Phillip Lopate and Geoffrey O'Brien
Dear Geoffrey,
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StumbleUponI'm thinking about the ghost of Oscars past. Remember that gallant tribute to the elderly actresses now in retirement, Jane Powell and Ginger Rogers, draped on staircases in gowns, where there was so much gauze or Vaseline on the camera lens to fudge the wrinkles? The Native-American Marlon Brando speech? Some of Billy Crystal's funnier opening bits, like his mimic of Hannibal Lecter, and the Whoopi Goldberg awkwardness and attempt to inject some political gags, and those inside jokes about studio heads or agents going out to billions of people in Manila and Nairobi who must be scratching their heads. (Unless they know who Mike Ovitz is, too--I wouldn't doubt it.) There's something so embarrassing to me about that Hollywood/American in-crowd narcissism being broadcast worldwide, but maybe that's part of the appeal, you know, the rest of the world's fascination with watching select people intent on self-love and hoping to grasp the secret, even if they may not get the specifics of the Ovitz joke.
What I hate are those Chuck Workman montages, a second for each "cherished moment," partly because they underline for me how much has been forgotten historically--Rain Man is Hollywood's idea of ancient history, and only It's a Wonderful Life qualifies as pre-historic. But maybe it's just my prejudice against montages. What makes Oscars riveting, for better or worse, is that they still can't dispense with the "real time" element: A guy accepting the award for best short documentary is going to thank as many people as he wants. That "thank you" ritual, what do you make of it? Because, take away the gowns and the opening jokes and the suspense of who gets the award, and that's what you're left with: a primitive ritual in which one tribal member after another gets up and thanks the chiefs for letting them join the hunt.
I sit there waiting for someone to be churlish: You're damn right I deserve this, and you should have given me one years ago. Or honest: Don't you think I was a little over the top in that scene? But the gratitude is soothing: These are people have reached the pinnacle of being appreciated, and they are reduced to gushing banalities, so I guess I'll just go on with life and my job at the office. If they uttered witty sentences of acute judgment like Samuel Johnson or Edmund Wilson, clutching their Oscars, then I would be envious ...
I'm suddenly thinking of producer Alan Pakula getting killed in a freak accident, driving on the Long Island Expressway, I believe it was, some debris falling from the overpass and hitting him, maybe while he was composing an Oscar acceptance speech in his head. Maybe this is also what I'm watching and waiting for: someone to clutch his chest in midspeech and keel over. Death at the Oscars. It was the Surrealist poet Philippe Soupault who said that he engaged in long midnight walks all over Paris, hoping to find death at the end of them. I think we watch TV secretly for the same reason: the newscaster taking out a gun and shooting herself.
Did you see Anthony Lane's piece on Julia Roberts in this week's New Yorker? He says she doesn't take off her clothes any more because "I don't do documentaries" (quoting Roberts), then goes on to demur that in European and Altman movies it's thought that "the scent of documentary can and should be allowed to flavor a fictional method." In an otherwise entirely too smart-alecky and glib piece, that's the one sentence of Lane's I like, and it pretty much sums up what I was trying to tell you yesterday about my love for the cigarette-smoking moment in The Circle and all those real-time process moments I like. Not fantasy but documentary. That may be where our emphasis differs, you and I.
Best,
Phillip
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Reader Comments From The Fray:
[Thursday Notes from the Fray Editor: So Phillip Lopate came into the Fray too, to answer the A.O.Scott post below, and Mr Scott answered him, and then David Edelstein thought it was all getting too friendly, and really we recommend you read the whole thread (starts here), no actually we are imploring you to read it, because it is one of the great Fray feuding threads, with posts titled "A.O. Wimps Out" and "By God Mr Edelstein" and a mention of effete drivel. There are special extra insults from star posters and others, plus this unmissable summary of the action from Fray favorite Joseph Britt ("What are these people arguing about? [Is it]... that anyway House of Mirth was supposed to be grim, a bummer and/or a downer but is nonetheless worthy for other reasons, so the Times' critics' criticism is wrong. Have I got it?"). Neill Hamilton--a trouble-maker if ever we saw one--tried to help Mr Britt out, below.]
