A dissertation on liars, cheats, counterfeiters and forgers by Orson Welles that never settles on a subject, shooting style, genre or personality. Is it a documentary, a fantasy, a historical drama or an art film? Welles employs a crazed guerrilla documentary style, splicing half-conversations with notorious scammers on top of one another while concentrating on awkward close-ups, unflattering angles and incomplete thoughts. Orson handles most of the narration himself from a seat at the editing table, apparently in the process of chaotically piecing the final product together.

It's a manic blend of jumbled thoughts that seems like something thrown together on a whim, after filming every instant of a lavish European vacation and poring over the footage for its most quizzical moments. For what it's worth, I could watch Orson carry on conversation with nobodies for hours at a time, and on the few occasions the film delivers just that, it reaches a certain peak. If Welles could've let this story tell itself without overproducing every instant, and later forcing himself into unnecessary dramatizations, it would have had my rapt attention. Instead, the second half nearly put me to sleep. A solid concept that's been overcomplicated and spoiled.