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2007: ... And Now It's Gone, Too
Bergman's gone. Antonioni's gone. Sometimes I like to think Warhol's right and they just went to Bloomingdale's and they're just taking longer to come back (cheers to unhealthy thinking). Truth is, neither of them made much in the last few years - the last thing I saw from Bergman was Saraband; the last thing I saw from Antonioni was his segment in Eros (I liked Saraband but can barely remember the Eros segment.) But I can't help but feel indebted to the guys who made The Seventh Seal, Il Grido, Cries and Whispers, L'avventura and The Virgin Spring. Though both were major artists, the time for them to make major works was at an end - surely, not everyone in their 80's can continue pumping out masterpieces.
The Bergman obituary by Mr. Rosenbaum in the New York Times (Scenes from an Overrated Career) was an example of callousness, not necessarily because of what J.Ro. had to say about Bergman (he's allowed to have his opinion), but the very timing of the piece. The body was still lukewarm and there the Chicago Reader maverick was, shoveling hastily and waiting to dump the body in. If I'm reading him correctly, he's essentially criticizing the director for being someone who represented the bourgeoisie and was too "self-absorbed," this latter point being truly laughable since Rosenbaum's shining example of genius, Jean-Luc Godard, is arguably the most self-absorbed filmmaker of all time (and one, incidentally, who ceased being relevant after 1972, though I really like Notre Musique). So if Bergman broke out of his world of spiritual struggles and hysterical women and decided to made a film about, oh, the Black Panthers, or the homeless in Stockholm, would this have been an improvement? (What ever happened to writing about and filming what you know?) Further, both Dreyer and Tarkovsky tried asking the same questions as Bergman, yet they're hailed as masters (is it because both were less celebrated than Bergman in their lifetime?). Cassavetes, one of our (very rare) geniuses, was nothing if not self-absorbed (and all the better for it).
But I shouldn't get too mad at J.Ro. - he is a skilled provocateur, after all (his recent diss of the Coens' inexplicably beloved No Country For Old Men drew a heap of nasty comments). With Bergman I become incredibly defensive - after all, the Great Swede really isn't in fashion these days (Rosenbaum's actually not the only hater), and even movie-mad friends don't get what I see in him. Maybe it's just that Bergman's cinema of soul-searching and God-questioning doesn't fit in our postmodern world of cell phones and iPods and fashionable irony. I think I'm protective because Bergman's highly individualistic, self-exploratory, 3 A.M. Panic is precisely my idea of brilliance (which isn't to say he never made any lousy films, because he most certainly did - I particularly dislike Scenes from a Marriage). In his finest works, he investigated identity and mortality, childhood and memory, and something in him shuddered at the idea of death being the absolute and final end (no clouds, no angels, only sickening silence). I've often mumbled that if anyone in movies deserved the Nobel Prize, he was one of the strongest candidates, but cinema isn't regarded as the 'high art' literature (or even music) is, so off he goes into that good, sweet night, and takes that existential Italian with him.
While I'm blathering about Nobel Prizes, now is the time for me to confess that I actually met this year's main Nobel Prize winner, Al Gore, way back when I was in grade school (I was about 13 or so). The circumstances aren't important - it was some kind of Youth Day (comprised of top scholars from the Northeast) held in Washington D.C., with lunch provided and guest speakers and games and stuff like that (Maya Angelou did a reading, there were some former Washington Redskins players there to sign autographs, etc.). Gore showed up with his wife, gave a quick speech, talked to some of us and left. Tipper was the one who mollycoddled us kids, having photos taken and the like. I really thought it was no big deal having met the guy - and frankly thought little of him at the time - but found myself celebrating the man when he ran for President (and won, ha) in 2000 and now that he won the Big Prize. I like to joke to myself that he hurried away from us dumbfuck kids to work on his environmental platform and should have hurried away from us dumbfuck kids to work on being less like a puppet that sweats a lot (say what you will about Dubya, and believe me history will have a lot to say, but the man's a charmer).
For shits and giggles, two weeks ago I started an informal poll of some dumbfucks I know (read: those damn high school students), asking what were their favorite films of the year. I have no idea why I did this ... I guess boredom and insomnia make a guy do stupid things. Not surprisingly, Superbad was a resounding favorite (g'damn Transformers was actually #2). I took the one afternoon off from summer work to go to the theater to see what the hype was about and found it irrepressibly juvenile - I couldn't figure out whether or not I'm just getting more mature (hardly likely) or the movie's just flat. The timing of Michael Sera and Jonah Hill is pretty good, but when you compare it to, say, Dazed and Confused, Clueless, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, there's a brain missing. McLovin isn't funny (except for the "It's in" line ... that was funny). The cops aren't funny (sorry Seth Rogan). I kept waiting to be knocked over the way I was with the South Park movie and the Borat movie, but no, there weren't many LOLs for me.
When I told the kids that one of my favorites was Ratatouille, you should have seen the scorn in their faces. "But Mister, that's a baby movie," I was told, as if babies couldn't wait to see animated movies about rats voiced by Patton Oswalt making haute cuisine. Using my "teacherly ways" (yes, that is a term) I tried to unpack the subtext of the movie, about the defense of elitism, the right to like the finer things in life, the right to want to better yourself. It's no wonder I don't work as a P.R. man: my diatribe was ignored. I then tried to redeem myself by saying I also liked Grindhouse, but by then faith in my judgment was already in question. First I give them work they don't want to do, then I tell them to see movies that don't have drawings of dicks in them or underage drinking. Why don't I just start assigning Méliès shorts and get it over with? Or, damn it all, screen Berlin Alexanderplatz? On the way to my car, I can anticipate the metal pipes cracking my skull: Make me watch that Fast Binter, will ya? You gotta crank dat Soulja Boy, motherfucka!
In other words, I need to come to my senses and realize people think I'm an old man and out-of-touch. People think I sit at home reading British poetry by candlelight, know about different kinds of wine and speak multiple languages. What I need to do is improve my image. I can ... stare at rap videos on YouTube all day. I can actually Superman a ho. I can encourage others to witness the glory of what happens when two lovely girls find love in a cup filled with sh- ... oh, you know what I mean. I'll buy a convertible. I'll start selling weed. And then, after I get arrested, I can have that street cred and earn the respect of people roughly half my age.
... or, I can continue my search for out-of-print Bresson films while nursing a glass of Johnny Walker Red and wrapped in my American Apparel bathrobe. Now that I think of it, I am missing Une femme douce....
My Top Ten List, including bad puns, half-hearted praise and a dance-off you have to see to believe!
© Copyright 2010 Matthew Lotti.
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