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I see nothing wrong with an artist criticising practices in his field that he doesn't agree with.
I would argue that Spielberg and Godard, though they are both doing nominally the same thing ("making movies"), are really not doing the same thing at all, any more than, say, Rubens and Mondrian. It's useless to critique a Mondrian painting by the same criteria you'd use for a Rubens, and useless, I think for Godard to criticize Spielberg with his own indisyncratic criteria.
Different ends. Different means.
Sean McG:
...Godard seems to be using Spielberg as a symbol for all that he sees wrong with Hollywood. .... Look behind all his bile and hatred of current American film and you get the impression i think that what Godard is really pissed off about is how Hollywood crushes world cinema and as he would see it unique artistic innovation by imposing its films and its production aesthetic as the world wide 'standard'.
And then he turns around and does the same thing. Godard offered up his standard, his manifestoes, and (although the hipsters and the flipsters dug it and still do), Joe Lunchbox (or, en français, "Jean Sac-du-Petit-Dejeuner") stayed away in droves. I wouldn't go so far as to attribute his rage entirely to professional jealousy: but he sets himself up as a prophet, bringing God's own word and then getting pissed off when the infidels do not turn from their sins.
In all of this, though, he's forgetting that any work of rt has tobe judged for what it is: I'm not saying Schindler's List is a perfect movie—it isn't, and there are a number of shamelessly manipulative moments, one of which (the shower sequence) is almost laughably brazen and not a little callous—but it is effective and moving overall, and the performances are solid.
In fact (and I know I'm in the minority here), I thought the epilogue at the real Schindler's grave was the worst thing about it: bringing the actual survivors into the scene and matching them with their portrayers just reeked of self-importance, to me. Better, I think, to let the story speak for itself, and save your statistics for the press kit.
At any rate, it's a damn sight better than Amistad, which is so ideologiucally ropey that it makes me squirm—two hours of black folk in chains waiting for Whitey to give them their freedom. |
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