Discussing books on movies … almost as good as watching them, and without the sticky floors!

To fans of cinema literature, the British Film Institute is the equivalent of a Columbian drug lord, and its two essay series – BFI FILM CLASSICS and BFI MODERN CLASSICS – are its crack cocaine.

Both are comprised of long, thoughtful essays about important films published in easy-to-carry – if irregular-sized – trade paperback form. The first series is devoted to great films from the silent era to the ’70s, while the second takes a look at more recent works from the ’80s to the present. And, like the popular street drug, they are very addictive, quickly finished and liable to bankrupt you if you become obsessed with them.

Over the years, I’ve bought a whole bunch of these expensive little suckers. Here in my arctic home — have I ever mentioned that I’m Canadian? — they usually go for about $16.95 a shot, although I once picked up a bunch when they were offered as giveaways with an issue of the BFI’s own magazine Sight and Sound. I thought I could use up some valuable column space these next few weeks by informing you which ones are worth your time and money and which ones you can ignore at your leisure.

BFI MODERN CLASSICS: SEVEN by Richard Dyer

Among the many moments that clued me in to the fact that I had no chance as a film studies academic came during one evening class when I overheard one of my professors discussing the recently released David Fincher film SEVEN with a peer: “It’s just a typical Hollywood cop movie,” he said dismissively, “but it does have a few interesting ideas…” Though I managed to hold my tongue, I can still remember how angry his absurd condescension made me as I sat there. SEVEN was many things, but “typical” surely was not one of them.

Thankfully, Dyer, a British film studies professor, does not share my former prof’s snide view of the 1995 serial killer thriller. In his 80-page essay – aptly divided into seven different chapters – he argues with clear, straightforward language that the film is far more than a darker, bleaker version of LETHAL WEAPON, but instead is a disturbing and fascinating examination of our notions of sin and personal responsibility.

As an academic film essayist, Dyer is that rare critic who chooses to focus on the film itself, rather than use the film only as a springboard to discuss the theories of dead French assholes. His prose is lucid, which also sets him apart from many of his peers, who confuse incomprehensibility with depth and insight, and his analysis is both intelligent and rewarding. After reading his thoughts, it becomes impossible to fight the temptation to find your DVD of the film and give the movie another look, if only to see how much you agree with what he has written. And if you have the 2000 New Line Platinum Edition of the film, you also can listen to Dyer discuss the movie on the third of its four commentary tracks.

This is easily one of the best books in either of the two BFI series and if you are a fan of the film, the work of Fincher or the thriller genre in general, this edition is easily worth the price and probably will end up being read more than once.

BFI FILM CLASSICS: THE BIRDS by Camille Paglia

I just discovered that Paglia has returned to writing a monthly column for Salon.com, which makes me happy because — as annoying as she can be — the world needs as many feisty, hyper-talkative, egomaniacal, contrary, Madonna-lovin’ lesbian academics as it can get. Love her, hate her or have no fucking clue who she is, she was certainly the most entertaining academic cultural commentator of the ’90s, and proof of that can be readily found in her 1998 essay on Alfred Hitchcock’s THE BIRDS.

Clocking in at typically breathless 93 pages, Paglia’s essay is constructed as a long synopsis of the film rather than as a general overview. This approach allows her to explore her own thematic digressions without the work seeming fragmented or unorganized. Right from the start, it’s clear that not only does she consider the film to be a significant work (not surprising since the concept of man vs. nature is a pet theme of her other books), but one for which she holds a significant amount of personal affection. This enthusiasm informs the text and sucks the reader in all the way until the end.

Like many of the essays that appeared in her previous books – such as VAMPS & TRAMPS and SEX, ART, AND AMERICAN CULTURE – here she isn’t afraid to inject herself into the work in order to explain the worthiness of her subject. While to some, this is a clear sign of her inflated self-worth, it’s always struck me as a more honest approach than the usual pseudo-objectivity found in more typical essays. If you’ve read any of her other work or even just seen her interviewed, then it’s unlikely that you’ll find any of her insights here particularly fresh or exciting, but the fact is that warmed-over Paglia is still far more interesting than what you’ll get from the majority of other commentators.

Because of this, I recommend the book to both fans of the movie and Paglia’s other essays, although I do admit that it lacks the spark found in her frequently entertaining commentary available on the special edition of the classic 1992 Paul Verhoeven crotchfest BASIC INSTINCT.

BFI FILM CLASSICS: THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR by Frieda Grafe

Based on some quick mental calculations, I’ve deduced that I — during the course of my former day job — wrote something close to 200 ghost stories between the years of 2002 and 2006, averaging out to about one a week. Now, I don’t know if that makes me an expert on the subject, but I do think it gives my opinion some weight, which is why I believe it says a lot that I consider Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s 1947 film THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR to be the best onscreen ghost story I’ve ever seen.

I would even go so far as to say that it remains one of the best films I’ve ever seen, period. I admit that this has a lot to do with my appreciation of its leading lady, Gene Tierney, who remains one of the most luminous actresses of any cinematic era, but I also am moved by its beautiful simplicity and its emphasis on character and emotion in place of flashy special effects. It’s one of those films that — no matter how many times I watch it — always manages to make me its bitch by the time its last scene ends, leaving me with tears streaming down my face and a profound gratitude that there’s no one around to witness just what an incredible pussy I can be.

This is why Grafe’s slim, 55-page essay on the movie was such a disappointment to me. Despite it being one of the shortest of the books in this series, it’s one I’ve never been able to finish, largely because of its lack of focus, frequent incoherence and absence of purpose.

At no point does Grafe make it clear why exactly she has chosen to write about the film. It certainly isn’t to praise it, since many of her comments tend toward the dismissive rather than the positive. And even this would be acceptable if these comments were delivered in a clear and concise manner, but Grafe has chosen to go beyond criticism and create a work that aspires to be its own kind of literature.

The result of this is a work filled with poetic paragraphs that one has to read two or three times before one can deduce their utter lack of content. It soon becomes clear that Grafe has nothing to say about the film and is trying to hide the fact with flowery prose. While some may find her attempt to write something other than the usual didactic commentary to be admirable, those readers who are actually interested in the film will ultimately come away from the essay feeling unfulfilled.

A movie this good certainly deserves something much better.

Next week, I’ll take a look at the BFI books for ANNIE HALL, TITANIC and THE THING. –Allan Mott

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