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ABCs of CinephiliaABCs of CINEPHILIA To be a true cinephile, one must be willing to unleash at a moment’s notice a mind-numbingly thorough director’s handbook. Not only does this include a completely exhaustive filmography of said director but an encyclopedic knowledge of influences, stylistic tendencies and camera lens preferences. Mishandle any of these in a gathering of other avowed cineastes and, rest assured, you will never be able to utter the phrase ‘Cahiers du cinema’ in their presence again without eliciting not-so subtle snickers of contempt. The more foreign your director database the better. While members of la nouvelle vague still carry some weight, being the granddaddies of film buffedness and all, their stars have dimmed somewhat with the passage of time and the accumulation of film school grads who can cite them in their sleep.. and often do, I’ve heard told. Germans like Fassbinder and Herzog impress although ‘just’ Werner’s stock has dropped precipitously since he went totally Hollywood with Rescue Dawn. It’s Michael Haneke if you’re looking for genuine Germanic cache (ha, ha). To really swing a big pipe these days, however, you should be looking east (further east), and to the cinemas of Hong Kong, China, Japan et al. Don’t even try to engage anyone standing in line for the Kim Ki-duk retrospective who’s wearing a turtleneck and blazer unless you can speak fluent Ang Lee, Chen Kaige and Wong Kar-wai. I’m serious. It’ll turn out uncomfortably for all concerned. An additional benefit of adopting more exotic leanings is the use of words and phrases that leave the uninitiated outside the loop. You can put ‘neo’ in front of almost any word and sound to those with an untrained ear like you possess a higher knowledge. Italian neo-realism can morph into Iranian neo-realism, somebody loses their bicycle, someone loses a red balloon and when all is said and done, you’re left alone, standing beside the buffet table, the artichoke and asiago spinach dip all to yourself. In most circles, this would be seen as a complete and utter social failure. For true cinema devotees, however, this means you are the life of, what up to that point had been a soulless party. A helpful hint: ‘Godardian’ is pure gold but ‘Truffautian’ never really caught on. I found that out one evening, waiting in line at the Cinematheque to see Tomu Uchida’s A Hole of My Own Making when another patron overhead me utter this faux pas. I was forced to flee the building, ultimately finding refuge from the outraged cinephile and her garbled invective and cane poking, behind a huge Henry Moore. The path to alpha dogs status in cinematic didacticism (which I mean purely in its most positive sense) can only be achieved by boldness of critique of those one truly loathes. Anyone can fawn over the genius of the Hitcockian exploitation of our instinctual voyeurism. How difficult is it to extol Altmanian™ improvisation as a true reflection of life? Successfully dismiss Fritz Lang’s tension-filled oeuvre as mere melodrama and suddenly you assume an otherworldly glow. It’s not simply a matter of slagging those everyone knows to be hacks. Your garden variety Michael Bays and Adrian Lynes are easy pickins. That doesn’t flex any critical muscles. John Hughes? Now you’re at least up to your ankles in it because if a director sucks big enough and long enough, a certain grudging respect evolves, a retro-embrace of their anointed kitsch value. No, friends, in order to stake a claim of official membership in the Church of the Arthouse, one must step up and tangle with the icons, the deeply respected and/or the latest rage. Say you’re told that you absolutely must see Sean Penn’s Into the Wild. Sniff or snort (your choice) dismissively and audibly (that’s important). Maybe add an ever-so-slight eye-roll. When asked if you’ve already seen it, shrug and point out that that would be unnecessary, having endured previous attempts like The Indian Runner and The Crossing Guard. Since you found them to be unbearably overwrought and monochromatically bleak in both colour and tone, why would I.. or rather you, need to put yourself through further misery? Nicely done but as a filmmaker, Penn’s small fry. It’s said that to firmly establish yourself in a new school, you’ve got to walk up and punch the biggest guy in the face. Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk? Clint Eastwood may be the most fawned over American director going. When discussing him, be sure to point out that this current ‘blip’ may be more an indictment of American movies than a nod to Clint’s talent behind the camera. Never, never admit to having seen either Flags of Our Fathers or Letters From Iwo Jima, even if you have. Regale your audience with the tale of how after Mystic River, you swore off ever seeing another Eastwood directed film but were worn down by the constant nattering from friends whose cinematic tastes you thought you knew and agreed with, and finally acquiesced to watch Million Dollar Baby on TMN (that’s important). Of course, it was as ham-fisted and nakedly manipulative as you knew it would be. Even knowing that Hilary Swank’s character died at the end, you could not believe how over-the-top it went. Not just a cheap shot after the bell but her neck breaking on the edge of the stool Eastwood’s Frankie Dunn has ludicrously knocked over in the corner. And I’m sorry, what kind of director would allow Eastwood the actor to deliver a performance so obviously stolen from Burgess Meredith’s Mickey Goldmill? Before walking away in complete and absolute disgust, express your utter disbelief that the man could’ve apprenticed at the feet of the master of filmmaking effortlessness, Don Siegel. You are truly on your way, grasshopper, ready to head directly into the Temple and start trashing genuine arthouse giants. But step lightly and wield your staff judiciously. This is where reputations are forged or critical backs broken. Too little time has passed to lash out at Bergman or Antonioni. Allow them to R.I.P. for a time otherwise, you could come across as opportunistic and tawdry. Referring to Atom Egoyan as merely a glorified cinematographer with no inherent narrative sense simply travels down a well-worn path. Even uttering amazement at how a filmmaker can render the deaths of a busload of school children so clinically inert will only generate shrugs, denoting a ‘tell us something we don’t know’ response. Cut your teeth having a go at the recently lauded David Croenenberg. Suggest that his last two films, A History of Violence and Eastern Promises, are little more than pumped up, steroidal versions of his earlier, low-budget gore fests. Pronounce that, despite the musings of William Blake, not every road of excess leads to palaces of wisdom. If they did, Russ Meyer would be more than a hipster’s B-movie genius and Chris Columbus’ Home Alone, parts I and II would be held in the same esteem as Coppola’s The Godfather opus (minus, of course, #3 which, a true cineaste never denotes with a Roman numeral as an expression of their dismissal of it as part of the legend.) True cinephilia is not about being ‘even-handed’, ‘fair-minded’ or open to other possibilities or interpretations. Those sensibilities are for people who go to movies not the cinema. Cinephiles wear their pretensions on their tweed sleeves, proudly and loudly. Cinephilia means never having to say you’re sorry for thinking the movie somebody else just absolutely loves is nothing more than a pile of celluloid crap.
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