The Conversation Continues...

Geographic hurdles kept me from attending the New York Film Festival's "Film Criticism in Crisis?" symposium on Saturday, September 27th, where a select few from Cineaste's "Film Criticism in the Age of the Internet" panel, among others, participated in a live round table. Kent Jones, Jonathan Rosenbaum, David Hudson and more where there to elucidate their ideas off the printed page (or the computer screen, whichever way you read it), and what a bummer to miss it. Any devoted Scarlett Cineastes who were there for it, pipe up and tell us how it went!



The opening night of the Chicago Film Seminar began this academic season with smart timing, then, to salve the sore spirits of having missed the NYFF's continuation of this lively conversation; it took place late last month, on the 25th of September. I'll be frank here, you probably don't know what the Chicago Film Seminar is, most don't. I for one ought to consider myself lucky, a nerdy insider taking advantage of a formidable PhD student in Cinema Studies at the University of Chicago to have been there. The Formidable One is the organizer of the seminar, and a cohabitant of the second floor north side digs I call home. To put it another way, yes, that's right, I'm just sneaking into this monthly conference of "scholars, students, critics, practitioners, and otherwise interested parties of film and film studies from around the Chicago area" to overhear their conversation and steal their Yellow Label Coppola chardonnay ("Anymore, his wine is better than his movies," is my cute conversation starter). Most of the attendees pop in from the U of Chicago and Northwestern, and Northwestern University's Scott Curtis is always there; but you won't be starved to find folks from moderately distant universities such as Notre Dame, whose Chair of Film Studies, Don Crafton, is a usual presence. The CFS committee is actually made up of professors from U or C, University of Illinois, Chicago (UIC), Northwestern University, Notre Dame and DePaul University, so this is a Chicago-centric event.

A fitting topic of discussion for the evening was appropriately, and again in light of the recent Cineaste piece, something I felt concerned me more urgently than usual, the globalization of film studies. "Huh," you might be sighing? What the flip does that mean, dude? It means, in short, how does a contemporary film scholar expand the field of knowledge without diluting the standardized film studies base? More precisely, and to paraphrase the aforementioned Formidable One, how does the study of film remain distinct among the many channels through which it is taught? Most former and current film students can testify to a film education provided through an English department. Others programs exist within Art History departments, or a combination of other specialized areas. The issue of new media also enters into the question of a distinct "film" studies, especially as television, digital technology and video games are an increasing presence in the body of cinema scholarship.

This was all profound to me--albeit on a more formal level--because these issues can be applied to commercial film criticism as well. It begs the question, what is the job of the critic? What are our standards? On a basic level, I hope this wider discussion eventually moves the profession away from simple "good/bad" evaluative remarks and closer to a deliberative "what does this film mean?" conversation that fosters real engagement with the text--be it "good" or "bad."

The Duchess (2008)

The Duchess with Keira Knightley began with a lot of anticipation and energy, but ended much differently. At the front of the film I looked forward to the newly-wed Duchess of Devonshire (Knightley) to break up the stiff manners of the English social elite, throw out etiquette in favor of intellect, and express unbridled, lustful joy toward her lover Charles Grey (Dominic Cooper)--the fellow interested in her thoughts and affections before his stature in the state of England--but these primary sentiments, which urged me to the theater on its behalf in the first place were denied.


The overall production featured an astonishing amount of detail, as you'd expect a period drama of its sort to do. The costumes were undeniable, the scenery and set decoration as good as any of its kind; and those things alone often make up for the lack of any compelling story. I, for one, find it easy to be swept up in the production (or reproduction) of cavernous wood-paneled rooms with tailored silk curtains, magnificent candelabras, marble floors, columns and facades, all filled to the brim and brought to life with the presence of characters who are dressed so superbly that even the buttons on their shirts give off an extra gleam. But there is no number of buttons available to give life to the more pressing issue of The Duchess, namely that of women's issues.

