Authors: Brian Kellow
Pauline Kael (56 page)
Her review of
Reds
led to yet another showdown with Shawn. In order to describe the relationship between John Reed and Louise Bryant as Beatty had conceived it, Pauline had written that the movie showed Reed to be “pussywhipped.” Shawn tried to get her to change it to “henpecked,” which she laughed at and rejected. The argument went back and forth between them, until Shawn finally told her in no uncertain terms that “pussywhipped” would not be printed in
The New Yorker
. (It’s a shame, in a way, since many who saw
Reds
must agree that it’s the only word to describe the onscreen relationship.)
Reds
led to yet another showdown with Shawn. In order to describe the relationship between John Reed and Louise Bryant as Beatty had conceived it, Pauline had written that the movie showed Reed to be “pussywhipped.” Shawn tried to get her to change it to “henpecked,” which she laughed at and rejected. The argument went back and forth between them, until Shawn finally told her in no uncertain terms that “pussywhipped” would not be printed in
The New Yorker
. (It’s a shame, in a way, since many who saw
Reds
must agree that it’s the only word to describe the onscreen relationship.)
There is no surviving correspondence from
The New Yorker
that addresses the question of whether Pauline should have been allowed to review
Reds
, given her history with Beatty and Paramount. Certainly Shawn must have considered the potential conflict carefully before allowing her to go ahead. “There was no way that she was going to be able to see
Reds
with an open mind,” said James Toback. “And she actually hit Warren, in a semiconscious or unconscious desire to stick to him, by attacking Diane Keaton’s performance. It was her way of saying, ‘You, who of all men should know how to bring out the best in a woman, have taken your girlfriend, the female star, and come up with a performance that’s not good.’ If she was going to say something to nail him, that was it.” Roy Blount, Jr., remembered going with Pauline to the screening of
Reds
and seeing the Paramount publicists hovering fearfully around her. “Oh, God, they were so damned nervous. It was in this little bitty screening room in New York, and they were just sort of hanging on her for a reaction.”
Reds
had substantial earnings as one of the Christmas season’s big prestige pictures, but its eventual take of around $32 million was not quite enough to earn back its staggering production cost—the result that Pauline had predicted when Beatty was developing the project at Paramount.
The New Yorker
that addresses the question of whether Pauline should have been allowed to review
Reds
, given her history with Beatty and Paramount. Certainly Shawn must have considered the potential conflict carefully before allowing her to go ahead. “There was no way that she was going to be able to see
Reds
with an open mind,” said James Toback. “And she actually hit Warren, in a semiconscious or unconscious desire to stick to him, by attacking Diane Keaton’s performance. It was her way of saying, ‘You, who of all men should know how to bring out the best in a woman, have taken your girlfriend, the female star, and come up with a performance that’s not good.’ If she was going to say something to nail him, that was it.” Roy Blount, Jr., remembered going with Pauline to the screening of
Reds
and seeing the Paramount publicists hovering fearfully around her. “Oh, God, they were so damned nervous. It was in this little bitty screening room in New York, and they were just sort of hanging on her for a reaction.”
Reds
had substantial earnings as one of the Christmas season’s big prestige pictures, but its eventual take of around $32 million was not quite enough to earn back its staggering production cost—the result that Pauline had predicted when Beatty was developing the project at Paramount.
At the voting for the 1981 New York Film Critics Circle, Pauline did her usual campaigning for her favorites. For the Best Picture prize, she favored
Blow Out
,
Pennies from Heaven
, and
Atlantic City;
for Best Director, Brian De Palma for
Blow Out
, Walter Hill for
Southern Comfort,
and Louis Malle for
Atlantic City
. Her picks for Best Actor included Burt Lancaster for
Atlantic City
and John Travolta for
Blow Out
, plus Andre Gregory for
My Dinner with Andre
(cowritten by and costarring William Shawn’s son, Wallace). For Best Actress her finalists included Faye Dunaway (
Mommie Dearest
), Bernadette Peters (
Pennies from Heaven
), and Marília Pera (
Pixote
). Lancaster was the only one of her choices who won in the end—and she was especially chagrined to see the Best Picture award go to
Reds
.
