Take One (Jul 1978)

UPFRONT that was installed at UCLA’s College of Engineering in 1947. The venerable ‘‘differential analyzer’’ introduced much of southern California to automatic computing, and, it wasn’t long before it was discovered by Hollywood as a convenient source for space-age gadgetry to lend credibility to sci-fi epics. But with the development of more sophisticated computers, the machine fell into disuse until, finally, the engineers decided they needed the space for other things. A Los Angeles junk dealer offered $100 for the old veteran (original cost: $125,000), but Daniel McCracken offered $318, then turned the. machine over to the Smithsonian Institution, who will be adding it to their collection of pioneer computers. BEI RRS Greenfield writes back I’m not too sure how to react to Robert MacLeod’s letter about my John Ford article; chacun @ son goat, | suppose, but it seems to me a calculated dislike on MacLeod’s part. Attacking Ford for what just happens to be the most famous part of his output, the westerns, is a shade cute; I was surprised that, in his put-down of Hitchcock in the same letter, MacLeod didn’t mention that although the thrillers are lousy, Waltzes from Vienna and Mr. and Mrs. Smith aren’t too bad. But I’m not in the. least confused as to how to react to the other letter in the March issue. The vulgar abuse of Terrance Fowler was cretinous. First of all, my article wasn’t a diatribe; I think my strong admiration of Ford is clever, even if I also object to the idolatry that was. for a very long time, the norm Ford criticism in' English. Tnen again, my remarks on Cheyenne Autumn were brief and not an aesthetic justification of the entire film. I didn’t bring up Sergeant Rutledge because I’ve never seen it. It’s Fowler’s central section that leaves my jaw agape. ‘‘Objections to a film because of inauthenticity (Clementine), nationality (Va//ey) and implicit philosophy are ludicrous,’’ says Fowler. Oh, yeah? To begin with, I didn’t object to the fact that My Darling Clementine is almost wholly fictitious; I specifically said I didn’t, as Fowler ought to know if he’s actually read the piece. I objected only to Ford’s claims of accuracy; I enjoyed the film fer se. Similarly, I didn’t dislike How Green Was My Valley simply because it wasan American film. I disliked it because it was boring, sentimental and phoney, in that order. It might have been possible to make a convincing portrait of Welsh life in a Hollywood studio in 1941, or, if not convincing, then entertaining enough for inaccuracy not to matter much. Ford didn’t do this, in my opinion. ‘Implicit philosophy’’ is something else again. There’s no easy answer to this; I don’t see why I should have to believe propaganda for causes that I don’t believe in just because John Ford or anyone else tells me to. On the other hand, the power of art often involves the suspension of disbelief, and I find that my normal intense dislike of things militaristic doesn’t impede in the slightest my enjoyment of an ode to the Cavalry. such as The Horse Soldiers. Would Terrance Fowler fail to be repelled by a propaganda film put out by the Nazis? ‘Is Mr. Greenfield saying that film should be totally nationalistic,’’—no, I’m not; in fact, I’m not even sure what that means—‘‘imbued with forwardreaching goals and lofty ideals,’’ —allowing for the schoolboy sarcasm and loaded language, I don’t think forward-looking goals and lofty ideals are at all bad every now and then; they would make a nice change, these days—‘‘and with actors who are cast according to nationality?’’ It all depends, Fowler; I wouldn’t regard, say, John Wayne as ideal casting for the lead in a film about Mao TseTung, and, on the whole, I think a Chinese actor might fit the bill better. In other words, stop making untrue generalizations about what I’ve written, cut the cheap cracks and try improving your English. Then I might be inclined to listen to your criticisms with a bit of respect. Maybe. Pierre Greenfield A fair shake It was a refreshing change to see a non-major film like The Werewolf of Washington teviewed in your November 1977 issue. I happened to see the film on Home Box Office (a cable service that shows movies uncut and without interruption). Independent films don’t get a fair shake and can be more entertaining than overpublicized productions. (Look at the ill-fated Lost Horizon). Possibly, in the future, you might consider these films which I think (as an amateur reviewer) should get more exposure. Psychic Killer, Black Christmas, Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, Phantasm, The Offence, Negatives, and Closely Watched Trains. Karl Kaefer Bradford, Pa. Nobody’s perfect I’m disheartened at two immediate errors in reviews contained in your March issue: In giving background on Blue Collar, James Monaco says that ‘‘only one of (Paul Schrader’s) four previous films has had any success at the box office.’’ Which would Mr. Monaco have us ignore: Taxi Driver or Obsession (foreign title ‘‘Déja Vu’’), both of which, according to Columbia Pictures, have amassed enormous profits? Further, someone ought to tell Jack Noble that Harold Prince made his screen directorial debut not with A Little Night Music but with the quirky Something For Everyone. Nat Segaloff Cambridge, Massachusetts Vomit or tears For what little it is worth, George Morris can be credited for perceiving John Waters’ actual mentor figure as Russ Meyer rather than Andy Warhol. (Personally, I have always suspected Waters of being heterosexual.) Waters shares with Meyer a relative formal and technical finesse and the pigsty vulgarity of a twelve-year-old. Like Supervixens, Desperate Living possesses a relish for disgust and physical torture. If degeneracy exists then it is to be located in a sensibility that can take pleasure in the sight of a gouged eyeball being stamped under foot. This is quite distinct from Warhol’s original gambit: if I stare at these grotesques long enough then I will see something beautiful. Even now, Desperate Living \acks the com pensating verbal wit and lingering sense of horror of Andy Warhol's Bad, a similar, even derivative Factory film. In Kenneth Anger’s Ho/lywood Babylon there is a photograph of the dead Marie Prevost, her corpse having been gnawed on by her starving pet dachshund. An arrow points to her blood-spattered legs and a caption reads, ‘‘Doggie’s dinner.’’ That is what John Waters reduces human beings to, doggie’s dinner. The only adequate response to such an outlook is physiological. We can answer with vomit, or tears. If George Morris finds this filth ‘‘moral,’’ well, he is free to relish it. John Azzopardi New York City Vox populi I know I am not the only one who is sickened by the influence and importance of the Academy Awards, but when I look at the peoples’ acceptance of their absurd results, I realize 1 am one among few. Kevin Ghaffari White Plains, New York Once a smartass,... Bruce Kawin’s review of The Fury (May) is one of the most hilariously inept reviews of any film I’ve ever read. I couldn’t stop laughing! His comparisons truly boggle the mind (that DePalma’s awful film falls ‘‘somewhere between the physical luminosity of Barry Lyndon and the spiritual clarity of Vampyr’’ is only the first of many such comparisons to pfovoke outbursts of guffaws on my part, once, that is, I had overcome a slight sense of outrage), and all this talk about DePalma discovering a personal style is simply nonsense. DePalma’s ‘‘style’’ can be summed up in two words: home movie. Big budget home movie, mind, with name stars brutally wasted (contrary to Mr. Kawin’s assertion, Kirk Douglas has seldom been so lamely manipulated, continued on page 53 5