they're history."

Welles laughs. "I give up. Tell it your way."

Shifra tosses Welles a clipped sheaf of typed pages.

"There's their story," she says, "and you don't even have to learn Portuguese -- not yet -- not till you make the picture. I had it translated for you."

Welles is sitting up now, looking at the papers. Shifra continues: "That was written by Jacare. He's their leader. I tell you seriously, Orson, he's one of the great men of the world."

Welles looks up -- takes Shifra's eye and -- then goes back to the manuscript.

After a minute Harry speaks. "Read it."

Welles reads.

"My name is Jacare. I was born on the beach at Iracema in the province of Ceara -- "

As Welles continues, we

FADE OUT:

Here follows the epic of the Jangadeiros -- epic is a word advisedly used because the people shown, their world and their behavior in it, is of a simplicity and nobility truly Homeric.

Welles reads the explanatory material in the direct yes almost Biblical language of Jacare's own testimony.

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

(NOTE: Since this film is complete, there is no need for a description of the action. No synopsis is given here beyond the outline of the plot.)

(NOTE: The music for the Jangadeiro story is to be written for us by Brazil's foremost composer, Villalobos.)

We are shown the life of the fishing community, with special reference to the romance, and finally the marriage of Sebastian and Francesca....

Sebastian is the fifth member of a Jangada crew, the four of which made the historic voyage to Rio. His death by drowning leaves his family, and Francesca's too, without support. The other four of the raft are all so poor they can do nothing, and the real starvation faces the little ones whose provider has been taken from them by the sea.

After the funeral -- a weird and impressive ritual -- a meeting is held by the men of the community. Something must be done for the families of those who die in the perilous profession of fishing by Jangada. There is not enough wealth on the beaches to care for half of those who live in need.

Jacare, the captain, is also the leader of the village.
"There is a great world beyond these beaches," he tells

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

his people. "We are part of another land. We belong to
a great nation -- Brazil. There is a President in the
capital city. He is just. If he knew of those things,
he would never permit them. We will go to him and he
will help us."

Here was the motive and purpose of one of the
bravest voyages ever made by man.

Stormy seas... weary terrible months...

The raft puts in at the storied cities of Olinda
and Recife in Pernambuco, and the ancient capital of
Bahia, and comes finally the magical harbor of Rio de
Janeiro. Here in the capital all Brazil receives its
heroes -- true heroes, who took an infinitely dangerous,
but splendidly democratic way out of the suffering og
their people....

Jacare's account of this is full of his own grave
humor and quiet wisdom --

The narration closes.

Welles finishes reading Jacare's story as we find
ourselves back in the hotel room --

Through the window the sun show low over the Andes
as his voice finishes, and he looks up from the paper.

Harry speaks. "You know how far they sailed, don't
you?"

"Half the length of the South American continent."

A silence.

"Where are they now?"

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

"On their Jangada. Jacare went right back to
fishing -- just as though he hadn't gotten to be one of
the great men of history."

Welles is at the window, looking out over the
mountains. "Ceara -- that's on the north coast of Brazil,
isn't it?"

"Right."

"Can we make plane connections?"

Shifra smiles. "How soon?"

Welles turns to her. "You know how soon, Shifra --
now!"

FADE OUT:

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

MOVING TITLE

JACARE AND THE OTHERS MADE THEIR
VOYAGE BY JANGADA EXACTLY AS IT WAS
HERE FILMED. THEY WERE SIXTY-THREE
DAYS IN THE OPEN SEA, WITHOUT COMPASS
AND GUIDED ONLY BY THE STARS......A
RECORD UNIQUE IN THE HISTORY OF NAVIGATION.

THE FILM JUST SHOWN OF THEIR STORY WAS
ALMOST COMPLETE WHEN TECHNICOLOR EQUIP-
MENT ARRIVED FROM THE STATES IN TIME
FOR --

CARNIVAL IN RIO.

(The last three words appear in *Techni-color*.)

A brilliant Samba bursts on to the sound-track --
richly orchestrated, glamorous and ultra-punchy.

