The Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon

The Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon has ended. Many thanks to the event's contributors. There's lots of great reading here. Enjoy!

Day 4

The Blob (1958)
By Doniphon - The Long Voyage Home
Steve stutters, making up nonsense, eventually trailing off and laughing. But as he looks at the officer his dying laugh becomes something else, and even as Steve the character sets out to tell the aw shucks officer he'll never do "it" again, Steve the icon practically sneers. Those (goddamn soulful) eyes look out, that vein in his forehead we know emerges, and he seems to say, "I don't deserve this." It becomes clear; McQueen the star was McQueen the star long before he ever was one, and he ain't going to be doing this bullshit forever.

Bullitt Points on Steve McQueen
By Jason Bellamy - The Cooler
I expressed most of my Steve McQueen thoughts in my two previous submissions to the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon: the “5 for the Day” piece at The House Next Door and the video essay “Steve McQueen: King of the Close-Up.” But here are a few more ruminations and ramblings related to the King of Cool.

Le Mans
By Tony Dayoub - Cinema Viewfinder
What's amazing about Le Mans, a film which was branded as McQueen's Folly even as it was being made, is how well it still holds up today. Racing films always seem so full of cinematic potential, speed being the most attractive factor. Yet with rare exception does it ever pan out. I'm speaking strictly from a cinephilic perspective since I am not qualified to render even the most basic opinion about auto racing or even cars (so this is your opportunity to take me to task in the comments section if you have a stronger argument). But contemporary auto racing films like Days of Thunder (1990), Driven (2001), even Pixar's Cars (2006) seem to place a priority on artificially raising tension through camera placement; if one's point-of-view resides amongst the vehicles jockeying for position, then one should get the feel for what it's like to be a driver in one of these competitions. It's just a bunch of horseshit, if you ask me.

The Sand Pebbles (1966) - Part 2 - The River Battle Sequence
By Hokahey - Little Worlds
Especially during the 1960s, the heyday of the widescreen historical epic, battle scenes were everywhere. But this one stands out. I like how it uses extreme long shots to establish the setting and the situation the San Pablo is in, and when it comes to the battle, close-ups are used sparingly for dramatic effect, and loosely framed medium to long shots capture the hand-to-hand combat, making the action clearer, unlike the claustrophobic, in-your-face framing of much of the battle action in films these days.

Day 3

For Steve
By Jay C. - Funny Farm
There's always this discussion on what people are actors and what people are stars. I'm no movie critic and McQueen's acting skills can be debated maybe, I don't know, I live in Holland and I can't remember him getting any big awards like an Oscar or anything at the time. Not that it matters, to me he is the real meaning of the word actor, more so than the word star, although he was that too, a big one.

The Kid's Break
By Jamie Yates - Chicago Ex-Patriate
When notes or conversations arise about Steve McQueen's beginnings, the first two names that understandably come up are The Blob and the television show Wanted: Dead or Alive. Further fame would come with his more memorable roles in the 1960s and 1970s, but a little-discussed aspect of his start is his first teaming with John Sturges in 1959's Never So Few. Perhaps the fact that this film doesn't garner much attention is because it's a movie weighed down with limitations and a generally poor script.

The McQueen Persona, Part II: The Imprisoned Free Spirit (The Great Escape & Papillon)
By Steven Santos - The Fine Cut
In Part 1 of this series (see Day 1), I discussed the one aspect of the McQueen Persona, the Righteous Rebel, in two of his films, Bullitt and An Enemy of the People. I had admitted that both films were both rather flawed films that were elevated by McQueen's performances, but never quite pushed him as far enough in challenging that aspect of his persona. As we take a look at a different aspect of the McQueen Persona, The Imprisoned Free Spirit, not only are both films much stronger, one of which I consider a genuine classic, but they do quite an effective job at building McQueen's image while almost cutting him back down to size in a way that few parts designed for movie stars rarely do these days.

Seeing The Great Escape (1963)
By Hokahey - Little Worlds
I was 11 years old, living in San Mateo, California, in a suburban home that had a small backyard with a lawn and a wooden shack used as a garden shed. The shack had a door, windows with glass, and a concrete floor with a hole in it. My two brothers and I, along with a couple of neighbor kids, pulled away more pieces of concrete and started digging straight down. Then we tunneled out under the foundation and the front wall. Surreptitiously, we dispersed the dirt in the backyard garden beds, sometimes holding handfuls in our hands, walking through the garden, and dropping them as we walked. A neighbor friend made a wooden tray that we filled with dirt and placed over the mouth of the tunnel to conceal it. Our secrecy fooled the German “guard” who sometimes looked over us from the kitchen window over the sink. (Well, she was my mother – but she really was German.)

Day 2

The Cincinnati Kid (1965)
By Adam Zanzie - Icebox Movies
Before Jewison came onboard, the end result was destined to be something completely different from what it is now. Peckinpah's original vision for The Cincinnati Kid was to shoot the film in black-and-white, and fill the story (in typical Peckinpah fashion) with visceral sequences of sex and violence. But Hollywood was not yet ready for Peckinpah's “fascists works of art” (as dubbed by Pauline Kael in her Straw Dogs review), and with Jewison replacing Peckinpah as director, Steve McQueen's next anti-heroic vehicle was about to become something more passive, less aggressive. Arguably, it ultimately became a better film.

Regarding The Getaway
By Steve Saragossi - The Screen Lounge
The Getaway is first and foremost an action thriller. That is what all concerned were endeavouring to produce and, on the basis of its box-office receipts and Steve McQueen’s return to the top of the superstar tree, they succeeded. But a closer examination of the text reveals subtleties not usually at work in such a genre-piece.

Day 1 - Essays:

5 for the Day: Steve McQueen
By Jason Bellamy - The House Next Door
McQueen's was a career that started too late — in 1958's The Blob, his first starring role on the big screen, the already-developing wrinkles in McQueen's forehead give away that he isn't the high schooler he's pretending to be — and that ended too soon. ... What follows here is a list of what I consider to be McQueen's five most essential performances.

The Getaway
By J.D. - Radiator Heaven
Steve McQueen brings his trademark cool and intensity to the role of Doc and is not afraid to play a relatively unlikable character. We don’t know what Doc was like before his prison stretch, only how he behaves once he gets out. McQueen plays him as someone who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. I find it interesting that two of his strongest performances came from back-to-back Peckinpah films: Junior Bonner and The Getaway. The former featured a very nuanced, introspective performance from McQueen, while this one is all on the surface as he plays an irredeemable criminal.

The Getaway
By Bryce Wilson – Things That Don’t Suck
The Getaway’s a strange movie to write about, a star at the height of his iconoclasm, a director in full possession of his incendiary talent, scripted by another badass filmmaker I’m quite fond of, coming from what is arguably the greatest novel from the greatest hardboiled novelist of all time. It’s a movie I wouldn’t hesitate to call a classic. And yet on some level I can’t help but find it unfulfilling.

Junior Bonner (1972)
By Kevin J. Olson - Decisions at Sundown
McQueen exudes cool throughout the film as Bonner (sunglasses and a cowboy hat have never looked so good on someone), a man who has spent his best years on the rodeo circuit, immersed in the ways of the Old West, but now that he has returned home he sees modernism and the counter culture of America in the 70's starting to creep into his home. He's a dying breed, and much like the way Faulkner wrote about Modernism penetrating the old South in "The Bear," so too does Peckinpah seem enamored with this theme of things never being the same.

Le Mans (1971)
By Vuk Radic - SeeItWith.Me
Steve McQueen's vision was simple: Create the best, most realistic movie about motorsports ever made. It was a story that began years before filming took place during the summer of 1970, and its aftermath impacted McQueen for the rest of his life. Le Mans was a huge project; 20,000 props, 26 high-performance racing cars with 52 drivers from seven countries, along with 350,000 French-speaking extras. And no finished script. There were few lines, even for a McQueen film, and no intelligible structure. "Cars," he told everyone. "We film the fucking cars." And from the very inception of the idea it was riddled with problems.

