Arts and Movies (Mr. First Nighter)

by Mr. First Nighter

To the thousands of letters and telegrams that have been pouring in asking for me (Wanna bet?), I reply that I have not disappeared; it’s just that the movie situation has been getting increasingly intolerable. Since I do not, like my confreres, enjoy freebies to the preview room, I have been facing accelerating opportunity costs for going to the films. Movie prices have been skyrocketing ($5 for a single feature at the neighborhoods is not outlandish), and — typical of inflationary situations — the quality of theatre service has been plummeting: fewer ushers, popcorn strewn over the floors and seats, etc. To top it all, the quality of new movies has been getting worse and worse, so that, taken all in all, it now becomes far more attractive to say to hell with it and watch an old Cary Grant movie on the tube. Lousy movies mean far less work for Mr. First Nighter.

Private Benjamin, directed by Howard Zieff. With Goldie Hawn. This movie illustrates the miasma that faces movie-goers today. It’s not an outrageously bad movie, just a piece of fluff that, in the good old days, would have rated as an inoffensive B picture: what used to be called, in the days when only movies were air-conditioned, “good hot-weather fare.” And yet, the chilling fact is that Private Benjamin is the runaway smash hit of the season! So far comedies, and movies in general, sunk.

Private Benjamin is an extended one-liner, a one-note variation on the old Danny Kaye-type GI movies, in which a sheltered hothouse plant “is made a man of” by the U.S. Army. Except this time it’s a female who gets the treatment (the Feminist motif.) At best, therefore, it’s a well-worn theme, and the female-GI business can only get you so far in laughs. Another problem that the dialogue shows virtually no comic ability or invention, and that Goldie Hawn, for all her “dumb-blonde” abilities, ain’t no Danny Kaye. The only laughs come in the first part, helped by Miss Hawn being a Jewish Princess, and there is some keen ethnic insight at the beginning (although not nearly as scintillating as in Goodbye Columbus or Annie Halt). But after a while, the whole thing becomes merely tedious, and we are treated to endless and unfunny feminist preaching, to the effect that (a) Isn’t it great that a female can become a Good Soldier, and (b) that a female can leave a two-timing lover and pursue an independent course, even though he is uniquely able to bring her sexual fulfillment. I agree with (b), although we could have been spared the details, and am not so sure that I favor anyone, of either sex, being a Good Soldier. But the point is that the humor gets lost in the preaching, something that the Danny Kay films were never, never guilty of. Verdict; good hot weather fare, or, if your boiler gets broken in cold weather.

Stardust Memories, directed by and with Woody Allen.

I have never seen any important film-maker get a roasting as savage as Woody received for this picture. All the critics who loved Manhattan felt they had to atone for this admiration by eviscerating Stardust Memories. Their behavior is ironic, however, because it bears out the thesis of this picture which they have so bitterly condemned: namely, that adoring fans of Superstars can be treacherous, boring, and selfish, and can turn savagely on their idol when he or she fails to live up to their fantasy-expectations. Again and again, the critics, sensing all too well that Woody considers them as part of the problem, have denounced him for treating his fans in this film in cranky and mean-spirited fashion. His fans depicted boorish, ugly, etc. What none of the critics has bothered to ask is; is Woody right? I suspect that he is.

It is true that this is scarcely a great Allen film, and that, not quite as badly as in Private Benjamin, the wit and humor tend to get lost in the point of view. But not all together, and it is grotesque that the same critics who like Private Benjamin should treat Stardust Memories so harshly. There are still funny, even though bitter, moments and scenes in the film, such as when a group-of adoring fans greet Allen at his weekend at a Borscht Belt hotel. One presses in to the car, and says, “Oh, Mr. ........, I love all your movies, especially your early funny ones.” Only fans can manage to insult while they think they’re showering with compliments.

It’s true, too, that Allen’s copying of Fellini’s confusion of reality and dream sequences is annoying. But it is far less annoying than in Fellini, for since the picture has no plot it doesn’t really make any difference anyway.

Stardust Memories is no masterpiece, but it is still worth seeing; it has fine moments of humor, and provides a rare insight into the fan-idol relationship from the idol’s point of view, for a change.