Recently I rewatched a great film by Lynn Shelton called My Effortless Brilliance. I enjoyed it so much the first time that I wanted to show it to all of my friends, ideally while I sat beside them, beaming. I began with one particular friend, and the screening was a success: we laughed, we cringed, we were quietly moved.

When it was over my friend turned to me and said, “That guy, the main character, you know who

My Effortless Brilliance

he reminded me of?” I did, but I didn’t. It had bothered me all the way through the first time, this free-ranging recognition, so when my friend named a mutual acquaintance it was like cannonballing into a pool of bubble wrap: ridiculous, pod-popping satisfaction. He’s someone I’ve met only once, so there are no logical grounds for how deeply I felt the justice of this comparison, which was physical, but not only; it just jived, it was yar, you knew it. It was also as if, simply by way of making the match, my friend and I had become the proprietors of a secret about this person, and a wicked one at that.

Turnabout, let’s call it; secret for secret, anyway. I seem to have one of those faces, see. Perhaps you do too, and you know what I’m talking about. The kind of face people think they know, or have seen before, or can easily conflate with those they have studied more intimately in two dimensions than we can ever hope to in three. Perhaps this isn’t uncommon at all. In fact, in thinking this over, I have imagined most of you reading these words and thinking “Yeah, I get that all the time” (I actually began a random polling which was indeed invariably met with: “Yeah, I get that all the time”) and quickly had to confront the possibility that on some level and to some degree we all somehow suspect we’ve met one another before.

So I—like you, apparently—get this a lot.  Only occasionally do people suggest that we went to camp, or I played on their volleyball team; too rarely have I come to them in a dream. Most often it turns out I am someone, or remind them of someone, they have seen on the big screen, someone whose image or affect or ineffable essence, having refracted and settled into some deep and murky but primordial quadrant of their memory, I have stirred and called to the fore. With strangers the conviction that attends the culmination of this process is particularly hard to overturn.

A few weeks ago I was on the subway when a jumpy man asked me if our train went to Queensborough Plaza. I told him that it did and we both relaxed a little in our seats; one more of life’s problems solved. Another issue quickly presented itself, however, and the nervous man leaned forward again, turning to me with the words that have come to fire a sort of ontological dread in my belly: “Where have I seen you before?”

Lest you think this gentleman had any sort of design on his seatmate, let me assure you that the ratio of women to men who hit me with this big one is almost equal, and in fact skews slightly female. “Have I seen you before?” he repeated, and I said, no, I didn’t think so. “Yeah, you’re that woman, you were in that movie.” “I’m not, I wasn’t, I promise,” I said. “Are you sure?” he pressed, looking truly perplexed. This time I couldn’t help him.

Am I sure? Too often, when I meet someone new, somewhere in the first few minutes they will get a sort of far-off, foggy look in their eyes while I’m discoursing on some godforsaken thing or other. I have learned to recognize this look not as crashing boredom (though I can spot that too, thank you) but the prelude to my least favorite how-do-you-do. It comes in several variations: Who do you look like? Do you know who you look like? Who do you remind me of? Do I know you? Where have I seen you before? The following details my attempt to get a grip on these questions and why they began to annoy, sadden, and then just thoroughly wig me out.

Let’s start with the Greeks; them or Larry King. “Perception is reality,” the latter is fond of saying, and under that rubric, might we in fact be the amalgams of different faces and performances people impulsively map onto us and might that not in fact be the best way we can hope to be known, if we are to be known at all? A brief equation inspired by Mr. King’s classical aphorism: the essential unknowability of other people times one of the best resorts we have found in the face of that predicament—the movies—equals the intense psychological and aesthetic intimacies we develop with the images and individuals we spend so much time watching more freely, closely, nakedly than we can ever watch each other. That is to say, without being watched back.

Film in particular has become so much a part of how we absorb and organize the world, in fact, that I would argue that the mapping/comparative impulse is not a matter of art imitating life or vice versa, but art mutating into life, then setting off a series of elaborate and ultimately inextricable counter-mutations. It was like a movie, a movie was like it–who can tell anymore? I wonder, if one were to empty out a brain and divvy up its critical, alpha chip signifiers–this is a woman, this is a man; this is repulsion, this is beauty; this is how a kiss goes, this is how you die; this is running for your life, this is walking down a city street all exhilarated and shit–how many of them would come straight from the movies, how many from lived experience, and how many from some unholy genome splicing of the two which becomes less an image or a visual phrase than a funny feeling in the old tummy. I imagine most of us would prefer the second pile to be the biggest but that’s just not the world/perception/reality we live in; the moving image changed so much more than the way we spend our rainy Sundays. Sometimes I worry that I’m actually most alive at the movies, and that that predicament is why we can’t help but see them everywhere we go, and in everyone we meet.