McQueen, Gleason, and a Couple of Guys Who Had It Coming
By Bill R. - The Kind of Face You Hate
There are a couple of things that happen during this fight that are a bit hard to swallow, but they gain a certain level of verisimilitude due to the clumsy brutality of everything else. It's strange to watch this moody little comedy, and then find yourself smack in the middle of a terrific, bone-crunching beatdown -- these guys are pounding the shit out of each other, and it makes them tired.

The McQueen Persona, Part 1: The Righteous Rebel (Bullitt & An Enemy of the People)
By Steven Santos – The Fine Cut
I never considered Steve McQueen the greatest actor, as much as I considered him a great presence. One has to look at today's "movie stars" to truly appreciate what McQueen brought to movies that were, for the most part, mostly memorable due to him. He seemed to have a mature, been around the block quality even in his early thirties, while many present-day actors are more pretty and boyish even when some of them are approaching forty. He may have been considered too cool, and, by turn, too unemotional by some, but he still represents to me more how men really are or perhaps should be. Maybe, these days, pop psychology has infected male characterizations so much that I prefer some of the mystery that McQueen's opaque performance style offers.

Non-Expressionism: The Gift of Steve McQueen
By Greg - Cinema Styles
I started going to the movies in the seventies and Steve McQueen was one of the first stars I got to know in current releases. When I saw his last film in the theatre, The Hunter, on opening weekend no less, so excited was I to see it, I felt I knew him well. I didn't. Even though I loved movies like The Blob, The Great Escape, Bullitt, Papillon and, yes, The Hunter, mediocre as it may be, I didn't fully understand Steve McQueen as an actor. I liked him and his movies but never felt he was doing the job I thought others were doing when it came to big screen acting. I certainly didn't think he was bad, I just never gave him much thought as an actor overall. But then, very recently in fact, I had a revelation.

The Sand Pebbles (1966) - Part 1
By Hokahey - Little Worlds
McQueen well deserved his nomination for his portrayal of Holman. He creates a simple soul who just wants to be left alone. In one scene straight from the wonderful novel by Richard McKenna, Holman actually talks to the ship’s engine he loves to work with. When he first arrives on the boat, he lovingly adjusts valves, wipes pipes, and declares. “Hello, engine. I’m Jake Holman.” This might be the type of language that works in a novel but should probably be left out of the film version, but McQueen puts touching believability into his delivery and it works.

Steve McQueen, an acting racer or a racing actor? Whatever ... He loved cars
By Vuk Radic - SeeItWith.Me
Steve McQueen really did have it all. He was supposedly smoking insane amounts of marijuana every day, wasn’t a stranger to mounds of cocaine, he was married three times and died at 50. Which takes on an ironical twist to another racing quote of his: “Racing is the most exciting thing there is. But unlike drugs, you get high with dignity.”

Steve McQueen and the Evolution of the Action Hero
By Clarence Ewing – GLI Press
McQueen’s heyday was mainly in the 1960s and '70s and he had all the tools to succeed in the era of Technicolor – the looks, the screen presence, and the persona. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb to declare that McQueen wasn’t the most spectacular thespian in the world, but neither were hundreds of other actors who came along before or after him. His screen presence was something that comes along a few times a decade, and his directors made full use of it.

Steve McQueen: King of the Close-Up (Video Essay)
By Jason Bellamy – The Cooler
Not quite 30 years removed from his death, McQueen tends to be remembered for his role in two of cinema’s most famous action sequences, in The Great Escape and Bullitt, and for his blazing blue eyes, his physical grace and his effortless swagger, which were the substance of several of his films. These were the ingredients that helped McQueen earn the honorary title “The King of Cool,” and rightfully so. But to come to the conclusion that McQueen’s success was simply the result of a handsome, athletic and naturally suave guy playing too-cool-for-school characters is to miss McQueen’s true cinematic gift: He was devastating in a close-up.

Day 1 - Photos:

Behind the Scenes With My Favorite Actors: Steve McQueen in Bullitt
By Jeremy Richey – Moon In The Gutter

Steve McQueen: 20 Never-Before-Seen Photos*
Photos by John Dominis - Life Magazine
(*Not technically a submission to the blog-a-thon, though LIFE was kind enough to email the link. Very cool!)

Steve McQueen's Women
By Vuk Radic - SeeItWith.Me

Steve McQueen Film Posters
By Vuk Radic - SeeItWith.Me

Steve McQueen's Cars
By Vuk Radic - SeeItWith.Me

Preamble:

The following isn’t an official contribution to the blog-a-thon, but it’s a wonderful place to start. Back in May 2009, Matt Zoller Seitz created the following video essay, which calls into question McQueen’s credentials as a leading man. If you’re a fan of McQueen, you might not agree with Seitz’s conclusion, but his arguments are almost impossible to refute. It's essential viewing.

Too Cool (Video Essay)
By Matt Zoller Seitz – L Magazine
This self-willed aura of confidence is the source of my own early admiration for McQueen. He was everything I wasn't — everything almost no one is; as much a cinematic demigod as Burt Lancaster, but humbler, more human scaled. Nevertheless, at some point second thoughts on McQueen took root in my mind and made it difficult to adore him uncritically, and made even his most acclaimed star turns feel unsatisfying. And at the risk of inviting a flood of angry email from dudes with subject headers along the lines of "Dear McQueen-hating pansy," I'll attempt to explain why.

Bullitt Points on Steve McQueen

I expressed most of my Steve McQueen thoughts in my two previous submissions to the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon: the “5 for the Day” piece at The House Next Door and the video essay “Steve McQueen: King of the Close-Up.” But here are a few more ruminations and ramblings related to the King of Cool.

When The Great Escape Got Greater
The first Steve McQueen movie I ever saw was either The Great Escape or The Magnificent Seven. I saw both when I was about 10 or 11 and I loved them immediately. Although The Great Escape didn’t inspire me to dig a tunnel of my own, it opened up my mind to the possibility that “old movies” could be just as exciting as those made during my own lifetime (a novel concept at that age). Soon, I owned The Great Escape on VHS, and I spent my middle school, high school and even college years excitedly showing it to friends, many of whom hadn’t heard of the movie or McQueen. (It almost goes without saying that the movie was always a hit.) By the time I was 21, I must have seen The Great Escape two dozen times. Or so I thought.

It was around then that I got my first DVD player, and of course The Great Escape was among my initial DVDs. One afternoon I settled in to watch a movie I thought I knew by heart, only to find it thrillingly new. Until then, you see, I’d only seen The Great Escape in the standard pan-and-scan format of VHS. My DVD copy presented the film in its full (2.35:1) widescreen glory. What a difference it made! Now shots of Hilts speeding toward the Alps near the film’s conclusion were panoramically breathtaking. Now shots of the prisoners arriving at the camp in the film’s opening revealed more than a half-dozen trucks in a row instead of two or three. Most importantly, now, for the very first time, I knew the size of Hilts’ familiar cell in the cooler.

Stop reading. Look at the image that makes for the masthead here at The Cooler. That shot? I’ve only known that shot for a little over a decade. In pan-and-scan, we never saw Hilts’ entire cell in one shot. Instead, when Hilts tosses his baseball against the floor and walls of his cell, we’d get a shot of Hilts throwing the ball, then a cut to the ball hitting the wall, then a cut to Hilts catching the ball. Over and over again. Rinse and repeat. Consequentially, I always assumed that the cell was at least two times bigger than it actually is. The DVD-inspired renaissance of widescreen restored The Great Escape to its original glory. For me, there’s no better example of the ills of pan-and-scan than its perversion of Hilts in the cooler. Widescreen has never delighted me more.



Misspelled, With a Bullit
As I type this, I’m facing a poster for Bullitt, which is one of two Steve McQueen images among the five framed posters in my apartment (the other one shows McQueen as Virgil Hilts in The Great Escape). I bought the Bullitt poster at an outdoor sale when I was a student at Washington State University, and so I’ve had it for more than 12 years. But it was only about 10 years ago that I realized the poster’s flaw: Though the bold print atop the poster correctly touts “Steve McQueen as ‘Bullitt,’” the blurb underneath reads thusly: “Not many freaky cops like BULLIT around. You look at the Italian shoes and the turtleneck and you have to wonder. You listen to the official beefs about ‘personal misconduct,’ ‘disruptive influence,’ you figure he’s got to be up for trade. But when some rare Chicago blood starts spilling in San Francisco, they give BULLIT the mop. They weren’t exactly doing him a favor. But they’ve done a great big one for you.” OK, first of all: How cool is that blurb?! But, back to the point, how on earth did someone manage to drop a ‘T’ in Bullitt without anyone noticing? Oops.



