Authors: Brian Kellow
Pauline Kael (65 page)
In January 1999 an article by the film director Wes Anderson appeared in
The New York Times
that many of her friends and followers found deeply insulting. “My Private Screening with Pauline Kael” described Anderson’s efforts to arrange a screening of his new film,
Rushmore
, for her at the Triplex in Great Barrington. Anderson seemed to have intended the piece to be wry, but it came across as mean-spirited and condescending, portraying Pauline as a frail, out-of-touch woman operating in a state of confusion. Anderson wrote a letter to the
Times
saying that he hadn’t intended to mock her. “I thought, when I read that, this is what’s wrong with Wes Anderson’s movies,” said Steve Vineberg. “The guy is tone deaf.”
The New York Times
that many of her friends and followers found deeply insulting. “My Private Screening with Pauline Kael” described Anderson’s efforts to arrange a screening of his new film,
Rushmore
, for her at the Triplex in Great Barrington. Anderson seemed to have intended the piece to be wry, but it came across as mean-spirited and condescending, portraying Pauline as a frail, out-of-touch woman operating in a state of confusion. Anderson wrote a letter to the
Times
saying that he hadn’t intended to mock her. “I thought, when I read that, this is what’s wrong with Wes Anderson’s movies,” said Steve Vineberg. “The guy is tone deaf.”
As she grew older Pauline became increasingly hunched and began to shrink dramatically: By 2000 she had lost a total of four inches in height. She depended on friends to take her out to dinner and movies and support her to keep her from falling. The worst part about this, she said, laughing, was that she had to make deals to see movies she would otherwise have no interest in viewing: When she persuaded a friend to accompany her to
American Psycho
, she had to promise to go with that friend to see
Keeping the Faith
, starring Ben Stiller.
American Psycho
, she had to promise to go with that friend to see
Keeping the Faith
, starring Ben Stiller.
Stephanie Zacharek remembered that even as Pauline’s condition worsened, she seemed amazingly responsive to the world around her; her powers of observation had scarcely dimmed at all. “Sometimes, Charlie and I would go to little shops on the way out to visit her, and I would show her what I had bought—a scarf or something—and I would say, ‘Oh, my God, I shouldn’t be spending money right now.’ And she would say, ‘You have to buy these things when you’re young when you have the figure to wear them, because when you’re older, and you have the money, your figure will be gone.’” Even when she was feeling her worst, there were certain pleasurable constants in her life. Fresh flowers were always welcome—“They’re more delicious than food now,” she once told George and Elizabeth Malko.
As Pauline grew more fragile, her views softened: Pauline in the stormy weather of bad health was far more conciliatory than the Pauline of her younger, feistier days. Ray Sawhill and Polly Frost, David Edelstein, Silvana Nova, and Craig Seligman were on hand as much as possible to help out. Roy Blount, Jr., who lived nearby, was a loyal neighbor, always checking in to see if she needed anything done around the house. Steve Vineberg frequently drove her to doctor’s appointments at Massachusetts General. Once, Vineberg took his visiting mother and Pauline out to lunch at a restaurant in Great Barrington. As he drove along, his mother in the front seat and Pauline in the back, Pauline commented, “You look so restive sitting up there next to your mother. I wish I could sit with my mother.” It was the first time Vineberg could ever recall her mentioning Judith.
Several of Pauline’s other friends, however, noticeably dropped out. “A number of people around any diva start to think that that person’s like them, and start to project,” remarked Polly Frost. “And a good diva, like Pauline, allows people to project. It’s power. But Pauline couldn’t play Pauline anymore, and a lot of people disappeared.” They had seen the power player they desperately wanted her to be, but they hadn’t seen past the persona.
One night in Great Barrington, sometime in the late 1990s, she was having dinner with Taylor and Zacharek. Also dining in the restaurant was George Roy Hill, who also had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Their previous battles—even the letter that opened with “Listen, you miserable bitch”—were immediately forgotten. Pauline clutched his hand warmly and gave him the name of her massage therapist, promising him that the therapy would do him a world of good.
Despite the general softening of her temperament, she could still snap. After surgery for a congested carotid artery, Pauline came out of the anesthesia to hear the surgeons and nurses talking about the actor Matthew Modine. “He’s never any good,” Pauline whispered. Another time, she was sharing a hospital room with a gregarious woman who kept telling Pauline about her love for Jesus. Finally an exasperated Pauline said, “Well, honey, from the look of things, he hasn’t done much for you lately!”