In Michel Gondry’s Be Kind Rewind, Jack Black’s character destroys the

Be Kind Rewind

inventory of a video store, then attempts to restock it with homemade versions in which he stars. His partner, played by Mos Def, says the customers will know these films are fake, they won’t be fooled, but Black doesn’t see why: “Maybe I am in Ghostbusters,” he says. Maybe we all are, Gondry suggests; maybe the act of watching a film not only completes but activates it, triggering a sort of psycho-sentient osmosis, opening a channel that allows a part of us to join the film and a part of the film to join us. Watching Before Sunrise a decade after I first saw it I was struck by the feeling of having left a part of my 20-year-old self somewhere within it, I could almost recognize her lurking between the euro-trains, behind the cobblestone alleys, in the fresh faces of the actors themselves. Maybe I am in Before Sunrise.

When someone else does the recognizing, of course, it gets trickier, by virtue of both engaging their own multi-mapped, memory-banked viewing experiences and raising one of the most critical questions one human being can ask another: What is it you see when you look at me?

Consider the overlap between the way we normals and the actual famous people field that question, and the psychic fallout it entails.  Sasha Grey calls watching herself have sex onscreen surreal. “I don’t feel like it’s me,” she says, “It’s just a weird feeling that’s hard to describe.” In a scene early in Don’t Look Back, the young Bob Dylan laughs uneasily over a newspaper’s claim that he smokes 80 cigarettes a day. “I’m glad I’m not him,” he says.

Forty years later, in a 2004 interview, Dylan talked about the kind of interaction that keeps him from going out in public. “People will say, ‘Are you who I think you are?’” Dylan said. “And you’ll say, ‘Ahh, I don’t know.’ And they’ll say, ‘You’re, you’re him,’ and you’ll say, ‘Okay, yes?’ And then the next thing is, ‘Oh, no. Are you really him? I don’t think you’re him.’ And that can go on and on.”

Susan Strasberg used to tell a story about walking around New York with an incognito-in-plain-sight Marilyn Monroe. “Do you want to see me be her?” Monroe would say, and Strasberg describes the star turning on some imperceptible inner switch, then beginning to glow. Within moments the people who had been passing right by were stopping in their tracks, scrambling for pen and paper.

Of course creating distance between person and persona is common among people whose faces and bodies and voices become commodoties, if sometimes confusing for the public picking up the tab. And of course normals have personas too, themselves often in part constructed out of the personas they have watched and admired on screen, though we all want to be recognized, especially at parties where boys are present, as sovereign creations: Nobody wants to be unoriginal, or a type, or a screen of such accommodating blankness that pretty much anyone from Bea Arthur to a cartoon cat can be projected onto it. But also who needs their benign social interactions to segue without warning into not just an inappropriately intense eyeballing but a weirdly potent subordination of their individuality?

There was a point, two years ago, when I finally lost my patience. I was speaking with two gentlemen at a very civilized gathering in a lovely home where I knew only the hosts. One of them, a money guy, got the foggy look in his eyes: “Who do you…Who does she…Where have I…” I told him that I hated this game and it never ended well, but he wrangled three more people to surround me, bouncing ideas and shouting nominees like Scattergory clues. I followed what I’m pretty sure is the advised strategy for a bear attack: keep still, don’t make eye contact, and wait for it to be over. Unsatisfied, he actually left the room to seek out the host’s computer, so he might google and put his mind at ease. He gathered his team around the monitor in the other room, where they deliberated after he finally located the actress he had in mind. None of them noticed when I got my coat from the closet behind them and walked out the door.

This bothered me for a long time. I complained bitterly about it to my dad, who seems to have one of those faces as well. All while I was growing up, people told me whom my dad looked like, variations on the dark and handsome theme; he just looked like my dad to me. But then it happened: I was 13 or 14 and saw my first Jimmy Stewart movie, The Philadelphia Story. “Dad!” I said. “That’s you!” You’re crazy, he said. “Don’t you see it? Don’t people tell you that?” I recognize his bafflement now, though I’ll be damned if I’m wrong about Jimmy Stewart. Especially in profile. (It still happens: Last Christmas he got it from the checkout lady at the A&P. “Who do you look like?” she said. “You look like that actor…” “Abe Vigoda?” I volunteered. “No,” she frowned, hard.)

