Reeling in the Years

Except when it’s a list of personal favorites, I have never come across a list of films or books that represented itself as the greatest or the best of a given year, an era, or of “all time” that convinced me it was worthy of being taken seriously – including the ones that are the result of a poll of critics and scholars, which is like expanding a jury of twelve to one of hundreds, which places justice even further out of reach. All that such lists ever seem to do is expose the impossibility of real consensus when the people consulted are using highly individualized criteria.

This is especially true of films because it attracts far too many fans – people who can’t tell the difference between what they love - a word that has no place in any critical discussion – and what is objectively and demonstrably good. Yes, I use the word objectively because there are such things as aesthetic standards, a common ground where subjective tastes can agree based on the assumption that a work of art has a value that is not absolute but that is separate from anyone’s judgement. This concept has become rather important now that cancel culture is on the prowl, which applies irrelevant standards of morality on things that are, that must be, beyond such standards. Unless everyone can agree on this, critical appreciation is impossible.

There is an almost insatiable demand for assessments. Every year lists are compiled and published that try to satisfy the demand for the impossible – indisputable greatness, the final settlement of argument over the finest, the biggest, and the best. Why this must be so is a study – the subject of a dissertation – unto itself. But a friend submitted one such list: “75 Years of Movies: The Defining Film of Each Year From 1945-2019”. 

My first quibble with the list is – its author is never identified. But as I went down the list, I began to see why. “Through the power of filmmaking,” the anonymous author wrote, “Hollywood has created some of our most powerful memories, social trends, and pure entertainment. All of these classic films — and those soon to be known as — defined the year in which they were released, creating a decades long filmography of triumphant artistry.” I would first correct the author’s misperception of Hollywood. It is the world’s foremost manufacturer of film entertainment. That’s all it ever wanted to be. Even at their best, Hollywood films stay well within the boundaries of genres: Westerns, Musicals, Gangsters films, Suspense, Horror, Comedies. When they are good, they are incomparable. But they are also, despite numerous attempts, unrepeatable. Hollywood never seemed to figure out the formula for making a successful entertainment – which explains why 95 % of their attempts are failures. It isn’t easy to make a truly entertaining film. 

So it isn’t that difficult, looking down the lists of Hollywood films year by year, to separate the hits from the misses. The list my friend sent me isn’t authoritative – it’s arbitrary. What follows is my corrected list, based on the same criteria. I’ll start with the first decade. 

1945 Anonymous’s choice: The Long Weekend. Allowing for some unintended allegorical subtext, how does the recovery of a man from alcoholism “define” 1945?

My choice: The Clock. Directed by Vincent Minnelli, starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. A soldier on a two-day pass meets a secretary in Pennsylvania Station. At the end of those two days they are in love and she sees him off on the train that’s taking him off to war. (Though released seventeen days after VE Day, the war in the Pacific lasted another three months.)

1946 Anonymous’s choice: It’s a Wonderful Life. A fantasy. Just what Frank Capra thought – mistakenly – America wanted. A box office failure, it was forgotten for decades and the film’s copyright was allowed to lapse to the public domain. This is why there are so many execrable prints floating around. It was rediscovered in the 1970s and is now inescapable at Christmas time. 

My choice: The Best Years of Our Lives. The war’s aftermath. Three men return to the same town after demobilization experience the joys and frustrations of coming home. Powerful and moving. 

1947 Anonymous’s choice: Gentleman’s Agreement. An investigative journalist goes undercover posing as a Jew to find out if there’s any anti-Semitism going on. The inadvertent moral of the story, after the reporter comes out from undercover, is “thank God I’m not a Jew!”

My Choice: The Lady from Shanghai. Orson Welles only six years since Citizen Kane trying to convince producers that he could be obedient and make money for them. Despite bringing the film in on time and under budget, Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures, didn’t like Welles’s rough cut and ordered changes. Cohn’s changes didn’t improve the film, and it flopped at the box office. One can still see greatness in it, even if the script was based on a pulp novel. 

1948 Anonymous’s choice: The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I agree with Anonymous this once. Honorable mention to Max Ophuls’s Letter from an Unknown Woman and William Dieterle’s Portrait of Jennie. 

1949 Anonymous’s choice: The Third Man. An excellent film, but it’s 95% British. 

My Choice: Adam’s Rib. George Cukor’s courtroom drama/comedy starring Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn. Sparklingly fine. 

1950 Anonymous’s choice: Sunset Boulevard. Billy Wilder’s film is good clean fun, but it doesn’t explain the motivation behind the central relationship. Wonderful to see Stroheim and Buster Keaton playing silent film relics living out their last days with a batty former starlet. 