Blow Out
,
Pennies from Heaven
, and
Atlantic City;
for Best Director, Brian De Palma for
Blow Out
, Walter Hill for
Southern Comfort,
and Louis Malle for
Atlantic City
. Her picks for Best Actor included Burt Lancaster for
Atlantic City
and John Travolta for
Blow Out
, plus Andre Gregory for
My Dinner with Andre
(cowritten by and costarring William Shawn’s son, Wallace). For Best Actress her finalists included Faye Dunaway (
Mommie Dearest
), Bernadette Peters (
Pennies from Heaven
), and Marília Pera (
Pixote
). Lancaster was the only one of her choices who won in the end—and she was especially chagrined to see the Best Picture award go to
Reds
.
Throughout 1982 there was still the occasional marvelous personal film that she loved writing about and did her best to champion. One was Alan Parker’s marital drama
Shoot the Moon
, about which she observed, “I’m a little afraid to say how good I think
Shoot the Moon
is—I don’t want to set up the kind of bad magic that might cause people to say they were led to expect so much that they were disappointed.” Bo Goldman, whose script for
Melvin and Howard
she had admired so much, had come through again, with a story that wasn’t “just about marriage; it’s about the family that is created, and how that whole family reacts to the knotted, disintegrating relationship of the parents.” She felt that Diane Keaton had redeemed herself for her weak performance in
Reds
, and Albert Finney, playing her tormented husband, was her match—they gave “the kind of performances that in the theater become legendary.” Pauline’s advocacy did not help
Shoot the Moon
, which grossed only a little more than $7 million on a budget of $12 million.
Shoot the Moon
, about which she observed, “I’m a little afraid to say how good I think
Shoot the Moon
is—I don’t want to set up the kind of bad magic that might cause people to say they were led to expect so much that they were disappointed.” Bo Goldman, whose script for
Melvin and Howard
she had admired so much, had come through again, with a story that wasn’t “just about marriage; it’s about the family that is created, and how that whole family reacts to the knotted, disintegrating relationship of the parents.” She felt that Diane Keaton had redeemed herself for her weak performance in
Reds
, and Albert Finney, playing her tormented husband, was her match—they gave “the kind of performances that in the theater become legendary.” Pauline’s advocacy did not help
Shoot the Moon
, which grossed only a little more than $7 million on a budget of $12 million.
As the year went on, she also admired Jean-Jacques Beineix’s French thriller
Diva
, thinking the director someone “who understands the pleasures to be had from a picture that doesn’t take itself very seriously.” And she was delighted by Steven Spielberg’s captivating fantasy
E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial
, which she described as “a dream of a movie—a bliss-out.” She was encouraged to see Spielberg applying his prodigious imagination to a touching, human story; to her, it made up for the mechanical excesses of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
: “He’s like a boy soprano lilting with joy all through
E.T.
, and we’re borne along by his voice.”
Diva
, thinking the director someone “who understands the pleasures to be had from a picture that doesn’t take itself very seriously.” And she was delighted by Steven Spielberg’s captivating fantasy
E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial
, which she described as “a dream of a movie—a bliss-out.” She was encouraged to see Spielberg applying his prodigious imagination to a touching, human story; to her, it made up for the mechanical excesses of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
: “He’s like a boy soprano lilting with joy all through
E.T.
, and we’re borne along by his voice.”
It was reassuring when she celebrated the return to form of Robert Altman with
Come Back to the Five & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean
. She was fond of telling people that she couldn’t quite account for Altman’s talent—that when he was on his game, he was remarkable, but when he was off it, one would never guess that he had any talent at all.