My dad told me not to take it so hard, that people sometimes fumble when they’re trying to make frivolous social contact. I can understand that—I am that—and this is not that. Writing such a scenario off as a clumsy attempt at connection is not a misplaced generosity but a misunderstanding. Generosity might grope for some understanding of the impulse we humans have, when confronted with something perfectly ordinary and frankly terrifying—a new human being—to “solve” them, contain them in some satisfying way, avoid looking further into yet another wild abyss. In other words it’s the avoidance of connection, which I believe, dear internet reader, you might be familiar with.

When it comes to strangers on trains and pleased-to-meet-you’s at parties, I have made the above, slightly strenuous philosophical peace with the Compare and Conquer. But those who know me well–friends, boyfriends, health professionals–aren’t much better, regularly telling me of faces and performances that sent up flags of familiarity for them. I’m still working on that one. I tried to list all of the names I have heard, and stopped at 16, with one woman by far the front-runner. The others, however, when considered in a gallery-like format, share almost no distinguishing characteristics, save their utter, abiding whiteness. I feel oppressed by the spectrum; it makes me feel lonely, the opposite of known.  In any case they always seem to be telling me something important, so occasionally I have watched these unlikely women, trying to see what my friends see, but it’s impossible. It’s most impossible, in fact, when I actually do see myself, briefly, in a laugh, or a look, or a pointy nose. It’s just a weird feeling that’s hard to describe.

You tell me.

Last week, while perusing the Feminist Art exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum I came across what I perceived to be a stone cut-out of a penis from the 3rd century BCE. The writing on the wall, however, described a figure of a seated woman, perhaps with a harp or cello propped between her legs. I pulled my friend over. “What do you see?” I asked. “A penis,” she said. “Exactly. A penis. Thank you.” Then we left and my friend cooed over a dog that I would bet money was bred for maximum ugliness per square inch. I couldn’t see it. Maybe if I had been raised with them, like her, I could. In the world of dog-owning, I hear, what owners hope to see most in their pets, consciously or unconsciously, is some part themselves. And in the context of a Feminist Exhibit, a five thousand year old icon of a penis becomes a squatting goddess.

The previous week I had left the supermarket feeling low after starting a fight between two stock boys: one was apparently defending the honor of the former child star his colleague had somehow seen in me as I was pricing strawberries. I became aware of the conflict when a shiny, gelled head peeked out from around the pasta display for a second look, then ducked back behind. “Naw, man, are you crazy? That’s my girl, that’s my chica!” he boomed. The other one stood his ground, hollering back. It was as though I wasn’t there at all.

Soon after the spaghetti aisle incident I saw The Girlfriend Experience, Steven Soderbergh’s new film. Film critic Glenn Kenny has a small part in the film, and while I have met Glenn several times and had a few friendly exchanges, it was not until I watched him on a giant screen, in the dark, in that uniquely uninhibited way, that I realized how profoundly he reminds me of another friend, a much closer friend. They look not a bit alike, and of course Glenn was playing a character, if one that didn’t require a makeover or a funny accent; on screen he captured not the image or personality of my friend but the feeling. I can’t tell you how satisfying that two-toned ring of alarm and recognition was, that proud little thrill of affirmation: There he is! He lives!

That night I came home to an email from a different friend who said he had just seen a film whose lead actress really reminded him of me. He wouldn’t tell me her name, though, or the nature of the role, aware of my long history of being driven bananas by such things but “also because I fear that you might be like, ‘her?! me?!?! NO WAY!’ and then get mad at me.” I didn’t press, and I didn’t get mad. I don’t think I would have even if he’d told me; for the first time it actually made me feel kind of good. She lives!

Yesterday I stepped into my local library, and the security guard began to laugh when she saw me coming—not that unusual, I admit. But she was still smiling when she waved away my dutifully opened bag. “Did you forget something?” she asked, then looked me right in the face. The security guard thought she knew me—had just seen me. I winked at her and slipped inside.

Call it the Theory of Receptivity. It’s the idea, often stated by young people and applied as a dismissive accusation to even marginally older people, that one’s taste in music, or film, or literature, or fine cuisine, petrifies during life’s peak of happiness or nadir of misery, at any rate during the period(s) when one is most open to and absorbent of the things we can all agree make life worth living, most curious about the world and energetic in chasing down its offerings.

