Sylvia Scarlet: Great Movie? No!!! Great Camp? Maybe.

 

 

 

 

SYLVIA SCARLETT (1935)

Directed by George Cukor

RKO, 91 minutes

★  (add stars if you like camp)

 

I watched the 1935 movie Sylvia Scarlett with the intent of writing about actors breaking gender roles. Who could resist seeing a movie with Katharine Hepburn in drag? Pretty much everyone! It was a bomb in 1935 and has aged about as well as an apple rotting in an orchard. When famed director George Cukor saw the rushes he begged RKO not to release it. It was so bad that he (unsuccessfully) promised to direct another film for free if they’d trash Sylvia Scarlett.

 

Nonetheless, there are reasons to review it. You may have heard that Katharine Hepburn–now considered a Hollywood legend–once had trouble getting roles. She was pegged as “box office poison and this was the picture that earned that baggage. If  you’ve ever heard the phrase so bad I couldn’t look away, that sums up Sylvia Scarlett. My wife and I constantly remarked, “This is incredibly bad. Should we turn it off?” I even interjected, “Good heavens! Why are we watching this?” Yet, both of us stayed to the putrid end. Without intending to be so, it’s the very definition of camp.

 

It was the first time Hepburn and Cary Grant were in the same movie. Neither could blame it on youth; Grant was 31 at the time and Hepburn 28. The putative story is distilled from two 1918 novels from Compton MacKenzie. Sylvia (Hepburn) is the pigtailed daughter of widower Henry Scarlett (Edmund Gwenn), a gambler. His profligacy bankrupted him to the point where he is being pursued by thugs poised to relieve his debt mob-style. Henry throws clothing into a bag with the intention of hightailing it to France with money and 30 yards of lace he stole from his firm. Sylvia intends to go with him. When Henry insists he’d be an easy mark if traveling with his daughter, she offers money her mother left her and impetuously chops off her pigtails and announces she will be “Sylvester.” A little tidying up and she passes as a teenage boy (sort of like a shaved cocoanut could conceivably pass as an ostrich egg).

 

On the voyage they meet Jimmy Monkley (Grant), a Cockney (ahem!) gentleman. Sylvania/Sylvester smells a rat, but Henry tells Jimmy of his plan for the lace. Henry learns the hard way that Monkley is a grifter in fancy duds. When the boat lands and Monkley fingers Henry so he can get off the boat without being searched for the jewels he stole. Once ashore via unlikely circumstances, the trio decide to work cons as a team. Sylvester blows the first attempt, but Monkley leads them to a mansion whose owners are on a trip. Jimmy, though, knows Maudie (Dennie Moore) the maid. At this point, abandon all logic. After several hours of guzzling the owners’ booze and playing dress-up with their finery and valuables, Sylvester makes Jimmy leave the pearls he stole lest Maudie risk arrest and they vamoose.  

 

Henry is besotted with Maudie, so the trio becomes a quartet. They set off as a traveling troupe of entertainers to bilk country bumpkins. Where did they get the truck and stage? Don’t ask. Likewise forget about Grant’s variable accent. Or whether Hepburn convinces as a snooty teen. “Sylvester” catches the eye of playboy artist, Michael Fane (Brien Aherne) who wants to paint his/her face. Fane invites her to pose at his villa after an odd encounter that implies Fane swings both ways. But she takes the guesswork away by showing up the next day in a dress and bonnet she stole from a beach bather.

 

Sylvia is smitten but is crushed when Lily (Natalie Paley) shows up. Lily is Fane’s sort of girlfriend, but is basically a mean-spirited sot who tells Henry that his love, Maudie, has run off with another man. A distraught Henry drowns himself, though Maudie is rescued from the ocean and from the film. After we play a game of who’s with whom–Jimmy is attracted to Lily–this mess plops into the sickness bucket and ends. It is so bad that the actors playing Maudie and Lily were uncredited. Lucky them.

 

Three years later the Hepburn/Grant combo made Bringing Up Baby, one of the greatest comedies of all time. Who says there are no second chances? It’s just possible, though, that you’ll laugh harder at Sylvia Scarlett.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

The Black Wolf: Thriller or Bummer?

 

 

 

THE BLACK WOLF  (2025)

By Louise Penny

Minotaur Books, 370 pages.