My choice: The Gunfighter. The real anti-Western, since it goes against type and shows us people behaving realistically. A middle-aged gunfighter, who cannot escape his legendary reputation, wants to be done with guns and shootouts, but finds there is no way out for him. Dwight Macdonald used Henry King, the film’s veteran director, to illustrate why film is the medium most unsuited to the auteur theory. 

1951 Anonymous’s choice: The Day the Earth Stood Still. The robot, Gort, is the film’s best creation. Patricia Neal is always a pleasure. But it’s horrifically dated, as all science fiction gets when it tries to imagine futuristic technology. Bernard Herrman’s music is interesting. 

My choice: The African Queen. With a script by James Agee, and real African locations, two aging Hollywood stars, under John Huston’s direction, become real before our eyes. 

1952 Anonymous’s choice: Singin’ in the Rain. One of the best Hollywood musicals. Despite her obvious skills, however, Debbie Reynolds never overcomes her insufferable cuteness. 

My choice: High Noon. The Western reduced to its minimal elements. Also an allegory of Hollywood blacklisting, the song “Do not forsake me, oh my darlin” emphatically repeated. A meta-Western almost like Agnes DeMille’s ballet “Billy the Kid.”

1953 Anonymous’s choice: From Here to Eternity. How America was finally roused from its sleep and realized there was a world war on. The Japanese attack is a kind of deus ex machina in the dream setting of Hawaii. But censorship couldn’t quite tell us the truth about Donna Reed’s profession (she’s a whore working in a whore house), which is glamorized beyond belief. 

My choice: Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn at the beginning of her career, basically playing herself. A perfect romance. 

1954 Anonymous’s choice: On the Waterfront. The subject would’ve been courageous had it not been in the hands of Elia Kazan who, two years before, named names to the House of UnAmerican Activities Committee. It stinks of Bad Faith. 

My choice: A Star Is Born. The first remake, and also the best, thanks to George Cukor. James Mason is almost as good as Frederic March in the original. And by shifting away from movies to music, the film isn’t self-fascinated. And Judy Garland can sing. 

1955 Anonymous’s choice: Rebel Without a Cause. James Dean and Natalie Wood playing high schoolers. Teen angst in a booming America is utterly unconvincing, more emblematic than real. 

My choice: The Night of the Hunter. A strange, fascinating thriller, directed by Charles Laughton and written by James Agee, who died the year it was released. Robert Mitchum is riveting as an unhinged killer pursuing two children after he has murdered their mother. Lillian Gish is surprisingly strong.

To be continued . . .

There Was a Father

[I intended to publish this piece on Father's Day, but circumstances well within my control prevented me from doing so. However, since the subject of the piece is a posthumous novel, I may as well publish it like a back-dated check.]

In the first chapter of James Rufus Agee’s autobiographical novel A Death in the Family, a father and son, Jay and Rufus Follet, have gone out to the movies in North Knoxville, Tennessee. Rufus is 6 years old, and Agee dwells on him throughout the novel. The movie is silent (the year isn’t given, but 1915 is when Agee was 6), a Western with William S. Hart, and it’s preceded by a short film with Charlie Chaplin. Jay and Rufus walk home in the darkened town, stopping at a saloon where Jay drinks two whiskies. On the way back into the street, he hands Rufus a lifesaver and pops one in his own mouth to disguise the smell of the whisky from his wife. They stop at a favorite spot and sit down on a broad stone under a tree. Rufus looks at his father looking up at the leaves and the stars beyond, and Agee writes:

He felt that although his father loved their home and loved all of them, he was more lonely than the contentment of this family love could help; that it even increased his loneliness, or made it hard for him not to be lonely. He felt that sitting out here, he was not lonely; or if he was, that he felt on good terms with the loneliness; that he was a homesick man, and that here on the rock, though he might be more homesick than ever, he was well.

And in a later chapter, that isn’t a numbered chapter (the novel was posthumously assembled from Agee’s manuscripts) Rufus awakes in his crib and is afraid of the dark. He can hear the voices of his mother and father and aunt and uncle in the next room, and Rufus screams for his father, Jay. Jay comes into the dark room and shows him there’s nothing there in the dark that could hurt him. Then he sings little Rufus to sleep. 

He looked down. He was almost certain now that the child was asleep. So much more quietly that he could scarcely hear himself, and that the sound stole upon the child's near sleep like a band of shining angels, he went on: 

There's a good old sayin, as you all know,
That you can't track a rabbit when there ain't no snow
Sugar Babe.

