The Conversation (1974)
“We know that you know, Mr. Caul.”
Favorites
The Art of Stuart Sutcliffe
“There goes Stuart Sutcliffe. He could have been one of the Beatles.”
dialogue from Backbeat by Iain Softley, Michael Thomas & Stephen Ward
Stuart Sutcliffe (1940–62) accomplished so much in so short a time. Sometimes, the images are stronger than the sounds.
“Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses” by Mark Twain
I have not read as much of Mark Twain’s œuvre as I should, A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR’S COURT when I first dove into Arthurian mythology, THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN in school, “The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg” at the behest of a friend, and others here and there.
But my favorite of Mr. Clemens’s works—thus far, at least—is:
“Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offesnes,” which opens thus:
It seems to me that it was far from right for the Professor of English Literature in Yale, the Professor of English Literature in Columbia, and Wilkie Collins to deliver opinions on Cooper’s literature without having read some of it. It would have been much more decorous to keep silent and let persons talk who have read Cooper.
Cooper’s art has some defects. In one place in ‘Deerslayer,’ and in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offences against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks the record.
There are nineteen rules governing literary art in the domain of romantic fiction—some say twenty-two. In Deerslayer Cooper violated eighteen of them. These eighteen require:
1. That a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. But the Deerslayer tale accomplishes nothing and arrives in the air.
2. They require that the episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help to develop it. But as the Deerslayer tale is not a tale, and accomplishes nothing and arrives nowhere, the episodes have no rightful place in the work, since there was nothing for them to develop.
3. They require that the personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. But this detail has often been overlooked in the Deerslayer tale.
4. They require that the personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. But this detail also has been overlooked in the Deerslayer tale.
5. They require that when the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. But this requirement has been ignored from the beginning of the Deerslayer tale to the end of it.
You can read the rest here: https://gutenberg.org/ebooks/3172
United Artists Hulen 6
My friend recently told me of a notion he had, perhaps inspired by these Favorites of mine, so today’s Favorite is dedicated to Eric, incorporating his Dodo concept back into mine.
Despite being only five, I know precisely where I was on the morning of 26 May 1983: the parking lot of the United Artists Hulen 6. I’d previously seen E.T. The Extraterrestrial (1982) in that multiplex, and now—thanks to my babysitter’s boyfriend, who camped out for tickets—I was going to see Return of the Jedi (1983) on the second day of its release.
I loved that theater, and saw most of my early movies there until 1988, when I moved away. (I somehow never noticed it became the UA 8 in 1986.) When I came back in ’92, the place was somewhat rundown, but it had become the art house cinema of Fort Worth, TX. Seemingly operated entirely by a staff of octogenarians and boasting the unique tactile experience of a floor stained by so many soft drinks that it took a significant act of will (and leg strength) to walk to your seat, I split my affections between it and its sibling on Bowen Road in Arlington (where worked the much-admired Karl), briefly forsaking them for the glitz of the extravagant new Eastchase location in ’97 before reaffirming my allegiance to my first love with a movie every Monday during the superlatively scheduled fall semester of my sophomore year in college. I remember standing alone in the theater for The Green Mile (1999), the chairs too rickety and uncomfortable for the length of the film in its last week of exhibition.
The Eastchase location is now operated by AMC, the Hulen is a Movie Tavern, and Bowen…is a self-storage place. I wonder what Karl’s up to.
Historical Note: According to the Digital Bits, I’d have seen a 70mm Six-Track Dolby Stereo presentation of Return of the Jedi, which is nice to know.
You Can’t Do That on Television (1979–90)
Periodically, people asked what happened to me. Very often, I point at Gigglesnort Hotel (1975–8), but I suspect a lot of the blame could also be attributed to You Can’t Do That on Television (1979–90).
Created by Roger Price, also responsible for The Tomorrow People (1973–9), it partnered with Gigglesnort Hotel and the books of Roald Dahl—and their cinematic adaptions—to ensure I ended up with a black sense of humor and a fatalistic outlook.