In a way, director Saul Dibb's picture is the ultimate women's film, not a weepie in the classic sense, but one that spends a lot of time ringing chords of pity without offering much insight into the plight of the woman as the overlooked second class citizen. The film begins promptly with Georgiana's (Knightley) marriage to the Duke of Devonshire (Ralph Fiennes), and in perhaps the second or third scene beyond it, Georgiana is engaged in a moment of tense intellectual conflict, where she expresses her disagreement with the politician Charles Fox (Simon McBurney). What initially looked like the start of a long-term exchange of ideas, and ultimately a struggle for power, ended there, no sooner than it began. Georgiana speaks of big things in that moment, the definition of freedom as an absolute, not as something to be acquired in moderation. Even though the premise is then set for her ideals, they are not revisited and the film switches down a more domestic path.

Without spoiling the exact outcome, it is sufficient to say that where we find ourselves sympathizing with Georgiana is not in the marginalization of her intellectual desires, but in her struggle to remain in custody of her children and maintain the unity of her family. Not ignoble causes, but not the ones a modern female audience hopes only to see. The energy of the brazen young woman living in a time when even her civil rights were scarcely acknowledged, where she caught us with the hook of her original ideas at a table where she was the only woman among many men didn't last. The Duchess still remains vocal throughout the remainder of the story, and I do admire her anger and ablity to articulate it so clearly. But again, these tremors are the result of domestic conflict, and the narrative ends with the unhappy conclusion that women really are prisoners in their own home. Without the freedom to balance her role as mother and as an individual acting on her personal desires, whether that means her political voice, her love life, or her career, that presumed outdated question of a woman having the full rights of a man being able to care for her kids at the same time, creeps back up again.

Georgiana clearly dealt with rather tough domestic and civil circumstances in her lifetime, I acknowledge that fully. I just would have liked to see more of her intellectual self in play, the way she was when we met her at the start of the movie, to emphasize less pity and more inspiration in women's history.

Paul Newman dies at 83

Screen legend, philanthropist, cultural icon who epitomized American cool and masculinity-- Paul Newman has passed away.

Newman first came to the attention of critics in the early 1950s, while making a name for himself on the theater scene in New York City. It was at this time that he was accepted into the prestigious Actor's Studio, where he studied and acted alongside such future luminaries as Marlon Brando, James Dean, and Montgomery Clift. In 1953, Newman starred in the William Inge play, Picnic, a production in which he first met future wife Joanne Woodward.

After attracting the attention of Hollywood producers, Newman began to make a series of appearances in various television series, intermittently starring in feature films such as the box office flop, The Silver Chalice (1954), Somebody Up There Likes Me (1956) and Until They Sail (1957).

In 1958, he performed in his first on-screen collaboration with Woodward, with whom he would star in another ten films (not including their numerous television projects). That year, Newman also made waves with his films, The Left Handed Gun and Cat On a Hot Tin Roof. It was the latter, based on the Tennessee Williams play, that launched the actor into true Hollywood superstardom, as audiences beheld Newman hold his own beside a young and fiercely beautiful Elizabeth Taylor.

By the time of his death, Paul Newman had amassed one of the most formidable and honored resumes in American film history. The Hustler (1968); Paris Blues (1961); Cool Hand Luke (1967); Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969); The Sting (1973); The Towering Inferno (1974); The Color of Money (1986); The Hudsucker Proxy (1994); and Road to Perdition (2002) comprise just a fraction of the dozens of projects in which he either acted, directed, co-produced, or did all three.

In 1982, Newman co-founded the food company Newman's Own along with his friend A. E. Hotchner. Though a for-profit company, Newman's Own distinguished itself for using wholesome and healthier products than the majority of food items in the American food market; and Newman donated 100% of the profits (after taxes) to mostly charitable and educational causes.

With Newman's death yesterday, comes the end of an era. The last of the Actor's Studio's most famous alumni is now gone-- conspicuously absent-- and so too a great and beloved presence within the Hollywood film community.

Creative Non-Fiction (2008)

Lena Dunham, if nothing else besides a talented filmmaker and sharp-witted personality, is a young master of the alternative college comedy domain. She's barely old enough to legally cringe at the taste of a PBR, but has the incisiveness to relate the banalities of dorm living and all of the messy unpleasantness, absurdities, and sometimes even the fun that can accompany it without an ounce of sentimentality. Now that’s something to appreciate.




