Tag Archives: Village Voice

Suddenly lost summer

Robert Hughes, Gore Vidal, Nora Ephron — this has been a grim summer for writers, and readers. In the case of Vidal and Hughes, it’s marked the loss of two role models and lodestars, writers whose work I followed for instruction as well as entertainment. They did what all great writers do — lead by example — and if my work has any quality at all, it’s partly because I remembered what it was like to have them reach out from a printed page and command my attention. Some artists work that magic with paint, or musical instruments, or physical precision and beauty, but they did it with ink on paper, and anyone who has felt that magic wants to join in its making.

With that in mind, I suggest you download James Wolcott’s essay on Gore Vidal’s passing, then get together with some writer friends, or think about the writer friends you never met in person, but got to know through their work. People who’ve never come within earshot, but whose voices are as clear and familiar to you as your own family. 

 

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , ,

Alexander Cockburn

Forget H.L. Mencken — nobody could do invective like Alexander Cockburn. His lampoon of the sonorously balanced banalities of The McNeil/Lehrer Report (“A Galiliean preacher claims he is the Redeemer and the poor are blessed. Should he be crucified?”) remains the definitive takedown of intellectually neutered “balance” in journalism. He dubbed Commentary editor Norman Podhoretz “Norman the Frother,” and when the pompous neocon attacked Cockburn for “gutter journalism,” Cockburn proudly ran the quote atop his Village Voice column as the “Frother Seal of Approval.” (When Martin Peretz, then publisher of The New Republic, jined the tussle on Poddy’s side, Cockburn added the quote as the “Peretz Blue Ribbon.”) But early on, as nasty as he could get, Cockburn was usually more than just a snark-slinger. When Ronald Reagan began his John Wayne strut across Central America, Cockburn used the rape-murder of three American nuns and a church worker in El Salvador as the starting point for a viciously accurate assessment of the media’s moral calculus: x number of murdered Salvadoran peasants versus y number of Americans.

Cockburn, who just died at the age of 71, brought to mind a Christopher Hitchens unencumbered by the desire to be a clubby insider. The two were stablemates for a time at The Nation, which resurrected Cockburn’s “Press Clips” column as “Beat the Devil” after the Village Voice ousted him on a hazy conflict-of-interest charge. As fellow Voice alumnus James Wolcott notes in his farewell piece, Cockburn’s career seemed to drizzle away in the Eighties — even accounting for the fact that a combative leftist with an aversion to Greater Israel militarism is not going to have an easy career, one expected more from him. He could be factually unreliable, and in some of his positions — his dismissal of global warming, for example — he was not just wrong but stupidly wrong. But his biggest problem may simply have been that he was too much his own man to fit into any slot, and when he turned his back on medialand to live in northern California, he put an end to his chances for wider influence.

 If you’re not familiar with Cockburn’s work, this lengthy C-SPAN profile will fill in some gaps. Apparently the title of his forthcoming memoir is Colossal Wreck. Now that is something I want to read.

Tagged , , , , , ,

Andrew Sarris

Way back in the Pliocene — or was it the Holocene? — when I rode my faithful mammoth Woolly to the news stand every Friday morning for the latest edition of the Village Voice, I skipped past the Andrew Sarris film column as diligently as Beatles fans cued their needles after George Harrison’s track on Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and for pretty much the same reasons. Droning performance, slumber-inducing voice, off-putting religious veneration — I dig Hitchcock and Sturges, but critic puh-lease! — made for some tedious column inches. Not that J. Hoberman was much better, stylistically speaking, but his prospecting through the swampier recesses of art-house cinema yielded the occasional nugget of interest.