Here again he waited, his hand listening against the child, for he was so fond of the last verse that he always hated to have to come to it and end it; but it came into his mind and became so desirable to sing that he could resist it no longer: 

Oh, tain't agoin to rain on, tain't agoin to snow: 

He felt a strange coldness on his spine, and saw the glistening as a great cedar moved and tears came into his eyes: 

But the sun's agoin to shine, and the wind's agoin to blow
Sugar Babe.

A great cedar, and the colors of limestone and of clay; the smell of wood smoke and, in the deep orange light of the lamp, the silent logs of the walls, his mother's face, her ridged hand mild on his forehead: Don't you fret, Jay, don't you fret. And before his time, before even he was dreamed of in this world, she must have lain under the hand of her mother or her father and they in their childhood under other hands, away on back through the mountains, away on back through the years, it took you right on back as far as you could ever imagine, right on back to Adam, only no one did it for him; or maybe did God?

How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. And what's it all for? All I tried to be, all I ever wanted and went away for, what's it all for?

Just one way, you do get back home. You have a boy or a girl of your own and now and then you remember, and you know how they feel, and it's almost the same as if you were your own self again, as young as you could remember.

And God knows he was lucky, so many ways, and God knows he was thankful. Everything was good and better than he could have hoped for, better than he ever deserved; only, whatever it was and however good it was, it wasn't what you once had been, and had lost, and could never have again, and once in a while, once in a long time, you remembered, and knew how far you were away, and it hit you hard enough, that little while it lasted, to break your heart.

How much of Agee’s own recollections went into his loving, sad, and magnificent final work (he had been working on it since 1948) we can only surmise. The simple fact that the death of his father at the age of six must have had an immeasurable impact on him, on every stage of his growth afterward, gives the figure of Jay, the father in his novel, a somewhat legendary status. For a 6-year-old boy, especially one as precocious and impressionable as Rufus, a father is something of a legend anyway. But the father’s stature, as the boy grew up without him, grew even larger. His novel is a noble memorial to a man Agee barely knew. According to an old friend of his from his college days (Dwight Macdonald), “The theme is the confrontation of love, which I take to be life carried to its highest possible reach, and death, as the negation of life and yet a necessary part of it”.

Happy Father’s Day

Charlie Brown's All Stars!

With everything being held in suspense this year while the world makes up its mind what it’s going to do with the pandemic (simply because waiting for a vaccine will take far too long to simply stay home and wait), baseball season is supposed to start over the 4th of July weekend, sans fans, in empty stadia, with only television cameras looking on. Exactly how it is going to be pulled off remains to be seen. But, as many observers insist, America’s Pastime can help Americans pass the time this summer, distracting them from the weary months of worry and boredom that have gone by and that are to come.

If you were to ask people to name the very first Peanuts TV special to air, most of them would correctly answer A Charlie Brown Christmas, which was first broadcast in December 1965. But if asked to name the second Peanuts special, most of them would wrongly identify it as It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, which first aired in October 1966. Both of these specials have become perennial favorites with American viewers, and have been aired continually since their premiers.

The second Charlie Brown special, which first aired 54 years ago today on June 8, 1966, was Charlie Brown’s All Stars! in which Charlie Brown is the manager of a neighborhood baseball team consisting of five boys, three girls and a dog who can’t throw (Snoopy). As the new baseball season begins, the players show up hoping that Charlie Brown doesn’t, blaming all of their defeats to every opposing team on him. But, as we are shown, the team’s misfortunes aren’t entirely the manager’s fault. They lose their first game 123 to 0 and all of the players threaten to quit the team. Charlie Brown, always wanting to be the hero and not the “goat,” has to find some way of getting the players to come and play. Linus tells Charlie Brown that the owner of the town hardware store, Mr. Hennessy, wants to provide his team with uniforms and get them into a baseball league. Charlie Brown tells his players the news and they agree to play in the next scheduled game.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hennessy phones Charlie Brown and tells him the league won’t accept a team with girls and a dog on it. Charlie Brown knows that his team will quit if he tells them the news, so he waits until after the game to tell them. They lose the game 2 to 1, because Charlie Brown tried to steal home and failed, and, lying on his back, he breaks the news to them: no uniforms and no league. Just as he predicted, everyone quits. Charlie Brown is the goat.

But Linus, always the conciliator, tells his teammates the real reason they didn’t get the uniforms and, together, they decide to make a uniform for Charlie Brown as a gesture of contrition. The trouble is – the only material available is Linus’s blue blanket. They even use Linus to fit the finished product, which has the words “Our Manager” on the front. When they present it to Charlie Brown he is touched, but then he quickly tells them to show up for tomorrow’s game. Luckily, for everyone – and especially Charlie Brown – the game is rained out.(1)

Peanuts is a peculiarly – gloriously – American creation. To understand why, all you need do is try to imagine what Charlie Brown’s All Stars would be like if the children were playing cricket. In his early novel Psmith in the City, P. G. Wodehouse devotes a chapter to a cricket match. Reading it, I hadn’t the vaguest notion of what was happening from one paragraph to the next. Wodehouse was engaging in, to an American reader, the arcane jargon of a beloved national sport that was untranslatable. All the chapter communicated to me was Wodehouse’s love of cricket, and that was all I needed to know.