WE FADE IN on a rapid montage showing the bright
modern city of Rio de Janeiro. Over the last of these
shots, the subject matching the title -- there is
superimposed the legend:

GUANABARA PALACE
RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE
UNITED STATES OF BRAZIL
DR. GETULTO VARGAS

DISSOLVE TO:

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

went on foot to Washington to talk to Roosevelt -- and even though they didn't risk their lives in doing it, I shouldn't hesitate to make a picture of that story and show it here in Brazil. I think that audiences in your country, Dr. Vargas, and in mine, have much the same interests."

Vargas nods agreement. "True, an audience is only made out of people, Mr. Welles, and the peoples of our hemisphere have more in common than they know. It is an important work to make this clear to them."

He laughs gently. "Senhor Welles, I wish you could have seen them -- the Jangadeiros -- here in this office -- when they came to see me." His eyes are twinkling. "As you know, their story has a happy ending."

"I know."

"And now you plan to make a film of Carnaval --"

"Your government has been good enough to invite us to attempt it."

"You are going to photograph a festival unique in all the history of the world. It last three days, you know. You have my sympathies. You will be the only man in all the world, with the exception, perhaps, of some of us here in the government, who ever worked during Carnaval."

On the sly, warm smile of Brazil's President, we --

FADE OUT

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

FADE IN

A table in a street cafe in the main part of Rio.
Welles is having a solitary cafezino, a bulky paper
bundle at his feet. He is looking through a little
brown notebook when Shifra walks into the scene.

"Hello, Mr. Boss. Why so studious?"

"I'm reading my address book," Welles ruefully
admits, putting it away in his pocket as he rises.

"-- just wondering if any of the girls back home have
the same phone numbers, or if they'll remember me. We
won't be here forever. Our job's more than half over
-- and I'm lonesome. Frankly, I don't care if I never
see any more ocean."

"You got a good tan."

"I'm only human -- I want a date. What are you
doing for dinner -- ?

Shifra is pointing at his bundle. She interrupts.

"What's that?"

"Musical instruments -- percussion -- for Samba.
Samba's the local version of Jazz. I'm making quite a
study of it. I can play all those things. I'll play
'em for you tonight."

"Sorry, but I really can't -- Orson, I'd like you
to meet Mr. George Peixoto."

trb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Welles shakes hands with a handsome young
Brazilian who has come up beside Shifra, accepting his
defeat with a smile and in quite tolerable Portuguese.

Shifra and her boy friend leave him......

Two extra pretty Brasileiras swing by and on down
the street. Welles eyes their progress wistfully as he
finishes his cold coffee.

Now a conversation behind him takes his attention.
The camera shows us a ravishing beauty and a waiter
enthusiastically attempting to understand each other,
but with no particular success, since the girl is speaking
Spanish. Welles comes happily to the rescue. This
girl, it turns out, is a Chilena, and speaks perfect
English, but no Portuguese.

She wants to know where she can get a taxi.

Welles has a car.

The girl has scruples.

Welles asks the waiter to vouch for him, which
the waiter does.

The Chilena reminds them both she doesn't understand
Portuguese.

Welles asks her if she goes to the movies.

She says yes -- that's where she's been.

Well, then, maybe she's seen him in the movies.
He gives his name.

trb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

She says, "Oh, yes, but if you're Orson Welles you look much better on the screen."

But she gives in, and climbs into Welle's car with him. They start for her hotel.

Seems her mother and father are dining at the Chilean Embassy, so she sneaked off to catch an early show. It turned out she'd seen it before in Santiago; just didn't recognize it by its Portuguese title. Robert Taylor was the star. Does Welles know Robert Taylor?

"Don't your folks like you to go to the movies?"

"Not by myself. We Latins are more strict."

"Yes." Welles gloomily owns up to a knowledge of this fact. "I ran into my first duena back in Mexico. Something ought to be done about duenas."

"Is this the way to the Copacabana?"

"Not the shortest way. This is the scenic route."

"But the sun is going down."

"Yes, and in a while the moon is coming up. Ever seen the moon without a duena? It's beautiful."

They are chasing the sunset up a mountain road, and Rio is very sumptuously spread out beneath them. Welles answers the Chilena's protestations with some radio music. A Brazilian station is broadcasting.

trb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

Page 40

"I like that," says the girl (her name is Dorothea). "That's the music here they call Samba."

