Schaden-celluloid
Have you ever seen those placemats in Chinese restaurants that predict peoples’ compatibility based on the animals associated with their birth years? If you’re an ox, marry a snake, but avoid sheep. Dragons and monkeys are meant for each other. Rats and horses? Not so much.
Had the Snyderman clan owned a restaurant together, our placemats would have featured movies instead of animals. Fans of McCabe & Mrs. Miller and Star Wars would be oil and water, if not chlorine and ammonia. But love lies in store for those who drop quotes from Paths of Glory and Apocalypse Now. Eavesdropping on our conversations, you’d be forgiven for thinking our last name was Corleone, for all the Godfather dialogue we threw around.
Debating which are the most memorable lines or stylish cinematographers should be fun, not a blood sport, and for most people they are. Alas, not so with my father. Misbegotten opinions about his favorite or least favorite films could mark you for something between excommunication and a fatwa. One unfortunate soul had the temerity to diss Citizen Kane, a blasphemy my father refused to let him live down. I thought that a thumbs-up to a favored obscurity might prompt him to put down The New York Times and join me in cataloging its noteworthy scenes. But he’d typically glance over the top of his reading glasses with an enthusiasm-killing, “Of course you like it.”
Dad, to be fair, instilled in me a lifelong love of cinema, a passion I’ve since passed along to my daughter. During the heyday of San Francisco’s repertory theaters, he and I bonded over the likes of North by Northwest, Seven Samurai and Nosferatu (the 1922 silent version). It lasted until my emerging preferences allowed scruffy upstarts such as Repo Man and The Wanderers to elbow their way into my pantheon of favorites. His reactions to my forsaking of his one true path were biting. I was simple minded for liking Million Dollar Baby. I’d betrayed him by seeing Le Samouraï, a movie he considered irredeemably dull and overrated. He was also angry with me because I did not get his ok to see the movie beforehand. That I arrived at the same dim view of the film hardly mattered. He hung up on me because I didn’t enjoy A Very Long Engagement enough and reamed me out for not steering him away from Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, a film I apparently should have known he’d hate if I’d had any sense. Or taste.
So, I sought out other cinephiles who viewed dissent with genuine curiosity (and maybe a little teasing), not as the symptom of a flawed character.
-o-
Sometime in the late 80’s, Pauline Kael, the storied New Yorker film critic, was scheduled to speak in San Francisco, courtesy of our Friends of the Library lecture series. Her columns, written with style and caustic wit, could make, break or revive careers. My father’s shelves sagged with her books. So did mine. The event sold out quickly, but I’d managed to snag a seat in the nosebleed section.
Ms. Kael walked onto the stage with her reverential interviewer and discussed her Bay Area roots, her writing process, and what it was like working at The New Yorker. She also weighed in on several of the year’s high-profile films. After she finished disemboweling Platoon and Children of a Lesser God with trademark flair – which drew chuckles and the odd hiss –ushers carrying microphones prowled the aisles in search of those wishing to engage with the “Oracle of Celluloid.” Many of the questioners sought recommendations or confirmation of their feelings regarding a particular movie. I sat back and enjoyed the exchanges, scribbling in my program the names of unfamiliar movies she’d blessed.
“There,” directed the host, “Yes. In the orchestra. The gentleman on the right.” I couldn’t see the gentleman from my perch in the balcony, but instantly recognized his voice. “What do you think of The Official Story?” asked my father. He particularly loved the political drama out of Argentina and had been urging me to see it for weeks. I was glad he had. Soulful and tragic with a great cast, what wasn’t to like?
The congregation dutifully fell silent as Ms. Kael helped herself to a sip of water. I pictured him leaning forward. I pictured my mother taking his hand.
To this day, I’d give $1000 (ok, $100) to have a recording of that moment. Another sip and the oracle delivered her verdict: predictable, mawkish, tediously preachy. The crowd actually burst out laughing when she closed with the only line I remember verbatim: “I’ve probably just offended a perfectly nice man.”
I’ve watched The Official Story since then and my opinion hasn’t changed. But those words that rang out before 800 people in that ornate hall and over the airwaves on KQED Radio were the most delicious I’d ever read or heard from her. They didn’t make up for years of fatherly sarcasm, but they came pretty close. And while never rubbing it in, I took great comfort from that memory whenever my father managed to lure me back into a minefield.
Thank you, Pauline. Thanks a million.
© Matthew Snyderman
Matthew Snyderman lives in Northern California with his wife. He enjoys swimming, watching old movies on the big screen, and collecting music. His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, The Berlin Literary Review, Bristol Noir, Fabula Argentea, Killer Nashville, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, Punk Noir, Twelve Winters, Twin Bill, and The Under Review.
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