Charles Schulz does the same for baseball in Charlie Brown’s All Stars, just as he would do for trick-or-treating the following October in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. He was relating to us his intense love of baseball and, metaphorically, of America. 

In his beautiful writings on sports, and baseball especially, the Anglo-American novelist Wilfrid Sheed gave us flashing glimpses into his heart – where baseball is a ritualized, venerated religion:

The good and the bad of sports are exquisitely balanced even at the best of times. Victory and defeat induce respectively a joy and despair way beyond the run of normal human experience. When a politician says he hates something viscerally – whether it's John Major on terrorism or Senator Windbag on flag-burning – one doubts his insides are much disturbed: as Dr. Johnson might say, he will eat his dinner tonight.

But a sports fan who has seen a sure victory slip away in the bottom of the ninth, or the work of a whole season obliterated by a referee's call in overtime, is disconsolate beyond the power of description, although Sophocles comes close. This author experienced such grief over the defeat of the Dodgers by the Cardinals in 1942 as an 11-year-old should not be asked to bear. An adult inflicting such pain on a child would be thrown in jail.

Yet I got over it, and was all the better for it, recovering sufficiently to root for the Cardinals over the hated Yankees in the World Series. This cycle of make-believe deaths and rebirths can actually be the healthiest thing about sports, or the most dangerous, depending on how you handle it. At its worst, it can cause riots and death, but at its best the pain of defeat is cleansing and instructive, a very good rehearsal for life.(2)

Schulz’s genius as a cartoonist was his ability to humorously dramatize the tiniest events of childhood and make us feel their impact on a child. But in the midst of their innocence, his children often reflect philosophically on their lives, contributing, of course, to the comic strip’s humor. The last we see of Charlie Brown is him standing on the pitcher’s mound in the driving rain while Linus holds the tails of his manager uniform to his face because it was made from his old blue blanket.

I miss baseball.


(1) Vince Guaraldi, whose music graced the Peanuts specials from the '60s into the' 70s, supplied Charlie Brown's All Stars with the beautiful song, "Rain, Rain, Go Away."
(2)  Wilfrid Sheed, "Why Sports Matter."

Intimate Lighting

It would be lovely if I could report that Ivan Passer, who died in January at the age of 86 (not, I gather, from Covid-19), was one of the rare exceptions, rather like his childhood friend Milos Forman, among foreign filmmakers who wound up in Hollywood and made films as good as his best work in his home country. This just isn’t the case. The list of accomplished or promising filmmakers who “escaped” to Hollywood and found work there but never managed to equal the films made in their native tongues is depressingly long. 

Passer has a place in what is looked back on as the “Czech film miracle” – a brief flowering of splendid films whose vitality has not faded in the intervening half-century. Similar creative stirrings had happened in other Iron Curtain countries in the ‘50s, especially in Poland. But filmmakers in Czechoslovakia (as it was called until December 31, 1992) were the beneficiaries of shifting political forces, what was known as a “thaw,” a loosening of strict censorship in respect to subject matter and its presentation. Such loosening came to an abrupt end in 1968 when the Russian Army entered the country from nearby East Germany. Some intellectuals, writers, artists, and ordinary freedom-loving Czechs managed to escape. Forman and Passer were among them. Others, like Jiri Menzel and Jaromil Jires, stayed. 

But it’s 1965. Passer helped Forman with the scripts for his second and third films and directed one short film, A Boring Afternoon, and one feature, Intimate Lighting. It is as fresh and alive as it was when it entered the world 55 years ago. Bohumil Hrabal (whose novels and stories formed the basis of several Czech films, including Jiri Menzel’s Closely Watched Trains) co-wrote the script of A Boring Afternoon, which was “about all the things that happen when, ostensibly, nothing is happening.”

Intimate Lighting was exported to appreciative audiences in Europe and the U.S. before being banned for twenty years for after the Russian crackdown in late 1968. It’s finer than any of Forman’s films because Passer invests its lightness with touches of whimsical beauty. Without ceremony, we enter the world of a provincial semi-professional orchestra. Karel plays violin with other musicians in an amateur ensemble (his nickname from school days is Bambas). An old friend, Petr, plays cello in a professional orchestra in Prague and comes to Karel’s town to perform with them in a concert. He brings along his cute young girlfriend, Štěpa (played by Milos Forman’s wife Věra Křesadlová). Karel has a plump wife, Marie, and three small children. His father and mother live with him a house erected brick by brick in the middle of billowing wheat fields. Petr looks at his friend’s domesticity without envy. It’s Štěpa who seems lost – the hardworking village women look at her with curiosity. All of the young people have absconded to the cities. 