★★★

 

 I have a dilemma. I’m a huge Louise Penny fan who devours her work like a starving man at a banquet table. That said, objectively her work has taken a darker turn in the past few years that makes it less satisfying as it once was. I say this not as one of those rabid fans who wants every book to frolic on the green in Three Pines and whilst uttering witticisms with friends and enjoying wholesome moments in the village. I still find Penny a compelling writer, but I’m not fond of the transformation of her central character: Armand Gamache.

 

Penny’s mysteries are character-centered, but recent works have been more action-driven and violent. Gamache has become harder and cynical about most things that don’t relate to the residents of Three Pines and his immediate family. In addition, though Penny’s plots have grown more complex, the tone of her books has drifted further from the mystery category and into thriller territory. This may make them enormously popular, but I find them less likable.

 

The Black Wolf is the sequel to The Grey Wolf, which definitely should be read first. As was discovered at the end of The Grey Wolf, Gamache, his son-in-law Jean-Guy Beauvoir, and Isabelle Lacoste, Gamache’s post-retirement successor as head of the Sûreté du Québec, thought they had jailed the “Black” Wolf by breaking a plot to kill hundreds of thousands by poisoning Montreal’s water supply. They did so based on their reading of a notebook and piecing together evidence that allowed the investing team to stop the massacre. Upon further reflection, though, Gamache realized that the “wolf,” Canadian Deputy Prime Minister Marcus Lauzon, was not the Black Wolf at all. In the Cree legend that names both books, the Black Wolf is evil and the Grey Wolf is one of kindness and compassion. Lauzon insisted he was framed and Gamache considers it a possibility. He even secures Lauzon’s temporary release from prison and brings him into his home to celebrate Christmas, though Reine-Marie is appalled for reasons beyond the fact that Lauzon is more an arrogant prig than grateful.

 

The first revelation is that another notebook exists that details an evil far worse the one Gamache, et. al. first found. That notebook, an ambiguous map, and a cryptic semi-warning of “a dry and parched land where there is no water…” leads Gamache on a mission to delay a plan that some believe is inevitable. In fact, there are those who would implement it in the name of preventing an even greater catastrophe. Herein lies a paradox; in the Cree belief system, the grey and black are equally necessary to keep the world in balance; in Gamache’s world view, the black wolf must be destroyed.

 

There is a sense in which what Penny is dealing with is more in line with a Star Trek scenario than something appropriate for a retired chief of the Sûreté. Who is the black wolf? Crime investigators are trained to pursue individuals. The Black Wolf is filled with bad actors, but who are they? Organized crime? Crooked cops? Governments? International villains? All of the preceding? The black wolf has the characteristics of a massive conspiracy that is beyond borders and beyond individuals. Who gets taken down and how does one decide? The parched land reference is from Psalm 63, but what does it mean nearly 4,000 years later?

 

Had The Black Wolf been written decades earlier, it would have been dismissed as preposterous. The “ouch” moment of the novel in 2025 is that it’s distressingly easy to imagine the events described in the novel as feasible. One hopes that they aren’t, but the immediate question is whether Ms. Penny has written one big bummer of a novel that takes Armand Gamache too far from the determined optimism of previous works. Saying more would risk spoilers, but I will note that a key moment in the book rests upon Gamache deliberately telling a lie. This violates one of his four paths to obtaining wisdom, admitting “I was wrong.”

 

A final note is that in the last two novels Canada’s Liberal Party has taken it on the chin. Does that mean anything?

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

 

Black Angel: Second Look

 

 

 

 

BLACK ANGEL (1946)

Directed by Roy William Neil

Universal Pictures, 81 minutes, Not Rated.

★★★★

 

I keep a careful list of movies I’ve seen. Or so I thought until I borrowed Black Angel again on Monday. Because I was an idiot, I thought I’d watch it again and I liked it better this time. Here’s a slightly altered review from an earlier post.

 

Black Angel was considered a second-tier film noir, though its reputation has trended upward and is now viewed an underappreciated classic. “Classic” might be a tad grandiose, but it’s worth 81 minutes of your time.

 

It’s one of those did-he-or-didn’t-he movies that will leave you guessing until the very end. Catherine Bennett (June Vincent) is married to Kirk (John Phillips). He’ burning the candle at both ends with such heat that he is being blackmailed by his blonde bombshell mistress, nightclub singer Mavis Marlowe (Constance Dowling). Marlowe is two- or three-timing her estranged alcoholic husband, songwriter Martin Blair (Dan Duryea) who mopes outside of her apartment.

