Biography for
Carol Reed (I) More at IMDbPro »

Date of Birth

30 December 1906, Putney, London, England, UK

Date of Death

25 April 1976, Chelsea, London, England, UK (heart attack)

Height

6' 2" (1.88 m)

Mini Biography

Carol Reed was the second son of stage actor, dramatics teacher, and impresario founder of the Royal School of Dramatic Arts Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree. Reed was one of six illegitimate children of Tree with Beatrice Mae Pinney, who Tree established in a second household apart from his married life. There were no social scars here; Reed grew up in well a mannered middle class atmosphere. His public school days were at King's School, Canterbury, and he was only to glad to push on with the idea of following father and become an actor. His mother wanted no such thing and shipped him off to Massachusetts in 1922, where his older brother resided on - of all things - a chicken ranch.

It was a wasted six months before Reed was back and joined a stage company of Dame Sybil Thorndike, making his stage debut in 1924. He forthwith met British writer Edgar Wallace, who cashed in on his constant output of thrillers by establishing a road troupe to do stage adaptations of them. Reed was in three of these, also working as an assistant stage manager. Wallace became chairman of the newly formed British Lion Film Corporation in 1927, and Reed followed to become his personal assistant. As such, he began learning the film trade by assisting in supervising the filmed adaptations of Wallace's works. This was essentially his day job. At night he continued stage acting and managing. It was something of a relief when Wallace past on in 1932; Reed decided to drop the stage for film and joined historic Ealing Studios as dialog director for Associated Talking Pictures under Basil Dean.

Reed rose from dialog director to second-unit director and assistant director in record time, his first solo directorship being the adventure Midshipman Easy (1935). This and his subsequent effort, Laburnum Grove (1936), attracted high praise from future collaborator, novelist/critic Graham Greene , who said that once Reed "gets the right script, (he) will prove far more than efficient." But Reed would endure the sort of staid, boilerplate film making that characterized British B movies until he left this behind with The Stars Look Down (1940), his second film with Michael Redgrave, and his openly Hitchcockian Night Train to Munich (1940), a comedy-thriller with Rex Harrison. It has often been seen as sequel to Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes (1938) with the same screenwriters and comedy relief - Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne, who would just about make careers as the cricket zealots Charters and Caldicott, from "Vanishes".

The British liked these films and significantly, so did America, where Hollywood still wondered whether their patronage of the British film industry was worth the gamble of a payoff via the US public. Dean was just one of several powerhouse producers rising in Britain in the 1930's. Other names are more familiar: Alexander Korda and J. Arthur Rank, stand out. For Reed, who would wisely decide to move toward his own producing for better control over the movies he directed, finding his niche was still a challenge into the 1940s. He was only too well aware that the film director led a team effort; his was partly a coordinator's task, harmonizing the talents of the creative team. The modest Reed would admit to his success being this partnership time and again. So he gravitated toward the same script writers, art directors, and cinematographers as his movie list spread out.

There were more thrillers and some historical bios: Kipps (1941) with Redgrave and The Young Mr. Pitt (1942)_ with Robert Donat. He did service and war effort fare through World War II, but these were more than flag wavers, for Reed dealt with the psychology of transitioning to military life. His Anglo-American documentary of combat (co-directed by Garson Kanin), The True Glory (1945), won the 1946 Oscar for Best Documentary. And with that under his belt, Reed was now recognized as Britain's ablest director and could pick and choose his projects. He also had the clout - and the all important funds - to do what he thought was essential to the realism of a good film-shoot on location as required - something missing in British film work prior to Reed.