Along with Sarris’ clunky style there was always that odd defensiveness, the sense that Sarris saw himself as Thomas More resisting “the fashionable backlash” against some movie or other. Maybe he was afraid Pauline Kael would sneak into the office and yank away his chair while he sat musing on the glories of Marnie or Hail the Conquering Hero. Whatever the reason, there’s no disputing the fact that until David Edelstein wandered through the Voice door in the early Eighties, the magazine’s film section was nothing much. One immediately turned to the music and concert reviews, or to James Wolcott, and after him, Stanley Crouch (fleetingly) and Adolph Reed (even more fleetingly) for something sparky to read. If things were really slow, one might visit the resident coelecanth, Nat Hentoff, for those fleeting moments when he could still write something interesting.   

Back then, true-blue film buffs tended to group themselves around Sarris the arch-auterist and Pauline Kael the gut-reactionist. Kael was suspicious of schools and systems of analysis; Sarris hardly ventured beyond them. Both critics were formidably knowledgeable and aggressively opinionated, but Kael’s responses could be unpredictable and exciting, whereas Sarris seemed to evaluate movies by running down his auteur theory checklist and announcing “genius” when the right number of boxes had been ticked off. When his tastes coincided with mine, his observations never deepened my appreciation of the film; when his tastes clashed with mine, his arguments never prompted a reconsideration. Oddly enough, though I’m not much of a sports follower, I always found him most engaging when he wrote about sports.

Though he was a seminal figure in the development of American film criticism, Sarris faded more quickly than his colleagues. When he lost his perch at the Village Voice, he had to settle for playing second banana to Rex Reed at The New York Observer, a fate no self-respecting critic should have had to endure. (When career hack Jeff Lyons ended up as Michael Medved’s butt-boy, it seemed only fitting.) But his passing (like the news that Hentoff is now ranting for the neocons and Obama-haters at WingNutDaily) mainly stirs rueful thoughts about the decline of the Voice and the kind of magazine market that once supported eccentrics and cultists like Sarris. Where movie criticism is concerned, the fizz has moved to the Internet, and I would guess the spirit is closer to Kael’s than the man who, in his flightier moments, imagined himself her nemesis.          

Tagged , , , , , , ,

That Seventies show

In her memoir And So It Goes, Linda Ellerbee described her first exalted view of New York City, alighting at Kennedy Airport and cabbing it across the Triborough Bridge at sunset, ready to get out and high-kick her way across the East River while belting out “New York, New York.”

As for me, my first solo journey in the Big Apple started in the spring of 1978 with a long bus ride out of East Brunswick, after which I emerged from the Port Authority building, shaking off mild nausea and a headache from exhaust fumes, to see a barefoot derelict sipping delicately from a tall can of Budweiser and, just as delicately, puking each sip at his feet. The sidewalk behind him brought to mind the work of an incontinent Jackson Pollock, and I skipped past the splashes of color as fast as my suburban-bred white guy feet would carry me. When I think of a perfect New York song, it isn’t by Kander and Ebb — it’s by Tom Waits on Franks Wild Years, cawing “I’m gonna take you, New York!” over a skating-rink organ like one of the waterlogged specters in Carnival of Souls.

There were plenty more trips, of course. For one thing, my first Rutgers University art teacher, distressed that his students only seemed to know only the names of the dead, had decreed that we would make regular trips to the city and prowl galleries in search of works by living, breathing practitioners. New York is New York, but no matter how many times I came through (and I even came to appreciate the grindhouses of Times Square) I never thought of New York as a place I’d want to live. It was an  attitude forged in the late Seventies, when the whole city seemed about to collapse into itself, and I’ve never quite shaken it.

Of course, I never arrived in the city with a note of introduction from Norman Mailer, which was the happy fate of James Wolcott, a writer whose work I’ve followed eagerly since those college days, when each new copy of the Village Voice was like a field report from a mystical land where books, music, and movies mattered more than anything else. Every week meant another trip through Riffs in search of new bands, every month another scan of Christgau’s Consumer Guide, to be followed by a visit to Cheap Thrills on George Street, with its immense import-album bin and clerks who’d been reading the exact same articles and had already anticipated the demand. Ramones! Pere Ubu! The Clash! The punks and New Wavers were all hitting the stands with their first and second albums, and fresh vinyl was more important than food.