Portrait of a Kung Fu Wannabe
In preparation for the blog-a-thon, I dusted off my copy of Marshall Terrill’s 1993 biography, Steve McQueen: Portrait of an American Rebel, which until recently had been boxed up with some other books I hadn’t touched since college. It’s a good book – personal and revelatory without seeming sensationalistic – and the process of rereading it reintroduced me to bits of trivia that I had forgotten. Perhaps my favorite forgotten factoid was this tidbit: McQueen was a pallbearer at Bruce Lee’s funeral. Surprised? So was I. The two (eventual) stars became connected when McQueen met Nikita Knatz, one of Lee’s training partners, on the set of The Thomas Crown Affair and asked (er, nagged) to get some martial arts training of his own. Soon, McQueen and Lee became companions. “Both men had what the other wanted,” James Coburn says in Terrill’s book. “It was two giant egos vying for something: stardom for Lee and street-fighting technique for McQueen.” When Lee got his first movie deal, he called himself the “Oriental Steve McQueen.” Lee then bragged to McQueen that he’d have a more worldwide audience. In response, McQueen sent an 8x10 glossy to Lee signed, “To Bruce, my favorite fan.” The two weren’t friendly rivals so much as rivals pretending to be friends. And although McQueen’s influence on Lee is difficult to pinpoint, Lee’s influence on McQueen is easy to spot. If you’ve ever wondered why Doc McCoy finishes off a butt-kicking in The Getaway with a rather goofy karate chop, now you know.



He Coulda Been a Defectah
There are several films that McQueen turned down because of a lack of interest or problematic preproduction, among them Dirty Harry, The French Connection, First Blood and even Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The one that’s most intriguing, though, is Apocalypse Now, given how easily it could have been a reality. McQueen was first offered the role of Willard, and then, after turning that down, the role of Kurtz. But McQueen intentionally priced himself out of the running, not wanting to spend so much time shooting in a foreign country, having already had a healthy dose of that for The Sand Pebbles. Francis Ford Coppola clearly wanted McQueen, and the project started roughly on time (though it famously didn’t finish that way). So had McQueen been more interested, he’d have been in that picture. The mind boggles trying to imagine if McQueen would have elevated the film’s twisted greatness, morphed it or neutralized it. McQueen as Kurtz is a strange but potentially interesting twist. It’s hard to picture, but not impossible. On the other hand, one doesn’t have to try very hard to imagine McQueen in The Bodyguard, which was originally conceived for him and Diana Ross.



The Remake I’d Endorse
There are only two McQueen films that I consider sacred and untouchable as far as remakes are concerned: The Great Escape and The Magnificent Seven. Those films have a distinctive magic that I don’t think can be adequately duplicated or reimagined (so let's not try, Hollywood, OK?). On the other hand, the remake I would love to see would be Bullitt by Michael Mann. Mann certainly has the resume for it. He seems to be evoking Bullitt in Heat, both in terms of the way Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino), like Frank Bullitt, is losing himself to the darkness of his work and in regard to the film’s climactic shootout in and around airport runways. Also, in Miami Vice, Mann created a film that niftily blends high-caliber action with a sort of romantic-cool mood that takes precedence over a muddled and somewhat inconsequential plot. Sounds like Bullitt. I’m not sure who would star in the picture. Daniel Craig might have been perfect, but now he’s Bond. Matt Damon could have worked, but now he’s Bourne. So maybe one of the Miami Vice stars: Colin Farrell or Jamie Foxx. Or maybe a redefining role for Michael Fassbender, Ryan Gosling or Jeremy Renner. Damn. Heath Ledger might have worked, too.

Steve McQueen: King of the Close-Up

[I’m pleased to debut The Cooler’s first video essay as my contribution to the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon. As usual, the video plays best if you let it completely buffer before watching. Click here to see it on Vimeo's site in a slightly larger, but not too large, size. A transcript of the narration is below.]

In his first starring role, on TV’s Wanted: Dead or Alive in 1958, and in his last starring role, in 1980’s The Hunter, Steve McQueen played bounty hunters. In between, McQueen played a host of characters who were on the run or behind bars – guys who had been to prison or seemed to be heading there. He played lawmen, too, and leaders, thrill-seekers and risk-takers. He played men of action – guys who always seemed to be cocked and ready. Not muscle men so much as tough guys. Not brave men, because they often seemed immune to fear, but determined ones. With rare exception, McQueen’s characters were strong, silent types, either intentionally or inevitably. Quiet strength was McQueen’s default setting.

Not quite 30 years removed from his death, McQueen tends to be remembered for his role in two of cinema’s most famous action sequences, in The Great Escape and Bullitt, and for his blazing blue eyes, his physical grace and his effortless swagger, which were the substance of several his films. These were the ingredients that helped McQueen earn the honorary title of “The King of Cool,” and rightfully so. But to come to the conclusion that McQueen’s success was simply the result of a handsome, athletic and naturally suave guy playing too-cool-for-school characters is to miss McQueen’s true cinematic gift: He was devastating in a close-up.

Of course, that wasn’t the extent of McQueen’s talent. McQueen was terrific behind the wheel of anything with four tires and he was even better on the seat of a motorcycle. He didn’t do all of his own stunts, of course, but his vehicular abilities allowed directors to get some magical shots that stuntmen couldn’t provide – shots that made action intimate. McQueen was also good on a horse – a skill that wouldn’t be worth much today – and he was terrific with props of all shapes and sizes. Guns. Food. Whatever. Even the engine of a ship. Give McQueen something to do and he was quietly captivating.

In other situations, McQueen seemed painfully out of his element. Thomas Crown Affair screenwriter Alan Trustman noted in Marshall Terrill’s 1993 biography Steve McQueen: Portrait of an American Rebel that when McQueen was uncomfortable “you could squirm watching him.” This is undoubtedly true. Many of McQueen’s particularly squirm-worthy moments came when the actor attempted to wear his heart on his sleeve. But that’s oversimplifying things. Given that McQueen was most comfortable when driving, manipulating a prop, or acting from the shoulders up, it should come as no surprise that he seemed least comfortable when forced to act with his entire body and with nothing in his hands. An apt example would be this scene from Nevada Smith, which Matt Zoller Seitz used to underscore McQueen’s limitations in his cogent 2009 video essay “Too Cool.” As McQueen squats down and looks at his character’s home in flames, he comes off less like a man distraught over the murder of his parents than like an actor who feels naked from the neck down and at a loss for what to do with his hands. It might be the most cringe-inducing moment in McQueen’s career. I mean, other than this one.

McQueen’s biggest fault as an actor wasn’t so much that he couldn’t play emotion but that he couldn’t play his emotions to the back row. McQueen needed the camera to get close enough that he could emote with his face, subtly but intensely, charismatically, powerfully. Some filmmakers had no trouble identifying the money shot and put McQueen’s face to good use, particularly Norman Jewison, who directed McQueen in The Cincinnati Kid, the poker flick full of tight close-ups, and The Thomas Crown Affair, in which McQueen and Faye Dunaway turned a game of chess into steamy foreplay. Other directors used McQueen’s best angle as a tease, intentionally thwarting our ability to look directly into his eyes in order to enhance the emotional unease of the characters. A good example is this scene from Sam Peckinpah’s mostly macho The Getaway, in which McQueen’s Doc McCoy is intimidated by intimacy after years of imprisonment. Also of note is this scene from Baby, the Rain Must Fall, in which McQueen’s Henry Thomas, also recently out of the big house, and now trying to figure out how to support his wife and child, realizes his dreams of being a country music star are just that: dreams.