During these periods—second year of university, sleepaway camp right before your bar mitzvah, the year you were captain of the hockey team and the baseball team, the time after you got your license and before you totaled the Volvo, the spring your parents split up and you moved to Oregon, the winter after you found out the man you love is marrying someone else—you are acutely attuned to your culture, you reach out and into it, and consume it in vast quantities whether due to tutelage, access to new, interesting people, or to stay an excess of leisure, emotion, disposable income,  or extant and as-yet unaffiliated brain cells. When this period ends, the relevant neurons seal off what they have absorbed and contain them in a place your brain has categorized, for better or for worse, as definitive: This is the music I like; these are the films I like; this is as good/bad as it gets for me. The theory suggests that we only get a couple of these moments in life, a couple of soundtracks, and they usually happen early. If you happened to grow up in the mid-70’s, for instance, you may espouse a relatively shitty cultural moment as the last time anything was any good simply because that happened to be the last time you were open and engaged with what was happening around you, the last time you felt anything really—appallingly—deeply.

I worry about this theory. I worry because it suggests that receptivity is tied very closely to youth, and firsts, and I worry also because as with most theories that I want to reject out of hand, there is a grain of truth to it. My worry started a couple of years ago, when I felt myself slowly separating, almost against my will and better judgment, from what I had unwittingly, effortlessly been a part of for two decades: “The Next Generation.” It’s when I noticed myself taking a step back from the yellow line when the R-train blows into the station, rather than a step forward, like I used to, like the kids flanking me still do. It’s when I began giving more than a passing thought to the age of the people around me, then much more, to the point where I find myself calibrating the age of new acquaintances as a matter of course, ranking a given group in a way that is new and troubling to me, not by interesting eye color or willingness to engage intelligently or suspected willingness to engage carnally or crack comic timing (not actually true, I will always rank by crack comic timing) and not even specifically by age but by age in relation to me. For me it was the subway thing; for others it’s a first gray hair or death in the family or week-long hangover or time they heard an indie sensation’s breakthrough single and thought it sounded like a family of moles recorded it in a cutlery drawer. Between about age 28 to maybe age 43 seems to be a gray area where anyone within that range could be any age within that range, and paradoxically it is this cohort that gets most wigged out about how old they are and how old the people in that same cohort might be.

People respond to this conundrum differently. “Your friend mentioned her age a lot,” another friend of mine said after a dinner party recently. “Like, a whole bunch of times. It was weird.” The observant friend had just turned 31, and hated admitting it. My other friend had just turned 34, and couldn’t stop talking about it. “Maybe she’s trying to remind herself,” I said. The numbers only sound more unlikely as they mount, after all. At a different party, someone I barely knew asked me, in front of a room full of people I didn’t know at all, how old I was. Whereas it would have been ordinarily rude and possibly condescending even, say, five years ago, something about the question and the context had a political, almost passive-aggressive sting. He was 34–older than I was, but only a little–as was everyone else in the room. I know this because most of them were actresses whose heads, once the question was asked and the social etiquette gauntlet was down, swiveled in my direction, not unkindly but with wide, hungry eyes. I want to say—and in fact suspect it could be true—that an actual hush fell upon us. The dude was history, it was the actresses I looked up the next day. But then I find myself on IMDB fairly regularly lately. I am suddenly in possession of the ages of a number of actors and actresses whom I have been watching for years, in some cases decades. We’ve been the same age the whole time, as it turns out, it just never occurred to me to check, or to care, until now. Movie stars were in a distant, ageless realm that had nothing to do with me; if anything they were generally perceived as much older or much younger. I remember seeing ET when it came out and thinking Drew Barrymore was a tiny little sprite; the epitome of childhood innocence. But we were almost the same age, I was a little younger, even. I know that now.