"Samba," says Welles, "is what Carnaval is made of."

Carnaval starts tomorrow. Perhaps Dorothea will enjoy seeing Carnaval with Welles and his camera crew --?

Dorothea doesn't exactly answer him. "I like Samba almost as much as I like swing."

Dorothea is a Jazz aficionada, which warms Welles up on the subject of Samba.

"I'll show you where it comes from."

"If mother and daddy -- "

But Welles has stopped the car and switched off the radio.

"Listen -- there's the real thing."

They are up in the favellas now. Music rises from these hill communities like mist -- weird, wonderful, strangely, darkly African -- broodingly sweet as the fading twilight itself.

The two are held for a moment in its thrall. Then Welles takes Dorothea by the hand and leads her up into the hills above the road.

All about them and everywhere from the city below, comes the choiring of church bells, for this is the hour

trb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

of evening prayer. Unseen, but near to them in the dusk,
a woman is singing -- the sound is pure as a flute.
They stop to listen.

"Ave Maria," Welles whispers, "in Samba."

The two have strayed into that real jungle which
still makes long hopeless war on the capital of Brazil.
But even here the conquering city, the improbable, the
sparkling, the profuse equatorial metropolis is on
gorgeous display -- its bays, its beaches, its skyscrapers
-- Beyond, and yet beyond, are the elegant and sinister
monuments of other hills --

Here, in its own special place, marked out from
other dwellings by its wide fenced-in yard -- is a
typical Escola da Samba (School of the Samba).

Welles brings Dorothea to a place where she can
watch, and tells her things concerning what she sees.

Folk music has produced nowhere else a comparable
phenomenon to these Samba schools. Flourishing everywhere
in the moros of suburban Rio, they serve a generous
diversity of social purposes. They are community meeting
places, clubs, but always and first they are serious
musical societies.

Home-grown -- cheerfully unaware of their high
cultural importance, the Samba schools are earnestly

trb

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

dedicated to the preservation of a great tradition --
to the composition, playing, singing and dancing of
Samba, surely the most ingratiating of American popular
musical forms.

This school of the Samba, like the rest, does
essential duty as a private house. Its head, to be
addressed as "Senhor Presidente," is sleeping on a
bench as Welles and Dorothea enter his domains. Just
now his good wife and the little ones are in the house,
at prayer before the family shrine.

The telling, chiming, vesper melody of Rio's
churches is submerged in the hot, vibrant hush of the
ascendant night.

The reedy voices far off find deeper color. The
sung prayer ends. The air fills up with the expectant
throb of drums.

Devotions over, a young girl of the household
walks to her favorite window, leans on the sill, her
eyes dreaming, herself, all unconsciously, an ebony
Madonna. Her name is Ruth, we learn, for she answers
now the whispered call of a boy peering over the fence.

From their vantage point, Welles and Dorothea watch
this eager little fellow demanding if tonight there is
to be a meeting of the club. Otello, the boy is called.

jc

"IT'S ALL TRUE"

(From here on we will come upon him often
as a type among Carnaval celebrants, a personalization
of many popular aspects of the institution. This, we
think, has been managed in the completed film in terms
of truly uproarious entertainment.)

Right now Otello takes Ruth's affimative answer
for a cue to clear the fence with a joyful leap, and
dance into the house in search of his tamborim.
Roused by his wife, the "presidente" is raising the
flag of the club on its pole, as a sign that tonight
there will be Samba. Welles whispers the meaning of
all these things into Dorothea's ear.

Club members gather soon, each ready with a happy
greeting, all quickly at work over little fires which
they make about the yard, and over these tightening the
skins of their drums and tamborims; warming up the
intricate rhythms of the Samba --

A new Samba is to be introduced to the club.
Its author's appearance gets an ovation.

He sings a chorus of his song.

Its success is immediate and deserved. Words are
distributed on little slips of paper and the hundreds
gathered here are instantly singing and dancing in
celebration of the birth of a hit tune.

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A tremendous climax of melody and rhythm --

Welles starts with Dorothea back to the car. The tune, he tells her, is already popular. The author has sold it in the city and Welles has heard it in the casionos.

