Eisenstein in Guanajuato Page #4

Don't worry. I'm a foreigner.

I'm a child abroad.

Russia's so big

that nobody thinks about abroad.

It's always too far away and well out of sight.

- (CHUCKLES)

- We believe most of the time

that "abroad" does not really exist.

Does not really exist. Does not really exist.

I was earning money

from American publishers,

and I bought an old battered Ford car.

Mayakovsky had a Renault,

and we raced around Moscow

at 40 miles an hour with our windows down,

shouting, singing,

- and mooning.

- Oh!

He had a nice arse. My arse was way too fat.

He got his car impounded for moral turpitude.

Mayakovsky, that is, not his car.

His car was innocent.

Is this car, with Death in the driver's seat,

completely innocent?

No fat on his backside.

In 1927, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks

of Universal Pictures,

Charlie Chaplin's company,

saw Potemkin and invited me

to come to Hollywood

to make a film! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

(CHILDREN CHEERING)

I met them all. All those Hollywood guys.

They all came to Moscow.

Would you believe it?

Joseph Schenck lost in Russia,

but he looked like a Russian smoothie.

All Jews look lost in Russia,

but there is never a better home for them.

He fast-smoked big cigars.

He was a caricature.

It was to make sure no one took him seriously

so he could take everyone else seriously

when they weren't looking.

I am a caricature. I don't smoke fast,

but I can talk fast, don't you think?

Joseph Schenck

came with a Hollywood contract

in his pocket, which was soon in my pocket.

And then my pockets were filled

with Hollywood happiness.

Felicidad Hollywoodus.

(CLASSICAL MUSIC)

To get to Hollywood,

you must first pass through Europe,

and then you have to pass through America

because Hollywood is a separate country

all on its very own.

So like bug-eyed cultural tourists,

we went through Europe,

looking, seeing, shaking hands.

Although it was more like

shaking hands and looking.

I had eyes in my hands,

and they never stopped shaking.

We met George Grosz and Man Ray

and Dos Passes.

Oh, Kthe Kollwitz.

She had at least half a way

for social conscience,

though her droopy face and sagging breasts

were overplayed as a sort of trademark.

And Le Corbusier,

who said I reminded him of Donatello.

All architects love cinema.

We met Lger and Cocteau

and Marinetti, who was a fool.

Terrible poetry, worse painting.

Oh, we met James Joyce,

who sat through Battleship Potemkin

in his dark blind glasses.

I imagine he did not see a thing.

We met Abel Gance and Buuel.

And Al Jolson, the blacked-up

singing son of a Russian rabbi.

- This one.

- (GRUNTS)

We saw Dal's Le Chien Andalou

and Dreyer's Joan of Arc.

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