 

Things go considerably more than wrong when Kirk shows up and finds Marlow dead in her bedroom. Like the sap he is, he touches things in her swanky apartment, including a gun on Marlowe’s bed. Kirk is arrested for the slaying and the evidence is airtight. Catharine knows that her hubby done her wrong (as thugs might say), but she doesn’t believe him capable of homicide. Because justice moved faster in those days, Kirk is quickly convicted, and if Catharine she doesn’t clear his name, Kirk ‘s last breath will be in the gas chamber.

 

So, who else would you enlist to help you find the “real” killer other than Martin, a hopeless boozer so pathetic that he needs a keeper/friend Joe (Wallace Ford) to pick him up off the street and tuck him into his flop house bed. Marty’s cynical about most things, but he has a soft spot for Cathy’s sob story. Or is it the shapeliness of her legs and her décolletage? The cops don’t want to help, as they have Kirk dead to rights. Captain Flood (Broderick Crawford) tells Cathy that, though sympathetic, he’s heard sob stories like hers before.  

 

Martin, though, saw another man coming out of Marlowe’s building. The more he and Cathy investigate, the more they believe that Marko (Peter Lorre), a former thug turned nightclub owner, killed Marlowe. Marty doesn’t stick his neck out for anybody, but he doesn’t have much to lose and the more time he spends with Cathy the more he finds himself falling for her. What ensues is a cat-and-mouse story that hinges on a brooch. 

 

Both June Vincent and Constance Dowling–both successful models– were knockouts. Then we have two guys born for the roles they played. Crawford as a flatfoot? The man made his future living playing one (TV’s Highway Patrol) and was always convincing in doing so. Of course, there’s Peter Lorre, who is like a ferret-come-to-life and as furtive as one. (Would you trust Peter Lorre?) Dan Duryea is also superb. He was a malleable actor who excelled at playing world-weary losers as he does in this film. He was equally adroit as a chiseler, a cowboy, a romantic lead, and a dancer.

 

Now for the head-scratching stuff. If you were trying to prove that a wise guy was guilty of a murder, would you form a lounge act? Marty can tickle the ivories and Cathy can pass as a sultry torch singer. Now all Cathy has to do is get the act booked at Marko’s club, catch Marko’s eye, gain his confidence, and find evidence without being fingered herself. Her motive is odd. We can sympathize with her desire not to see an innocent man die–if Kirk is indeed innocent–but what’s with her professions of love for the man who jilted her? At some point, we also wonder about Marty’s dangerous subterfuge. He’s physically attracted to Cathy, but all he can foresee is that he’ll be left in the lurch if Kirk is sprung.

 

Some 81-minute films are taut. In this case, more background into the evolving relationship between Catharine and Martin would help the ending make more sense. Blame the film’s shortcomings on holes in Roy Chanslor’s script, not Roy Wiliam Neill’s direction. Black Angel is often stylish and it holds together, but not brilliantly so. Call Black Angel a B-level noir with lead performances that make it a B+.

 

Rob Weir

 

Lascaux: Amazing and Frustrating

 

 

 

Perhaps you’ve heard this story before. In 1940, 18-year-old Marcel Ravidat was walking his dog near the village of Montignac, France. The pooch found an uprooted tree that proved to be the entrance to a cave. Ravidat returned with three teen-aged
friends and scrambled some fifty feet underground into a chamber filled with ancient art.  That alone wasn’t all that remarkable; the Dordogne Valley was filled with caves and quite a few of them have prehistoric paintings on their walls and ceilings. We explored such a remarkable small cave in Cougnac the previous week. But the cave in Lascaux surpassed anything found before. There were more than 600 paintings and etchings made 17,000-22,000 years ago. Most were of animals–aurochs, bison, bovines, large cats, deer, horses, rhinos–plus several mysterious figures, including indecipherable geometric designs and a human figure with a bird-like head and an erect phallus.

 

Lascaux was open to the public from 1948 to 1963, when it was closed to the public because the breath of visitors caused mold and other visible damage to the paintings. UNESCO listed it as a world heritage site in 1979, which prompted the French government to display a travelling replica of one hall, which was dubbed Lascaux II. Lascaux III expanded upon Lascaux II, but in 2016 Lascaux IV opened on site, a full 3-D recreation of the entire cave. No, you can’t see exactly what Ravidat and his friends saw in 1940, but the recreation is so well done that you can imagine their amazement. It looks and feels like a cave, unless you accidentally brush a stalagmite and feel its synthetic surface. It’s a great way to preserve the original cave from further damage and is better lighted than “authentic” caves.