Her clarity is sharp. It's like you're watching a visual representation of her chatting with a friend, unaware of the audience beyond. She has a hyper awareness of her current station in life, even of her own physical self that's so upfront it could nearly be a picture of sheer banality. In her latest 60 minute feature, Creative Non-Fiction (2008), it would have been easy to veer off into the superficiality of a story plagued with college-aged ennui, and while Creative Non-Fiction is not as favorable as her short films and web series (there is too much interest in playing with the longer form here that her wit becomes diluted) it has a distinct Dunham signature on it, the kind that doesn't trick you into believing there's a force of magic behind it. No glossiness allowed. You get a peek at how people really look, right down to the pores of their complexions. Nothing pretty about that.

Possibly the greatest asset of Dunham's comedy is this hard embraced honesty that shows you just how things are, a picture of behavior so uncanny it can be dreadful to have confirmed as truthful. Her stories can shock so blatantly that now Pee-Wee Herman's right-on phrase pops into my head, "it's so funny I forgot to laugh." Its humor akin to that of The Office (BBC) particularly in those moments when David Brent (Ricky Gervais) makes a scene of such offensiveness you just want to pretend it didn’t happen. But in the end, Dunham’s movies never breach that kind of awkwardness, and stay happily camped out on the edges of good-natured snark.

Now that Dunham has graduated from Oberlin College—whose campus is a prominent set in her movies—Creative Non-Fiction is probably the last of her documentation of college life. Her next stage of features (and shorts, too), logically, I’d guess, those dealing with post-college career and relationship anxiety, should prove equally as exciting to see. Or maybe that’s a naïve way to describe it. Holding up a mirror to the different stages in one’s life can hardly be qualified as an “exciting” endeavor, I’m afraid. And there, that might be it: an incredible amount of bravery is injected into Dunham’s stories to confront what we really look like.

For the filmmaker herself, she’s splayed across the screen naked, partially nude, or scantily clad in plenty of scenes in many of her movies. Never have I seen a twenty-something so confident or at least so brazenly open on naked display. She’s not plasticky, not in any physical shape that reflects the values of Vogue magazine. You have to admire someone with that kind of audacity, whether it’s to give a proverbial finger to the accepted standards of female beauty, or just because she has no compunction about her physical self. Both are admirable motivations, but her interest in physical connections—make-out sessions, an impromptu strip tease (or strip-down, as it more aptly appears in one of her shorts), extreme close-ups of skin against skin between sheets—never resembles anything exciting sexually. In Dunham’s films, the body stands in on more clumsy terms; it’s just this thing we can’t get away from that so easily deceives what her characters mean to say.

That makes the whole college comedy thing sound heavier than anticipated, but that’s all painlessly rectified when we see how Creative Non-Fiction concludes on almost the same note it began: it is, after all, just another day in the life.

Mann of the West: The Last Frontier (1955)

An Anthony Mann movie of any kind is great, but nothing beats his Westerns. The emotionally jittery and sublimely scenic The Last Frontier (1955) is the old west picture I speak of here, but what is it exactly? A Cold War commentary of military belligerence? A post-war noir confronting the emotional disorder of returning soldiers seen through the front of a rugged mountainous setting? It is all of the above, with the added effect of what appears to be handheld camera movements, and demented if not animalistic character plots and behavior—particularly from the movie's lead actor, Victor Mature, as the highly conflicted Jed Cooper. "He's all id," my movie mate blurted out mid-show, a keen statement about a man unshaped by manners, motivated by drink, and prone to irrational outbursts—childlike tantrums really—by the provocations of men in authority who contradict or disapprove of his ways.