To call McQueen a limited actor is accurate, but to suggest that his silence is evidence of emptiness is to imply that emotions must be verbally articulated to be deep. Beyond Hollywood’s frustrating habit of bestowing awards to those who act most instead of best, even hardcore cinephiles fall into the trap of praising acting in situations when the screenwriting deserves the lion’s share of acclaim, confusing amazing roles with amazing performances. This is unavoidable, of course. At some point the two cannot be separated. And just like great talkers need great dialogue, great physical actors, like McQueen, need a director with enough sense to point a camera where the action is. Still, one of the reasons that McQueen is thought of as a purely physical actor is because so few screenwriters gave him anything interesting to say. The most quotable line of McQueen’s career might be this one from The Magnificent Seven: “We deal in lead, friend.” Trouble is, McQueen’s would-be catchphrase is merely the punctuation on a conversation between Yul Brynner and Eli Wallach. It’s the first of only two lines for McQueen in a 10-minute span. Given the film’s wealth of heroes, it’s all to easy to come away remembering the line but not the cowboy who said it. “We deal in lead, friend” is a cool line, sure. But what it isn’t as this: “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker” – an instant classic.

And that leads us here. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about McQueen is that he’s entirely inimitable – not in the general, “Oh, there’ll never be another one like him” kind of way, but in the sense that he’s truly impossible to impersonate. Given the right props, sure, you could mimic his actions, but other than that you couldn’t “do McQueen,” the way someone could do Jimmy Stewart, Marlon Brando or Humphrey Bogart. McQueen didn’t have a distinctive voice or an unforgettable line. Some actors had both. For this, McQueen deserves a share of the blame. Woefully uneducated, McQueen found dialogue a physical challenge and cut it wherever he could. On the set of The Towering Inferno, he regularly complained that the dialogue was “shit,” but when the screenwriter pressed him for a specific example McQueen confessed that there was nothing wrong with the dialogue itself, he just couldn’t say it. It was because of this, as much as anything, that on the set of The Getaway, McQueen would read the script and say, “Too many words, too many words. I’ll give you a close-up that’ll say a thousand words.”

You have to hand it to McQueen: his arithmetic was usually correct. But sometimes McQueen took silence to the extreme. In Le Mans, the racing film that was the actor’s passion project, McQueen doesn’t utter anything resembling traditional dialogue for more than 37 minutes. Upon the film’s release, Jay Cocks of Time Magazine wrote that McQueen didn’t play a part, he just posed for it. He was right. Then again, there were also instances when McQueen’s terse approach wound up making an otherwise forgettable line of dialogue surprisingly potent. One such instance comes late in The Towering Inferno, when McQueen’s fire chief learns that the only hope for extinguishing the blaze is for him to be airlifted to the top of the skyscraper to blow up some rooftop water tanks with plastic explosives. In that scene, and so many others, McQueen’s magic was the expansiveness of his minimalism. Few actors ever conveyed so much without saying anything at all. McQueen’s physical acting was so efficient, in fact, that in the rare case one of his characters verbally articulated his thoughts, the dialogue usually seemed unnecessarily redundant.

In a way, it’s silly to criticize McQueen for so often playing to his strengths, but there’s at least one film that suggests he didn’t have to be quite so narrow, 1962’s often overlooked The War Lover, in which McQueen plays a womanizing hotshot pilot in World War II. In so many ways, it’s still the typical McQueen role: cocky, intense and tough. But in The Water Lover, McQueen is a little more emotionally vulnerable than normal, even when his character is on the attack. This is the film to recommend to anyone who insists that McQueen could only pose. And yet it’s impossible to overlook the way McQueen dazzles most in a close-up, his blue eyes blazing, even in black-and-white, flashing that visceral coiled intensity that’s so rarely duplicated.

Most actors who try to be as super-cool as McQueen come off like frauds. Every now and then, though, someone recaptures the silent swagger that was the essence of McQueen. Jeremy Renner’s Oscar-nominated portrayal in The Hurt Locker is evidence that McQueen’s brand of acting can be as potent as ever. Two of the film’s most powerful scenes are ones in which Renner doesn’t say a word. But just because McQueen’s acting style has endured doesn’t mean that it would have aged well with him as his star faded and he moved on to smaller supporting roles. Alas, we we’ll never know. McQueen was a top-of-the-marquee star until he died, all too soon, in 1980 at the age of 50 from complications due to cancer.

In a career just over two decades long, McQueen produced a collection of exhilarating films and performances, many of which are still cherished three decades after his death. And though it’s true that the most memorable thing that a McQueen character ever did was something McQueen didn’t do himself – stuntman Bud Ekin’s famous motorcycle jump in The Great Escape – it’s also true that McQueen thoroughly dominated the screen in a way that few other actors have before or since. He was “The King of Cool,” the king of the close-up, and his honorary reign continues.

Announcing the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon

[March 23 Update: The Steve McQueen McQueen Blog-a-thon is under way here.]

For almost two years now, I’ve posted my cinema ruminations under an iconic image of Steve McQueen from The Great Escape. And yet, despite this blog’s branding, I’ve done very little writing about the King of Cool. With The Cooler just days away from the start of its third year, this must be remedied. And so today I’m announcing that I will host the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon beginning on what would have been McQueen’s 80th birthday, March 24, and running through March 27.

I have some posts in mind, but I make this announcement now with the hope that other bloggers will take part in this effort. Traditionally, blog-a-thons are built around a genre or director – but rarely an actor or actress. So let’s remedy that, too. Submissions to the Steve McQueen blog-a-thon must meet only one criterion: they must somehow touch on Steve McQueen. If you’d like to write about the actor’s overall film career, go for it. If you’d like to discuss his lasting impact in pop culture, go for it. But bloggers should also feel welcome to write standard reviews of films in which McQueen appears. McQueen needn’t be the focus of your essay. He just needs to be the thread lacing together what I hope will be a wildly diverse group of submissions. (Likewise, please feel no pressure to bow at McQueen’s altar. If you’d like to rant about his limited range or whatever else, please do so.)

Per usual, post your contribution on your blog and send me the link via e-mail or in the comments section the week of the blog-a-thon. If you don’t have a blog and would like to contribute, e-mail me your contribution and I’ll post it here at The Cooler.

Please take part! I'm more excited to see what my fellow bloggers will submit than I am to post my own pieces.

In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind spreading the word, I’d appreciate it.

Pauline Kael Week

Posting for Pauline Kael Week concludes today with one bonus entry, but the discussions are ongoing. Thanks to everyone who has participated thus far. The rest of you, please don't be afraid to jump in; just read and react!

Bonus
Paulinepourri
Scrumptious Kael morsels covering 14 films. Feel free to contribute some of your own favorite morsels in the comments section.

Day 5
Kael on Criticism
In honor of her birthday. If you have broad thoughts about Kael's criticism, or memories you'd like to share, please leave them in the comments section here.

Kael on Cult Cinema
Touches on Easy Rider, Midnight Cowbowy, Alice's Restaurant and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in this snapshot of Kaels view of cinema closing out the 60s.

Day 4
Kael on Cinema Trash - Part I (Art)
"There is so much talk now about the art of the film that we may be in danger of forgetting that most of the movies we enjoy are not works of art."

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part II (Technique)
"Technique is hardly worth talking about unless it’s used for something worth doing; that’s why most of the theorizing about the new art of television commercials is such nonsense."

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part III (Enjoyment)
"We generally become interested in movies because we enjoy them and what we enjoy them for has little to do with what we think of as art."

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part IV (Worthwhile)
"A nutty Puritanism still flourishes in the arts, not just in the schoolteachers’ approach of wanting art to be “worthwhile,” but in the higher reaches of the audience life with those ideologues who denounce us for enjoying trash as if this enjoyment took us away from the really disturbing, angry new art of our time and somehow destroyed us."

Day 3
Kael on Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man
A takedown of stunt acting.

The Slow Fade-Out of Pauline Kael
by Doug Bonner of Boiling Sand

Day 2
Kael on Movies on Television
Has TV negatively affected the natural selection of cinematic touchstones?

Day 1
Kael on Violence in Cinema
A review of A Clockwork Orange provides the opportunity to discuss violence in cinema.

Kael on Epics
Kael compares John Huston to David Lean.

Paulinepourri

[To close out postings for Pauline Kael Week (consider the discussions ongoing), here are some scrumptious Kael morsels.]