Come Back to the Five & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean
began life as a play by Ed Graczyk, which Altman directed on Broadway in early 1982. It got downbeat reviews and ran for only fifty-two performances. Graczyk had written the kind of well-made play that had become a staple of Broadway in the ’40s and ’50s—the kind in which the characters’ self-delusions and hypocrisies are systematically revealed—the sort of thing that seemed antithetical to Altman’s intuitive style. It concerned the reunion of a James Dean fan club on the twentieth anniversary of the star’s death, and Pauline thought that in its “fake-poetic, fake magical way, it reeks of the worst of William Inge, of Tennessee Williams misunderstood.” After its failure onstage Altman had filmed it for under $1 million with most of the same cast. Cher, Sandy Dennis, Karen Black, and Kathy Bates all reprised their roles, and Pauline thought that what the director had gotten out of them was remarkable:
Come Back to the Five & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean
. She was fond of telling people that she couldn’t quite account for Altman’s talent—that when he was on his game, he was remarkable, but when he was off it, one would never guess that he had any talent at all.
Come Back to the Five & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean
began life as a play by Ed Graczyk, which Altman directed on Broadway in early 1982. It got downbeat reviews and ran for only fifty-two performances. Graczyk had written the kind of well-made play that had become a staple of Broadway in the ’40s and ’50s—the kind in which the characters’ self-delusions and hypocrisies are systematically revealed—the sort of thing that seemed antithetical to Altman’s intuitive style. It concerned the reunion of a James Dean fan club on the twentieth anniversary of the star’s death, and Pauline thought that in its “fake-poetic, fake magical way, it reeks of the worst of William Inge, of Tennessee Williams misunderstood.” After its failure onstage Altman had filmed it for under $1 million with most of the same cast. Cher, Sandy Dennis, Karen Black, and Kathy Bates all reprised their roles, and Pauline thought that what the director had gotten out of them was remarkable:
If the roles made better sense, the actresses might not be able to plunge so far down into themselves or pull up so much emotion. It’s
because
this glib, religioso play is so derivative that the actors have found so much depth in it. When actors peel away layers of inhibition, they feel they’re uncovering “truth” and it’s traditional for directors and acting teachers to call it that. But this truth may be derived from their stored-up pop mythology—atrocity stories from sources as diverse as comic books, TV, and Joan Didion, and tales of sacrificial heroes and heroines that go back beyond the birth of movies to the first storytellers. “Truthful” acting may be affecting to us because it represents the sum total of everything the actors have been affected by.
because
this glib, religioso play is so derivative that the actors have found so much depth in it. When actors peel away layers of inhibition, they feel they’re uncovering “truth” and it’s traditional for directors and acting teachers to call it that. But this truth may be derived from their stored-up pop mythology—atrocity stories from sources as diverse as comic books, TV, and Joan Didion, and tales of sacrificial heroes and heroines that go back beyond the birth of movies to the first storytellers. “Truthful” acting may be affecting to us because it represents the sum total of everything the actors have been affected by.
Pauline found the movie “a genuine oddity—like
Night of the Iguana
performed by a company of seraphim.” But Altman’s old magic relit the screen, and Pauline’s joy in welcoming him back was almost palpable:
Night of the Iguana
performed by a company of seraphim.” But Altman’s old magic relit the screen, and Pauline’s joy in welcoming him back was almost palpable:
Altman keeps looking at the world, and it’s never the same; what we’re responding to is his consciousness at work (and play). The sunlight coming through the shop’s glass front and the dusty pastel colors are part of the film’s texture, along with the women’s hair and heads and hands, which are always touching, moving. Present and past interpenetrate, and Altman keeps everything in motion. (The close-ups are pauses, not full stops.) His feeling for the place is almost as tactile as his feeling for the performers. When the characters’ passions well up the camera is right there, recording the changes in their neck muscles, their arms, their cheeks. But it never crowds them.
