Archives for 2003

How ironic that Hugh Kenner’s obituaries should be appearing on the same day that I published a piece
about Warner Bros. cartoons that made mention of his elegant little monograph
about Chuck Jones, creator of the Road Runner. He was a distinguished critic and a great gentleman, and will be greatly missed.

Christopher Lehmann-Haupt’s New York Times obituary, incidentally, ends with the following paragraph:

Nor, surprisingly, did he deplore the decline of print as our main medium. “We forget that most of what people read when everybody read all the time was junk — competent junk,” he told U.S. News & World Report. “Now they get it from television. The casual entertainment people get in the evening from the box was what they used to get from the short fiction in The Saturday Evening Post. That magazine and others like it were the situation comedies and cop shows of their era. It is not a cultural loss that this particular use of literacy has been transferred from one medium to another.”

A very smart man.

One of the most interesting aspects of Jane Austen’s novels is that she always makes sure you know how much money the characters have–only how much is it, really? I recently caught up with a posting on the Web site of an economist that poses, and answers, this question in one celebrated case:

So how rich is Fitzwilliam Darcy, anyway? What does ten thousand (pounds) a year in the aftermath of the Napoleonic War mean, really?

I have two answers, the first of which is $300,000 a year, and the second of which is $6,000,000 a year….

Read the whole thing here.

While I’m at it, kindly allow me to plug one of my favorite Web sites, Inflation Calculator, an on-line form which (in the words of its inventor) “adjusts any given amount of money for inflation, according to the Consumer Price Index, from 1800 to 2002.” That may sound dry as dust, but spend just 30 seconds playing with Inflation Calculator and I bet you’ll have it bookmarked in 35. I used it frequently in writing The Skeptic: A Life of H.L. Mencken, and I commend it wholeheartedly to any writer–novelist, journalist, whatever–who ever has occasion to compare what things cost in 1865, or 1925, or five years ago, to what they cost now.

I’m such a hopeless hedgehog. Probably half my blogging on About Last Night has been about Henry James or Lost in Translation, and I’ve been trying to give these topics a rest. But there’s too much interesting stuff about James floating around the internet lately to pass up.

Aaron Haspel over at God of the Machine has a brilliant little piece–provoked by what Terry and I wrote here and here–on why Henry James continues to be so popular in the books-into-movies game:

James only seems literary because, especially in the late novels, he is constantly trying to catch the precise attitudes of his characters toward each other, reflected not just in their conversation but their gestures and thoughts and tiny inflections.

Having given a sample passage from The Awkward Age, he goes on:

The passage is lovely in its way, but James is attempting something to which what James Baldwin called the “disastrously explicit” medium of prose is completely ill-suited. Half of it is stage directions, and it could be done better, and more compactly, with movie actors who can follow such directions-which admittedly is asking a lot. James tried, unsuccessfully, to write plays, but the stage, where the actors have to project to the back row, is still too histrionic for what he has in mind. What he needed was the talkies. If James had been born a century later I’m guessing he would have done most of his writing for film, and maybe tossed off a few novels in his spare time.

This sounds right, and after reading it I was struck with sudden insight into my love of Lost in Translation: Sofia Coppola’s movie is a really very Jamesian pleasure. It does in visual language what James, in Aaron’s account, bumped up against the limits of prose trying to do in his novels.

Aaron’s account of James’s modus operandi sheds real light on the success of Lost, which is clinched in the final scene. That scene is just saturated with feeling, and despite all its layers–joy, grief, hope, irony, loss–it manages not to be crushing, but somehow aloft. It is a rich, extraordinary moment. But it is made possible by the accumulated emotional content of many ordinary scenes that preceded it, in which nothing seemed to happen (golfing, flower-arranging, a great deal of staring out of windows).

Doesn’t this start to sound like the classic complaint about James? Nothing happens–and it takes pages and pages not to happen. But I think he was up to something very much like Coppola is. He tried to capture in detail the psychic weather in which his characters acted. He did so by making the reader familiar with even their most fleeting, fugitive sensations and associations–to the extreme fatigue of many readers, but not mine. In the later novels, if you pay your dues, and follow the tortured syntax and absorb all of the complex relations, then you stand to be rewarded at the end, when a simple gesture, look, or word–loaded with meaning beforehand–makes everything fall apart or come together. It can blow you right over.

I’m as surprised as anyone to find myself comparing Henry James to Sofia Coppola, but I’m convinced that the movie is Jamesian in both narrative strategy and temperament. Furthermore, I would love to see Coppola try her hand at writing and filming an adaptation of one of the more recalcitrant James works, like What Maisie Knew or “In the Cage” (which has made me cry). Both of these highly interiorized works consist almost entirely of those “gestures and thoughts and tiny inflections” that Aaron pinpointed, and yet both have tremendous dramatic capacity. So how about it, Sofia?

In all the welter of blogosphere postings about the Stephen King-Shirley Hazzard dustup at the National Book Awards ceremony, insufficient attention has been paid to Carlos Eire, who won the nonfiction award for Waiting for Snow in Havana (I was one of the judges). Now the New York Times has rectified that–somewhat–by publishing an excellent interview with Eire:

For most of his adult life Carlos Eire had tried to run away from Cuba. The island was his only briefly, for 11 years, before the Cuban revolution ushered in a world of heartache in which he was separated from his parents and spent years of hardship in the United States.

“I still think it’s an evil place, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it,” said Mr. Eire, the new winner of the National Book Award for nonfiction for “Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy” (Free Press/Simon & Schuster). “The best thing I could do was to think that it was an accident I was born there.”

Read the whole thing here.

