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<text id=94TT1545>
<title>
Nov. 07, 1994: Books:That Wild Old Woman
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Nov. 07, 1994 Mad as Hell
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ARTS & MEDIA/BOOKS, Page 78
That Wild Old Woman
</hdr>
<body>
<p> Pauline Kael has led a war on bad films, raised mere movie reviewing
to the level of criticism and given everybody fits
</p>
<p>By Richard Corliss--With reporting by Jeffrey Ressner/Los Angeles
</p>
<p> When Quentin Tarantino was 15, he saw something on TV that changed
his life: Pauline Kael. The New Yorker movie critic was being
grilled by Tomorrow host Tom Snyder on her rave review of Philip
Kaufman's Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and she refused to
back down. "I thought, 'Who is this wild old woman?'" the writer-director
of Pulp Fiction recalls, "and soon I was going to the library
to find her books. She was as influential as any director was
in helping me develop my aesthetic. I never went to film school,
but she was the professor in the film school of my mind."
</p>
<p> That's just how one thinks of Kael: as a nutty professor, the
one you laugh at, fear and never forget. We see her prowling
the classroom, badgering her students with scathing rhetorical
questions, pinwheeling her provocative thoughts on what, when
she talked about it, really was the liveliest art. Kael didn't
teach you how to look at films--descriptive consideration
of a director's visual style was not her forte--but she sure
taught you how to feel about them. The titles of her critical
collections (I Lost It at the Movies, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Going
Steady, Deeper into Movies, Reeling, When the Lights Go Down,
Hooked, Movie Love) document her sumptuous passion for film.
Her hyperactive intelligence wanted movies to speak up, move
fast, go crazy, make her swoon. She needed pictures to do for
her what her reviews did for her readers.
</p>
<p> Kael, 75, retired three years ago; we can all relax from keeping
up with the ruthless intensity of her opinions. Her voice is
echoed, shrilly, wanly, in dozens of movie reviewers whose style
she influenced and whose careers she strenuously promoted. But
for the real thing, there is a mammoth new book, For Keeps (Dutton;
1,312 pages; $34.95), which collects about a fifth of her movie
writing. So far as we know, that's all she wrote--no fiction,
no lit crit, no backward glance at an early life that included
jobs as a seamstress, cook and children's companion (Auntie
Mame from Mensa!). "I'm frequently asked why I don't write my
memoirs," she notes in the introduction to For Keeps. "I think
I have."
</p>
<p> Kael was in her 40s before she became a fixture among cinephiles
in Berkeley, California, where her criticism appeared in the
form of program notes, radio reviews, screeds in the local film
magazine. She couldn't have been further out of the loop--the double helix, really, that embraced Hollywood movies and
Manhattan media--so she devised a piquant strategy for being
heard: she would go to a movie and review the audience. Sometimes
she'd review the reviewers, a tactic that led to slams on the
New York Times' Bosley Crowther and epochal tussles over the
auteur theory with the Village Voice's Andrew Sarris. Not until
Kael joined the New Yorker in 1968 did she move to the front
line and have to concentrate pretty much on reviewing the damn
movies.
</p>
<p> In her introduction to For Keeps, she calls her New Yorker gig
"the best job in the world." It wasn't. For one thing, it was
only half a job; she shared it with Penelope Gilliatt, who reviewed
films from April to October, and who would often find her published
opinions mocked and overruled when Kael returned. For another,
Kael had to fight editor William Shawn and his timid minions
to retain her brassy voice. "The editors," she writes, "tried
to turn me into just what I'd been struggling not to be: a genteel,
fuddy-duddy stylist...Sometimes almost every sentence was
rearranged." Shawn never got Kael. He is said to have wondered
aloud why she didn't write for the Voice, "where she belongs."
</p>
<p> At her peak Kael validated the vitality of such pop hits as
Jaws, Taxi Driver, the Godfather films. Gradually, though, her
opinions calcified into dogma. She became more auteurist, more
predictable in defending favorite directors--Kaufman, Sam
Peckinpah, Brian De Palma, Irvin Kershner, Fred Schepisi--than Sarris ever was, more frantic when her guys made flops.
("Are people becoming afraid of American movies?" she asked
in a memorable burst of hysteria in 1978.)
</p>
<p> And she loved trotting out her bugbears, those midcult darlings
she despised: "Meryl Streep just about always seems miscast.
(She makes a career out of seeming to overcome being miscast.)"
This could set up some amusing abrasions when A-list men made
movies starring Z-list women. In 1985, before the release of
the Schepisi-Streep Plenty, the director mused, "Now we'll find
out if she likes me more than she hates Meryl Streep." The answer
was no.
</p>
<p> Like most pundits, Kael was thick fisted and thin skinned. But
Lord, that "wild old woman" could write. "You have to be open
to the idea of getting drunk on movies," she says at the end
of this humongous volume, as bulky as a six-pack of Bud and
as instantly intoxicating. Reading For Keeps is like going on
a toot with Mary McCarthy, Belle Barth and Billie Holiday. It's
movie analysis with a serrated edge; film criticism as stand-up
bawdry; intellectual improvisation that soars into the highest
form of word jazz.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>