Everyone in the film presents to us their ripened humanity: the grandfather who brags of amorous conquests, his wife - the woman he kidnapped and carried off to the circus, where she performed stunts on horseback (she shows one to an amazed Štěpa), Marie, happily absorbed in motherhood, a charming old pharmacist with smiling eyes, and even a village idiot who asks Štěpa to go for a walk with him. 

Praising Christopher Isherwood’s novel, A Single Man, Anthony Burgess wrote: “To make us fascinated with the everyday non-events of an ordinary life was Joyce's great achievement. But here there are no Joycean tricks to exalt mock-epically the banal.”(1) The style of the film is so naturalistic that it almost makes one overlook what is happening, the moment to moment incidents that make up the beauty of the film’s utterly plotless unfolding, until we find that it’s we who have unfolded, not the people we meet and whose lives we follow for the duration (69 minutes!) of the film. Passer loved his subject so much that he went to the trouble of presenting it to us in all its unadorned verity.

(1) 99 Novels: The Best in English Since 1939 - A Personal Choice by Anthony Burgess (1984).

Dies the Swan

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.

Tennyson, "Tithonous"


Reading fiction – good fiction - often brings up subjects that have topical reference to one’s day to day life. I was in the middle of reading Christopher Isherwood’s novel A Single Man when the riots began in Minneapolis four days ago. I came across the following passage, which has considerable relevance to the present situation.  

A Single Man centers on a day in the life – a Friday - of George Falconer in December 1962. George resembles Isherwood in too many ways for it to be unintentional: he is an Englishman in his late 50s who has lived in California since the war. He teaches English at a small state university. And he is gay, though, unlike Isherwood, he does what he can to conceal it from his neighbours and colleagues.  

George wakes and eventually makes his way down the freeway to the college. He arrives at a classroom where his students are to be quizzed on the subject of Aldous Huxley’s novel After Many a Summer. After a general discussion, George gets to the question, “What is the novel about?” 

And  now  comes  a  question  George  has  been  expecting.  It  is  asked,  of  course,  by  Myron Hirsch,  that  indefatigable  heckler  of  the  goyim.  "Sir,  here  on  page  seventy-nine,  Mr. Propter  says  the  stupidest  text  in  the  Bible  is  'they  hated  me  without  a  cause.'  Does  he mean  by  that  the  Nazis  were  right  to  hate  the  Jews?  Is  Huxley  anti-Semitic?"  

George  draws  a  long  breath.  "No,"  he  answers  mildly. And  then,  after  a  pause  of  expectant  silence—the  class  is  rather  thrilled  by  Myron's bluntness—he  repeats,  loudly  and  severely,  "No—Mr.  Huxley  is  not  anti-Semitic.  The Nazis  were  not  right  to  hate  the  Jews.  But  their  hating  the  Jews  was  not  without  a  cause. No  one  ever  hates  without  a  cause....  

"Look—let's  leave  the  Jews  out  of  this,  shall  we?  Whatever  attitude  you  take,  it's impossible  to  discuss  Jews  objectively  nowadays.  It  probably  won't  be  possible  for  the next  twenty  years.  So  let's  think  about  this  in  terms  of  some  other  minority,  any  one  you like,  but  a  small  one—one  that  isn't  organized  and  doesn't  have  any  committees  to  defend it..  .  ."  

George  looks  at  Wally  Bryant  with  a  deep  shining  look  that  says,  I  am  with  you,  little minority-sister.  Wally  is  plump  and  sallow-faced,  and  the  care  he  takes  to  comb  his  wavy hair  and  keep  his  nails  filed  and  polished  and  his  eyebrows  discreetly  plucked  only  makes him  that  much  less  appetizing.  Obviously  he  has  understood  George's  look.  He  is embarrassed.  Never  mind!  George  is  going  to  teach  him  a  lesson  now  that  he'll  never forget.  Is  going  to  turn  Wally's  eyes  into  his  timid  soul.  Is  going  to  give  him  courage  to throw  away  his  nail  file  and  face  the  truth  of  his  life....
 