 

That’s the good news; now for the bad. Lascaux is a guided tour that is designed to give visitors information in their native languages. It’s also designed to shuffle as many people as possible through the cave as quickly as possible. Read: No dawdling. You are then ushered into a corridor with four theaters spotlighting various aspects of Lascaux from discovery to preservation to ongoing scientific studies. The films are well done, but chances are that if you are with a tour group you won’t get to see more than ¾ of one of them before your guide hustles you into a gift shop selling all manner of tchotchkes such as horse stuffies and coloring books to keychains, picture books, postcards, and garish t-shirts. Frankly, I found the touring experience so frustrating and distasteful that I began to identify with cave paintings of herds of buffalo.

 

At the end of the proverbial day you will come away with more appreciation for the skill of ancient artists, but probably no wiser on what it all meant. For instance, one theory that is mostly discredited by the visual evidence is that the ancients used the images as a form of imitative magic; that is, hunters threw spears at them in hopes that a magic force (called mana) would inhabit those spears in a real hunt. A relative lack of chipping on the rocks makes that less likely. Those figures strongly suggest that the art is the point. But the why is left up in the air. Why Lascaux? Was it a ritual or religious center? What’s the current theory on who made these images? Explanations of “early man” tell us little. Does that mean homo sapiens or Neanderthal sapiens? (The latter is probably more likely, but not a particularly strong marketing piece!) Could Lascaux have been little more than an ancient art gallery? A school for making art?

 

I suppose that, for me, I wondered why there was so much effort to effort to convince us of the quality of the art. We can see that it is expertly done given the imprecision of available tools. What’s wrong with admitting that Lascaux remains cloaked in mystery? Or at least highlighting competing theories. There are other ancient sites–Skara Brae and Stonehenge come to mind–where ambiguity and uncertainty are embraced. I think also of the pyramids of Giza, where periodic new finds put the sites back in the news. In short, Lascaux IV is a nice job of re-creation, but falls short in presentation. If I ever return to the Périgord, I shall seek out smaller caves to avoid both the crowds and what feels perilously close to Disneyfication of ancient history.

 

Rob Weir

The Coast Road a Fine Gift Idea

 

 

 

The Coast Road (2014)

By Alan Murrin

Harper Via, 305 pages.

★★★★

 

If you have someone of Irish ancestry on your Christmas list who is a reader, The Coast Road is a quiet powerhouse that explores changing mores in Donegal. First, though, a few things need to be cleared up. This debut work from by Alan Murrin was shortlisted for a Queer Fiction prize in Ireland. This will strike many North Americans as odd, as there are no gay characters. The designation comes from the manner in which the three women at its heart violate the patriarchal norms of 1994. That date is significant as the very next year, voters went to the polls and overwhelmingly approved a referendum that legalized divorce. That vote began to loosen the iron grip upon morality held by the Roman Catholic Church in the Republic of Ireland.

 

A second confusing oddity is that the novel is set in a small fishing village named Ardglas. There is no such coastal town in Donegal, though there is one in County Down in neighboring Northern Ireland named Ardglass!

 

At the novel’s core are three women trapped by tradition. It is a matter for debate if the book’s tragic character, Colette Crowley, is the catalyst for discontent, or merely the leading edge of a coming tidal wave of social change. Collette is married to Shaun with whom she has three sons. Shaun is an abusive lout, but and Collette retains enough allure and self-respect that she takes up with a married man. When that relationship dissolves, Shaun denies Collette access to her children or any financial support–all within his legal rights. This sends Collette skedaddling back to her native village in Donegal. There she rents a cottage from Dolores and Donal Mullen. They have three children and another on the way, quite a burden on stay-at-home housewife Dolores, who feels they need the extra income. Donal, though, is as traditional as Shaun and thinks Collette is trouble (though he notes that she’s quite a looker).

 

Collette has been away for many years and fancies herself a poet; most villagers see her as a free-spirited bohemian who has led a scandalous life. When Collette offers writing lessons at the community centre, those few who sign up are baffled by what a writer actually does. That is, all but bored housewife Izzy Keaveney, a mother of two. She once owned a flower shop in the village but her husband James sold it out from under her when he decided to become a politician and gave priority to appearances rather than his wife’s happiness. James views Collette as a whore and forbids Izzy from associating with her, though the two haven’t communicated much in several decades. She ignores his command. Prior to Collette’s arrival, Father Brian Dempsey was Izzy’s only real friend.

