San Diego Reader
A Tribute to Pauline Kael
ByÂ David Elliott | Published Wednesday, Aug. 31, 2011
Amid the 9/11 memorials, another salute is needed. This Saturday, September 3, marks a decade since Pauline Kael died at 82.
She retired in 1991, ending 24 years as movie critic of The New Yorker. Her long illness, Parkinsonâ€™s, was finally merciful in one way â€” it spared her by eight days the awful vision (worse than any possible movie) of the towers falling in Manhattan.
She was a small woman (barely five feet tall) who found her breathy but incisive voice on Bay Area radio, then in print. Kael was past 40 when she first made a living as a critic. But her approach was always youthful, and she happily slaughtered cant in all directions.
A Kael review X-rayed the film, the cultural moment, and herself. No critic went deeper into actors, violence, the sensuality of a film, or how movies reveal trends, moods, social truths, moral squirms, private dreams. She found consensus-thinking gutless and would have been appalled by the philistinism that has turned so much film coverage into a shallow echo of publicity.
Kael could falter, as when she scolded the liberating Cold War effect of Dr. Strangelove. She had some pet favorites, such as her glandular enthusiasm for Brian De Palmaâ€™s work. But while championing Woody Allen, Francis Coppola, Bette Midler, Richard Pryor, Sam Peckinpah, and Robert Altman, she also had the integrity to note their failures.
I knew Pauline, and our humor clicked. If you didnâ€™t hem-and-haw or get pompous, she was welcoming and often very funny. I never saw the point to joining the satellite circle of devotees whom disparagers called Paulettes. It is hard to criticize anything if you write in the shadow of another critic. Criticism is, by nature, a lonely trade.
Kaelâ€™s enemies tended to be rather academic and in 1980 were thrilled by critic Renata Adlerâ€™s long, pedantic broadside against her. But Adler never engaged the real deal, the woman who always had a trump card: she was our best writer on movies. Here is a sampler from Pauline Kaelâ€™s great compendium For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies:
â€œWayne has a beautiful horse in this one, but when heâ€™s hoisted onto it and you hear the thud, you donâ€™t know whether to feel sorrier for man or beast.â€ â€” El Dorado, 1967
â€œThe â€˜messageâ€™ of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl is that talent is beauty. And that isnâ€™t some comforting message for plain people, itâ€™s what show business is all about.â€ â€” Funny Girl, 1968
â€œThe Thomas Crown Affair is pretty good trash, but we shouldnâ€™t convert what we enjoy it for into false terms derived from our study of the other arts. Thatâ€™s being false to what we enjoy. If it was priggish for an older generation of reviewers to be ashamed of what they enjoyed, and to feel that they had to be contemptuous of popular entertainment, itâ€™s even more priggish for a new movie generation to be so proud of what they enjoy that they use their education to place trash within the acceptable academic tradition.â€ â€” â€œTrash, Art, and the Movies,â€ 1969
â€œEven if youâ€™re prepared for dirndls and roguish smiles, youâ€™re not likely to be ready for the distorted sound, the pasty-pudgy faces, and the bewildering use of dance as if it were mood music…. The movie is of an unbelievable badness; it brings back clichÃ©s you didnâ€™t know you knew [and] seems to have been made by trolls.â€ â€” Song of Norway, 1970
â€œThere is a sweet, naÃ¯ve feeling to the movie even when itâ€™s violent and melodramatic and atrocious…. This may be the first movie in which a rape victim talks about what happened to her in terms of a specific feminine anger at her violation. Delores Taylor speaks haltingly in a sing-song monotone, and by normal dramatic standards the scene is a drag. Yet it stays with you.â€ â€” Billy Jack, 1971
â€œ[Brando] doesnâ€™t play for statuesque nobility. The light, cracked voice comes out of a twisted mouth and clenched teeth; he has the battered face of a devious, combative old man, and a pugnacious thrust to his jaw. [He] interiorizes Don Vitoâ€™s power, makes him less physically threatening and deeper, hidden within himself.â€ â€” The Godfather, 1972
â€œFor adults, itâ€™s like seeing pieces of your life, and so, of course, you canâ€™t resolve your feelings about it â€” our feelings about life are never resolved.â€ â€” Last Tango in Paris, 1972
â€œIt is probably the best American movie ever made that almost didnâ€™t open in New York. Audiences may have felt theyâ€™d already had it with Elliott Gould. The young men who looked like him in 1971 have gotten cleaned up and barbered and turned into Mark Spitz. But it actually adds poignancy to the film that Gould himself is already an anachronism.â€ â€” The Long Goodbye, 1973
â€œ[Director William] Friedkin, beloved of studio heads for such statements as â€˜Iâ€™m not a thinker,â€™ [said that the novel] took hold of him and made him physically ill. Thatâ€™s the problem with moviemakers who arenâ€™t thinkers; theyâ€™re mentally unprotected. A book like Blattyâ€™s makes them sick, and they think this means they should make everybody sick.â€ â€” The Exorcist, 1974
â€œDirty Harry is still the urban garbage man, cleaning up after us. His implicit justification is, â€˜You in the audience donâ€™t have the guts to do what I do, so donâ€™t criticize me.â€™ He says he does our dirty work for us, and so he invokes our guilt, and we in the audience donâ€™t raise the question: Who asked you to?â€ â€” Magnum Force, 1974
â€œ[Ricardo] Montalbanâ€™s performance doesnâ€™t show a trace of Fantasy Island. Itâ€™s all panache; if he isnâ€™t wearing feathers in his hair you see them there anyway. You know how you always want to laugh at the flourishes that punctuate the end of a flamenco dance, and the dancers donâ€™t let you? Montalban does. His bravado is grandly comic.â€ â€” Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, 1982
â€œI was 16 when Alice Adams was first shown, and during the slapstick dinner-party scene, when Alice was undergoing agonies of comic humiliation, I started up the aisle to leave the theatre and was almost out of the doors before I snapped to my senses, and rushed back and sat down. Something similar happened to me a few days ago, watching Maggie Smithâ€™s performance.â€ â€” The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, 1987
â€œOur emotions rise to meet the force coming from the screen…thereâ€™s something there that goes deeper than connoisseurship or taste. Itâ€™s a fusion of art and love.â€ â€” Upon retiring, 1991.