Full reviews of the following films can be found in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies.


Last Tango in Paris
This is a movie people will be arguing about, I think, for as long as there are movies. They’ll argue about how it was intended, as they argue again now about The Dance of Death. It is a movie you can’t get out of your system, and I think it will make some people very angry and disgust others. I don’t believe that there’s anyone whose feelings can be totally resolved about the sex scenes and the social attitudes in this film.

The Godfather – Part II
Throughout the three hours and twenty minutes of Part II, there are so many moments of epiphany – mysterious, reverberant images, such as the small Vito singing in his cell – that one scarcely has the emotional resources to deal with the experience of this film. Twice, I almost cried out at acts of violence that De Niro’s Vito committed. I didn’t look away from the images, as I sometimes do at routine action pictures. I wanted to see the worst; there is a powerful need to see it.

Nashville
Is there such a thing as an orgy for movie-lovers – but an orgy without excess? At Robert Altman’s new, almost three-hour film, Nashville, you don’t get drunk on images, you’re not overpowered – you get elated. I’ve never before seen a movie I loved in quite this way: I sat there smiling at the screen, in complete happiness. It’s a pure emotional high, and you don’t come down when the picture is over; you take it with you.

Taxi Driver
No other film has ever dramatized urban indifference so powerfully; at first, here, it’s horrifyingly funny, and then just horrifying. … The violence in this movie is so threatening precisely because it’s cathartic for Travis. I imagine that some people who are angered by the film will say that it advocates violence as a cure for frustration. But to acknowledge hat when a psychopath’s blood boils over he may cool down is not the same as justifying the eruption.

The Deer Hunter
He [Robert De Niro] fails conspicuously in only one sequence – when he’s required to grab Nick’s bloody head and shake it. You don’t shake someone who’s bleeding, and De Niro can’t rise above the stupidity of this conception; even his weeping doesn’t move us. We have come to expect a lot from De Niro: miracles. And he delivers them – he brings a bronze statue almost to life. He takes the Pathfinder-Deerslayer role and gives it every flourish he can dream up. He does improvisations on nothing, and his sea-to-shining-sea muscularity is impulsive. But Michael, the transcendent hero, is a hollow figure. There is never a moment when we feel, Oh my God, I know that man, I am that man.

Return of the Jedi
If a filmmaker wants backing for a new project, there’d better be a video game in it. Producers are putting so much action and so little character or point into their movies that there’s nothing for a viewer to latch on to. The battle between good and evil, which is the theme of just about every big fantasy adventure film, has become a flabby excuse for a lot of dumb tricks and noise. It has got to the point where some of us might be happy to see good and evil quit fighting and become friends.

Top Gun
What is this commercial selling? It’s just selling, because that’s what the producers, Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer, and the director Tony (Make It Glow) Scott, know how to do. Selling is what they think moviemaking is about. The result is a new “art” form: the self-referential commercial. Top Gun is a recruiting poster that isn’t concerned with recruiting but with being a poster.

Blue Velvet
The film’s kinkiness isn’t alienating – it’s naïveté keeps it from that. And its vision isn’t alienating: this is American darkness – darkness in color, darkness with a happy ending. Lynch might turn out to be the first populist surrealist – a Frank Capra of dream logic.

Platoon
I know that Platoon is being acclaimed for its realism, and I expect to be chastised for being a woman finding fault with a war film. But I’ve probably seen as much combat as most of the men saying, “This is how war is.”

Full Metal Jacket
It’s very likely that Kubrick has become so wrapped up in his “craft” – which is often called his “genius” – that he doesn’t recognize he’s cut off not only from America and the effects the war had on it but from any sort of connection to people. (The only memorable character in the his films of the past twenty years is Hal the computer.) What happened to the Kubrick who used to slip in sly, subtle jokes and little editing tricks? This may be his worst movie. He probably believes he’s numbing us by the power of his vision, but he’s actually numbing us by its emptiness. Like a star child, Kubrick floats above the characters of Full Metal Jacket, the story, the audience. Moviemaking carried to a technical extreme – to the reach for supreme control of his material – seems to have turned Kubrick into a machine.

Casualties of War
The movie about war and rape – De Palma’s nineteenth film – is the culmination of his best work. In essence, it’s feminist. I think that in his earlier movies De Palma was always involved in examining (and sometimes satirizing) victimization, but he was often accused of being a victimizer. Some moviegoers (women, especially) were offended by his thrillers; they thought there was something reprehensibly sadistic in his cleverness. He was clever. When people talk about their sex fantasies, their descriptions almost always sound like movies, and De Palma headed right for that linkage: he teased the audience about how susceptible it was to romantic manipulation. Carrie and Dressed to Kill are like lulling erotic reveries that keep getting broken into by scary jokes. He let you know that he was jerking you around and that it was for your amused, childish delight, but a lot of highly vocal people expressed shock. This time, De Palma touches on raw places in people’s reaction to his earlier movies; he gets at the reality that may have made some moviegoers too fearful to enjoy themselves. He goes to the heart of sexual victimization, and he does it with a new authority. The way he makes movies now, it’s as if he were saying, “What is getting older if it isn’t learning more ways that you’re vulnerable?”

Born on the Fourth of July
Oliver Stone has a taste for blood and fire, and for the anguish and disillusionment that follow. Everything is in capital letters. He flatters the audience with the myth that we believed in the war and then we woke up; like Ron Kovic, we’re turned into generic Eagle Scouts.

Goodfellas
The filmmaking process becomes the subject of the movie. All you want to talk about is the glorious whizzing camera, the freeze-frames and jump cuts. That may be why young film enthusiasts are so turned on by Scorsese’s work: they don’t just respond to his films, they want to be him. When Orson Welles made Touch of Evil, the filmmaking process just about took over – that movie was one flourish after another. But that was 1958, and making a thriller about your own wallowing love of the film medium was a thrilling stunt.

Dances With Wolves
There’s nothing affected about Costner’s acting or directing. You hear his laid-back, surfer accent; you see his deliberate goofy faints and falls, and all the closeups of his handsomeness. This epic was made by a bland megalomaniac. (The Indians should have named him Plays with Camera.)

Kael on Cult Cinema

[This wandering examination provides an interesting snapshot of Kael’s view of cinema closing out the 60s. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid: The Bottom of the Pit,” by Pauline Kael, originally published in The New Yorker, September 27, 1969. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 329-333. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


A college-professor friend of mind in San Francisco who has always tried to stay in tune with his students looked at his class recently and realized it has time to take off his beads. There he was, a superannuated flower child wearing last year’s talismans, and the young had become austere, even puritanical. Movies and, even more, movie audiences have been changing. The art houses are now (for the first time) dominated by American movies, and the young audiences waiting outside, sitting on the sidewalk or standing in line, are no longer waiting for just entertainment. They waiting together may itself be part of the feeling of community, and they go inside almost for sacramental purposes. For all the talk (and fear) of ritual participation in the “new” theatre, it is really taking place on a national scale in the movie houses, at certain American films that might be called cult films, though they have probably become cult films because they are the most interesting films around.

What is new about Easy Rider is not necessarily that one finds its attitudes appealing but that the movie conveys the mood of the drug culture with such skill and in such full belief that these simplicities are the truth that one can understand why these attitudes are appealing to others. Easy Rider is an expression and a confirmation of how this audience feels; the movie attracts a new kind of “inside” audience, whose members enjoy tuning in together to a whole complex of shared signals and attitudes. And although one may be uneasy over the satisfaction the audience seems to receive from responding to the general masochism and to the murder of Captain America, the movie obviously rings true to the audience’s vision. It’s even cool to believe in purity and sacrifice. Those of us who reject the heroic central character and the statements of Easy Rider may still be caught by something edgy and ominous in it – the acceptance of the constant danger of sudden violence. We’re not sure how much of this paranoia isn’t paranoia.

