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the breakfast table: An e-mail conversation about the news of the day.

Phillip Lopate and Geoffrey O'Brien

from: Geoffrey O'Brien

Vicarious Triumph: The Opiate of Choice

Posted Thursday, March 22, 2001, at 1:08 PM ET

Dear Phillip,

Truth to tell, the Oscar ceremonies of the past seem to leave little trace in my memory. Each seems to melt into some generic meta-ceremony that includes musical numbers of staggering clunkiness, montages in which hundreds of images from the past are each allotted their fraction of a second, and acceptance speeches by special effects designers or directors of short subjects who go on just a little too long and are (these days) rudely cut off by the orchestra striking up to drown them out. And the jokes, desperate or otherwise: Offhand, the biggest laugh I can recall was Billy Crystal (in the wake of Clinton's recently delivered pronouncement about his marijuana experiences) interjecting a propos of nothing at all to fill a dead moment: "Didn't inhale." (Long pause worthy of Jack Benny while laughter builds.) I remember that once upon a time, Bob Hope owned the Oscars and that when I was kid I thought he was really funny. Part of growing up was not laughing on cue at his monologues anymore (maybe because I finally got them).



I'll bet they do know who Mike Ovitz is in all those far-flung places. He might even seem more interesting when contemplated from a remote perspective, in the same way that early Hollywood moguls take on more stature the further they recede in time. (Not to mention more ancient figures ... Try to imagine a dinner party with the real Antony and Cleopatra, unmediated by Plutarch or Shakespeare or Joe Mankiewicz. Could be a rough night out.)

It's true that the only real surprise the Oscars can ever offer is an unscripted response, forced out of otherwise well-rehearsed people by the shock of winning. (We don't usually get to see the results of the shock of losing for more than a split second.) Weird how the joy of winning is endlessly amplified by awards ceremonies, the aftermath of sports victories, political victories, the triumphant finales of game shows, and then further amplified in all those movies about winning, Rocky and company. (Not to mention Independence Day, where saving Earth from alien devastation was reduced to the level of winning the World Series.) Vicarious triumph seems to be the opiate of choice, while the glum notion of noble defeat, which used to have a certain cultural stature, has definitely been shelved. We've come a long way from noble Romans falling on their swords or opening their veins in the bath. Today the watchword to Seneca is: Don't get mad; get even.

By the way, I don't think of fantasy and documentary as mutually exclusive. Every artifact finally becomes a document, and every document becomes material for fantasy. Human behavior itself is so frequently fantastic that even the most literal documentary can become pure show biz. Likewise many an early '30s Hollywood movie has now acquired a gritty aura of authenticity from its material trappings--the clothes, the body language, the way the actors spit the lines out, the glimpses of streets and buildings, even if the movie itself is the purest pulp. I love movies that manage to suggest both extremes, sometimes in the same shot. I'm thinking of Luis Bunuel's The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, one of my favorite films and one that sadly seems to be unavailable these days, at least on video. It's a Saturday matinee children's movie, perfect as such, that's also an unrelenting, disturbing, sometimes hallucinatory contemplation of solitude. I'm very fond of historical movies that try to bridge the gap between past and present with a nearly documentary approach, like Rivette's Joan of Arc movie that I thought was one of the best of the last decade. Or those Rossellini movies about Socrates, Pascal, Louis XIV, and others. Put it another way: Some of my favorite documentaries are those filmed in other centuries.

Best,
Geoffrey

from: Geoffrey O'Brien

Vicarious Triumph: The Opiate of Choice

Posted Thursday, March 22, 2001, at 1:08 PM ET
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Phillip Lopate is an essayist, novelist, and film buff whose last book was a collection of movie criticism, Totally, Tenderly, Tragically. Geoffrey O'Brien is the editor in chief of the Library of America and the author of numerous books, including The Phantom Empire: Movies in the Mind of the Twentieth Century.
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[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:

House of Mirth got lambasted by the New York Times critics for being a downer, as if they were reviewing for their college frat paper.

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.)








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