One of the fascinating aspects of the careers of so many movie stars is that their peak years are usually over so quickly. What seemed fresh and spontaneous and original about them—the very qualities that made the public take to them in the first place—can seem like mannerisms and limitations. Only a few years earlier, Jane Fonda had seemed primed for a long run as the screen’s premier actress, but after her stiff performances in
9 to 5
and
On Golden Pond
, it was clear her peak years were finished. Meryl Streep was rapidly rising as the most important actress on the screen, complete with the validation of uniformly excellent reviews and a
Time
cover story, but Pauline continued to resist her charms. Streep’s much-celebrated technique was just that to Pauline—lacking the warm glow of a genuine personality behind it. In
Still of the Night
, Streep’s 1982 psychological thriller, Pauline thought the actress didn’t “resemble a living person; her face is gaunt, her skin has become alabaster. She seems to have chosen to do a Meryl Streep parody; she’s like some creature from the moon trying to be a movie star.”
9 to 5
and
On Golden Pond
, it was clear her peak years were finished. Meryl Streep was rapidly rising as the most important actress on the screen, complete with the validation of uniformly excellent reviews and a
Time
cover story, but Pauline continued to resist her charms. Streep’s much-celebrated technique was just that to Pauline—lacking the warm glow of a genuine personality behind it. In
Still of the Night
, Streep’s 1982 psychological thriller, Pauline thought the actress didn’t “resemble a living person; her face is gaunt, her skin has become alabaster. She seems to have chosen to do a Meryl Streep parody; she’s like some creature from the moon trying to be a movie star.”
Streep’s big film of the year, and the one that would win her her second Academy Award, was
Sophie’s Choice
, based on William Styron’s bestselling novel about a Polish holocaust survivor living with her abusive boyfriend in Brooklyn. The film was, for Pauline, “encrusted with the weighty culture of big themes: evil, tortured souls, guilt.” In her review, she did a masterful job at identifying again what troubled her most about the actress:
Sophie’s Choice
, based on William Styron’s bestselling novel about a Polish holocaust survivor living with her abusive boyfriend in Brooklyn. The film was, for Pauline, “encrusted with the weighty culture of big themes: evil, tortured souls, guilt.” In her review, she did a masterful job at identifying again what troubled her most about the actress:
Streep is very beautiful at times, and she does amusing, nervous bits of business, like fidgeting with a furry boa—her fingers twiddling with our heartstrings. She has, as usual, put thought and effort into her work. But something about her puzzles me: after I’ve seen her in a movie, I can’t visualize her from the neck down. Is it possible that as an actress she makes herself into a blank and then focuses all her attention on only one thing—the toss of her head, for example, in
Manhattan
, her accent here? Maybe, by bringing an unwarranted intensity to one facet of a performance, she in effect decorporealizes herself. This could explain why her movie heroines don’t seem to be full characters, and why there are no incidental joys to be had from watching her. It could be that in her zeal to be an honest actress she allows nothing to escape her conception of a performance. Instead of trying to achieve freedom in front of the camera, she’s predetermining what it records.
Manhattan
, her accent here? Maybe, by bringing an unwarranted intensity to one facet of a performance, she in effect decorporealizes herself. This could explain why her movie heroines don’t seem to be full characters, and why there are no incidental joys to be had from watching her. It could be that in her zeal to be an honest actress she allows nothing to escape her conception of a performance. Instead of trying to achieve freedom in front of the camera, she’s predetermining what it records.
Years later, in an interview, Streep admitted that Pauline’s review of
Sophie’s Choice
affected her deeply. “I’m incapable of not thinking about what Pauline wrote, and you know what I think?” the actress said. “That Pauline was a poor Jewish girl who was at Berkeley with all these rich Pasadena WASPs with long blond hair, and the heartlessness of them got her.” Certainly many of the actresses Pauline admired most onscreen were Jewish—from Sylvia Sidney and Paulette Goddard to Barbra Streisand, Goldie Hawn, and Debra Winger. But Streep’s theory ignores the fact that Pauline was overwhelmed by many beautiful blond women on the screen—from Catherine Deneuve to Michelle Pfeiffer.