"Now,  for  example,  people  with  freckles  aren't  thought  of  as  a  minority  by  the  nonfreckled.  They  aren't  a  minority  in  the  sense  we're  talking  about.  And  why  aren't  they? Because  a  minority  is  only  thought  of  as  a  minority  when  it  constitutes  some  kind  of  a threat  to  the  majority,  real  or  imaginary.  And  no  threat  is  ever  quite  imaginary.  Anyone here  disagree  with  that?  If  you  do,  just  ask  yourself,  What  would  this  particular  minority do  if  it  suddenly  became  the  majority  overnight?  You  see  what  I  mean?  Well,  if  you don't—think  it  over! 
 
"All  right.  Now  along  come  the  liberals—including  everybody  in  this  room,  I  trust—and they  say,  'Minorities  are  just  people,  like  us.'  Sure,  minorities  are  people—people,  not angels.  Sure,  they're  like  us—but  not  exactly  like  us;  that's  the  all-too-familiar  state  of liberal  hysteria  in  which  you  begin  to  kid  yourself  you  honestly  cannot  see  any  difference between  a  Negro  and  a  Swede.  .  .  ."  (Why,  oh  why  daren't  George  say  "between  Estelle Oxford  and  Buddy  Sorensen"?  Maybe,  if  he  did  dare,  there  would  be  a  great  atomic  blast of  laughter,  and  everybody  would  embrace,  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven  would  begin, right  here  in  classroom.  But  then  again,  maybe  it  wouldn't.) 
 
"So,  let's  face  it,  minorities  are  people  who  probably  look  and  act  and  think  differently from  us  and  have  faults  we  don't  have.  We  may  dislike  the  way  they  look  and  act,  and  we may hate  their  faults.  And  it's  better  if  we  admit  to  disliking  and  hating  them  than  if  we try  to  smear  our  feelings  over  with  pseudo-liberal  sentimentality.  If  we're  frank  about  our feelings,  we  have  a  safety  valve;  and  if  we  have  a  safety  valve,  we're  actually  less  likely to  start  persecuting.  I  know  that  theory  is  unfashionable  nowadays.  We  all  keep  trying  to believe  that  if  we  ignore  something  long  enough  it'll  just  vanish.... 
 
"Where  was  I?  Oh  yes.  Well,  now,  suppose  this  minority  does  get  persecuted,  never mind  why—political,  economic,  psychological  reasons.  There  always  is  a  reason,  no matter  how  wrong  it  is—that's  my  point.  And,  of  course,  persecution  itself  is  always wrong;  I'm  sure  we  all  agree  there.  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  we  now  run  into  another  liberal heresy.  Because  the  persecuting  majority  is  vile,  says  the  liberal,  therefore  the  persecuted minority  must  be  stainlessly  pure.  Can't  you  see  what  nonsense  that  is?  What's  to  prevent the  bad  from  being  persecuted  by  the  worse?  Did  all  the  Christian  victims  in  the  arena have  to  be  saints? 
 
"And  I'll  tell  you  something  else.  A  minority  has  its  own  kind  of  aggression.  It  absolutely dares  the  majority  to  attack  it.  It  hates  the  majority—not  without  a  cause,  I  grant  you.  It even  hates  the  other  minorities,  because  all  minorities  are  in  competition:  each  one proclaims  that  its  sufferings  are  the  worst  and  its  wrongs  are  the  blackest.  And  the  more they  all  hate,  and  the  more  they're  all  persecuted,  the  nastier  they  become!  Do  you  think  it makes  people  nasty  to  be  loved?  You  know  it  doesn't!  Then  why  should  it  make  them nice  to  be  loathed?  While  you're  being  persecuted,  you  hate  what's  happening  to  You, you  hate  the  people  who  are  making  it  happen;  you're  in  a  world  of  hate.  Why,  you wouldn't  recognize  love  if  you  met  it!  You'd  suspect  love!  You'd  think  there  was something  behind  it—some  motive—some  trick…"

Death and the Artist

Growing up in the 1960s, I went to the movies on weekends. My father, who had been a serious and successful poker player in his youth, still managed to satisfy his gambling itch by playing bingo every Sunday after church. He would drop my brother and I off at a movie theater and go to the NCO Club on Fort Jackson, South Carolina and play bingo all afternoon. 

One Sunday afternoon I saw a movie called The Art of Love.(1) I don’t know why, but the movie, which wasn’t very good, has stuck with me all these years later so that I remember one of its stars, Dick Van Dyke, and its plot, that involved an artist (a painter) in a scheme with his friend, James Garner, in which he faked his own death. The publicity from his death somehow convinces people that he was a great artist and the value of his paintings increases significantly. 

Unfortunately, the artist’s friend gets greedy and demands that he produce more paintings, even though he’s supposed to be dead. Eventually, the scheme is exposed and the artist announces to the world that he’s been alive all the while, etc.