Odd Man Out (1947) with James Mason as an IRA field man on the run did just that and was Reed's first real independent effort, and he had gone to Rank to do it. But all too soon that organization began pulling directors in line with studio needs, and Reed made perhaps his most important associative decision and joined Korda's London Films. Here was one very important harmony - Korda and he thought along the same lines - big perspective but a lot of detail. Though Anthony Kimmins had scripted four films for Reed, it was time for Korda to introduce the director to Graham Greene. And their association would bring Reed his greatest successes. The Fallen Idol (1948) was based on a Greene short story with Ralph Richardson as a do-everything head butler in a diplomatic household. Idolized by the lonely, small son of his employer, he becomes caught up in a liaison with a much younger woman of the work staff than his shrewish wife. It seems slow for an American audience, but with the focus on the boy's wide-eyed view of rather gloomy surroundings, as well as the adult drama around him, it was innovative a solid success.

But what came next was a landmark - the best known of Reed's films. The Third Man (1949) was yet another Greene story, molded into a gem of a screenplay by him, though Reed added some significant elements of his own. The film has been infinitely summarized and analyzed and, whether defined as a sort of international noir or post-war noir - or just noir, it was cutting edge noir and unforgettable. This was Reed in full control - well, almost - the money was coming from yet another wide-vision producer, David O. Selznick, along with Korda. And there was tension to keep a predominate Anglo effort in this Anglo-American collaboration.

But there were complications. For one thing, Korda, old friend and somewhat kindred spirit of wunderkind director Orson Welles, had a gentlemen's agreement with the latter for three pictures. But these were not forthcoming - Korda could be as evasive as Welles - and Welles had come to Europe to further his inevitable film projects after troubles in Hollywood. Always desperate for seed money, Welles was forced to take acting parts in Europe to further his bank account. He thus accepted the role of the larger-than-life American flim-flam man turned criminal, Harry Lime. The extended time spent filming the Vienna sewer scenes there on location and at the elaborate set for them at Shepperton Studios in London, entailed the longest of the ten minutes or so of Welles' screen time. Here was a potential source of directorial intimidation if ever there was one. Welles took it upon himself to direct Reed's veteran cinematographer Robert Krasker with his own vision of some sewer sequences in London (after leaving the location shoot in Vienna) - using many takes. Supposedly, Reed did not use any of Welles' footage - and in fact whatever there was - was conveniently lost. Yet Citizen Kane (1941)'s shadow was so long that Welles was given credit for a lot of camera work, atmospherics, and the chase scenes. He had referred to the movie as "my film" later on and had said he wrote all his dialog. Some of the ferris wheel dialog with its famous famous "cuckoo clock" speech (which Reed and Greene both attributed to him) was probably the essence of Welles' contributions.

Krasker's quirky angles under Reed's direction perfectly framed the ready-made-for-an-art designer bombed out shadows and stark, isolated street lights of post-war Vienna and its underworld. Unique to cinema history the whole score (but for some canned incidental cafe music) was just the brilliant zither playing of Anton Karas, adding his nuances to every dramatic transition. Krasker won an Oscar, and Karas was nominated.

Reed's attention to detailed casting also paid off-especially with the realism of German-speaking actors and background players. Selznick insisted on 'Joseph Cotten' as Holly Martins, the benighted protagonist - and he was perfect with his clipped and sharp voice and subterranean drawl. Reed had wanted 'Jimmy Stewart' (definitely a different perception than Americans of its leading men!). In addition, Selznick parted elsewhere with Reed; in fact, there was a laundry lists of reasons for his reediting and changing some incidentals for the shorter American version, partly based on objections from sneak preview responses.

Perhaps it was the heavy insinuations from the other side of the Atlantic that drove Reed to his somewhat self-willed personal narration of the introduction describing Martins in the British version of the film. Given the basic tenets of noir films, the star always played narrator to introduce the story and voice over where appropriate.

Selznick showed himself the better director in this instance by substituting Cotten introducing himself in the American cut. It made far more sense and was far more effective. On the other hand, Selznick's editing of the pivotal railway cafe scenes with Cotten and Alida Valli had continuity problems.