One of the great, time-released pleasures of movie-going is watching the actors of your generation grow older. Maybe pleasures isn’t precisely the right word, but maybe it is. I am only now beginning to discover it, seeking out some sign of accreted wisdom, pain, or contentment–experience–in their faces. This one had a baby, that one just lost her dad. Watching Ethan Hawke in Before Sunset was probably, along with the R-train moment, which happened around that same time, the beginning of my realization that time was really passing, that this thing was really happening. Life began to show itself as more than a series of days, or movies, all in a row, which I might or might not attend. He was gaunt and slightly stooped, but it was his face—rough skin and sunken cheeks, with an angry, exclamatory furrow wedged like a hatchet blade between his eyes—that transfixed me. Some said he’d come through a divorce, and it took its toll; that that’s what life does to people. I’d heard about such things but never really seen it in action on the face of someone only a few years older than me. There was something awful and yet so marvelous, so real and poignant and right, about Ethan Hawke’s face, and about getting to see it in this beautiful meditation on what life does to people, a ten-years-in-the-making sequel to a film about people too young and smitten to be too concerned about what life might do to them. And what was life doing to me? I worry.

I worry, specifically, about 1999. I worry more about 1993, but let’s stick with 1999 because this is a film forum and not a music one. The contents of my iPod might suggest that at least a third of me is stuck in 1993, and I’d have a hard time defending myself against the Theory of Receptivity in that case, because 1993 is the last time I remember being blissfully, boringly happy, for a good long stretch. 1993 is my gritty grain of truth. But 1999 is a different animal. There’s nothing really special about it in terms of my own personal barometers—fairly crap, but nowhere near as crap as 2000, which I declared an official do-over. But it was an extraordinary year in film. It was, I am prepared to argue, one of the greatest years for film in cinematic history, and certainly the best year since I had been alive. Possibly the best year in the second half of the twentieth century, but there’s a two-drink minimum if you want me to summon the table-rapping righteousness I’d need to go that far. It’s ten years later, now, and more and more the people that I would argue about such things with are younger than I am, and when I make these arguments sometimes I can see what they’re thinking: “But you were really young in 1999. That’s the last time you felt anything really—appallingly—deeply. I call the Theory of Receptivity and now find you slightly sadder than before.”

But it’s just not true. I was young, yes, but I was a terrible young person, I was an embarrassment to my kind—I only thank God it was ten years and not now, where every weekend needs a new photo gallery and every quip its own web page, because I take a flash like a bullet and hated answering the phone when it was couldn’t follow me everywhere I go. 1999 for me was a non-starter, hardly a time, I think, when I found things new and exciting because I was young, or that I now associate with my new and exciting, young world. If anything I felt old and worn out and generally skeptical: I was just out of school, I thought everyone was full of shit, especially me, and it just so happened that the only thing I was really good at was spending a lot of time alone, in the dark. I probably never saw more movies in a single year, it’s true, but it was my great good fortune—and I remember thinking at the time: Can you fucking believe this? Again this week?—that so many important directors of the last generation and the next one seemed to be cramming their best work into the final seconds of the century.

Why the confluence? Does somebody chart these things? Some critics get their dudgeon up about making lists of a year’s best and worst films, but it seems to me there is something to the grouping, particularly when a year’s harvest, like 1999’s, is so clearly, almost freakishly accomplished. Leaving aside the big ticket items that weren’t half bad like The Sixth Sense, American Beauty (okay, half bad), The Insider, and, say, Sleepy Hollow (and also leaving aside weirdo phenomenon The Blair Witch Project), something was up with the output of smaller, largely independent, wildly inventive and ambitious films. An era was either peaking or having a really intense, pre-expiration paroxysm. It was a culminating moment in any case, where there was still something like legitimate independent film and the people with money weren’t as frightened about taking risks; perhaps the co-opt had begun, but there was still some fight left in the independent system. And even the old pros were stepping up their game, trying something new: Spike Lee brought Summer of Sam, David Lynch had The Straight Story, Kubrick’s love it or lump it Eyes Wide Shut, Woody Allen had the underrated Sweet and Lowdown and Pedro Almodovar broke through with All About My Mother.

1999’s domination began with the release of Rushmore, in February 1999. Forebear of all things fresh and wonderful, it set the tone and the bar for the year. (Read this lovely, strange story of Wes Anderson arranging a private screening for Pauline Kael. “I don’t know what you’ve got here, Wes,” she said.”) Then came The Matrix and Office Space in March. I remember sneaking off to see the latter, leaving my own stultifying office job for an extra-long lunch. There was a multiplex underneath our office, and another close by, and I recruited as many people as I could to cut out and watch Mike Judge’s first film. Then there was Go, Hideous Kinky (remember when Kate was cool? And slightly nuts?), Open Your Eyes, eXistenZ (I didn’t like eXistenZ, but will cede to those who do). And then Election! Glorious Election. Then Last Night, a scene of which was shot in my apartment building’s elevators, Buena Vista Social Club, yes, the first Austin Powers sequel, Run Lola Run and the goddamn South Park movie. What a great time—a great summer—to be dating, now that I think of it; with South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, I could tell in the first five minutes, when I was cramping up from the laughter coming from an astonished, ecstatic, awesome wellspring inside of me that had certainly never been accessed in a movie theatre, that Mr. Easter Island beside me would never do.