While the posts appear to be trading blows about the movie The House of Mirth, it appears that they are arguing about certain hidden issues. A.O.Scott is arguing that the New York Times is not as fun as a frat party, and never will be if he can help it. Edelstein is arguing that he prefers Gillian Anderson in the X-Files, altho' he misses Mulder. Zeit for some reason wanted to talk about the only Art movie he has ever seen, and Lopate's point is only known to him. I hope this helps.
--Neill Hamilton
(To reply, click here.)
[Wednesday Notes from the Fray Editor: Some rumbling in the film critics' ranks here. Did the New York Times diss House of Mirth like frat boys? A.O.Scott says no, below. And Slate's movie critic David Edelstein is in The Fray arguing too. There are comments on individual films throughout. To take random examples, a defense of Manhattan, and the excellent question "Where was Wonder Boys?". (If there was a post agreeing that The Leopard is one of the best films ever made, we would feature it too.) Microcinemas are discussed here. And (we are filing under the heading "good to know if true") how posting on The Fray can protect you from Alzheimer's, here.]
Mr. Lopate writes:
What is his source for this ridiculous contention? There are three film critics at the Times: Elvis Mitchell, Stephen Holden, and me. To my knowledge (and his), Mitchell has never written about House of Mirth, and my only published remarks about the film came in a Slate "Movie Club," in which I said that while I admired Davies's visual technique, I found the movie emotionally inert. So perhaps Mr. Lopate is referring to Stephen Holden's review, which ran when House of Mirth was shown at the New York Film Festival. But while Holden did describe the movie's depiction of New York society as "grim" and "bleak," he did not fault (much less "lambaste" or "despise") House of Mirth for its somber mood. Rather, he thought Gillian Anderson was miscast as Lily Bart, and found most of the secondary characters one-dimensional.
The implication that "the Times critics" favor shallow, feel-good pictures will be laughable to anyone who bothers to read the paper, and will certainly come as news to the makers of Erin Brockovitch, Gladiator, Finding Forrester and Chocolat, all of which we treated pretty roughly. Perhaps the only articles in the Times Mr. Lopate reads are the ones he writes himself, or perhaps he fell asleep over the paper and dreamed up a team of shallow critics to serve as "Breakfast Table" straw men. In any case it's too bad that, in his desperate need to preserve a sense of intellectual superiority, he has so egregiously smeared and misrepresented the work of other critics. I guess I'd rather be middlebrow and literary than highbrow and illiterate.
--A.O.Scott
(To reply, click here.)
Timesaver: Oscar night in a nutshell.
Armey Archer, Joan Rivers and Spawn, scores of "stars", 30% ridiculously over-dressed, 30% under-dressed in designer slobbery, 30% appropriately dressed but ill-coiffed, indoctrination through a summary of historical significance, popular clips from this year's movies, witty, left-leaning banter from an officious host, audience shots of actors (22% of all shots include Jack Nicholson), more witty banter including rolling blackout jokes, irrelevant awards for tech-geeks, makeup people and unknown music industry wonks, more witty banter including Dubya jokes, slow tease with clips from best movie nominees, slightly more "important" awards, tacky musical and dance numbers, more witty banter probably including J-Lo dress references, more shots of Jack, building suspense, complete overuse of the words "vision, brilliance and genius," sappy "thank yous", lifetime achievement award to somebody who's more talented than all the nominees put together but just never had the right PR people, annoying, hand-wringing, impassioned political statements by "stars" with furrowed brows, salutes to the independents (who are the only people doing anything new, anymore), building suspense, more witty banter about events that occurred earlier in the night, best film award, a little more irrelevant bullshit and two weeks worth of water cooler talk
--Johnny Hotpants
(To reply, click here.)