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<text id=93TT1701>
<title>
May 17, 1993: Spectator
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
May 17, 1993 Anguish over Bosnia
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
Spectator, Page 71
It's a Small World After All
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By KURT ANDERSEN
</p>
<p> Walt Disney, according to a forthcoming biography, was a
secret FBI informer, and even slipped the bureau screenplays to
vet for un-Americanisms. One of the scripts J. Edgar Hoover
found objectionable was the 1965 Dean Jones comedy That Darn
Cat. What a difference a few decades make. No sooner are we
urged to accept retroactively the implausible vision of Hoover
in bra and panties than the Walt Disney Co. buys Miramax, the
little art-movie studio responsible for today's most un-American
films, including Bob Roberts and, of course, The Crying Game.
</p>
<p> Disney is no longer run by an anti-Semitic right-wing
snitch (indeed, it is run, like almost every important Hollywood
entity, by thoughtful Jewish liberals), but its revenues still
derive from a shiny, profoundly Middle American sort of mass
appeal; Beauty and the Beast and Disney World require that tens
of millions of people buy the product. The assimilation by
Disney of Miramax is interesting not just because it turns
Jiminy Cricket and a black transvestite into corporate siblings,
but also because their movies' potential audiences are so vastly
different in scale. The Crying Game barely qualifies as
mass-market--about 10 million Americans have seen the film--even though it is the most successful art movie of all time.
</p>
<p> Apart from flukes, how big is the American audience for
high-end cultural artifacts, for unsettling movies and
respectable fiction, for poetry, for painting--hell, for Karen
Finley? Has it, as Philip Roth whined to a New York Times
interviewer, shriveled past the point of redemption? "There's
been a drastic decline, even a disappearance, of a serious
readership," said Roth, whose new novel, Operation Shylock, is
selling poorly. "We are down to a gulag archipelago of readers."
</p>
<p> Let's count them. The broadest enumeration is the easiest
and most definitive. What single cultural act unequivocally
defined an American as a member of the upper middle class?
Watching The Civil War on PBS. So we start with that big tent
and those 14 million people. Some read TIME, some Vanity Fair;
some idolize Calvin Trillin, some Bill Buckley; all 14 million
consider themselves pretty darned intelligent.
</p>
<p> Distilling that group to its culturally ambitious core
requires that we drop down a whole order of magnitude; that is,
only a tenth as many people go to a boffo art film as watch a
big TV show. The dependable subtitled-movie audience is around
2 million or 3 million, of whom maybe half go to any one
ordinary hit.
</p>
<p> The market for the next most popular unpopular art form,
literary fiction, is smaller once again by an order of
magnitude. Around 2.5 million Americans saw Cinema Paradiso in
movie theaters; 250,000 Americans bought Gabriel Garcia
Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera in hardcover. Every
thoughtful reader in America did not, despite Knopf's best
efforts, buy the Garcia Marquez novel, meaning that the
potential audience for any given book is larger. "It might even
be a million," says Knopf's Ann Close, who edits Alice Munro and
Norman Rush, among others. On the other hand, all the actual
buyers of any typical serious novel would fit in Fenway Park,
or even a Vegas showroom.
</p>
<p> Readers of poetry? Drop down another order of magnitude.
The total American readership for verse, a mainstream publisher
of poetry says, is 100,000, give or take. Less than half that
many people attend performances by artists of the
smear-themselves-with-mustard-and-recite-imitation-Kerouac-over-
a-sound-track-of-drill-presses variety.
</p>
<p> Where significant connoisseurship is also a function of
significant money--what might be called the socialite arts--American micro-audiences become exquisitely tiny. No more than
a few hundred people have the desire and wherewithal to buy
important contemporary paintings. The most rarefied realm of the
cultural elite, however, is occupied by people seriously
(pathologically?) committed to couture fashion. How many
Americans regularly buy couture originals at $15,000 a pop? "I
can guess," says Richard Martin, the curator of the Metropolitan
Museum of Art's Costume Institute, and then he does,
astoundingly: "Fifty."
</p>
<p> It seems right that there were more Branch Davidians than
there are haute-fashionable women in America. Nor should we
worry too much that only a dozen or so U.S. poets earn as much
as $2,000 a year from selling their poems. After all, Dr.
Johnson's Rambler, in which he published some of his most
enduring work, had a circulation of less than 500 in the 1750s.
And the Age of Enlightenment proceeded despite the low sales.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>