Dick! Romance. And then kicking off the fall season was the amazing Three Kings. The fall is where things really get ridiculous: next is the one-two crunch of Boys Don’t Cry and Fight Club, both of which had me wandering out into the streets with the anguished, bleary look of someone who’s been kidnapped, injected with adrenaline, alienation, and heartbreak, and kicked out of a moving car. American Movie, Dogma, 42 Up, Sunshine, Girl, Interrupted, Holy Smoke (remember when Kate was cool/crazy squared), and Mansfield Park are comparatively minor but still pretty fucking good. Then came Being John Malkovich, a truly exhilarating, paradigm-shifting film, and The End of the Affair, which I am prepared to fight about, and finally Magnolia and one of my favorite films of all and ever, The Talented Mr. Ripley.

My dad’s an English professor, and at the end of every year he worries that the final entry on his syllabus is also the last book those kids will ever read. In 1999 I had just spent four years studying the film and the literature of the past, as though that is indeed where all good things can be found. To experience such a radical burst of cinema in my own time stopped me in my tracks, but hardly permanently. If anything it kept me seeking that feeling, of being a part of something remarkable, and staying awake enough to know it. And yet the older I get the more protective I feel of 1999; I want to see it get the respect,  the recognition, the eye-peelingly boring masters seminar it deserves. A chapbook, a documentary, a blog post–something.

Believe me, young people, I know the case against me better than you ever could: I rarely go to shows anymore, I don’t troll myspace for hot new sounds, I can’t really get into Mumblecore, too often I read new books because I’m being paid to, and it’s probably a matter of months before I look in the mirror and see Ethan Hawke staring back. I’m right there with you. But tell me, have you seen 1999? I was young then, but it didn’t mean that much to me. We’re ten years gone now, it’s as good a time as any: Look in your hearts, look in your calendars, look in your DVD collections, your youth, your own favorite years, look beyond not your own subjectivity but mine, and tell me I’m wrong. I want to take the grain of truth nagging at me, insisting I might be, and shove it.

**

Read more Fade To Orange.

Related posts:

1. Fade to Orange: Michelle Orange’s Film Link Implosion
2. Fade to Orange: He is So Totally That Into Me Edition
3. Fade to Orange: “Do I Know You?” and Other Impossible Questions

You know, you come home from, say, a happening launch party, it’s around midnight and you’re feeling excellent, you turn on the TV so as not to consume your prophylactic course of pretzels and water in anomic silence, and see that channel 44 is about three minutes into its late nite movie, Good Will Hunting, and like that you’re way back, you’re circa 1997, and you remember everything: thinking Matt Damon was a mouth-breathing, bra-snapping punk, and sitting alone in the Uptown Theatre like you did every Tuesday afternoon, and liking them apples, and that scene they shot in your Canadian Lit classroom at St. Mike’s, and what an eff-up you were in second year–how times have changed!–and then you remember a few months ago when, in a darker mood, you came upon a wonderful conversation between David Foster Wallace and Gus Van Sant, and how times really have changed.

Turns out Wallace was a big fan of Good Will Hunting, and turns out also that my revisiting the interview in question tore an epic wormhole in the glittering surface of the internet whose depths I am here to tell you are unfathomable and not for lack of trying. I did not know my browser could support this many tabs; if there’s an outer tab limit, a braver woman than I will have to reach it.

Anyway, for some reason DFW was auditing an advanced tax accounting class at the time of the interview, had just seen Van Sant’s film, and wanted to geek out with some math talk before getting to the heart of its (i.e. the film’s) appeal for him: “The thing that interested me about Will — and of course this is like a stroke movie for me — is you’ve got like a total nerd who is incredibly good looking, can beat people up and has Minnie Driver in love with him, so I’m, like I saw it twice voluntarily.”

