Welles’ version is both expressionist and baroque. Expressionist in the way it uses its Zagreb locations, its off-beam photography, its heightened acting by a stellar cast. This is in keeping with a perceived conception of how Kafka’s world might have looked (not so far removed from Soderbergh’s version of The Castle). Welles does it in style and there are many moments where the set eclipses the action. In the days before CGI, the scenes of mass typists have a demented glory, and the gargoyles and brickwork of the high nineteenth century architecture speak of the Hapsburg world Kafka was born into. Baroque, because of the mannered use of text and ponderous nature of the edit. There are no short cuts on show here, no matter how much Welles’ script has edited down the novel. Scenes play out with a papal solemnity. Welles himself, as the advocate, feels like he might be a cardinal. Women are demented and lascivious. Men are doomed to a warped, frustrated middle age. Antony Perkins strides around through all this like a lost high jumper being asked to take part in a marathon. His demise at the end, as Welles tinkers with the novel, comes as a kindly release. The spirit of Welles hangs over the film just as much as the spirit of Kafka, a monomaniacal presence which challenges the viewer to stick with his vision as the dialogue unfurls at its stately pace and the illogical narrative keeps going round in circles.
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