Mature is perfectly cast, or this is otherwise a continuation of his villainous typecast. He's usually the unlikeable character—dark, brooding, and never as mentally sturdy as his counterparts, his role as the cumbersome father figure and former convict in Henry Hathaway's Kiss of Death (1947) springs to mind right away, as does his role as Doc Holliday in John Ford's My Darling Clementine (1946). Here, though, he is in top erratic form. High key lamps or the searing glow of the sun magnify his sweaty brows and the untamed locks of his hair in an unforgiving way. He moves like a kid twitching with anger, excitement, happiness or vindictiveness, a swirl of moods that seem to erupt all at once. If he's smiling one moment, he's turned on a dime and begun barking madly the next.

When he and his mates default to a U.S. military fort after their possessions are hijacked from a tribe of offending Indians, he brazenly demands recompense for their stolen goods. Jed's thinking is that the U.S. military’s presence on the Indians' land has compelled the natives to force reparations from him personally, however unaffiliated with the military structure as he may be. As Jed sees it, the military owes him for goods that never would have been stolen had the U.S. not invaded the Indians' land to begin with.

Frustrated and unwieldy behind the walls of the fort, Jed and his posse become regular fixtures there, essentially working for the brigade as free agents: their commanders won’t grant them uniforms, the ultimate symbol of a man’s internalization of order and direction—that’s something Jed has simply not achieved. As a grown man, Jed's lack of sophistication cannot be overstated. You see it in his exchanges with women, here with Corinna (Anne Bancroft), the neglected wife of Col. Marston (Col. Marston himself is played rather brutishly by Robert Preston), whose home Jed invades upon one night on a clamoring stampede for whiskey.



Savage Wilderness is the movie’s alternate title that more aptly describes Mature’s character than the setting of the movie itself. Then again, Jed is sort of the “last frontier” to conquer in American mythology too; he is after all the sole remains of uncivilized America, the one too tormented by the practice of premeditated violence to appear unshaken by it. In other words, he’s not the finest Cold Warrior, but even that changes when he finally follows orders and gets his uniform in a move of ultimate conformity.

Maybe the greatest irony is the landscape itself. It was shot mostly (completely?) in the Mexico highlands nearby the towering Mt. Popocatépetl. Even the standard iconography of the American southwest is divorced from the story, showing in another layer the empty veil of Cold War rhetoric.

What a Pack of Cards: Ozu, Gondry, Jarmusch

I Was Born, But... (1932), Dir: Yasujiro Ozu
It was a busy movie week last week, the busiest of all on Wednesday the 10th when I scrambled over to the Gene Siskel Film Center for an overdue re-watching of Ozu's I Was Born, But...

Gabe Klinger, filling in for Jonathan Rosenbaum, provided a helpful introduction centered on the question, "Is Ozu Slow?" Klinger's Q&A discussion after the movie was likely as illuminating as his intro, though I didn't stick around to positively confirm it myself, for...

...it was late and I was starved, yet miraculously awake enough for more visual consumption over dinner. Hence: Be Kind Rewind (2008), Dir: Michel Gondry.
I can't stop singing, "When you're walking down the street/and you see a lit-tle ghost/what'cha gonna do about Ghost-bustahs!"

Also, as a beginning student of Italian I was proud to pick out every 10th or so word of Roberto Benigni's dialogue in Down By Law (1986) (Dir: Jim Jarmusch), which, no, I did not manage to sneak in on the same night of the 10th. Rather, I saw this the weekend before--confession!--for the first time ever. Isn't the photography rich in this film? The contrasts of black and white were so deep that in certain scenes (e.g. the night sequence in the swamp) my eyes began playing tricks on me, mistaking the picture as a negative image. Years ago, three friends acted out the "I scream for ice cream" sequence in a lively round of Movieoke; the hilarity of the scene lived up to its promise even in my quiet living room. The Criterion Collection commentary, "Thoughts and reflections" from Jim Jarmusch, were also fantastic.

A Birthday, An Anniversary

Today I celebrate a happy occasion and remember a terrible tragedy.

My grandmother was born 89 years ago today, on September 11, 1919--the same day a Vitagraph Company movie called The Gamblers was released in theaters. The film remains unknown to me, but it struck my fancy that it was the one and only flick released on that date (at least according to IMDb's records), a Thursday, as it was. I invite you to tip back a shot of Seagrams gin, the old lady's favorite drink, the one she used to knock back in her polka days!