Wolcott had a full-page perch from which to write about television, and while that may not have seemed like much of a beat back then — the networks ruled, cable TV was barely getting started, and HBO was just toddling into original programming with a National Lampoon special called Disco Beaver from Outer Space — Wolcott made it work with parodic descriptions and fizzy turns of phrase, and because his frame of reference was unbounded by the tube he was happy to comment on other matters as well. When the elephantine adaptation of Brideshead Revisited hit PBS, Wolcott closed each column with a “Brideshead Update” that red like Wodehouse on acid. Need I say that those two column inches were far more readable than Brideshead was watchable?

Wolcott was meant for bigger things, and his climb to reach them is recounted in his new book Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York, which shows that even with a note from Mailer and a spot at the table with Pauline Kael, some things about the city couldn’t be avoided:

The IRT stop closest to my Ninety-second Street apartment was a convenient four blocks north, but those four blocks often required nimble footwork and ninja awareness of impending action. So much of New York did. Most of the parks were safer walking around than through. (I was warned about venturing into Riverside Park, where, I got the impression, dead bodies were always being discovered after having rolled downhill the night before.) Entire neighborhoods were considered no-go areas where you never knew what the hell might fall from the fire escapes, and even sections of town that didn’t resemble standing rubble had stretches that you avoided, had you been properly briefed. Otherwise, you’d be walking down some leafy block, moderately carefree, turn the wrong corner, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a hostile street, forced to either retrace your steps or run for your freaky life like Cornel Wilde in The Naked Prey. It wasn’t just the criminality that kept you radar-alert, the muggings and subway-car shakedowns, it was the crazy paroxysms that punctuated the city, the sense that much of the social contract had suffered a psychotic break. That strip of upper Broadway was the open-air stage for acting-out episodes from unstable patients dumped from mental health facilities, as I discovered when I had to dodge a fully loaded garbage can flung in my direction by a middle-aged man who still had a hospital bracelet on one of his throwing arms. Then, as now, the Ninety-sixth Street crosstown nexus was an irredeemable eyesore that served as a magnet for unmanned shopping carts abandoned on their sides or commandeered as a homeless moving van. It was at the newsstand at the southwest corner of Ninety-sixth that I picked up the copy of the Daily News with the arresting headline FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD, and it was the perfect spot to receive notice of impending collapse.

Or, as the Rolling Stones said back then, sha-doo-bay, shattered.

Though Wolcott’s descriptions of the punk rock scene encrusted around CBGB make the book for me, I find that a far better soundtrack for Lucking Out is the newly reissued Rolling Stones album Some Girls, which still carries the invigorating stench of urban decay from its 1978 incarnation. As with the recent super-deluxe-wowie-zowie-bop-bam-boom edition of Exile on Main Street, there’s a whole disc’s worth of songs that didn’t make the final cut; unlike the Exile extras, which added nothing to the canon, the Some Girls discards are all keepers, and a couple of them — “Don’t Be a Stranger,” “When You’re Gone” — would have improved the original release. In fact, the entire bonus disc serves as an exemplary late-Seventies Stones album in its own right. Had it been released as the followup instead of the vapid Emotional Rescue,  we all could have gone on a bit longer pretending that Some Girls was a second wind rather than the last gasp.

Anyway, back to Wolcott. His abrupt disappearance from the Voice was not entirely a surprise: he was one of those Voice writers who (like Stanley Crouch and Adolph Reed) were a little too elbows-out and independent-minded in their politics. (Imagine a Weekly Standard writer who says, openly, that Baby Bush lied us into the war and you’ll get an idea of the uncomfortable fit.) And the television column had run its course. When Wolcott devoted several weeks to diagnosing the reasons Saturday Night Live had done a nosedive, it was clear the man needed bigger pastures to frisk in. Which turned out to be The New Republic, Harper’s, The New Yorker (briefly), and Vanity Fair, where he can still be found between the celeb spreads and the perfume ads. Not the worst place to be, these days.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
Advertisements