The movie’s plot device is the curious notion that a dead artist’s work is more valuable than a living artist’s, especially if the artist dies tragically, still in his prime. If the artist commits suicide, so much the better. I was reminded of all this when I saw a clip recently from a Dr. Who episode that was aired in 2010. In the episode, Dr. Who brings Vincent van Gogh back to life and transports him to the present. He takes him, rather cruelly I thought, to an art gallery where his paintings are proudly hung beside those of the great masters, like Monet, Renoir and Degas. The brief clip then shows Vincent getting very emotional seeing his paintings being admired by everyone. But his reaction wasn’t the one I expected. Instead of becoming upset that all the effusive admiration being shown to his work has come too late, that he only sold one painting when he was alive and that he was treated for depression and he eventually committed suicide, he goes around the gallery tearfully thanking everyone, shedding tears of joy. Not exactly how the real Van Gogh would’ve reacted. Wouldn’t he have been justified in being extremely resentful – not just about the popularity of his work and how everyone seems to be familiar with his sad life story, but about the ridiculous value being placed on his paintings, how every so many months a new record is broken at an auction somewhere of one of his paintings going for tens of millions of dollars? 

By now everyone should be familiar with the story of Yasuo Goto, a Japanese insurance magnate who, In 1987, bought Van Gogh's painting “Vase with Fifteen Sunflowers" (1888) for $39 million. It was then the highest sum paid for a work of art. On his death in 2007, Goto left instructions in his will that the canvas would be cremated along with his body. I suppose we should be thankful that whomever saved it from the flames probably did so not because of its beauty but because of its obvious resale value?

Worse than this are the occasional art thefts that take place in which thieves break into art galleries and strategically steal certain particularly valuable paintings that thereafter vanish from public view for a number of years or for generations until they turn up again in sometimes unlikely places. Where do the paintings that are stolen go? It’s hard not to imagine them hanging in a secret location, probably in a hidden room in a wealthy person’s palatial home. Perhaps they hang on a wall opposite this rich person’s private toilet where he or she sits alone and basks not only in the beauty of the artist’s work but in their own extravagant and obscene wealth. 

But what I also couldn’t quite understand from the Dr. Who clip was how moved the show’s fans were by Van Gogh’s utterly unconvincing emotional response in the modern art gallery at the display of his canvases – canvases that were preserved by Van Gogh’s loving brother Theo after Vincent committed suicide. My reaction to the scene was “where were they when he needed them?” Where were all those erstwhile art lovers when Vincent needed them in 1890 when he died, alone and forgotten at the age of 37? When Barbara Walters told Robert Redford after The Way We Were was released that he could have any woman he wanted, he said "Where were they when I needed them?"

Recently, I also chanced upon a passage from Woody Allen’s memoir, Apropos of Nothing that addresses this problem – the problem of the survival of the artist and, separately, of the artist’s work:

The illusion you’re doing something to help yourself helps you. You somehow feel a little better, a little less despondent. You pin your hopes on a Godot who never comes, but the thought he might show up with answers helps you get through the enveloping nightmare. Like religion, where the illusion gets one through. And being in the arts, I envy those people who derive solace from the belief that your doing something to help yourself helps others. The work created will live on and be much discussed and somehow, like the Catholic with his afterlife, so the artist’s “legacy” will make him immortal. The catch here is that all the people discussing the legacy and how great the artist’s work is are alive and are ordering pastrami, and the artist is somewhere in an urn or underground in Queens. All the people standing over Shakespeare’s grave and singing his praises means a big goose egg to the Bard, and a day will come—a far-off day, but be sure it definitely is coming—when all Shakespeare’s plays, for all their brilliant plots and hoity-toity iambic pentameter, and every dot of Seurat’s will be gone along with each atom in the universe. In fact, the universe will be gone and there will be no place to have your hat blocked. After all, we are an accident of physics. And an awkward accident at that. Not the product of intelligent design but, if anything, the work of a crass bungler.

(1) The Art of Love, released in 1965, starring Dick Van Dyke, James Garner, Elke Sommer and Angie Dickinson. The script was written by Carl Reiner, from a story by Richard Alan Simmons and William Sackheim. Interestingly, Norman Jewison later commented that the movie flopped because audiences weren’t convinced that an artist's death guarantees a huge increase in the sales value of his paintings.

Enchanted Hunters*

It is once again my birthday – my thirteenth on this blog, my sixty-second on this earth. This day is also significant to the Social Security Administration, since I chose the option to retire at 62, instead of waiting until January 2025, my “full retirement” age. Since the amount of money I am allotted is based on my projected life-expectancy, and that it will – presumably – not change whether I retire today or when I’m 66 years and 8 months old, what the hell am I waiting for? Especially since decisive power in the U.S. government is in the hands of Republicans who clearly would like nothing better than to dismantle every social welfare program, including social security, on their long hard road to an America in which only the strong, young and white survive. My retirement benefits might no longer be available in January 2025.