The other September 11 needs no introduction. But that day in 2001 has been remembered nicely by Glenn Kenny, who spent his days before and after it at the Toronto Film Festival. It's nice to see these reflections expressed with calm, the way they can only with time.

On Film Criticism: Cineaste

On Friday afternoon the latest issue of Cineaste arrived in the mail and I promptly began devouring it. Film Criticism in the Age of the Internet: A Critical Symposium defined the course of my weekend. I listened to the symposium panelists'--who ranged from print critic veterans like J. Hoberman and Amy Taubin, to Internet bloggers like Karina Longworth and Girish Shambu, to those who straddle both worlds, most notably, Jonathan Rosenbaum--talk to me about their experiences as critics, the delights and detriments of Internet writing, and naturally, then, about the same joys and anxieties found in print writing. This contentious conversation about the future of film criticism has been happening for awhile now. For me, I recall its primary rumblings as the tail end of my Cinema Studies M.A. concluded at NYU in 2005, but clearly this is something that began much sooner. As I read I found solace. Not in the often bleak forecasts projected for the cinephile longing to write in a paid position, but for the sense of community and shared ideas about this subject that I hope to consume and contribute to for the rest of my life.

This could quickly turn into an Oprah-esque self-help sort of session--but this baby is going to stay on the cool. What follows in the next paragraphs cannot be defined as any sort of structured writing. But as we have learned from the Cineaste piece, this is one of the liberating indulgences of blogging anyway! Each of the 23 panelists had something to say that resonated with me, so I plan to pick through each entry one by one and respond, my own little (indulgent) way of conversing with them as if they were speaking to me in person.

Zach Campbell at Elusive Lucidity hits on a big point right off the bat:

"...broadening the readership of writers who otherwise would have been contained to a certain geographical network--the Internet has been a giant boon."

Can't argue with that. I know I've become acquainted with far more criticism than I probably would have had I to rely on print issues only. Kenneth Turan at the L.A. Times was the first critic I read outside of my then home state of Colorado in my early college years. Even someone as visible as Roger Ebert became more familiar to me then; I almost always missed his TV show, and otherwise learned his voice through his syndicated column in every Sunday's Denver Post (or was it the Rocky Mountain News? I can't remember now). And of course now, the Internet is the only way I keep in touch with my favorite critics.

Robert Cashill (Cineaste and Between Productions) had a slew of interesting thoughts, here's one of my favorites:

"The problem with print is that there are space limitations, and formalities (like gobs o' plot summary) to be observed for the hoi polloi. What I like are writers who dispense with this, figuring you're in the know and up to speed, and dive right in to isolate key facets of a favorite film, either in a snappy paragraph or a deep-dish essay."

Say it, brother! This is what I love too. As I've mentioned elsewhere, plot gives me nothing but a headache. Sure, it's necessary here and there, but I prefer the bare minimum so I have a chance to share my real feelings about what a story means.

I thought this was an interesting statement too:

"I'm more often drawn to the subject of a posting than I am to the writer; the opposite is true in print, where the name above the title has been the draw."

Then there was this:

"Forget stature and authority: the traditional film critic is losing his or her job, period."

Ouch.

Mike D'Angelo (Esquire and The Man Who Viewed Too Much) was a total riot--exciting, incisive, and I must resolve to read him more. Here's a line that killed me:

"The problem here, for those of us who'd like to continue being paid a living wage in the field, is that people willing to devote so much time and energy sans recompense are even more willing to accept any old pittance somebody might offer them...And if talented writers are prepared to accept assignments for what's basically ramen money, clearly there's no earthly reason for anyone to shell out premium wages, much less a medical plan."

Ain't that the truth! I once wrote for a magazine that sent me an $11 check for a few months' worth of contributions, totaling (on the conservative end) about 1500 words. Another magazine did not pay me at all, no revelation there, this happens all the time. These are online ventures hiring new writers, so I didn't expect much, but sometimes I think a check for zero dollars would have left a bit more of my pride intact. And $11 check is like waving a giant flag reading "Sucker!" in front of my face. My point is in agreement with D'Angelo, however: From $11 to the $50 that came many months later (the biggest month of all), the latter indeed felt something like a six-figure salary.