Some of the other cult films try to frighten us but are too clumsy to, though they succeed in doing something else. One has only to talk with some of the people who have seen Midnight Cowboy, for example, to be aware that what they care about is not the camera and editing pyrotechnics; they are indifferent to all that by now routine filler. John Schlesinger in Midnight Cowboy and, at a less skillful level, Larry Peerce in Goodbye, Columbus hedge their bets by using cutting and camera techniques to provide a satirical background as a kind of enrichment of the narrative and theme. But it really cheapens and impoverishes their themes. … If Schlesinger could extend the same sympathy to the other Americans that he extends to Joe Buck and Ratso, the picture might make better sense; the point of the picture must surely be to give us some insight into these derelicts – two of the many kinds of dreamers and failures in the city. Schlesinger keeps pounding away at America, determined to expose how horrible the people are, to dehumanize the people these two are part of. The spray of venom in these pictures is so obviously the directors’ way of showing off that we begin to discount it. To varying degrees, these films share the paranoid view of America of Easy Rider – and they certainly reinforce it for the audience – but what the audience really reacts to in Midnight Cowboy is the two lost, lonely men finding friendship. …

At Midnight Cowboy, in the midst of all the grotesque shock effects and the brutality of the hysterical, superficial satire of America, the audiences, wiser, perhaps, than the director, are looking for human feelings – the simple, Of Mice and Men. kind of relationship at the heart of it. Maybe they wouldn’t accept the simple theme so readily in a simpler setting, because it might look square, but it’s what they’re taking from the movie. They’re looking for “truth” – for some signs of emotion, some evidence of what keeps people together. The difference between the old audiences and the new ones is that the old audiences wanted immediate gratification and used to get restless and bored when a picture didn’t click along; these new pictures don’t click all along, yet the young audiences stay attentive. They’re eager to respond, to love it – eager to feel.

Although young movie audiences are far more sentimental now than they were a few years ago (Frank Capra, whose softheaded populism was hooted at in college film societies in the fifties, has become a new favorite at U.C.L.A.), there is this new and good side to sentimentality. They are going to movies looking for feelings that will help synthesize their experience, and they appear to be willing to feel their way along with a movie like Arthur Penn’s Alice’s Restaurant, which is also trying to feel its way. I think we (from this point I include myself, because I share these attitudes) are desperate for some sensibility in movies, and that’s why we’re so moved by the struggle toward discovery in Alice’s Restaurant, despite how badly done the film is.

I think one would have to lie to say that Alice’s Restaurant is formally superior to the new Western Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. In formal terms, neither is very good. But Alice’s Restaurant is a groping attempt to express something, and Butch Cassidy is a glorified vacuum. Movies can be enjoyed for the quality of their confusions and failures, and that’s the only way you can enjoy some of them now. Emotionally, I stayed with Penn during the movie, even though I thought that many of the scenes in it where inept or awful, and that several of the big set pieces were expendable (to put it delicately). But we’re for him, and that’s what carries the movie. Conceptually, it’s unformed, with the director trying to discover his subject as well as its meaning and his own attitudes. And, maybe for the first time, there’s an audience for American pictures which is willing to accept this.

Not every movie has to matter; generally we go hoping just to be relaxed and refreshed. But because most of the time we come out slugged and depressed, I think we care far more now about the reach for something. We’ve simply spent too much time at the movies made by people who didn’t enjoy themselves and who didn’t respect themselves or us, and we rarely enjoy ourselves at their movies anymore. They’re big catered affairs, and we’re humiliated to be among their guests. I look at the list of movies playing, and most of them I genuinely just can’t face, because odds are so strong that they’re going to be the same old insulting failed entertainment, and, even though I have had more of a bellyful than most people, I’m sure this isn’t just my own reaction. Practically everybody I know feels the same way. This may seem an awfully moral approach, but it comes out of surfeit and aesthetic disgust. There’s something vital to enjoyment which we haven’t been getting much of. Playfulness? Joy? Perhaps even honest cynicism? What’s missing isn’t anything as simple as talent; there’s lots of talent, even on TV. But the business conditions of moviemaking have soured the spirit of most big movies. That’s why we may be wiling to go along with something as strained and self-conscious as Alice’s Restaurant. And it’s an immensely hopeful sign that the audience isn’t derisive, that it wishes the movie well.

All this is, in a way, part of the background of why, after a few minutes of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, I began to get that depressed feeling, and, after a half hour, felt rather offended. We all know how the industry men think: they’re going to make “now” movies when now is already then, they’re going to give us orgy movies and plush skinflicks, and they’ll be trying to fed youth’s paranoia when youth will, one hopes, have has it off like last year’s beads. …

Being interested in good movies doesn’t preclude enjoying many kinds of crummy movies, but maybe it does preclude acceptance of this enervated, sophisticated business venture – a movie made by those whose talents are a little high for mere commercial movies but who don’t break out of the mold. They’re trying for something more clever than is attempted in most commercial jobs, and it’s all so archly empty – Conrad Hall’s virtuoso cinematography providing constant in-and-out-of-focus distraction, Goldman’s decorative little conceits passing for dialogue. It’s all posh and josh, without any redeeming energy or crudeness.

Much as I dislike the smugness of Puritanism in the arts, after watching a put-on rape and Conrad Hall’s Elvira Madigan lyric interlude (and to our own Mozart – Burt Bacharach) I began to long for something simple and halfway felt. If you can’t manage genuine sophistication, you may be better off simple. And when you’re as talented as these fellows, perhaps it’s necessary to descend into yourself sometime and try to find out what you’re doing – maybe, even, to risk banality, which is less objectionable than this damned waggishness. …

One can’t just take the new cult movies head on and relax, because they’re too confused. Intentions stick out, as in the thirties message movies, and you may be so aware of what’s wrong with the movies while you’re seeing them that you’re pulled in different directions, but if you reject them because of the confusions, you’re rejecting the most hopeful symptoms of change. Just when there are audiences who may be ready for something, the studios seem to be backing away, because they don’t understand what these audiences want. The audiences themselves don’t know, but they’re looking for something at the movies.

This transition into the seventies is maybe the most interesting as well as the most confusing period in American movie history, yet there’s a real possibility that, because the tastes of the young audience are changing so fast, that already tottering studios will decide to minimize risks and gear production straight to the square audience and the networks. That square audience is far more alienated than the young on – so alienated that it isn’t looking for anything at the movies.

Kael on Criticism

[On what would have been Pauline Kael’s 90th birthday, it’s appropriate we get some of her thoughts on criticism. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Replying to Listeners,” by Pauline Kael, originally aired on KPFA, January 1963. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 50-54. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


How completely has mass culture subverted even the role of the critic when listeners suggest that because the movies a critic reviews favorably are unpopular and hard to fine, that the critic must be playing some snobbish game with himself and the public? Why are you listening to a minority radio station like KPFA? Isn’t it because you want something you don’t get on commercial radio? I try to direct you to films that, if you search them out, will give you something you won’t get from The Parent Trap.

You consider it rather “suspect” that I don’t praise more “name” movies. Well, what makes a “name” movie is simply a saturation advertising campaign, the same kind of campaign that puts samples of liquid detergent at your door. The “name” pictures of Hollywood are made the same way they are sold: by pretesting the various ingredients, removing all possible elements that might affront the mass audience, adding all possible elements that will titillate the largest number of people. As the CBS television advertising slogan put it – “Titillate – and dominate.” …

I try not to waste air time discussing obviously bad movies – popular though they may be; and I don’t discuss unpopular bad movies because you’re not going to see them anyway; and there wouldn’t be much point or sport in hitting people who are already down. I do think it’s important to take time on movies which are inflated by critical acclaim and which some of you might assume to be the films to see.

There were some extraordinarily unpleasant anonymous letters after the last broadcast on The New American Cinema. Some were obscene; the wittiest called me a snail eating the tender leaves off young artists. I recognize your assumptions: the critic is supposed to be rational, clever, heartless and empty, envious of the creative fire of the artist, and if the critic is a woman, she is supposed to be cold and castrating. The artist is supposed to be delicate and sensitive and in need of tender care and nourishment. Well, this nineteenth-century romanticism is pretty silly in twentieth-century Bohemia.

I regard criticism as an art, and if in this country and in this age it is practices with honest, it is no more remunerative than the work of an avant-garde film artist. My dear anonymous letter writers, if you think it is so easy to be a critic, so difficult to be a poet or a painter or a film experimenter, may I suggest you try both? You may discover why there are so few critics, so many poets.

