Dargis Crosses The Feminist Rubicon

It is my earnest opinion that N.Y. Times critic Manohla Dargis used to be one of the very best in all respects. I’m a serious longtime fan, as I first began savoring her critiques when she wrote for the L.A. Weekly. And I still get the tingles when I re-read her N.Y. Times review (8.6.04) of Michael Mann‘s Collateral. But time passed, Trump came along, #MeToo was born, a domestic version of China’s Great Cultural Revolution of the ’60s kicked in, and Dargis turned woke.

I won’t present a chapter-and-verse dossier that shows exactly where Dargis seemed to turn the corner, but it was roughly around the time when the Times seemed to ease up on its commitment to redefining or re-enforcing its sterling Gray Lady reputation and instead became a woke activist newspaper committed to progressive change. The publishing of the 1619 Project, the resignation of James Bennet and Bari Weiss, the firing of Donald McNeil Jr. and so on.

I’m certainly no final arbiter, but to me and others, Dargis (along with co-critic A.O. Scott) seemed to increasingly side with the wokes.

Friendo: “Woke…yup. Her and Tony. And so we no longer trust them as critics. We don’t trust their lists, their reviews, etc.”

I’m mentioning this because eight days ago (1.26) the Times posted a long Dargis essay titled “For the First Time Ever, I’m Optimistic About Women in the Movie World.” It was basically a celebration of the increasing presence of women filmmakers…fine. 12 years ago “women comprised 7 percent of all directors working on the Top 250 films of 2009,” according to an annual report on women in film from researcher Martha M. Lauzen, and now, according to Lauzen’s 2022 study, “women accounted for 18 percent of directors working on the Top 250 films.”

Which is obviously encouraging, although that percentage could and should be higher, providing, I should add, that future women-directed films are at least partly in the region of Kathryn Bigelow‘s game-changing The Hurt Locker, say, and less in the camp of Sarah Polley‘s Women Talking.

But as I read the Dargis piece I began muttering to myself, ‘This is basically a pep-rally manifesto…an article that says “yay team, hooray for our side, we’re gaining in power and influence…representation!’

It felt less like an essay by a brilliant film critic whose primary allegiance was to the Universal Church of Cinema — something personal, soaring, nervy, revelatory, exacto-knifey — and more like an eloquent political pamphlet piece…a political speech that might have been delivered by Dargis at a recent Women in Film gathering, say, or submitted as a possible chapter in an anthology book about the growing community of brand-name women filmmakers.

Do film critics have to constantly criticize or take down or scold? No — it’s not only fine but necessary, most of us would agree, to celebrate what seems like positive or at least hopeful change in the film industry. Same deal if Andrew Sarris or Pauline Kael had written a 1969 Film Comment piece about the exciting new energy coming out of Hollywood since the smash success of Easy Rider, say. All to the good.

But Dargis’ cheerleader piece really didn’t feel like the Dargis of yore. It felt wokey-wokey and perhaps even Elmer Gantry-ish on a certain level. (Not in a hucksterish sense but with a certain fundamentalist revival-tent feeling.)

It almost seemed as if Dargis was saying in subtext, “I’m not just feeling good about the increasing power of women filmmakers, but also…I want to say this carefully…I’m also sensing a primal change within myself. I feel as if I’ve crossed over in a Malcolm X-meets-#MeToo sort of way…I used to be a disciple of Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam, to to speak, but three of four years ago I began to gradually convert to the Sunni faith, and my spirit has led me in new directions.”

In other words, Dargis seemed to be saying “I used to be a ‘film critic but since 2019 or thereabouts — and I mean this in the manner of Thomas Becket‘s admission to Henry II by way of Jean Anouilh — I have become introduced to greater responsibilities.”

Hauser vs. DargisScott Eccentricity,” posted roughly a year ago.

Over the last three or four years Dargis and Scott’s critical judgments, to borrow a phrase from Scott’s 2001 Pearl Harbor review, have been “strenuously respectful of contemporary sensitivities.”

Many of the comments about Dargis’s piece were, as you might expect, strident: “Very confused why the N.Y. Times needs to take 2,500 words to tell me I should feel optimistic that ‘in 2022 women accounted for 18 percent of directors working at the top of their field.’ So 1/2 of the population getting to speak for 1/5 of the time gives us the healthiest and most dynamic picture of modern life and reflects a value system we don’t actively have to worry about, for now…forgive me for still being worried.”

Only One Hothouse Flower

The only hothouse flower among the current Best Picture contenders, arguably, is Sarah Polley’s Women Talking, and we all know that hayloft talkathon never had a snowball’s chance in hell — it was nominated purely for the sake of #MeToo tokenism.

Nobody Wants To Remember

…and the Charlie’s Angels hey-hey peaked 45 years ago so it doesn’t matter to under-40s or anyone else for that matter, but my God, that show was beyond reprehensible in its absolute disregard for even a semblance of realism of any kind, and its general embrace of sterility/puerility. It was Velveeta, and that didn’t stop anything. It ran between ‘76 and ‘81.

If only Aaron Spelling had instead produced Quentin Tarantino’s Fox Force Five. Ironically, I mean. With QT- level dialogue.

Marlowe In A Pot Haze, A Bit Lazy and Distracted But Going Through The Motions

I stopped getting high in 1974, and that decision came none too soon. It was time to get real and focused and stop farting around, and try to make movie journalism happen.