Steve Erickson at Gay City News and Chronicle of a Passion corroborates the current Internet favorites of the panelists, notably, Girish, Dave Kehr, Karina Longworth and Andrew Grant. With the addition of David Bordwell, there were no critics named so consistently, save for David Hudson at the clearinghouse site GreenCine Daily. GreenCine truly is king.


Andrew Grant's (Filmbrain) phenomenal essay was speaking my language:

"Unfortunately, the image of the film blogger was tainted early on by the rise of Harry Knowles, whose Ain't It Cool News became a Web sensation thanks to the legions of fanboys who embraced the "It's cool/It Sucked" brand of film criticism (and discourse) found on the site."

Exactly! I don't read Ain't It Cool News and this is precisely why. He continues:

"Yet lurking in the shadows were the dedicated film bloggers, motivated not by hit count, but by their own passions and a desire to share their enthusiasm with fellow travelers."

How nice. In my ideal world, whether you're in the blogosphere or in print, this is how critical writing should be--exploratory, personal and informed. While I've always found a good snide aside welcome in carefree conversation, I've never preferred it in a movie review. Tell me something interesting, don't just condescend to the material. Grant's contribution was one of my favorites, and though I won't transcribe the greater moments of it here, I will share his final question, the one that brings it full circle:

"Yet the question remains--can this [Internet] model be converted into something commercially viable, and do so without having to sacrifice content or quality?"

The venerable Jim Hoberman! While I'm sure I left little impression on him during the film criticism seminar he conducted at NYU--I was far too questioning and unsure of my writing to compose anything memorable ("Your writing sound very academic," is the main line of feedback I recall, and judging by the very non-academic tone of the writing herein, you might draw an index of my nervous wreck-edness then on pathetic display)--he certainly has left an impression on me. Do you know anyone who can draw more cultural references in a single review? Talk about a guy who's in touch with the world, and isn't that a standard for any critic? Methinks so. And here's the conundrum I find myself in, a blogger in total agreement with the following statement:

"Basically I'm a print guy. I love newspapers. I love their social function--and as a work place in which everyone contributes to a larger project. Before I loved movies I loved books and I still love them as objects. For me, a book is thought made material."

Meraviglioso!

I mean, when we get down to it, I'm a shoddy reader of most Internet-only criticism. That's why this symposium has been so valuable to me: 1. for giving rise to such a diverse debate in one exhaustive issue, and 2. for acquainting me with writers I haven't met (at least virtually) before, but should have--someone like Kevin B. Lee at Shooting Down Pictures:

"Andrew Sarris...expressed bewilderment at the overabundance of content and a lack of knowing which sites are worth his while to investigate. This, I think, is a much fairer critique of online film criticism than the broadside dismissals I've seen in print or heard in person, which are symptomatic reactions to the same vertiginous sensation of content overload."

Karina Longworth at Spout.Blog (also a former classmate at NYU) contributes a thoughtful breakdown of her experience moving into a solely Internet format and the bristling reactions she received from print critics. She ends with this kind thought:

"The best hope of the online film community is not to replace traditional film criticism, but to eventually earn enough respect from that establishment to be seen not as upstarts, not as a nuisance, not as a threat, but as partners in the common goal of keeping a public conversation about cinema alive. Every time either side drops a "vs.," an us-or-them binary opposition, we waste time and weaken both sides."

Say it, sister.

Adrian Martin (at Rouge) is totally hardcore. Here's a provocative line from his must-read essay:
"...it is the hard-to-budge professionals who (notable exceptions aside) appear to be the phonies, reactionaries, and blowhards of the scene."

Adam Nayman at Eye Weekly and Cinema Scope gave voice to the goodwill that I too have always noticed in the comment threads at Girish's site:

"Girish Shambu's site is notable in that I don't think I've ever run across a sincerely antagonistic--or even mildly grumpy--exchange in the comments section."