Nonetheless, the movie was an international smash hit, and all the principal players reaped the rewards. Reed did not get an Oscar, but he did win the Cannes Film Grand Prix. Greene was encouraged enough to take the story and expand it into a best selling novel. And even Welles, with his minimum of screen time - but in the midst of pandering after funds to keep his newest project, Otello (1955), moving - milked the movie for all it was worth. He did not deny directorial influences (though in a 1984 interview, he did) - and even developed a Harry Lime radio show back home.

However the movie had its detractors. It was called too melodramatic and too cynical. The short scenes of untranslated German dialog were also criticized, yet that lent to the atmosphere of confusion and helplessness of Martins caught in a wary, potentially dangerous environment - something the audience inevitably was able to share. It was all too ironic that Reed, now declared by some as the greatest living director of the time, found his career in decline hence forward. Of Reed's total output entailed films based on: four plays, three stories, and fifteen novels. With less than half of them to go, he was to be disappointed for the most part. His The Man Between (1953) with James Mason was too much of a Third Man reprise, and A Kid for Two Farthings (1955) was too sentimental.

But by now, Reed was being sought by enterprising Hollywood producers. He had - as he usually did - the material for a first rate movie with two popular American actors, Burt Lancaster and 'Tony Curtis' for Trapeze (1956). But it suffered from a slow script, as would the UK produced The Key (1958), despite another international cast. Things finally picked up with his venturing into another Greene novel scripted with Alec Guinness in the lead of the UK spy spoof, Our Man in Havana (1959) with yet another wining, international cast.

When Hollywood called again, the chance at such a British piece of history as Mutiny on the Bounty (1962) with a mostly British cast and Marlon Brando seemed bound for success. It was the second version of the movie produced by MGM. But Brando's history of being temperamental followed them to location shooting in Tahiti. Reed shot a small part of the picture but finally left having had enough of the star's ego (and evidently too much artistic control blessed by the home office). Reed would ultimately be branded as a failure in directing historical movies, but it was an unfair appraisal based on the random aspect of film success and such forces of nature - as Brando - not artistic and technical expertise.

The opportunity to make another came knocking again with Reed and American money joining as production company International Classics to produce Irving Stone's best selling story of Michelangelo and the painting of the Sistine Chapel, The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965). Here is perhaps the prime example of Reed being given short shrift for a really valiant effort at an historical, artistically significant and cultural epic because it was a 'flop' at the box office. Shot on location in Rome and its environs, the film had a first rate cast headed by Charlton Heston doing his method best as the temperamental artist with Rex Harrison, an effortless standout as the equally volatile Pope Julius II. Diane Cilento did fine work as the Contessina de Medici with the always stalwart Harry Andrews as architect rival Donato Bramante. Most of the other roles were filled by Italians dubbed in English, but they all look good.

Reed's attention to historical detail provided perhaps the most accurate depiction of early 16th century Italy - from costumes and manners to military action and weapons (especially firearms) - ever brought to the screen. The script by Philip Dunne was brisk and always entertaining in the verbal battle between the artist and his pontiff. Yet by the 1960s costume epics of any sort were going out of style and bigger flops, such as Cleopatra (1963) - talk about agony - despite the wealth of stars which included Harrison, tended to spread like a disease to those few that came later. Despite a high-powered distribution campaign by Twentieth Century Fox, Reed's exemplary effort would ultimately be appreciated by art scholars and historians - not the stuff of Hollywood's money mentality.

For Reed the only remaining triumph was - of all things - a musical - his first and only - yet again he was working with children. But the adaptation of the great Dickens novel Oliver! (1968) to the screen was a sensation with a lively script and music amid a realistic 19th century London that was up to Reed's usual standards. The film was nominated for no less than eleven Oscars, wining five and two of the big ones - Best Picture and Best Director. Reed had finally achieved that bit of elusiveness. He could never be so simplistically stamped with an uneven career; Reed had always kept to a precise craftsman's movie-making formula.