 

To cut to the chase, we have three unhappy women married to men who believe that toxic masculinity is their birthright. From the standpoint of the hidebound culture of 1994 Ireland, they’re not entirely wrong. Male alcoholism and a mistress on the side are commonplace, with women expected to take care of children and perform domestic duties. Ardglas, though, is a village where people gossip about things they know and think they know. It is, however, true that a steady stream of “visitors” call upon Collette, including James and Donal. It is likewise true that women are beginning to push back, albeit in sneaky ways. Izzy, for example, takes Collette on out-of-town “shopping” excursions where she clandestinely sees one or more of her sons.

 

The problem with secrets is that they have a distressing tendency to become known. Ardglas is about to become a battleground for the battle of the sexes. Even if you think you know how that turned out, it’s always a good idea to remember that battles produce casualties of all sorts: literal, emotional, social, and psychological. Murrin perhaps telegraphs the damages more than he should, but The Coast Road is remarkably mature as a first novel. Murrin does a first-rate job in getting inside the logic of his main characters and of spinning a strongly plotted tale. Perhaps best of all, though his prose isn’t showy, it is evocative and emotive. The Coast Road makes a fine gift to be sure, to be sure.

 

Rob Weir  

 

 

Domme: Small Village with a Big View

 

 

 

Domme, France

More Photos on my Facebook Page

 

Among the numerous eye-opening lessons learned when traveling is that places that are mere dots on a detailed map were once the center of very big historical events. This was certainly a takeaway from a visit to Domme. I suspect that most tours don’t even stop there, as its population is a mere 901. We were there to say goodbye to our tour guide, Bruno, who is among the few who live in the village.

 

Domme was founded by the French king Philip the Bold in1281 because of its defensive possibilities. It sits more than 800 feet above sea level and lords several hundred feet higher than the Dordogne River. It’s spectacular location earned Domme its title as “the Acropolis of the Périgord.” The village is perched atop a limestone cliff and even today the route to the top is so winding that most visitors take a special shuttle that fits through the narrow city gates. As I’ve emphasized in previous posts, the fate of many Périgord settlements were shaped by the loyalties of its strongest nobles. When Eleanor of Aquitaine’s marriage to the French king was annulled in 1152, the region came under the control of England. Battles took place between the two kingdoms during the Hundred Years War (1337-1453) but Domme, though, briefly occupied by English troops, was unscathed.

 

Actually, Domme’s major upheaval was sealed a century before it was built! During the Crusades (1085-1291) to liberate the Holy Lands from “infidels” (Muslims), Christian soldiers actually did gain control of the Levant (today’s Israel, Palestine Lebanon, Jordan, and Syria). But how were Christian pilgrims to get there safely? A series of Christian military orders were founded, the most famous being the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, better known as the Knights Templar.* They became the guardians of lands captured by Christian Crusaders and the protector of travelers. 

 

An important history lesson is that over time, many things that were once popular fall out of fashion and into revilement. By the late 13^th century, the Crusaders lost control of the Holy Lands; Saladin was such a brilliant leader that Richard the Lionhearted befriended his erstwhile Muslim enemy. Several popes, the most important being Clement V, wearied of the unconventional beliefs of the Templars (such as their support for the poor and renunciation of riches at a time in which the Vatican was becoming rich), accused the order of idolatry and corruption, and tried to merge them with the Knights Hospitallers. When the Templars balked, many were arrested. Domme went from strategic outpost to a prison whose graffiti persists as symbols etched onto stone walls. Clement V dissolved the Knights Templar in 1312, and numerous recalcitrant Templars were burned at the stake in Domme and elsewhere.

 

You’d never know about all of this hullaballoo and tragedy as you walk through Domme today. It is the quintessential “quiet village.” The reason to visit is that it has the proverbial million dollar (okay, Euro) view. It has a terrace that bespeaks its original intention of being able to see up and down the Dordogne River Valley. No raiders were in sight, unless distant cows grow disgruntled. Of course, being that it’s the Périgord, there are distant chateaux, tidy farmlands, and a vineyard or two. You can walk Domme’s main street in a New York minute and the main square has the townhall, an ice cream shop, a retailer of fois gras, and a statue of the valiant geese who gave their livers in the service of gastronomy. But what a view! It’s imprinted upon my brain.

