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My magical movie mystery tour | page 1, 2, 3, 4
I am interviewed at length by the Sunday Telegraph about religion and make my central ideological point that modern Hollywood is in the main line of ancient paganism. Then I dash to a nearby mews to videotape an introduction for the NFT screening of Losey's "Accident" (1967). Invoking the campy preludes to "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" (a beloved TV show of my youth), I dodge speeding black taxicabs and red Royal Mail trucks to sing the praises of this superb but neglected film, which begins and ends with the sound of a car crash. Lunch at a gourmet pizzeria with the core group of the British Film Institute with whom I worked for my book on Hitchcock's "The Birds." I am overjoyed to hear that the bloom is off the Paltrow rose in England after Miss Gwyneth "blubbed" her way through her Oscar acceptance speech. At lunch last year at this very restaurant, it was heavy going as I argued that Paltrow has the depth of a spoon. Once again, I am met with total bafflement by the wait staff when I request red pepper flakes for my pizza -- a standard Neapolitan condiment that apparently has never wafted across the English Channel. Feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey, now teaching at the University of London, also comes to lunch and mentions that she has never seen "Auntie Mame" and in fact had never even heard of it. Since "Auntie Mame" has dominated my life and consciousness with biblical power for over 40 years, I am struck yet again by the divergence of my basic premises from those of most feminists. As an Amazon with the brain of a pre-Stonewall gay man, I can scarcely be surprised at always being odd man out of every group. After lunch, I address a large seminar of BFI staff about my principles of film criticism and my view of the current stagnation in filmmaking. Feathers visibly ruffle when I scorn the pre-World War II Frankfurt School of criticism as totally useless when dealing with American popular culture and laud instead my major North American influences -- Marshall McLuhan, Parker Tyler and Andy Warhol. I proclaim that Pauline Kael and early Andrew Sarris are much more to be valued than the ponderous, outdated Theodor Adorno. Camille Does the Movies: Program notes
Listen to Camille Paglia on Real Audio: The death of TV soap opera's
Back at the NFT, I am given a tour of the spacious projection booth, but my glee is nipped in the bud by the terrorizing news that two reels of "Persona" didn't leave Newcastle yesterday and had to be rescued today by emergency lorry. All is well, however, with the evening screening of the film, which looks fabulous. Brian Robinson explains how the NFT's projection system -- in equipment, range and screen quality -- brings out every detail of Sven Nyquist's stunning high-contrast black-and-white cinematography. My lecture (including choreographic scene reenactment) and the questions from the very sophisticated audience go on and on until Brian must bring the evening to a halt so the theater can close. My call for broadening the cultural education of young artists seems to have been well-received. Andy Martin (my co-host for last year's NFT screening of "The Birds") has come down from Cambridge for "Persona," and we all traipse off for a midnight meal in Soho, where I am bemused by the many men affectionately kissing -- a far cry indeed from the tense, buff parade of U.S. gay life. Wed., June 9 I fly home amid a heightened security alert at Heathrow, with purse searches and prison-style pat-downs. "Camille Does the Movies" is continuing, partly in reruns, for another week without me. After "Accident" tonight, "Valley of the Dolls" (1967) will be shown next Wednesday with Glenn Belverio's short "Glennda and Camille Do Downtown" (1993). My 13-part series concludes on June 17 with "Niagara" (1953), starring bad girl Marilyn Monroe: This full-color film noir, I say in the program notes, "unveils the power of nature, which is far greater than that of any political regime. Sex itself is torrential here, destroying all in its path." On the plane, I watch a series of recent movies with open disgust -- "Shakespeare in Love," "You've Got Mail" and "Analyze This." After the masterpieces at the National Film Theatre, the dialogue, acting, photography and editing are unbearably ugly. Then Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange" (1971) begins, and my eye is ravished anew. What style and panache! I burn with indignation: How can we get interesting, enduring films out of talented young people these days if they never see great films in fresh, sharp prints on real movie screens? What the hell has the National Endowment for the Arts been doing with its money? We need a nationally funded film consortium that will deal aggressively with this cultural crisis. America, which invented Hollywood, is squandering its artistic heritage. Fri., June 11 Two days after my return from London, Alison and I go see "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace." It's so stupid, inept and visually dull that I fall fast asleep halfway through. I dream, of course, of Julie Christie, Jeanne Moreau and a paradise of film reborn.
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