The two stand together looking down over the jeweled city --

Through this city now the camera eye is taken in a quick montage; the music's character modulating, slickening, sweetening --

A lovely Brazilian Sambista broadcasts the song before a microphone, as we --

DISSOLVE TO:

The lit dashboard of Welles's car, the singer's voice and the Samba heard through the radio speaker.

In the front seat Dorothea listens, while Welles demonstrates the musical instruments he unwraps from his paper bundle -- Samba instruments.

Welles plays each of them, giving their names and functions, developing what he calls "The Anotomy of Samba --."

In the midst of this a sleek -- a very sleek roadster pulls up beside them. Its occupants --

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Cariocas, friends of Welles, young men-about-town all
-- pile out for hellos.

Without enthusiasm Welles present them to his
beautiful Chilena.

They seize the instruments and quickly identifying
the remainder of the catalogue, play them to the radio's
lead.

One young buck lifts Dorothea down from the car
and dances a flashy Samba with her -- a pretty Carnaval
vignette on the moonlit road.

Welles, expertly but very glumly plays accompaniment
on his "pandeiro."

DISSOLVE

(NOTE: The Carnaval sequence is already something better than roughly cut together. Therefore no description of it will be attempted here except where it affects, colors or cues additional scenes.)

The first day of Carnaval dawns diamond-white....
Down from the hills into the city come the people of the
Samba schools, early rising outlanders, whole clubs and
neighborhoods at a time - in cordoes and blocos; all
costumed, all dancing and singing -- in pairs and in
battalions.

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Trolleys shriek by as invisible for the people riding them as a piece of sugar sometimes is for flies.

We catch a glimpse of a battery of cameras recording this festive invasion, Welles, Harry, Shifra and the boys of the crew already as sweat at their tasks. As foretold by Dr. Vargas himself, they are the only working people in a world wholly given over to the business of fun.

By mid-day in the center of town there is massed a congress of joyous humanity of such immensity that even the camera seems to exaggerate.

The truck is stalled, islanded in the boiling midst of this.

Harry, stripped to the waist, gaspingly admits he'd give anyting for one little drink.

"No drinks are sold during Carnaval," Shifra tells him.

"Please write a note for me --" Welles asks her, "Dorothea --"

"Who's she --?" grins Harry.

"None of your business -- 'Dorothea -- Last night I showed you where Samba begins. Today you'll see what happens to it. If you're interested, one of our sound trucks will pick you up at your hotel' --"

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Shifra looks up. "Hotel? -- through all those people?"

"Love will find a way," says Harry. "Say, if these millions of people don't have anything to drink what keeps them going?"

Welles smiles bewildered admiration. "Samba," he says.

DISSOLVE

The same place at night -- Even more people.

"What you hear now isn't a Samba, it's a Marcha,"
Welles tells the crew. "It's what you dance when there isn't room to dance."

"Here comes the parade!" somebody shouts.

Welles explains that each float represents a song, as wildly vivid procession sparkles by to the accompaniment of a thunderous medley of the Marcha Hit Parade.

Shifra screams happily. "The Jangadeiros! Look, there're the boys!"

Everybody waves. Our heroes of the story of the raft are shown in the crowd, dressed uncomfortably in their store clothes. They're enjoying themselves, even if they do seem a little out of place in all this Carnaval excitement. They acknowledge the greetings.

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"Hi, fellows!" shouts the crew. "Hi, Jacare!"

All of the floats don't represent songs. Several
are enthusiastic references to Pan-Americanism; and
now an enormous reproduction of the Jangada sails by,
manned by pretty girls for Jangadeiros.

An ovation.

"Where's your girl?" yells Harry over the
marvelous din.

"I can't hear you!" Welles yells back.

"Never mind! Where do we go next?"

Welles answers this. "The Rio Tennis Clube!"

Shifra looks at Harry. "That's where his girl is."

DISSOLVE

At the Tennis Clube we find the best of Carnaval
society no less hilarious than the people in the streets.

An expensively jazzy version of a Samba is just
finishing, and as the young folks pour off the dance
floor, rushing gaily down into the gardens for a moment's
rest, Welles, all apologies, is seen to be taking Dorothea
away from her table and her family.