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part IV (Worthwhile)

[Condensing this piece of classic Kael was a serious challenge; I’ve left a lot out, but I think the main arguments are here. In an effort to make it easier for folks to comment on individual arguments, I’m breaking up this excerpt into four parts. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Trash, Art, and the Movies,” by Pauline Kael, originally published in Harper’s, February 1969. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 200-227. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


In American movies what is most often mistaken for artistic quality is box-office success, especially if it’s combined with a genuflection to importance; then you have “a movie the industry can be proud of” like To Kill a Mockingbird or such Academy Award winners as West Side Story, My Fair Lady or A Man for All Seasons. … I’m not sure most movie reviewers consider what they honestly enjoy as being central to criticism. Some at least appear to think that would be relying too much on their own tastes, being too personal instead of being “objective” – relying on the ready-made terms of cultural respectability and on consensus judgment (which, to a rather shocking degree, can be arranged by publicists creating a climate of importance around a movie).

Just as movie directors, as they age, hunger for what was meant by respectability in their youth, and aspire to prestigious cultural properties, so, too, the movie press longs to be elevated in terms of the cultural values of their old high schools. And so they, along with the industry, applaud ghastly “tour-de-force” performances, movies based on “distinguished” stage successes or prize-winning novels, or movies that are “worthwhile,” that make a “contribution” – “serous” messagy movies. This often involves praise of bad moves, or dull movies, or even the praise in good movies of what was the worst in them. …

Does trash corrupt? A nutty Puritanism still flourishes in the arts, not just in the schoolteachers’ approach of wanting art to be “worthwhile,” but in the higher reaches of the audience life with those ideologues who denounce us for enjoying trash as if this enjoyment took us away from the really disturbing, angry new art of our time and somehow destroyed us. If we had to justify our trivial silly pleasures, we’d have a hard time. … I’ve avoided using the term “harmless trash” for movies like The Thomas Crown Affair, because that would put me on the side of the angels – against “harmful trash,” and I don’t honestly know what that is. It’s common for the press to call cheaply made, violent action movies “brutalizing,” but that tells us less about any actual demonstrable effects than about the finicky tastes of the reviewers – who are often highly appreciative of violence in more expensive and “artistic” settings such as Petulia. It’s almost a class prejudice, this assumption that crudely made movies, movies without the look of art, are bad for people.

If there’s a little art in good trash and sometimes even in poor trash, there may be more trash than is generally recognized in some of the most acclaimed “art” movies. Such movies at Petulia and 2001 may be no more than trash in the latest, up-to-the-minute guises, using “artistic techniques” to give trash the look of art. The serious art look may be the attest fashion in expensive trash. All that “art” may be what prevents pictures like these from being enjoyable trash; they’re not honestly crummy, they’re very fancy and they take their crummy ideas seriously. …

Part of the fun of movies is in seeing “what everybody’s talking about,” and if people are flocking to a movie, or if the press can con us into thinking that they are, then ironically, there is a sense in which we want to see it, even if we suspect we won’t enjoy it, because we want to know what’s going on. Even if it’s the worst inflated pompous trash that is the most talked about (and it usually is) and even if that talk is manufactured, we want to see the movies because so many people fall for whatever is talked about that they make the advertisers’ lies true. Movies absorb material from the culture and other arts so fast that some films that have been widely sold become culturally and sociologically important whether they are good movies or not. Movies like Morgan! or Georgy Girl or The Graduate – aesthetically trivial movies which, however, because of the ways some people react to them, enter into the national bloodstream – become cultural and psychological equivalents of watching a political convention, to observe what’s going on. And though this has little to do with the art of movies, it has a great deal to do with the appeal of movies. …

When you’re young the odds are very good that you’ll find something to enjoy in almost any movie. But as you grow more experienced, the odds change. I saw a picture a few years ago that was the sixth version of material that wasn’t much to start with. Unless you’re feebleminded, the odds get worse and worse. … The problem with a popular art form is that those who want something more are in a hopeless minority compared with the millions who are always seeing it for the first time, or for the reassurance and gratification of seeing the conventions fulfilled again. Probably a large part of the older audience gives up movies for this reason – simply that they’ve seen it before.

And probably this is why so many of the best movie critics quit. They’re wrong when they blame it on the movies going bad; it’s the odds becoming so bad, and they can no longer bear the many tedious movies for the few good moments and the tiny shocks of recognition. Some become too tired, too frozen in fatigue, to respond to what is new. Others who do stay awake may become too demanding for the young who are seeing it all for the first hundred times. The critical task is necessarily comparative, and younger people do not truly know what is new. … If we’ve grown up at the movies we know that good work is continuous not with the academic, respectable tradition but with the glimpses of something good in trash, yet we want the subversive gesture carried to the domain of discovery. Trash has given us an appetite for art.


Keep reading Kael on Cinema Trash:
Part I (Art)
Part II (Technique)
Part III (Enjoyment)
Part IV (Worthwhile)

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part III (Enjoyment)

[Condensing this piece of classic Kael was a serious challenge; I’ve left a lot out, but I think the main arguments are here. In an effort to make it easier for folks to comment on individual arguments, I’m breaking up this excerpt into four parts. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Trash, Art, and the Movies,” by Pauline Kael, originally published in Harper’s, February 1969. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 200-227. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


We generally become interested in movies because we enjoy them and what we enjoy them for has little to do with what we think of as art. The movies we respond to, even in childhood, don’t have the same values as the official culture supported at school and in the middle-class home. At the movies we get low life and high life, while David Susskind and the moralistic reviewers chastise us for not patronizing what they think we should, “realistic” movies that would be good for us – like A Raisin in the Sun, where we could learn the lesson that a Negro family can be as dreary as a white family.

Movie audiences will take a lot of garbage, but it’s pretty hard to make us queue up for pedagogy. At the movies we want a different kind of truth, something that surprises us and registers with us as funny or accurate or maybe amazing, maybe even amazingly beautiful. We get little things even in mediocre and terrible movies. … Do we need to lie and shift things to false terms – like those who have to say Sophia Loren is a great actress as if her acting had made her a star? Wouldn’t we rather watch her than better actresses because she’s so incredibly charming and because she’s probably the greatest model the world has ever known? …

Movie art is not the opposite of what we have always enjoyed in the movies, it is not to be found in a return to that official high culture, it is what we have always found good in movies only more so. It’s the subversive gesture carried further, the moments of excitement sustained longer and extended into new meanings. At best, the movie is totally informed by the kind of pleasure we have been taking from bits and pieces of movies. But we are so used to reaching out to the few good bits in a movie that we don’t need formal perfection to be dazzled. There are so many arts and crafts that go into movies and there are so many things that can go wrong that they’re not an art for purists. We want to experience that elation we feel when a movie (or even a performer in a movie) goes farther than we had expected and makes the leap successfully. …

If we go back and think over the movies we’ve enjoyed – even the ones we knew were terrible movies when we enjoyed them – what we enjoying in them, the little part that was good, had, in some rudimentary way, some freshness, some hint of style, some trace of beauty, some audacity, some craziness. …

Keeping in mind that simple, good distinction that all art is entertainment but not all entertainment is art, it might be a good idea to keep in mind also that if a movie is said to be a work of art and you don’t enjoy it, the fault may be in you, but it’s probably in the movie. Because of the money and advertising pressures involved, many reviewers discover a fresh masterpiece every week, and there’s that cultural snobbery, that hunger for respectability that determines the selection of the even bigger annual masterpieces. …

Kicked in the ribs, the press says “art” when “ouch” would be more appropriate. When a director is said to be an artist (generally on the basis of earlier work which the press failed to recognize) and especially when he picks artistic subjects like the pain of creation, there is a tendency to acclaim his new bad work. This way the press, in trying to make up for its past mistakes, manages to be wrong all the time.