As Will grew older, he retained his sweet, friendly nature. Some friends noticed, however, that his interests didn’t seem to be broadening and deepening in the way that might have been expected. He would become quite obsessive about certain movies—such as
Braveheart
and
Last of the Mohicans
—films with action and heroism. He loved the outdoors—particularly hiking in the Berkshires—but he still showed little interest in reading, and Pauline seemed no more inclined than ever to encourage him. He entered Bard College at Simon’s Rock, an experimental institution in Great Barrington. He dropped out, then went back. Gina worried about her son a great deal, and wondered if he might have some sort of serious medical condition—but Pauline mostly turned a blind eye to Will’s resistance to a traditional path.
Braveheart
and
Last of the Mohicans
—films with action and heroism. He loved the outdoors—particularly hiking in the Berkshires—but he still showed little interest in reading, and Pauline seemed no more inclined than ever to encourage him. He entered Bard College at Simon’s Rock, an experimental institution in Great Barrington. He dropped out, then went back. Gina worried about her son a great deal, and wondered if he might have some sort of serious medical condition—but Pauline mostly turned a blind eye to Will’s resistance to a traditional path.
In 1999 the National Book Critics Circle awarded Pauline the Ivan San-drof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters. That June, she celebrated her eightieth birthday with an enormous party at the Great Barrington house. It was a beautiful late spring day, and in attendance were her closest friends: Polly Frost and Ray Sawhill, Charles Taylor and Stephanie Zacharek, Steve Vineberg, Michael Sragow, Arlene Croce, David Edelstein, Allen and Jonelle Barra. Wallace Shawn was there, unofficially representing her
New Yorker
years. Her sister Anne flew out from Berkeley, and the two of them sat together at the party, looking diminutive and birdlike. She invited some people to whom she had not been close for years, such as David Denby—but no invitation was issued to James Wolcott. With Pauline’s ignorance about technology and which appliances were better than others, she had never owned a first-class television set. Several of her critic friends chipped in and bought her a big, state-of-the-art television, which delighted her. (When Gina bought a new computer, however, Pauline didn’t go near it, but only eyed it suspiciously.)
New Yorker
years. Her sister Anne flew out from Berkeley, and the two of them sat together at the party, looking diminutive and birdlike. She invited some people to whom she had not been close for years, such as David Denby—but no invitation was issued to James Wolcott. With Pauline’s ignorance about technology and which appliances were better than others, she had never owned a first-class television set. Several of her critic friends chipped in and bought her a big, state-of-the-art television, which delighted her. (When Gina bought a new computer, however, Pauline didn’t go near it, but only eyed it suspiciously.)
Also present was Roy Blount, Jr., who composed a poem for the occasion:
“Presenting Creation, more or less,”
Said Jehovah.
“Oh. What a mess,” Pauline observed.
So he gave it form.
Roundish. Molten cooling to warm.
Said Jehovah.
“Oh. What a mess,” Pauline observed.
So he gave it form.
Roundish. Molten cooling to warm.
“Has it occurred to you to let there be light?”
“By golly,” Jehovah said, “you’re right.”
But light revealed a certain void.
“You might try creating celluloid,
And then a projector,” said Pauline,
“For showing images on a screen.”
And then a projector,” said Pauline,
“For showing images on a screen.”
“Look, it’s one thing you’re not afraid of me,
But don’t get so far ahead of me!
What are those images gonna be of?”
Exclaimed Jehovah—“Vengeance? Love?”
But don’t get so far ahead of me!
What are those images gonna be of?”
Exclaimed Jehovah—“Vengeance? Love?”
“A couple of characters wouldn’t hurt.”
So Jehovah grabbed two handfuls of dirt.
“Mm,” said Pauline, “you’ve got something there.
You’re casting Cary Grant and Cher?”
You’re casting Cary Grant and Cher?”
“No. For Eve I want someone
deep
,”
He said, “I’m making Meryl Streep.
And who really cares whom I make first male?
A first-mate type. Think Alan Hale.”
deep
,”
He said, “I’m making Meryl Streep.