What better way to mark this occasion than by recording a few of my random thoughts on a great English-language novel I finished just last night? The novel happens to be Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. In order to fully enjoy the novel, however, you will have to avoid the many truckloads of horseshit that it has inspired in lieu of “criticism.” It is a love story that is both harrowing and heartbreaking.

The novel is narrated by a man assuming the name Humbert Humbert and it proves, as if it needed to be proved, that a person madly in love is perhaps the most unreliable of narrators. Not even halfway through the novel most of its action has already taken place. Then Humbert and his step-daughter Dolores, known to him rapturously as Lolita, embark on a mad cross-country journey all the way around America, from Ramsdale, a small New England town, southward to the Gulf of Mexico, then all the way across mountains and deserts to California beaches. And after a pause in which Humbert hires a tennis coach for Lolita and considers slipping into Mexico, they travel up the coast, turn east and drive all the way back to a town close to Ramsdale called Beardsley where Humbert enrolls her in an exclusive girls school. All along the way, Nabokov gives the reader a vivid portrait of what V. S. Pritchett called “the highway and motel civilization of the United States.”

As bad as Humbert is, if you cannot bring yourself to forgive him you are committing a crime worse than he did. Near the end of the book he presents to us what he assesses is the magnitude of his crime, which was to deprive Dolores, by then 17 and pregnant with Richard Schiller’s baby, of her childhood. In the last chapter of the book, after he has given Clare Quilty the only send-off he deserved, and got himself in a car chase, driving slowly down the wrong side of the road and been captured, he offers the reader one more impression:

One day, soon after her disappearance, an attack of abominable nausea forced me to pull up on the ghost of an old mountain road that now accompanied, now traversed a brand new highway, with its population of asters bathing in the detached warmth of a pale-blue afternoon in late summer. After coughing myself inside out, I rested a while on a boulder, and then, thinking the sweet air might do me good, walked a little way toward a low stone parapet on the precipice side of the highway. Small grasshoppers spurted out of the withered roadside weeds. A very light cloud was opening its arms and moving toward a slightly more substantial one belonging to another, more sluggish, heavenlogged system. As I approached the friendly abyss, I grew aware of a melodious unity of sounds rising like vapor from a small mining town that lay at my feet, in a fold of the valley. One could make out the geometry of the streets between blocks of red and gray roofs, and green puffs of trees, and a serpentine stream, and the rich, ore-like glitter of the city dump, and beyond the town, roads crisscrossing the crazy quilt of dark and pale fields, and behind it all, great timbered mountains. But even brighter than those quietly rejoicing colors – for there are colors and shades that seem to enjoy themselves in good company – both brighter and dreamier to the ear than they were to the eye, was that vapory vibration of accumulated sounds that never ceased for a moment, as it rose to the lip of granite where I stood wiping my foul mouth. And soon I realized that all these sounds were of one nature, that no other sounds but these came from the streets of the transparent town, with the women at home and the men away. Reader! What I heard was but the melody of children at play, nothing but that, and so limpid was the air that within this vapor of blended voices, majestic and minute, remote and magically near, frank and divinely enigmatic – one could hear now and then, as if released, an almost articulate spurt of vivid laughter, or the crack of a bat, or the clatter of a toy wagon, but it was all really too far for the eye to distinguish any movement in the lightly etched streets. I stood listening to that musical vibration from my lofty slope, to those flashes of separate cries with a kind of demure murmur for background, and then I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that concord.

But there is a coincidence in the novel that delighted me. Humbert last sees Lolita living in a tenement in Coalmont with her husband, a decent young yokel named Richard (“Dick”) Schiller:

… there she was (my Lolita!), hopelessly worn at seventeen, with that baby, dreaming already in her of becoming a big shot and retiring around 2020 A.D.

Just as I am retiring today. But the coincidence is, alas, too neat to stand up to scrutiny. In the last paragraph of the novel Humbert expresses his wish that Lolita enjoys a long life and that her child is a boy. As a prologue to Humbert’s story, a psycho-pathologist by the name of John Ray, Jr. matter-of-factly informs the reader that Humbert “died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start”, and that “Mrs. ‘Richard F. Schiller’ died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest.”

So, it turned out, Humbert’s Lolita died only one week before her 18th birthday.


* The Enchanted Hunters was the name of the hotel where Nabokov staged Humbert and Lolita's first tryst.