Sophie’s Choice
affected her deeply. “I’m incapable of not thinking about what Pauline wrote, and you know what I think?” the actress said. “That Pauline was a poor Jewish girl who was at Berkeley with all these rich Pasadena WASPs with long blond hair, and the heartlessness of them got her.” Certainly many of the actresses Pauline admired most onscreen were Jewish—from Sylvia Sidney and Paulette Goddard to Barbra Streisand, Goldie Hawn, and Debra Winger. But Streep’s theory ignores the fact that Pauline was overwhelmed by many beautiful blond women on the screen—from Catherine Deneuve to Michelle Pfeiffer.
Pauline was also baffled by the latest appearance of Robert De Niro, one of the screen actors in whom she had placed the most hope. De Niro was reunited with Martin Scorsese for
The King of Comedy
, in which the actor played a sociopath named Rupert Pupkin, who wants nothing more than to become a star TV comic. He obsessively worships Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), star of a Johnny Carson–style late-night program, and when he has exhausted every possible attempt to get Langford to pay attention to him, Rupert kidnaps the star, telling the police he will release him only in exchange for a ten-minute spot on the show.
The King of Comedy
, in which the actor played a sociopath named Rupert Pupkin, who wants nothing more than to become a star TV comic. He obsessively worships Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), star of a Johnny Carson–style late-night program, and when he has exhausted every possible attempt to get Langford to pay attention to him, Rupert kidnaps the star, telling the police he will release him only in exchange for a ten-minute spot on the show.
The King of Comedy
turned out to be far more prescient about the future of television than
Network
ever dreamed of being: Rupert does indeed make a hit with the audience, gets a big book deal, and lands on the cover of several national magazines after serving only a light sentence. At the end of the film, Jerry Langford walks past a store window and sees Rupert on TV. The movie presaged Morton Downey, Jr., and Monica Lewinsky—figures who took the low road as a way of spinning celebrity.
turned out to be far more prescient about the future of television than
Network
ever dreamed of being: Rupert does indeed make a hit with the audience, gets a big book deal, and lands on the cover of several national magazines after serving only a light sentence. At the end of the film, Jerry Langford walks past a store window and sees Rupert on TV. The movie presaged Morton Downey, Jr., and Monica Lewinsky—figures who took the low road as a way of spinning celebrity.
But Pauline dismissed
The King of Comedy
as “quiet and empty,” and she thought that Scorsese “designs his own form of alienation in this movie—it seems to teeter between jokiness and hate.” Most surprising was her view of De Niro, whom she felt gave a hollow, chilly performance as Pupkin, never endowing him the sort of humanity that might trigger a strong emotional response in the audience. What De Niro achieved in
The King of Comedy
, she believed, was close to what he had done in
Raging Bull
. It was “anti-acting”:
The King of Comedy
as “quiet and empty,” and she thought that Scorsese “designs his own form of alienation in this movie—it seems to teeter between jokiness and hate.” Most surprising was her view of De Niro, whom she felt gave a hollow, chilly performance as Pupkin, never endowing him the sort of humanity that might trigger a strong emotional response in the audience. What De Niro achieved in
The King of Comedy
, she believed, was close to what he had done in
Raging Bull
. It was “anti-acting”:
Performers such as John Barrymore and Orson Welles and Laurence Olivier have delighted in putting on beards and false noses, yet, no matter how heavy the disguise, they didn’t disappear; they still had spirit, and we could feel the pleasure that they took in playing foul, crookback monsters and misers—drawing us inside and revealing the terrors of the misshapen, the deluded. A great actor merges his soul with that of his characters—or, at least, gives us the illusion that he does. De Niro in disguise denies his characters a soul. It’s not merely that he hollows himself out and becomes Jake La Motta, or Des the priest in
True Confessions
, or Rupert Pupkin—he makes them hollow, too, and merges with the character’s emptiness.
True Confessions
, or Rupert Pupkin—he makes them hollow, too, and merges with the character’s emptiness.
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