 

As we left on the small shuttle that fits through the gates, I looked carefully. There were no Templars in plain view, but you never know. Most of the Templars shaved their telltale long beards and faded into the countryside. No one expects the Knights Templar!

 

Rob Weir  

 

* The Templars are gone but the name persists. London’s Temple Bar refers to the “bar(red)” gates into the City of London, and Temple Bank tube stations will take you to what is literally a major banking district, though the name probably comes from where an ancient temple to Mithras once stood.

Cell Phones, Hipsters, and Hollywood Have Killed the Movie Theater

 

 

Several years ago a Smith student told me she watched “Lawrence of Arabia” on her cell phone. “That’s too bad,” I replied. “You missed a film many consider one of the greatest films ever made.” I hasten to add that I don’t entirely agree with that; I find parts of “Lawrence of Arabia” ponderous. There is, however, no denying that it is a cinematic feast for the eyes. Or not, if you view it on a 2 ¾”  x  5 ½ ” screen.

 

The next blow came when “Everything Everywhere All at Once” won the Oscar as the Best Picture of 2023. Ugh! Hollywood honored a project I consider one of the worst movies of the entire 21^st century!  

 

Move the clock forward. Critics are currently trying to beat the holiday rush by listing their choices for the best films of 2025. Not only have I not seen a single one of them; I haven’t even heard of most of them. How could I? My town of 30,000 doesn’t have a movie theater anymore. The closest “art” theater is in Amherst, which is just 7 miles distant, but driving there when all five colleges are in session can easily take an hour in each direction. Plus, most of the films I might wish to see are tucked into smaller rooms that are sold out by the time I get there. Yeah, I could reserve tickets online, but that might mean having to arc my head upward from the front row.

 

The only other screens are at the bloody mall and I can assure you there is seldom anything of interest among its Marvel Comics, horror, military action, and comedies made for fourth grade education offerings. The less said about endless junk food, military recruiting, and local business ads, the better. These commercials–and that’s what they are–run 25-30 minutes before the feature starts. The previews of coming distractions are even worse; theaters pump up the volume to make the insipid sound more dramatic. Lately, if I see a Hollywood movie it’s several years later on a streaming service. From the little I’ve seen, there’s not much to entice me to subscribe to every bloody streaming service under the sun as if there’s virtue in seeing something on a 36” screen as opposed to my phone.

Movie theaters are a dying breed in part because they don’t show many films.  Films intend some sort of artistic and/or political statement, whereas movies are simply a way to anesthetize you for 90 minutes and have little enduring educational or redeeming value. There have always been scads of movies, but films that generally win awards. Of course, sometimes a trite movie like “Rocky” gets mistaken for a film, but overall merit used to be an award factor. Internet sites will tell you there are more cinema screens now than there were in the 1970s, but if you inquire about art houses or independent theaters, you get a different picture. Yes, there are more screens, but most of them are showing the same movies that every other American mall is showing. In the 1940s, often considered part of the golden age of cinema, there were 18,000 independent theaters. By the 1970s it was down to 4,000 and today it is half of that. In 1940, the U.S. population was about 132.2 million. It is now 342 million. Scale matters; today there are more than 200 million more Americans but your chance of seeing a serious film have decreased by over 60 percent.

 

Art films do exist, but very few are made in America and even fewer are screened here. I, of course, exaggerate to suggest that theaters are dead, but for much of the USA that’s only mild hyperbole. One-third of all US movie theaters are concentrated in just three markets: Los Angeles, New York, and Dallas-Fort Worth. To add perspective,  Massachusetts is the most-educated state in America. In the Pioneer Valley where I live, if  you combine Amherst and Northampton, a whopping 70 percent of residents have graduate degrees. I wonder how few Heartland and Rocky Mountain towns have access to serious cinema.

 

As hipsters age and start paying their own bills, expect theaters to take a big hit. A generation hypnotized by their phones is one culprit, but Hollywood tripe is another. Cities such as London, Montreal, and Paris still have cinemas, a further indication that film has migrated. For the record, the nations with the highest numbers of movie tickets sold are (in order): India, China, and Singapore. When Hollywood celebrates itself at Oscar time, it is also talking to itself.

 

Rob Weir