Nerdom re-emerges, Sauron-like, as a theme:

“One of the great puzzles I work with is I’m basically a nerd and everybody I know are nerds and how do you make nerds interesting (Gus laughs). And I haven’t seen it done that compellingly for a while. We’ll stop talking about “Good Will Hunting” in just one second, but one thing is that I really like Skaarsgaard. I liked “Zero Kelvin” and “Breaking the Waves.” The conflict in him of discovering someone who in Whitman’s phrase ’spreads the broader breast than his own.’”

I like Skaarsgaard too. And I really like reading DFW talk about film. Van Sant perks up when DFW suggests that Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree would make a great film, Wallace  groans when Van Sant mentions his intention to write a novel–what’s often striking about famous-on-famous interviews is not just the superior eavesdroppy stuff but the currents of artistic tension and the very subtle ego rutting that sometimes goes on. I thought of a more recent interview between Van Sant and James Franco; Van Sant was talking up Zac Efron, of all people, and Franco wouldn’t let it go. Eccentric directors get eccentric crushes: Wong Kar Wai fell for Norah Jones last year, Werner Herzog expressed his profound regret at never having worked with Anna Nicole Smith…

No no, wrong wormhole. DFW’s Will Hunting enthusiasm was to me further evidence that he was that breed of cinephile who also loved movies, if you know what I mean, that ideal kind of moviegoer: omnivorous, alert but unpretentious, willing to be entertained and take a film on its own terms. An author’s relationship to the cinema and cinematic narrative fascinates me–friendly rivalry, arch-nemesis, demon lover, mild acquaintance, unrequited crush, total obessesion–and in this interview and many others, as well as throughout his fiction, film culture’s influence on DFW is manifest. He once described his 1984 viewing of Blue Velvet as a catalytic experience, one that seemed to lay bare the path he was seeking as a young writer. When he eventually got to write a piece about Lynch for Premiere magazine, he made a point of not going the famous-on-famous route, and the absence of the subject somehow freed Wallace to puncture Lynch’s enigma.

In another interview, conducted it seems the day after he saw Damon and Co. (“It’s a bit of a fairy tale, but I enjoyed it a lot. Minnie Driver is really to fall sideways for.”), Wallace said that his favorite non-fiction writer, the one who most inspired him, was film critic Pauline Kael: “I think prosewise, Pauline Kael is unequaled.” This both broke and warmed my heart. Film critics are being fired every day; many are just giving up. That Kael simply had a forum, that she could operate within a functioning realm of respect and space and interest and paycheques, surely has much to do with the heights that she reached as an artist. How many opportunities for the development of new voices in criticism but also in Western letters are being lost?

Many writers had their start in or spent part of their career as film critics. James Agee and Graham Greene are the most common examples–Renata Adler is another. Greene’s film criticism suggests not a novelist slumming but a provocative, exacting, often brilliant writer at his work. Consider the extreme, acid cynicism of his review of the Shirley Temple movie Wee Willie Winkie, which review resulted in a libel case that sent Greene packing to Mexico in 1937, where he would ultimately gather the material for The Power and the Glory. Here’s part of the review:

“The owners of a child star are like leaseholders — their property diminishes in value every year. Time’s chariot is at their back; before them acres of anonymity. Miss Shirley Temple’s case, though, has a peculiar interest: infancy is her disguise, her appeal is more secret and more adult. Already two years ago she was a fancy little piece (real childhood, I think, went out after The Littlest Rebel). In Captain January she wore trousers with the mature suggestiveness of a Dietrich: her neat and well-developed rump twisted in the tap-dance: her eyes had a sidelong searching coquetry. Now in Wee Willie Winkie, wearing short kilts, she is completely totsy. Watch her swaggering stride across the Indian barrack-square: hear the gasp of excited expectation from her antique audience when the sergeant’s palm is raised: watch the way she measures a man with agile studio eyes, with dimpled depravity. Her admirers — middle-aged men and clergymen — respond to her dubious coquetry, to the sight of her well-shaped and desirable little body, packed with enormous vitality, only because the safety curtain of story and dialogue drops between their intelligence and their desire.”

Dimpled depravity! Fancy little piece! What the! In a neat circularity John Ford, who actually directed Wee Willie Winkie (wt!x2), wound up directing The Fugitive, the film adaptation of The P&G. Greene was of course involved in the film world throughout his career–some even credit him with the birth of film noir–and as a screenwriter is perhaps best known for The Third Man, the novella he adapted himself.