Fellow British director Michael Powell had said that he "could put a film together like a watchmaker puts together a watch". But it was Greene who gave Reed perhaps the more important personal accolade: "the only director I know with that particular warmth of human sympathy, the extraordinary feeling for the right face in the right part, the exactitude of cutting, and not least important the power of sympathizing with an author's worries and an ability to guide him."

IMDb Mini Biography By: William McPeak

Spouse

Penelope Dudley-Ward	(24 January 1948 - 25 April 1976) (his death) 1 child
Diana Wynyard	(3 February 1943 - August 1947) (divorced)

Trade Mark

Tilted camera angles at moments of suspense or uneasiness

Scenes in which staircases are put to dramatic use (e.g., The Fallen Idol (1948), and the London Bridge sequence in Oliver! (1968))

Narrrow, dark spaces: laneways and tunnels (The Third Man (1949) and Odd Man Out (1947))

Children figure significantly in his films (The Fallen Idol (1948) told through a child's point of view, Boy with ball in The Third Man (1949), protagonists in Oliver! (1968) are children; children are everywhere & see everything in Odd Man Out (1947))

Often cast Trevor Howard

Trivia

Uncle of Oliver Reed.

Retropective at the 48th Donostia-San Sebastián Film Festival. [2000]

Was the illegitimate son of Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree (Reed's mother, May Reed, was Tree's mistress).

Step-father of actress Tracy Reed.

Quit after several months as director of Mutiny on the Bounty (1962) because he found he was unable to handle Marlon Brando's ego. He was unaware that the studio had given Brando control of the picture.

Did not rate Alfred Hitchcock very highly as he thought that the best directors should display their range through filming a variety of subjects, whereas Hitchcock chose to direct mainly thrillers.

His lovers included Daphne Du Maurier and Jessie Matthews.

Had a son Max from his marriage to Penelope Dudley-Ward.

In 1952 he became the first British film director to receive a knighthood for his craft.

Biography in: John Wakeman, editor. "World Film Directors, Volume One, 1890-1945". Pages 917-923. New York: The H.W. Wilson Company, 1987.

Steven Spielberg has named him as an influence.

One of his earliest mentors was writer Edgar Wallace.

He worked in close collaboration with writer Graham Greene in the late 40s, producing two of his greatest films: The Fallen Idol (1948) and The Third Man (1949).

Personal Quotes

"To be any good to a director an actor must either be wonderful, or know nothing about acting. A little knowledge - that's what is bad."

[on his acting days] "You know, I wasn't a good actor. I began as a spear carrier and then appeared through the countryside in repertory, but though I got decent parts and so on, I was never very good. Yet I'm glad I did it for seven years or so because it helped me subsequently in understanding the actor's problems."

[on Hollywood] "I have no desire to stay there, purely for one reason. When you have lived your life in one country and grown accustomed to the national traits and temeprament, it is difficult to do justice to your skill elsewhere. I have never yet seen it succeed. In America, Renoir, for instance, never made such brilliant pictures as he did in France. This applies equally to Rene Clair - to almost everyone save Hitchcock, who, of course, keeps to thrillers; these have an advantage over the types of plot because they are richly spiced with incident from the start. In contrast, the more delicate the story the greater the demands on subtle treatment."

[on directing Bobby Henrey in The Fallen Idol (1948)] "A child of eight can't act. I wasn't looking for an exhibitionist. Adults have habitual features and defences. A good actor must take something away, lose a part of himself before he can create a role. But with the right sort of child such as Bobby, there is nothing in the way. There is absolutely no resistence. He will do everything you tell him."

"A director should plan in advance how a scene is to be played, but he should always be ready to put the camera here instead of there, and change everything at the last moment if he comes across a better way of doing it."

"I think it is the director's job - as in the old theatre - to convey faithfully what the author had in mind. Unless you have worked with the author in the first place you cannot convey to the actors what he had in mind nor can you convey to the editor at the end the original idea. In making a picture you have got to go back to the first stage to see how important something may be in establishing this scene or that character."

