Eric Rohmer, to my mind one of the three or four greatest
geniuses of the cinema there has ever been, died
in the same week that James Cameron’s Avatar rocketed past
Star Wars to become the third highest grossing picture,
domestically, in the history of the American movie industry. As I
write, Avatar seems certain to overtake Titanic
as the best-selling movie of all time. Long-time readers who may
remember what sort of opinion I had of Titanic and The
Dark Knight, not to mention the last Star Wars movie
I bothered to see, will perhaps not be surprised that I found
little to like in a movie about a planet populated by a whole race
of giant blue anthropoids almost as annoying as and way more
self-righteous than Jar Jar Binks. Nor, of course, is there any
news in the fact that none of the late Mr. Rohmer’s films ever
pulled down so much as a thousandth part of the American box office
of these comic book movies.
Yet it is worth pointing out that this embarrassing contrast is
not simply a matter of the difference between popular and élite
tastes. In the golden age of Hollywood between 1930 and 1960 there
was also a gap between the most popular and the best movies, but it
was nothing like as wide as it is today, either on the artistic or
on the financial side. The former box office champ, Gone With
the Wind, wasn’t the best that Hollywood could produce, even
in the same year — which also saw the release of
Ninotchka, Stagecoach, and Drums Along the
Mohawk, not to mention La Règle du Jeu and Le
Jour Se Lève from the land of Eric Rohmer — but it wasn’t a
bad movie and certainly not abysmally bad in the way that
Avatar is for anyone who, like me, still has any residual
expectation that movies will, or at least ought to, look a bit like
real life.
We must suppose that those who are flocking to see
Avatar, like those who flocked to see Titanic and
The Dark Knight before it, aren’t expecting to see
anything that looks like real life. Many may not even know what
real life looks like. For young teenagers who have spent almost as
much of their lives in front of a screen as they have in any active
dealings with the unplugged world, the comic book world must be as
real as, if not more real than, anything else they know about. At
least they have an excuse for their addiction to fantasy. Grown-ups
who ought to know better now prefer it to reality as well. Even the
élite culture is infected by the fantasy bug, as I pointed out here
last month (see “The End of History,” TAS, February,
2010). Yet the fantastical romance is not a just a new art form,
fashionable today as Westerns or historical dramas were a
generation or two ago, but something quite different, in fact, a
denial of the whole Western tradition of art.
It obviously wasn’t going to break any box office records, but
when I went to see Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier
broadcast live from the Metropolitan Opera at my local multiplex in
January it was sold out. In fact, there was an overflow showing a
few days later for those who couldn’t get in to the simultaneous
broadcast. Western culture can’t be quite dead, you might think, if
there was this kind of throng assembled to watch one of the
greatest of 20th-century operas done in impeccable period costumes.
Strauss and his librettist, Hugo von Hoffmansthal, writing in 1911,
had set their story more than a century earlier, in 18th-century
Vienna, because the formalities of the Hapsburg court and its
aristocratic hangers-on had largely fallen away by their own time
and they needed them to say what they had to say about love and
marriage and youth and age and joy and loss. This artificiality
created a necessary distance between opera and audience that was
reflected in the staging.
But from the first scene of Rosenkavalier, the movie,
that artificiality was swept away. As in 1911, the opening scene
presented two lovers, Renée Fleming as the Marschallin, or wife of
a field marshal, and her ardent teenage paramour, Octavian, played
as a “trouser” role by Susan Graham, in bed at an obviously
post-coital moment. What had changed was that the unforgiving
camera’s closeup of this moment showed us as no stage production
ever could that these were two women, not an older woman and wife
— die alte Fürstin Resi, as she calls herself, is
probably in her mid-30s — and her impetuous boy-toy. And even if
you could shake off the illusion that this was now to be about a
lesbian affair, you had already been taken by the camera into a
more intimate relationship with these two people being intimate
than is consistent with an appreciation of the scene’s emotional
meaning.
This meaning had formerly essentially to do with the sex and age
difference and hardly at all with the sex (in our contemporary
sense of the term) which now became paramount. Here was yet another
“cougar” strutting her stuff — and her epicene boy-toy — for the
camera, albeit in a more demure fashion than we have lately become
accustomed to. If that’s where you’re starting from, I don’t see
how you’re ever going to get properly to the moment of letting go
in the third act, a letting go of life as well as love, which is
what the opera is leading up to. C’mon, Resi baby, Quinquin may be
off with Sophie (Christine Schäfer), but there’s plenty of life in
the old girl yet, if you know what I mean.
The close-up, in other words, is a reminder that what we are
looking at is something that, in real life, no one else would or
could see. That glimpse instantly takes with it everything else out
of the opera’s public realm of love and loss and into the private
one of bedroom fumblings. That’s what movies do. They hold out to
us the promise of seeing what would otherwise be hidden. If all
art, as Pater said, aspires to the condition of music, then all
cinema aspires to the condition of pornography — that is, the
excitement it creates in us is all but inseparable from the hope of
seeing what reticence or modesty or discretion would normally keep
from the public view. Years ago, audiences and filmmakers shared an
understanding that the camera would restrain itself, as people
mostly did too, from an intrusive penetration of the veil that kept
public and private separate. That understanding is now of course
long gone.
As a result, moviemaking has led the way for the other arts to
find ever more “transgressive” ways of seeing, or making us think
we see, what otherwise we couldn’t or wouldn’t see. Who, with that
in prospect, wants to settle for the acquiescence in reality that
is the point of Rosenkavalier or a Rohmer picture? In all
his films, what we see is nearly always what we would see if we met
his characters in real life. People reveal themselves as they did
in the movies of old, through conversation and social interaction
with each other, not through the fake confidences of voiceover and
authorial secret-sharing designed, as in Avatar, to create
the by-now tired illusion that we, all umpteen millions of us, are
seeing what others cannot see — and in 3-D! Such shortcuts to an
ersatz reality are what has robbed us of the Western mimetic
tradition.
Once we expected from art an imitation of something we already
knew. If the imitation was skillful enough, it would also reveal
things we did not know about the things we already knew, or things
that we immediately recognized as true, even if we did not know
them before. “It’s the way of the world,” as the Marschallin says
in Rosenkavalier. But now we’re all bored with the way of
the world and we want to know about the ways of other worlds.
Avatar, like all those other best-selling fantasies from
Batman to Harry Potter, is not an imitation of anything — least of
all of the dispossession of the North American Indians by Western
colonialists of which it attempts a clumsy and unpersuasive analogy
— but a new thing altogether. I know I must be one of the few who
are not quite happy with this bargain, but if you’d like to know
what we’ve lost in order to gain this new heaven, new earth, so
much more imaginatively congenial to most of us than the old one,
try watching a movie by Eric Rohmer.