And that's the truth, Ruth. Aside from my brothers and sisters at Termite Art, Spinster Aunt, and Tativille (links in sidebar), Girish's is the site I'm most likely to leave comments at because I know they won't get mixed into a fray of hateful, unthoughtful remarks. It's a very uplifting experience at Girish's site, don't you think?

Theodoros Panayides at Theo's Century of Movies makes me happy to read, and he points out something I've thought about--at least to a superficial degree--about the changed relationship of reader and writer:

"When Writer X appeared in the paper every Sunday (or in the film magazine every month), one may not have agreed with him but kept checking in, just because he was there. When one visits Blogger X and disagrees with his opinion--with no easy way of getting a handle on his other opinions--one simply stops visiting."

I guess it's difficult to say that it's easier to stop reading a blog entry over a printed review, one can just as easily discard a paper and refuse to turn to Reviewer X's page every Friday. But again, if a single regional paper is delivered to your doorstep each day, the writers and personalities therein are going to be tougher to ignore with no realistic alternative. In this sense, I couldn't agree more. I subscribe to both Cineaste and Film Comment, and even when I come across a critic I don't generally like or agree with, I read their contributions in each new issue nonetheless. For me, it simply aids in the general practice of articulating what I like about a movie or a written review.

Jonathan Rosenbaum's (or "JRo" as Sweeney at Termite Art as dubbed him, a cute little moniker, I think) entry is essential. Here's my favorite from his contribution:

"I have no idea what differentiates 'professional' film critics from 'amateur' cinephiles, apart from the fake credentials dispensed by institutional bases—or the fact that 'professionals', whether they’re academics or journalists, don’t have to be cinephiles, don’t have to know anything about film, and don’t have to know how to write or do research in order to be regarded as 'professionals' within their respective professions."

I have to reiterate, "don't have to be cinephiles, don't have to know anything about film, and don't have to know how to write or do research in order to be regarded as 'professionals.'" Now there's humdinger. I remember Roger Ebert as far back as I can remember at all, in terms of a "movie critic" his was the primary voice of my youth, and by the time I reached high school I began reading the local dailies for film reviews. My reading of film criticism began at the same time that I discovered movies as art, a natural occurrence, surely. The lead critic at one of Denver's major dailies was a guy whose wrathful tone immediately arose suspicion as to why he was employed as our local voice on film culture at all. I always assumed he hated the movies. Week after week a box of letter grades labeled every movie "C," "C+," "B-" or worse. I recall only a single instance where a glaring "A" grade stood out like a sore thumb amongst the mopey horde of "Cs," it was for the re-release of Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976), sometime in 1996, I believe. Even as I sat bemused at his apparent dislike of most movies, I knew right away that Taxi Driver was something I ought to see. I have seen it, of course, and its since become a personal favorite, but it also doesn't take a cinephile, or someone deeply knowledgeable about cinema to know it is one of the better films in American cinema history. My point being, that even by the time I was 17-years-old and ignorant to even the first lesson on cinema, I had an instinct that told me this was not someone completely credible as a critic.

On that note, Dan Sallitt at Thanks for the Use of the Hall, speculates upon a self-correcting system that would practically eliminate the powerful, yet rather miserable critic types described above:

"It's a toss up whether we should want or need critics with stature and authority. Presumably some critics use their power for good causes. But power creates orthodoxies that obstruct the exchange of ideas. If the Internet actually manages to destroy the stature and authority of critics, I think I can live with that."