[speaking in 1938] "In time I believe we shall get away from the eternal happy ending - it is difficult to get an audience really interested in the problems of the two main characters of a story when they know in the end it will all work out all right, however difficult it may seem. The French have done it. Why shouldn't we?"

[speaking in the late '40s] "The future of British films depends on how they are made; if the standard is high then the future is rosy. This achieved, there is no reason why the British film world should not become a big industry like its American counterpart. We have a wealth of good actors. The trouble here is that we do not make enough good pictures to keep them occupied. We must at least double our output - but not on the basis of twenty-five brilliant pictures and seventy-five bad ones."

"The work of any director making pictures in this country is conditioined absolutely by the happy ending. I am sure that this is a wrong-minded policy and keeps many intelligent minded people out of the cinemas, for whatever the circumstances of a story, the end is inevitably the same, boy gets girl."

"All I believe the director can do is to approach his subject with a meticulously prepared list of scenes to be shot with their general description and the dialogue entailed in each, and an absolutely clear idea of the effect he wants to achieve."

"It's dull to stick to the same sort of subject and bad for one's work into the bargain. Repetition makes a director grow stale in his job, and lose his grip as an entertainer. I happen to love a dark street, with wet cobbles, and a small furtive figure under a lamp at the corner. Whenever I go on location, I instinctively look for sonething of that kind. Now that is bad; thoroughly bad for me, and tedious for the public. Variety is an essential exercise to a director. Every new film should be a new beginning, and nobody should ever be able to say with any certainty, 'Oh, that'a a Carol Reed subject', or 'That's not a Carol Reed subject'. It's doing the particular job well - and every sort of job - that primarily intertests me. I don't think the type of subject matters much."

[on The Third Man (1949)] "I shot most of the film with a wide-angle lens that distorted the buildings and emphasised the wet cobblestone streets. But the angle of vision was to suggest that something crooked was going on. I don't think it's a very good idea. I haven't used it much since - only when I need to shoot someone standing behind another person who's sitting and I don't want to cut off his head."

"I believe it is essential that the director and the editor should work closely together right through the picture - and I like working with the same editor. You get used to working together - otherwise you're only beginning to know each other by the end of the picture."

"Picture-making is often sheer misery. Planning them is great fun. Making them is rather like riding on a switchback at a fair; you hardly dare imagine what is coming next."

"I don't think people care what sort of kitchen curtains I have. I don't think they care about the technical people. Stars are the draw. They earn their publicity. It brings the people in. But no one would go to see a film because it was directed by Carol Reed."

[on moving from being an assisstant director to director] "I was indefinite and indecisive. I thought I had picked up a lot about cutting and camera angles, but now, when I had to make all the decisions myself and was not just mentally approving or criticising what somebody else decided, I was pretty well lost. Fortunately I realised that this was the only way to learn - by making mistakes."

"There is nothing worse than a film that is directed by someone who has little or no knowledge of the habits or ways of the country concerned in the picture. For instance, I would never make a film with an American college background, I would be bound to make too many mistakes."

"I make films for the public, but in a manner that I like myself. I don't know what the public wants, and I doubt whether the public does either. Peole like a good picture, so you have to make a film on trust, knowing that if it is good people will like it."

"After you've been shooting awhile and are looking at your footage as you go, you begin to see the picture taking shape, establishing a rhythym of it's own. Things begin to fall into place of themselves. That's when you begin to feel the picture's natural pace and you develop it. You can then work with the actors and mould and shape it."

[speaking in the late 1950s] "I've never seen a comedy in colour, not a good one. You cannot seem to get it. Colour is just not real enough yet. Perhaps it is for television, where your audience is sitting in a room with the lights on. But in a dark theatre, confronted by that huge screen, I feel that it's just not convincing."