And who really cares whom I make first male?
A first-mate type. Think Alan Hale.”
“Oh God,” said Pauline, “a feminist flick,
With the Holy Ghost as the only dick.”
With the Holy Ghost as the only dick.”
“No,” he huffed, his face getting red,
“A serious film, with a message,” he said.
“A serious film, with a message,” he said.
“Oh why does my sinking heart suspect
You’re letting Stanley Kramer direct?”
You’re letting Stanley Kramer direct?”
“So be it,” Jehovah thundered, and that
Is why “The Fall of Man” fell flat.
Is why “The Fall of Man” fell flat.
And also why, when Edison came
To visit Pauline one day and claim,
To visit Pauline one day and claim,
“I’ve made a
moving
picture,” she
Patted his hand and said, “We’ll see.”
moving
picture,” she
Patted his hand and said, “We’ll see.”
And seen we have, with feelings and eyes
Her vision’s done much to aesthetize.
Here’s to Orson and Bogie and Katie,
And towering over them, Pauline at 80.
Her vision’s done much to aesthetize.
Here’s to Orson and Bogie and Katie,
And towering over them, Pauline at 80.
In telephone conversations with a number of old friends and colleagues, she expressed regret that she might have treated them unfairly when she was in her heyday. In September 2000, Carrie Rickey received a call from a mutual friend, Francis Davis, who told her that Pauline wanted to speak with her. Rickey called the house in Great Barrington, and in the course of a ninety-minute conversation, Pauline at one point said, “I don’t know what you know, but I know I’ve done some things to you that were not okay.” Rickey told her that it was all in the past and not to burden herself with it. After she hung up the phone, she wept uncontrollably—she had had the conciliatory conversation with Pauline that she had never been able to have with her own mother.
An endless stream of writers still sought her out for interviews, demanding to know what she thought of the current stream of films and directors. There was still an army of readers who felt cut adrift without her to lean on as their guide to the world of moviemaking. Two of the more prominent were Francis Davis, who recorded a lengthy conversation with her that he eventually published in book form as
Afterglow
, and Susie Linfield, a respected New York journalist and professor who requested Pauline’s permission to write a full-scale biography. Linfield conceived of her book as more of an interior look at Pauline’s life than a conventional biography, and sent Pauline a lengthy and well-presented proposal, but Pauline declined to participate.
Afterglow
, and Susie Linfield, a respected New York journalist and professor who requested Pauline’s permission to write a full-scale biography. Linfield conceived of her book as more of an interior look at Pauline’s life than a conventional biography, and sent Pauline a lengthy and well-presented proposal, but Pauline declined to participate.
In the spring of 2001 Pauline received word that she had been chosen for a prestigious fellowship administered by Columbia University’s National Arts Journalism Program. The Distinguished Lectureship in Criticism, which had previously gone to writers such as Patricia Bosworth and Pauline’s friend Arlene Croce, offered an honorarium of $20,000, to be paid that September, and required one visit to Columbia in the fall or spring semesters, during which time she would present a lecture to the elite of Columbia’s community. Given the state of her health, it was arranged that the balance of her participation would take place via teleconferencing and videoconferencing from Great Barrington. Pauline was as happy about the cash prize as she was about the honor, and she looked forward to the presentation of the fellowship, scheduled for October 4 at Columbia’s Kathryn Miller Bache Theater.
In late August 2001, Polly Frost was sitting with Pauline at her bedside. Frost had never seen Will’s favorite film,
Braveheart
, and when he began agitating for her to watch it with him, Frost said to Pauline that she thought it was the right thing to do. At one point, the leading lady, Sophie Marceau, lashed out at Mel Gibson. “You tell him, girlie!” whispered Pauline, like the 1930s heroine she had always imagined herself being.
Braveheart
, and when he began agitating for her to watch it with him, Frost said to Pauline that she thought it was the right thing to do. At one point, the leading lady, Sophie Marceau, lashed out at Mel Gibson. “You tell him, girlie!” whispered Pauline, like the 1930s heroine she had always imagined herself being.
Her friend Dennis Delrogh had been to see Coppola’s
Apocalypse Now: Redux
, with much original footage restored. Delrogh pointed out that Andrew Sarris still hadn’t liked the movie.
