In one of Rolling Stone's year-end double issues was an essay by James Toback about Hitchcock and the great filmmakers -- two separate categories, according to Toback -- a judgment which surely ruffled the feathers of some those Hitchcock fans who noticed it. As far as Hitchcock himself, he's supposed to have said that he wanted to give his viewers, not a slice of life, but a slice of cake. If Hitchcock was so silly as to give a feather for his place on lists of greatests, he kept it soundly to himself.
I was going to say a bit about some of the other things in that year-end double issue which had left an impression on me -- the first time I'd ever learned anything about the Shroud of Turin, or about the city of Turin at all, and the section on jazz, in which I learned that Joni Mitchell had switched from pop to jazz and was working with Charles Mingus, first I'd heard his name, and some stuff about jazz/rock fusion, but the thing which most impressed me about the entire jazz section was this headline in an ad : "You've been rocked. You've been rolled. Now get jazzed." And the cover story, an interview with Richard Dreyfuss in which Dreyfuss expressed some very strongly-held opinions, such as how "they" (They who? I dunno) had denigrated Brando for his portrayal of Marc Antony, when Brando was the only one in the movie who knew how to wear the blankety-blankin toga. Okay, Richard, good stuff, I say, slowly and carefully backing away.
But my memory, was again, was unreliable: all of that other stuff was in the Rolling Stone 1978 year-end issue, while Toback's essay was in the 1980 year-end issue. and it's the only thing in that issue I found memorable. Toback insisted that the great filmmakers were obsessed with death and that this elevated their work above Hitchcock's cake, as finely made as Toback admitted the cake was.
The greats, according my best recollection of what Toback said back in 1980, were Eisenstein, Ford, Welles, Truffaut, Herzog, Godard, Bunuel, Kurosawa and Peckinpah, and I feel I must be forgetting someone, and he said that Scorsese, Coppola and Spielberg had a chance of joining them. And he said that Orson Welles was not only the greatest of them all, but that he was the greatest artist of the 20th century, even though Welles had done his best to rid himself of this "burdensome title."
I find such titles and lists both ridiculous and irresistible. Welles, the greatest of the century in any genre, you say?! I say. Yeah, Welles was awesome, I agree. But what about Picasso, or Brancusi, or Miles Davis or John Lennon or His Bobness, or James Joyce, or James Baldwin, or Pynchon, or Mann or Doeblin or Musil or Ingeborg Bachmann?
How about the fact that I know so little about 20th century literature in ant language other than English or German that no writers of any other languages occur to me, making this entire exercise even more absurd? Or that there is only one woman on my list and none on Toback's?
So why do I find Toback's little essay -- this essay which I really do find quite silly -- so much more interesting than all of his movies combined? Has his filmmaking career robbed of us a writer who would've been so much better?
"I believe that artists often don't know they do best, because they're too vain." -- Nietzsche, from Nietzsche contra Wagner, in MY translation, and certainly true of Nietzsche.
Rolling Stone's 1980 year-end double issue at Amazon: https://link.amazon/B04JBHHno
