And then there are the critics, who just sort of fade out
When a big-name actor kicks the bucket, there’s always this heavy, somber echo. Actors get this special pass—they get the spotlight in life and the eulogies in death. When a director dies, we immediately start composing a requiem. Film buffs and cult followers go into mourning. But a screenwriter? If they pass away, you’ll barely see a mention in the daily papers. Same goes for the composer. It feels like some weird oversight, or maybe a tiny smudge on our collective memory, where we somehow forget to honor the writers, the musicians, the editors, the makeup wizards, or the guys behind the practical effects and electronic tricks. Even the masters of the lens—those poets of light, the Rembrandts of celluloid—often find themselves without so much as a passing obituary.
As for film critics? Well, they die too, obviously. They can churn out hundreds of obituaries for moving image artists, but when they head off to the Great Beyond (where, presumably, they can finally watch movies and hang out with the legendary actors and directors they actually liked...), they vanish into a conspiracy of silence. No mention at all. It’s the same story here in America. Our domestic film criticism is basically just a mirror reflecting the chronic ailments of the American cinematic landscape.
But let's skip the useless, dreary mourning sessions. Let's head over to the States with a sense of genuine respect and sympathy for the passing of Pauline Kael, the undisputed queen of American film criticism. Her death back in 2001 was a massive, devastating blow to film criticism itself, and to cinema as a whole.
Pauline Kael (June 19, 1919 – September 3, 2001) was the legendary force behind *The New Yorker* from 1968 until she retired in 1991. She was a critical superstar, which was a rare breed even in America; her sharp, provocative columns were a North Star for intellectual cinephiles and devoted readers alike.
Kael’s prose had this electric energy to it. One moment her sentences were soaring in a euphoria of praise, and the next, they were turning into steel-edged fury born of disappointment. It grabbed you, annoyed you, seduced you, and pushed you.
Peter Matthews, a professor of film studies at Middlesex University, once described Kael’s writing as "Dionysian prose." Beyond being a clever metaphor, that term really gets to the heart of her approach. She was a passionate critic with a powerhouse personality. She possessed virtues and traits that most American film critics couldn't muster if their lives depended on it. Unlike the infamous Bosley Crowther over at *The New York Times*—who was essentially the chief executioner of American films from the 40s through the late 60s due to his fear of powerful producers—Kael had a broader vision, more sensitivity, and lacked that occasionally sadistic malice Crowther was known for.
Bertolucci as Stravinsky
Now, the fans of restraint, stuffiness, neutrality, and all those other hallmarks of "dead air" didn't care for her style or her way of looking at movies. She wasn't interested in playing it safe. She would watch a film exactly once and immediately drop a review. She maintained that exclusivity—which, let's be honest, isn't easy or even particularly advisable—throughout her entire career. She championed Altman, Scorsese, and Coppola, and she caused quite a stir with her take on the hardcore porn flick *Deep Throat*.
She didn't give a damn about trends or the "gods" of art house cinema. Someone like Antonioni or Resnais wouldn't catch her eye; to Kael, Resnais was just a common fraud in an ice palace (specifically regarding *Last Year at Marienbad*). She preferred the warm humanism of everyday life, much like the work of Renoir.
We recently caught *Last Tango in Paris* on TV. When Kael saw it back in 1972, she compared its importance and transformative power to Igor Stravinsky's *The Rite of Spring*. Comparing Bertolucci to Stravinsky? Plenty of people think that was just an iconoclastic critic's delusion, but that’s what she believed, that’s what she wrote, and she never took it back. With Pauline Kael, the golden age of twentieth-century American film criticism died.
In the US, Kael's influence was significant, though perhaps slightly less pervasive than her old rival Andrew Sarris. Today, however, her kind of influence is non-existent. That specific blend of personality, conviction, competence, dignity, and passion is completely missing from most modern American critics. On our networks, we mostly see paid promoters masquerading as critics. Writing about film today feels more like writing about fashion runways, jewelry, perfumes, or men's accessories than actual professional criticism. Instead, the field is dominated by greasy internet trolls and contributors to tabloid-style rags who try to pass off gossip as film analysis.
Honestly, to recover from such absolute garbage writing, I’m thinking we should grab a copy of Pauline Kael’s "I Lost It at the Movies" and pair it with some top-shelf cognac. Maybe then we can pray for some heavenly peace for poor Pauline.
peace out