The two sit down together under the trees.

A gloriously beautiful young girl at the other end
of the terrace starts the very catchiest ballad ever
written in Brazil.....

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Page 49

The "choro" sequence which follows involves
this girl, several others with their escorts -- and
the incredible flute playing of Benedicto Lacerda.
Intercutting reveals many couples in romantic relaxation.

Welles and Dorothea are discreet, but the atmosphere
is unmistakably though uncensorably sexy.

A soft look shines in Dorothea's eyes, but Welles
can't figure out whether this look has to do with him,
Somebody Else, or just the song.

The tempo quickens. Couples rise and measure out
its beat, and then the band inside the club calls those
in the garden back to the dance.

Welles likes it fine under the trees, but follows
Dorothea indoors just too late to stop a handsome
Brazilian yough from whirling her off into a Samba.

DISSOLVE

Now back to the city out of doors in time for the
number, "Batoque no Moro," featuring Linda Batista, the
very best Sambista of them all... comedy interpolations
by Otello... The latter ends this sequence making his
own sequel into another Samba, and leading a wildly
inpromptu "cordoe" through the frenzied hilarity reigning
everywhere in the streets. He takes this private process-
ion of his directly past the camera truck, and Welles
calls out to him in Portuguese.

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Page 50

Otello waves a genial answer and then continues on his way, but Welles shouts him back to the truck and the crew hauls the little fellow up and plants him in their midst.

Welles wants to know about the song he's singing.

Otello says it's called "Farewell, Praca Onze."

Welles interprets this for Shifra, and when Otello hears English he speaks it himself -- very nicely, too.

"This is Praca Onze, Senhor Welles -- here -- where you are now. See -- there's the sign under the lamp. It means Plaza, or how you call it, Square? -- Square Number Eleven."

"But why farewell to Praca Onze?" Shifra wants to know.

"Always -- as long as anyone remembers -- the people -- you know, the ones of us who aren't so very rich at all -- we have come here for our Carnaval. But this is the last year for Praca Onze. Soon they make a big wide street to run through here, and Praca Onze must go to make room for it. It's good we have the big new street, but still the people love their Praca Onze very much, and so they make this song to say goodbye to it."

"It's this year's favorite Samba, isn't it?"

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"It is a good Samba, I think. It means much to many people. You know, the war, it comes every day closer to our country. Maybe now this is the last Carnaval for a long time, so that this song means also a goodbye to Carnaval. That makes us sad. But here, when something makes us sad, we make a joke of it when we can -- or a good song."

Welles thanks Otello. "We'll see more of you!" he shouts after him, as we --

DISSOLVE

(NOTE:

Dialogue involving Otello means plane fare to and from Rio, his own modest salary, and, of course, a priority. But his own very great and extremely persuasive sort of charm will more than justify this small expense in terms of added human interest, and will do much toward successfully connecting additional scenes to the existing footage.)

Now the camera shows us Bailes -- popular and exclusive; a series of street scenes, the sum of all of which is a concert of popular Brazilian music, in effect impromptu, even accidental -- but, in fact, painstakingly conceived.

During this we first encounter little Pery, the very tiny, wonderfully charming child star of our Carnaval picture -- . Pery has lost his mother in the crowd.

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Shifra expresses concern for his welfare, but Harry says the child isn't any more lost than he is. "Let's follow him. Maybe he'll lead us somewhere."

Pery is an unpredictable, antic, wayward guide indeed. Quite without knowing it, he directs the camera to many strange and surprising sights.

Harry is dumbfounded. "It's like all the New Year's Eves that ever were -- rolled into one -- It's Fourth of July multiplied by a million."

Shifra is worried. "I wonder what happened to the little boy. I can't find him."

Harry assures her he's all right.

"Maybe he went in there," says Welles.

The camera truck has pulled up in front of the Teatro Municipal where is held the very most fashionable of all Bailes.

Shifra is skeptical. "You don't think he's in there," she says to Welles, "you think she's in there."

DISSOLVE

She is -- with family.

Welles joins the table as Chucho Martinez on the stage starts singing "Amelia."

"I've just heard that song out in the streets," he takes her eye -- "Here it sounds -- different."

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