It took another five or six years to find my feet in that regard, but that’s writing for you — unless you’re a genius (which I’m not) it can take as much as a decade to become even half-proficient at it.

Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye, which I’ve seen countless times, opened on 3.7.73. Film-wise the glorious ‘70s were still happening, but it all began to change in 1974, and if there’s one film from that fairly turbulent and convulsive year (Nixon resignation, close to the end of the great ‘70s film era with Jaws and Star Wars right around the bend, not to mention the beginnings of disco and punk) that has genuine staying power, it’s this one — a year ahead of schedule.

Altman was a serious pot-head, of course, and his hot-streak films (late ‘60s to late ‘70s) reflect that proclivity as well as the times — deconstructing, alternating, exploring, goofing off and playing it by ear.

The difference on my end was that in ‘73 I was starting to think about shirking all that and cleaning out all the closets. So I wasn’t really on Altman’s wavelength, and yet I love The Long Goodbye for all the ways that it captured in amber what the early to mid ‘70s felt and sounded and smelled like.

Altman’s primary motivation wasn’t to deride and dismiss Raymond Chandler’s hard-bitten shamus. He merely decided, quite sensibly, to make a private detective film within the realm of ‘74 (counter culture giving way to Me Generation narcissism, Nixon collapse, hash brownies, sinking into cynicism, anti-traditional you-name-it) and that meant, obviously, that the 1940s version of Phillip Marlowe (as interpreted by Humphrey Bogart and Dick Powell) no longer existed and had to be jettisoned.

What took its place was something vaguely stoned and misty — dry mockery and improvisation and a laid-back Zen cat attitude on the part of Elliott Gould. It all added up to “all those hard-boiled, tough-guy cliches no longer apply…maybe they never did…everything is shifting, devolving, being re-defined.”

Altman was always about poking the bear and trying to catch the wind, and he was never into genre stuff. He may have mainly wanted to dig down and deconstruct and have fun, but he also wanted to craft a Marlowe film that would reflect and comment upon what was happening back then — culturally, spiritually, morally.

Altman called The Long Goodbye “ a satire in melancholy.”

Except for the lampooning of gangster tropes by way of those goons who work for Mark Rydell’s Marty Augustine, the satire works. Plus Vilmos Zsigmond’s constantly slow-tracking, circular-arc camera, the 1948 Lincoln Continental, the Malibu security guard with the movie-star impressions, Khoury brand cat food, “Hooray for Hollywood,” etc.

Heavily accented Mexican official: “When did you last speak with the deceased?”

Gould: “The diseased? Yeah, right.”

John Ford Reville

2.1.23 Facebook post by Joseph MccBride: “Today, February 1, we celebrate the birthday (in 1894) of the world’s greatest filmmaker, John Ford, born John Martin Feeney in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. There is no director whose films I return to more often and with more pleasure and insight than those of Ford.”

I Cast You Out, Unclean Spirit

It took me too long to watch Josh Seftel‘s Stranger at the Gate, a 26-minute doc that’s been nominated for a Best Documentary Short Film Oscar.

I finally saw it last night, and I immediately understood. The filmmaking chops aren’t the thing, although it’s an intelligent, well-ordered effort from start to finish. The thing is the narrative — what actually happened with Richard (Mac) McKinney, a former Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan, developed PTSD and acute Islamophobia. He was so consumed that he decided to kill dozens of Muslims on a local mosque in his home town of Muncie, Indiana, but it didn’t work out that way.

The why and how of McKinney’s change of heart is what turns the key…what makes the watching of this film fairly close to sublime. Please submit to it — it’s only a half-hour, and it really has an effect by the end.

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Forgiven

I was sometimes a rebellious and hair-trigger type during my senior year in Wilton High School. I goofed around, was given detention a few times. I was busted for smoking once in the men’s room, and also in the women’s room.

The notion in the latter case was that I’d be less likely to be found out if I was catching a smoke wih the girls, who were totally cool with me by the way. But I was popped regardless, and the vice-principal and head disciplinarian, Richard Sell, made a point of carefully interviewing the girls who were in the bathroom at the time, wanting to know if I had behaved in an inappropriate fashion. They all said “nope.”

I nonetheless had a checkered history with Sell, and it all came to a climax sometime in April or May. An altercation of some kind happened. Disobedience over something. Sell startled me by grabbing my arm, and I, being an idiot, pushed back hard, knocking him off balance. You don’t do that to the vice-principal of your high school, but I wasn’t an emotionally mature fellow back then, to put it mildly.

A case could have been made, in fact, that I’d flat-out struck the poor guy, and that wouldn’t have meant suspension but expulsion. But you know what? Dick Sell let it go. With the wisdom of Solomon he graciously and compassionately let me slide. I was filled with enormous gratitude for this, and I’ve never forgotten it. I was facing the electric chair, and Dick gave me parole.

Big Bad Wolf

Robert Altman‘s The Long Goodbye (’74), 4:03:

Marty Augustine (Mark Rydell): And I understand you…you’re nervous.
Phillip Marlowe (Elliott Gould): I’m not nervous.
Augustine: Yes, you are. You’re nervous like I am. When I was a kid in high school [and] I used to dread gym class. Absolutely dread it.
Marlowe: Why was that?
Augustine: Because I didn’t have any pubic hair until I was 15 years old.
Marlowe: Oh, yeah? You musta looked like one of three little pigs.

Kim Morgan, Elliott Gould outside the New BevMonday, 1.30.23.