"The most important purpose of the commercial film-maker is to produce entertainment which will draw the largest possible number of the paying public into the cinema, and keep them there. You could gather a large number of people together to gaze at a two-headed dog, especially if you had a man with a loud enough voice announcing it; but the number of times people can be induced to pay money to see the dog is strictly limited; the wise showman provides also a bearded lady and a living skeleton - all, be it emphasised, strictly genuine. The public may be gullible, but there is a limit to it's credulity. The swindling or unimaginative showman, like the man who diliberatley makes bogus or otherwise unworthy films, may be successful for a while; but he has no future."

"I don't believe the cinema is a place for little lectures on how everybody should live. I don't think audiences want them either, unless they are very original and striking. Personally I dislike the infusion of amateur politics into films. Certainly that is not the director's job."

[on the task of directing Oliver! (1968)] "This is Dickens. There are problems of a special kind. You say to yourself: 'Fagin as a character would never dream of singing anything, nor, perhaps, would the Artful Dodger or Bill Sikes'. They would probably get a laugh. The only way we could do justice to these characters as well as we knew how, and you can only do that in England. We concentrated upon them and made them the center of attraction. I never visualised 'Oliver!' as a show dominated by a single star. In fact there are seven very good parts."

"Films are made in fear and worry and panic. There is no happiness in this business."

"The whole thing is in the preparation. I like to work three months or more on a script and come to the floor with it finished to the letter."

[on directing Oliver! (1968)] "I discovered that in a big musical the man who directs it is far more dependant on other people than in a straight film. He has to learn from experts and consult with them all the time. He has none of the autonomy he's accustomed to exercise in a non-musical subject."

"If you're adapting Lionel Bart's 'Oliver!' you are committed to playing the story with its characters and numbers and all the rest of it - Oliver running away from home, going back, walking the streets and so on. The pattern is so complex, it opens into Clerkenwell and fills out a London square. We sometimes changed the order of the spacing of the numbers. The story, too, had to be cut. We had to eliminate Dickens's subplot, and that amounts to a quarter or a third of the film. The rest is story and the story is found in Lionel Bart's numbers - "Food, Glorious Food", "You've got to pick a pocket or two", "Who Will Buy?" The choreography, while belonging, is in a sense a separate film needing its own exteriors."

"The worst thing one can say to a child whan aiming a camera at him is 'Act naturally'. That will shrivel him on the spot. Children are natural actors but you must give them something to act. However many children you are going to film, give each one a separate identity. Tell the little boy to pretend the bicycle is one he has just won in a competition. Tell the little girl she is a princess in disguise. Give them something to work with and think about before the filming begins. Watch how one boy flicks his hair or rubs his nose, how a girl twists her braids and rubs one foot behind her leg. How they eat, how they smile, how they show shyness or jealousy by jumping up and down or pouting in a certain way. Then, when you are ready to film, re-enact their own mannerisms to them and ask them to imitate you. In fact, they will be doing what comes naturally to them."

"Following the picture through to the last detail is critical, terribly important. You know, not enough directors are willing to do this. They are too eager to run off and play in the south of France - they want their money fast and easy. As soon as shooting is over they're thinking of the next picture and are willing to turn the current one over to the studio to cut. They're apt to say, 'I'm too close to the picture now'. That's nonsense. To make a good film you've got to sit down at the moviola day after day - all day - running the footage over and over, trying combinations."

[on being asked which film he was most pleased with] "They're all disappointments in the end. You only see the things you wish you had done. In the theatre you can take a play and then change it on tour or cut it down, but once you have finished a film and shown it, that's it...No, I have no favourites."

[on Sophia Loren] She gives herself to you as an artist. During shooting, she'd ask me, "What did I do wrong? What can I do to make it better?" I never knew her to pull an act -- the headache, the temperament. Usually with such a beauty, there is worry about the looks. She doesn't bother about looks. She's interested in acting.

Salary

The Key (1958)

$150 000

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