Despite the seemingly obvious affinities shared by the work of Greene and Alfred Hitchcock, the two never colloborated. They met once, and Greene deemed him a “silly, harmless clown.” Warmer feelings, it can be assumed, were shared between Greene and François Truffaut; Greene cameoed as a British insurance agent in Truffaut’s Day For Night, an uncredited role that Pauline Kael had to confer with the director to confirm before writing her 1973 review. Here you see my dilemma.

No but wait. I was lately reproached by someone who could not believe that I call myself a film person and have not read Hitchcock/Truffaut, the apparently indispensable book compiled from 50-plus hours of conversation between the two directors. In fact I call myself nothing of the sort, but I saw his point. Truffaut revered Hitchcock, and the dynamic between them during the interviews–prickly, tentative, indulgent, impatient, fond–makes the tapes, despite the translation lag, the better delivery system. Film nerd drinking game: do a shot every time Hitch lights a cigar. Like film nerds can do shots.

The ne plus ultra of famous-on-famous interviews, director’s division, has got to be Jean-Luc Godard’s Meetin’ WA, his interview of Woody Allen. It was shot on video, there are crazy jump cuts, weird intertitles, bizarre irises, arty interstitials, and some seriously awkward chat. Godard’s like, “Errmm, Hann-ah, Eetch-cock, Stanislavski, intentionalité, oui, bien sûr” and Woody’s like, “Aaahhh, French Guy! French Guy in my living room!!” No, it’s only like that for a second; it’s a wonderful piece. When Allen quoted Renata Adler on television–”It’s an appliance rather than an art form”–I got the howling wormhole fantods. Here he is on the inevitable disappointment of the finished product:

“And as the process goes on when I’m making a film, casting to shooting to editing, it gets worse and worse for me, because I get further and further away from the idealized perfection of the first idea. Then when the film is finished, I look at it and always dislike it very much and think: Ugh, one year ago I was sitting in my bedroom and I had this idea for a film and it was so beautiful and everything was just great, and then little by little, I ruined it.”

Roman Polanski says something similar during his 1999 interview with Charlie Rose; he talks about the heartbreak of every rough cut and the impossibility of reconciling the singularity of inspiration with filmmaking’s mosaical process. Corruption inevitably ensues. Then Charlie (and I realize now that my problem with Rose is the suspicion that he considers all of his interviews to be famous-on-famous) asks him a feckless question about regret and high on derision Polanski manages to quote Democritus and The Rolling Stones in the same sentence.

Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired came out on DVD last week and I watched it this weekend. It’s a strange but worthwhile documentary which leaves no doubt about the miscarriage of justice in the 1977 Polanski trial. What it doesn’t manage as successfully is an exploration of the tension that arises, in any examination of this situation (he was accused of drugging, raping, and sodomizing a 13-year-old girl), but particularly a legal one, between ethics and morals, right and wrong versus good and bad. For that you’ll want to cf. The Power and the Glory.

Polanski, who may use the film’s testimonials to leverage a return to the United States after 30 years in exile, is interviewed in this month’s Interview. And if you must know, he disdains Godard and admires Truffaut. Why, the interviewer wonders:

FV: Is it because at a certain stage of his career, he admitted a more relaxed and open relationship with American cinema and his passion for Hitchcock?

RP: It’s not because of that. It’s that his passion for Hitchcock and his interest in American cinema must have something to do with his idea of the movies. I think that he had a different basis and a real talent. I liked him as a person and I liked him as an artist. At that period, he was the only French member of the so-called nouvelle vague that I would appreciate. Some of the films of the nouvelle vague were excruciatingly boring. Most of them were completely amateurish. It was just one of those periods when suddenly people get ecstatic about something which may later prove to be completely worthless or fake. It was a little bit of the emperor’s new clothes.

And with that, I die. Save yourselves.

Miscellany alert: Fans of Senator Clay Davis on The Wire will note that the actor, Isiah Whitlock Jr., first put his signature topspin on the s-word in the role of the cop who busts Ed Norton in The 25th Hour. Spike Lee overheard him one day and suggested he do it in character.

Bonus quote alert:

RP: There is a Russian proverb: “You will never fuck all women of the world, but you should try.”

FV: Did you try?

RP: No, I didn’t. But you have to take it into consideration, nevertheless.

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1. Fade To Orange: Michelle Orange’s Random Film Links
2. Fade to Orange: Michelle Orange’s Film Link Implosion
3. Fade to Orange: Michelle Orange’s Film Link Happening