Might I have been happier had I been plopped down in front of the Disney Channel all day like my wife? I don’t know…
The Stunt Man (1980)
For Eli Cross (Peter O’Toole), the auteur theory is woefully inadequate, godhood being the only status comparable—in his view—to that of a film director with an unorthodox approach to stunt casting.
I’ve had Paul Brodeur’s 1970 novel on my shelf for over a decade—and its time will eventually come—but just over a year ago, I rewatched The Stunt Man (1980)—on the occasion of screenwriter-director Richard Rush’s death, and it was no less a marvel of smoke and mirrors than when I first saw it on Anchor Bay’s splendid DVD release 20-odd years ago, right around the time they issued The Wicker Man (1973), as it happens.
The Wicker Man (1973)
The Wicker Man (1973) is a searing reminder that not everyone believes the same thing, and that any given majority’s belief—no matter its basis—will have the last word.
Nigel Kneale (28 April 1922 – 29 October 2006)
The B.E.R.G.CAST suggests most people born after the era live dramatic broadcasts and the heyday of Hammer Films approach writer Nigel Kneale via the gateway drug of Doctor Who. I was no exception. As I dug deeper into the making of my beloved tv series, the name came up over and over again, until I was forced to pick up an Anchor Bay DVD double-feature with Quatermass and the Pit (1967).
My mind completely blown by the perfect mix science and superstition, a binge matched only by my descent into Dennis Potterdam followed, with Tomato Cain and Other Stories (1949), the extant episodes of The Quatermass Experiment (1953), The Quatermass Xperiment (1955), Quatermass II (1955), Quatermass 2 (1957), The Abominable Snowman (1957), Quatermass and the Pit (1958–9)—which was even better than the Hammer Adaptation!—First Men in the Moon (1964), The Witches (1966), The Year of the Sex Olympics (1968), The Stone Tape (1972), Beasts (1976), The Quatermass Conclusion (1979, television, theatrical, & novelized versions), The Woman in Black (1989), and The Quatermass Experiment (2005).
My timing was excellent, with more material available than at any time in the history of home video, and though I still have a lot to seek out, the just-released Nineteen Eighty-Four (1954) will be tonight’s treat for a day of hard work.
Ordinarily, I try to verify the quotes that accompany these postings, but I’m hideously behind already, and if this wasn’t actually said, it should have been:
“All stories should have some honesty and truth in them, otherwise you’re just playing about.”
Nigel Kneale (28 April 1922 – 29 October 2006)
Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994)
Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994) features the speech I delivered at each acting audition I attempted during my theatrical phase. It worked every time but once, and I suspect…that is I think…that there really wasn’t much acting, per se, to be done. The accent was the only bit of performance, and—not to blow my horn—it was terribly good, but to put it a slightly different way, those auditions felt like dropping the daily performance and being myself…which is odd, given that I have a last name and a job and am married, though not to anyone I met at a wedding, despite the apparent probabilities of that sort of thing.
Anthony Coburn (1917–77)
Though Sydney Newman oversaw the conception and C.E. Webber wrote the initial format, it was Anthony Coburn who wrote the first produced script:
In the street we hear two things. We hear the striking of three o’clock from a nearby clocktower and following teat we hear the approaching crunch of a pol iceman on his beat.
We see the policeman only as a vague, slowly-moving figure, coming towards us in the fog.
We pull back to see the policeman against these Gates.
In one of the gates is a smaller entry gate. This is closed.
The policeman flashes his torch on the gates.
We read the faded writing on the gates. I. M. FOREMAN, SCRAP MERCHANT, and a smaller, newer sign: “PRIVATE — KEEP OUT”
The policeman pushes the smaller gate, which opens. He looks through it into the yard. Then he closes it and moves on.
We stay on the gate. We see swirling of fog in front of the small gate and slowly it opens, creaking a bit as it does.
There is all manner of junk lying about the yard.
We see a police box.
Anthony Coburn (1917–77)