Apocalypse Now: Redux
, with much original footage restored. Delrogh pointed out that Andrew Sarris still hadn’t liked the movie.
“Of course,” said Pauline. “He’s smart.”
Around the same time, Pauline’s old friend Erhard Dortmund telephoned her from Oregon to ask how she was feeling. The nurse brought the telephone to her. After a few whispered exchanges, Pauline asked Dortmund what he was reading. As it happened, he was in the middle of Philip Roth’s
The Dying Animal
.
The Dying Animal
.
On Monday, September 3, 2001, Michael Sragow telephoned Pauline at home. Her voice was weaker than ever, but she told him that Gina had been taking very good care of her. They spoke a bit about mutual friends, including Lamont Johnson. “Isn’t he amazing?” Pauline whispered. Sragow could tell it was impossible for her to speak for much longer, and told her goodbye.
A little less than two hours later, Craig Seligman telephoned Sragow to tell him Pauline had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
O
n November 30, 2001, a memorial tribute to Pauline was presented at the Walter Reade Theater by the Film Society of Lincoln Center and
The New Yorker
. George Malko hosted the event. Gina was the first speaker, and her comments were remarkably brave and unsentimental:
n November 30, 2001, a memorial tribute to Pauline was presented at the Walter Reade Theater by the Film Society of Lincoln Center and
The New Yorker
. George Malko hosted the event. Gina was the first speaker, and her comments were remarkably brave and unsentimental:
As a mother, Pauline was exactly what you would expect from reading her or knowing her. Taste, judgment, being right were crucial. Her inflexibility pleased her. She was right—and that was it. My mother had tremendous empathy and compassion, though how to comfort, soothe, or console was a mystery that eluded her. Pauline tried to make me aware of people’s needs and she taught me to be considerate of other people’s feelings. But when Pauline spoke to someone about their work as if it had been produced by a third party, it had repercussions. There was fallout. In my youth, I watched what she left, unaware, in her wake: flickering glimpses of crushed illusions, mounting insecurities, desolation. Those she was not dismissive of, those who valued her perception, judgment, integrity, and extreme forthrightness, did feel her sting, but also felt she was totally real and that she affirmed and valued them as human beings. She could see the possibilities. Pauline’s greatest weakness, her failure as a person, became her great strength, her liberation as a writer and critic. She truly believed that what she did was for everyone else’s good, and that because she meant well, she had no negative effects. She refused any consideration of that possibility and she denied any motivations or personal needs.... This lack of introspection, self-awareness, restraint, or hesitation gave Pauline supreme freedom to speak up, to speak her mind, to find her honest voice. She turned her lack of self-awareness into a triumph.
Gina was followed by Craig Seligman, who spoke of the good fortune he’d had, not only in becoming friends with his literary idol, but in finding her such fun to be around. “She was funny and lethal right up to the end,” said Seligman. “One day when she was near death and I was trying to divert her with chatter about working as an editor, I said, ‘It never ceases to amaze me how many people who call themselves writers actually can’t write.’ And she said, very weakly, ‘Yes—they say things like ‘It never ceases to amaze me.’”
Robert Altman gave a rambling speech about Pauline’s championing of his work—it was easy to imagine her mentally editing his remarks—while Arlene Croce shared affectionate reminiscences of being with Pauline and Gina the day that they found the Great Barrington house, and of crossing Fifth Avenue with Pauline to avoid running into Otto Preminger. John Bennet, one of her later editors at
The New Yorker
, recalled her constant fussing over revisions. (“It’s a piece of crap, but maybe I can do something with it.”) Jonathan Demme, Marcia Nasatir, and an obviously shaken David Edelstein all took their turns at the podium. Malko read a brief note from Anne Wallach, who was unable to attend the service. And Roy Blount, Jr., read the poem he’d composed for Pauline’s birthday, concocting different voices for Pauline and the Almighty.
The New Yorker
, recalled her constant fussing over revisions. (“It’s a piece of crap, but maybe I can do something with it.”) Jonathan Demme, Marcia Nasatir, and an obviously shaken David Edelstein all took their turns at the podium. Malko read a brief note from Anne Wallach, who was unable to attend the service. And Roy Blount, Jr., read the poem he’d composed for Pauline’s birthday, concocting different voices for Pauline and the Almighty.
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