Yet at the same time, there's something to that old, immovable critic. He's not just a familiar voice, but hopefully if he or she has stuck around long enough they've got something interesting to contribute (even if the masses can't argue or exchange with them via comment threads). In high school I had a student subscription to Time magazine. In the back pages resided Richard Schickel and Richard Corliss, and I loved them both. Before my college years introduced me to numerous other nationally known critics, Corliss, and to a greater degree, Schickel were my whole kit and kaboodle. It was comforting to read Schickel in those glossy pages each week, it seemed important. His standards meant a lot to me; I sought out his preferences, avoided the flicks he found disappointing. In recent years I've gravitated towards much different critics, but in his contribution here, Schickel made a return to my consciousness. Brace yourself:

"To have great criticism you need to have great art inspiring it--and we're not in a great movie age. But that endemic problem is surely exacerbated by the current tidal wave of technological changes and the increasing vulgarity of the profoundly revised culture flowing from those changes. You think movie reviewing is endangered now? Wait until film's chief venue is the iPhone. OK, I'm just kidding. Or am I?"

As I understand the highly lauded Girish, there is nothing this man can do wrong. As has been iterated in numerous portions of the Cineaste essay (as well as here in this post), girish is perhaps the most inclusive site where you can learn something, exchange ideas freely, and never feel judged doing so. Talk about a democratic process. His friendly tone is no mistake:

"Communicating on the Internet requires a whole new array of skills, a fresh set of 'awarenesses' that must be learned for us to function with success. This is not an easy task. We know that electronic communication is less 'rich' than face-to-face communication; greater 'redundancies' and more care must be built into electronic messages to compensate for the lack of nonverbal expression, tone of voice, etc."

Michael Sicinski (The Academic Hack) had this uplifting thought:

"...one of the fundamental shifts that Internet criticism has produced in film culture (distinctive 'critical terrain') is the ability for critics, both professional and amateur, to take it upon themselves to set the agenda for cinephilia, apart from the direct influence of capitalist imperatives."

I found Amy Taubin (Film Comment and Artforum) rather melancholy in thinking about the issue:

“Employing the Internet as a means of distributing and exhibiting movies will make more movies available to more people, but it will not restore the status of film culture—neither the status of movies per se nor the chatter that goes on around them.”

This little bit from Andrew Tracy's (Cinema Scope) contribution was most eye catching:

"'My urge to write is an urge not to self-expression but to self-transcendence,' said Susan Sontag--one of the best definitions of the essayist's task, and an imperative for the critic. Such generous intent rarely intrudes into the personality-worship of the Net--personality in all its commoness and banality, stridently announcing its conviction in its deluded uniqueness."

Lastly, I loved the enthusiasm and joy the movies clearly bring to Stephanie Zacharek at Salon.com. Here's an excerpt with which I couldn't agree more:

"I'm really not interested in obsessive loonies who need to prove how much they know about film. I gravitate more toward people who have a genuine affection for film--a little obsessive is OK (we're all guilty of it), but even among film geeks you often find a kind of macho posturing, and that really turns me off."

Me too.

And now I give the keyboard a temporary rest.
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UPDATE! As the comments below have so observantly pointed out, Mr. Kent Jones's contribution to the Cineaste Symposium were glaringly vacant from my post on the 10th. Oh, me! This will be one of those errors I'd like to strike up to not having an editor to catch. In any case, here is the section of Jones's essay I appreciated the most, its sentiment fits in rather well with the rest of the Symposium's commentary in regards to a thoughtful, inclusive atmosphere on the Web:

"And here is where the question of civility enters. What kinds of obligations does democracy carry? On a very basic level, none at all. 'It's a free country,' as we used to say on the playground. But if we're exchanging ideas and opinions, don't we owe it to one another to respond thoughtfully from the privacy and solitude of our own homes? Aren't we obliged to behave on the Internet as we would in public? Don't we owe it to our fellow bloggers to read every word they've written with great care, as opposed to simply picking out the offending phrase or choice of words and going on the attack?"

Surely! It's a great way to be offended, picking through certain comment threads. I think the blogs profiled in the pages of the Cineaste Symposium are more likely to be exempt from that; other sites are not. On a recent visit to IFC's blog I noticed a string of vituperative remarks to a rather levelheaded discussion of a film by one of the site's more articulate contributors. "Hack" is the insult that stuck out most. (Who raised you, man?) And with that one offending remark the commentator strips the critic of all his credentials; it was not so much a disagreement of ideas, a difference of opinion, but a total rejection of the premise that this critic should be writing at all. Democratic? Not so much.