Keep reading Kael on Cinema Trash:
Part I (Art)
Part II (Technique)
Part III (Enjoyment)
Part IV (Worthwhile)

Kael on Cinema Trash - Part II (Technique)

[Condensing this piece of classic Kael was a serious challenge; I’ve left a lot out, but I think the main arguments are here. In an effort to make it easier for folks to comment on individual arguments, I’m breaking up this excerpt into four parts. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Trash, Art, and the Movies,” by Pauline Kael, originally published in Harper’s, February 1969. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 200-227. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


People who are just getting “seriously interested” in film always ask a critic, “Why don’t you talk about technique and ‘the visuals’ most?” The answer is that American movie technique is generally more like technology and it usually isn’t very interesting. … The craftsmanship that Hollywood has always used as a selling point not only doesn’t have much to do with art – the expressive use of techniques – it probably doesn’t even have very much to do with actual box-office appeal, either. … If one compares movies one like to movies one doesn’t like, craftsmanship of the big-studio variety is hardly a decisive factor. And if one compares a movie one likes by a competent director such as John Sturges or Franklin Schaffner or John Frankenheimer to a movie one doesn’t much like by the same director, his technique is probably not the decisive factor. …

Technique is hardly worth talking about unless it’s used for something worth doing; that’s why most of the theorizing about the new art of television commercials is such nonsense. The effects are impersonal – dexterous, sometimes clever, but empty of art. It’s because of their emptiness that commercials call so much attention to their camera angles and quick cutting – which is why people get impressed by “the art” of it. Movies are now often made in terms of what television viewers have learned to settle for. …

I don’t mean to suggest that there is not such a thing as movie technique or that craftsmanship doesn’t contribute to the pleasures of movies, but simply that most audiences, if they enjoy the acting and the “story” or the theme of the funny lines, don’t notice or care about how well or how badly the movie is made, and because they don’t care, a hit makes a director a “genius” and everybody talks about his brilliant technique (i.e., the technique of grabbing an audience). … If a movie is interesting primarily in terms of technique then it isn’t worth talking about except to students who can learn from seeing how a good director works. And to talk about a movie like The Graduate in terms of movie technique is really a bad joke. Technique at this level is not of any aesthetic performance; it’s not the ability to achieve what you’re after but the skill to find something acceptable.

One must talk about a film like this in terms of what audiences enjoy it for or one is talking gibberish – and might as well be analyzing the “art” of commercials. And for the greatest movie artists where there is a unity of technique and subject, one doesn’t need to talk about technique much because it has been subsumed in the art. One doesn’t want to talk about how Tolstoy got his effects but about the work itself. One doesn’t want to talk about how Jean Renoir does it; one wants to talk about what he has done. One can try to separate it all out, of course, distinguish form and content for purposes of analysis. But that is a secondary analytic function, a scholarly function, and hardly needs to be done explicitly in criticism. Taking it apart is far less important than trying to see it whole. The critic shouldn’t need to tear a work apart to demonstrate that he knows how it was put together. The important thing is to convey what is new and beautiful in the work, not how it was made – which is more or less implicit. …

The new tribalism in the age of the media is not necessarily the enemy of commercialism; it is a direct outgrowth of commercialism and its ally, perhaps even its instrument. If a movie has enough clout, reviewers and columnists who were bored are likely to give it another chance, until on the second or third viewing, they discover that it affects them “viscerally” – and a big expensive movie is likely to do just that.


Keep reading Kael on Cinema Trash:
Part I (Art)
Part II (Technique)
Part III (Enjoyment)
Part IV (Worthwhile)

Kael on Cinema Trash – Part I (Art)

[Condensing this piece of classic Kael was a serious challenge; I’ve left a lot out, but I think the main arguments are here. In an effort to make it easier for folks to comment on individual arguments, I’m breaking up this excerpt into four parts. Please read and react in the comments section. Let's get a discussion going!]

The following is excerpted from “Trash, Art, and the Movies,” by Pauline Kael, originally published in Harper’s, February 1969. It has been anthologized in For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies, pages 200-227. (In some cases, paragraph breaks and ellipsis have been added. All other punctuation is faithful to For Keeps.)


A good movie can take you out of your dull funk and the hopelessness that so often goes with slipping into a theatre; a good movie can make you feel alive again, in contact, not just lost in another city. Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again. If somewhere in the Hollywood-entertainment world someone has managed to break through with something that speaks to you, then it isn’t all corruption. The movie doesn’t have to be great; it can be stupid and empty and you can still have the joy of a good performance, or the joy in just a good line. An actors’ scowl, a small subversive gesture, a dirty remark that someone tosses off with a mock-innocent face, and the world makes a little bit of sense. Sitting there alone or painfully alone because those with you do not react as you do, you know there must be others perhaps in this very theatre or in this city, surely in other theatres in other cities, now, in the past or future, who react as you do. And because movies are the most total and encompassing art form we have, these reactions can seem the most personal and, maybe most important, imaginable. The romance of movies is not just in those stories and those people on the screen but in the adolescent dream of meeting others who feel as you do about what you’ve seen. You do meet them, of course, and you know each other at once because you talk less about good movies than about what you love in bad movies.

There is so much talk now about the art of the film that we may be in danger of forgetting that most of the movies we enjoy are not works of art. … It’s not so terrible – it might even be a relief – for a movie to be without the look of art; there are much worse things aesthetically than the crude good-natured crumminess, the undisguised reach for a fast buck, of movies without art. From I Was a Teen-Age Werewolf through the beach parties to Wild in the Streets and The Savage Seven, American International Pictures has sold a cheap commodity, which in its lack of artistry and in its blatant and sometimes funny way of delivering action serves to remind us that one of the great appeals of movies is that we don’t have to take them too seriously. …

But though I don’t enjoy a movie so obvious and badly done as the American International hit, The Wild Angels, it’s easy to see why kids do and why many people in other countries do. Their reasons are basically why we all started going to the movies. After a time, we may want more, but audiences who have been forced to wade through the thick middle-class padding of more expensively made movies to get to the action enjoy the nose-thumbing at “good taste” of cheap movies that stick to the raw materials. At some basic level they like the pictures to be cheaply done, they enjoy the crudeness; it’s a breather, a vacation from proper behavior and good taste and required responses. Patrons of burlesque applaud politely for the graceful erotic dancer but go wild for the lewd lummox who bangs her big hips around. That’s what they go to the burlesque for.

Personally, I hope for a reasonable minimum of finesse, and movies like Planet of the Apes or The Scalphunters or The Thomas Crown Affair seem to me minimal entertainment for a relaxed evening’s pleasure. These are, to use traditional common-sense language, “good movies” or “good bad movies” – slick, reasonably inventive, well-crafted. They are not art. But they are almost the maximum of what we’re now getting from American movies, and not only these but much worse movies are talked about as “art” – and are beginning to be taken seriously in our schools.

It’s preposterously egocentric to call anything we enjoy art – as if we could not be entertained by it if it were not; it’s just as preposterous to let prestigious, expensive advertising snow us into thinking we’re getting art for our money when we haven’t even had a good time. I did have a good time at Wild in the Streets, which is more than I can say for Petulia or 2001 or a lot of other highly praised pictures. Wild in the Streets is not a work of art, but then I don’t think Petulia or 2001 is either, though Petulia has that kaleidoscopic hip look and 2001 that new-techniques look which combined with “swinging” or “serious” ideas often pass for modern picture art.

Let’s clear away a few misconceptions. Movies make hash of the schoolmarm’s approach of how well the artist fulfilled his intentions. Whatever the original intention of the writers and director, it is usually supplanted, as the production gets under way, by the intention to make money – and the industry judges the film by how well it fulfills that intention. But if you could see the “artist’s intentions” you’d probably wish you couldn’t anyway. Nothing is so deathly to enjoyment as the relentless march of a movie to fulfill its obvious purpose. This is, indeed, almost a defining characteristic of the hack director, as distinguished from an artist.

The intention to make money is generally all too obvious. One of the excruciating comedies of our time is attending the new classes in cinema at the high schools where the students may quite shrewdly and accurately interpret the plot developments in a mediocre movie in terms of manipulation for a desired response while the teacher tries to explain everything in terms of the creative artist working out his theme – as if the conditions under which a movie is made and the market for which it is designed were irrelevant, as if the latest product from Warners or Universal should be analyzed like a lyric poem.


Keep reading Kael on Cinema Trash:
Part I (Art)
Part II (Technique)
Part III (Enjoyment)
Part IV (Worthwhile)