Last week, I got a call from a record-company publicist who asked if I’d be willing to do an “EPK” with a well-known musician–I’ll call her Jane Doe. “Duh, what’s an EPK?” I replied, and was informed that it stands for “electronic press kit,” the canned celebrity interviews that are made available to TV and radio producers in lieu of face-to-face personal appearances. The actual interviewer–that is, the person asking the questions–is carefully scissored out of the videotape, leaving only the talking head of the celebrity in question.

I’m a journalist, not a publicist, and I normally wouldn’t have thought twice about saying no, but Jane happens to be an old friend of mine (we met before she became successful). Since she spends most of her time on the road, we rarely get to see one another, so I agreed to be the mystery interviewer, and the record company promptly messengered over a top-secret “white-label” advance copy of Jane’s new CD, which will be released next spring.

I put the album on, and was staggered. I knew it would be a major stylistic departure for Jane–I’d talked to her longtime producer about it a few months ago–but even so, I wasn’t fully prepared for how self-revealing, even confessional, her music had become. As I listened and marveled (for the album is extraordinarily beautiful), I thought to myself, How on earth am I going to talk to Jane about this in front of a TV camera?

The record company sent a big black car to pick me up Sunday morning, and the driver whisked me to the discreet front door of a boutique hotel on a midtown side street. I made my way to a chic sardine can of a room into which had been stuffed an entire video crew. A few minutes later, Jane arrived, trailed by her assistant and her stylist. (Don’t laugh–famous women musicians never step in front of cameras without first being fussed over by a stylist.) We hadn’t seen one another for two years, but no sooner did she walk through the door than we were hugging and chattering, just as if she were fresh off the bus, hoping to make it in the big city. I told her I’d become a drama critic, and she giggled and said, “Not like Addison DeWitt, I hope!” (Jane has seen All About Eve more times than any straight person I know.) Once her makeup was in place, we sat down in a pair of high chairs, and after what seemed like a half-hour’s worth of tinkering with the lights, the cameraman rolled the tape.

Like many performers, Jane is shy, which sometimes causes her to seem standoffish. In addition, she’s learned from hard experience to be on her guard when talking to journalists. For her to speak frankly about so personal a work of art would thus have been difficult under the best of circumstances. Yet there we were, brightly lit and surrounded by a tight knot of technicians and handlers, and for a brief moment my heart sank. Then I screwed up my courage and asked a question, and within a matter of minutes we might just as well have been sitting together in an empty room, swapping stories and passing a bottle. We talked about the record, the experiences that inspired her to make it, and everything else that came into our heads. She came close to getting choked up at one point, and my own eyes filled with tears in response.

The cameraman signaled for us to take a break so that he could change reels. “Omigod, was that too much?” Jane asked. “I feel weak in the knees after talking about all that stuff. I’ve never really talked about it like that. Was I rambling? Did I sound dumb?” She ran to the bathroom to fix her face, and I let out a sigh. As a Kingsley Amis character once put it, I felt as if I’d just sat through a complete performance of La Traviata compressed into one and a half minutes. (It took a little longer than that, but you know what I mean.) Jane returned, the cameraman rolled the tape again, and we wrapped up the interview. More chatter, more hugs, then I descended to my waiting car and we went our separate ways.

As I headed home, I recalled a passage from one of my favorite books, Andr

“Gentlemen, do you want to know the secret of living? Have deep principles and then improvise.”

Leopold Stokowski, quoted in Oliver Daniel,
Stokowski: A Counterpoint of View

A reader writes, apropos (I think) of my Wall Street Journal piece on The Producers:

My $85.00 evening at the Ahmanson, Los Angeles, was very enjoyable. I laughed, giggled, and smiled. I am so glad that in my many years of theatregoing I have never read a review prior to seeing the production.

Amen to that! I think reviews should be read after the performance, not before, mine included. And even then, don’t let critics tell you what to think. I’ve known too many critics to take their opinions too seriously. A critic’s point of view is just that–a point of view. The theory, of course, is that he knows more than you and thus can enhance your enjoyment of the art object under consideration, but it ain’t necessarily so. Here’s an almanac encore, from C.S. Lewis’ An Experiment in Criticism, a book I passionately commend to your attention: “If we have to choose, it is always better to read Chaucer again than to read a new criticism of him.”

Having said that, though, I must add that a goodly number of the people who wrote to me about my comments on The Producers, possibly including my present correspondent, have somehow gotten the mistaken impression that I didn’t think the show was funny. When readers misunderstand me, I usually take it for granted that I failed to make myself clear, but in this case I don’t think I’m to blame. I said The Producers was out of date, not unfunny, and I described it as “nothing more (or less) than a virtuoso reminiscence of the lapel-grabbing, kill-for-a-laugh shtickery on which so much of the stand-up comedy of my youth was based.” Does that really sound like I didn’t think it was funny?

I sometimes wonder whether the professional deformation of bloggers is the sort of black-or-white opinionizing that leaves no room for carefully shaded qualifications. Around here, OGIC and I do our best to say exactly what we mean, at least at the moment we’re saying it.

Next Wednesday afternoon, documentary filmmaker Errol Morris will speak about his work at the University of Chicago, an event that is free and open to the public. Details are here. Later that night, the university’s Doc Films will present a special screening of Morris’s new film The Fog of War, which comes highly recommended. As far as I can tell, tickets to the screening will be available following the lecture and can’t be ordered ahead of time. No ticket price is mentioned; sounds free to me.

I’m skipping town tomorrow, but the aforementioned Doc Films has a full plate of good stuff for the Chicago-bound this turkey week: there’s Satyajit Ray’s The Branches of the Tree Tuesday, Peckinpah’s Wild Bunch Wednesday, a Hitchcock/Bu