Nobody's Perfect: Writings from the New Yorker

NOBODY'S PERFECT: WRITINGS FROM THE NEW YORKER Anthony Lane New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2002, 752 pp. Though perhaps not an axiom, it is most commonly the case that academics write for academics; whereas, critics write for filmgoers. Undoubtedly, this is the well-spring for much of the tension that exists between the two factions. Many academics see popular criticism as a source of pseudo-intellectual embarrassment and may overlook the contributions of a critic like Anthony Lane, whose film criticism for The New Yorker is now available in the massive Nobody's Perfect. Many critics are no less adamant about the matter, blaming the alleged decline of American film culture on academics and theorists. Lane is unflappable, almost nonchalant, in the face of such a timely debate, plugging away at what should really be preoccupying these warring parties: the movies themselves. Lane's confident stance is grounded in his admiration for what he calls criticism, and while it may be tinted with a sense of irony, it reminds one of the virtues and pitfalls of film reviewing in the first half-century of cinema. Many critics, as Greg Taylor argues in Artists in the Audience, sought to lead but not to be followed. This impulse imbued the writing with unquestionable originality, as in the case of Parker Tyler and Manny Farber for instance, but also condemned it to moments of inconsistency and even incoherence. So focused on the moment were these critics, so unconcerned about the impact their work (taken as a whole) might have on a reader, that, when mapping their progress in retrospect, one traces not a straight line but a zigzagging pattern that raises questions about their commitment to an enlightened readership. One might, if one were so inclined, accuse a few of these critics of recklessness and self-indulgence, of causing the taste of the American spectator to regress into a game of deliberately-timed shifts in perspective just to keep people off guard. Lane's criticism is not so careless, although the roots of his work certainly lie in the tradition of popular reviewing. The photo on the dust jacket of Nobody's Perfect (which has, with peculiar consistency, obsessed many reviewers of this book), displaying the critic's crafted pose as utterly serious, is so out of tune with the tone of his writing that it suggests Lane may be mimicking, if not parodying, the self-importance of American critics from the '30s and '40s. You are holding a hunk of old journalism, begins the Introduction, corroborating this sentiment. But why, at this point in time, would one want to recall past critical response to film, to renew the approaches and styles of old criticism? Sentimental nostalgia? Charming archaism? Considering that nostalgia has been a recurring theme in American film criticism at least since Agee lamented the passing of Comedy's Greatest Era, both answers may have partial explanatory value. And yet, there's more to it than that, as one recognizes in Lane's ability to feel the pulse of his times. Writing with seemingly unwavering optimism, Lane never pauses to ponder the mourning chorus (Stanley Kauffmann's term) of critics who dread the death of cinema or the crisis of criticism. Instead, he chips away at the very real pessimism that pervades American film culture. Skim the titles that he reviews-Wolf, Sgt. Bilko, Con Air, Godzilla-and consider then what he does with them. These writings, often beginning with a question (What's the point of Demi Moore?, What is it with Star Trek?, How long is Godzilla?), constitute whimsical and quixotic searches for substance. Unlike The New York Press's Armond White, for instance, he is willing to eat the parts of the bread that have yet to accumulate mould. Stated otherwise, he functions as if film were new again, as if all films could potentially be of interest, if only in part, and as if film's centenary were not a bugbear but a reason for starting over with a blank slate. …

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