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6 of 7 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
It's a cinemascope blockbuster in a book!, August 29, 2000
This review is from: The Phantom Empire: Movies in the Mind of the 20th Century (Paperback)
As a movie lover, I was intrigued with the theme of this book -- how movies have shaped our culture, our thinking -- and was prepared for a heavy, textbook-like reading. As I read, though, I was overwhelmed with O'Briens style, his sterling craftsmanship in describing the feelings and emotions of the movies. I would literally stop after every few lines and shake my head in amazement. As a writer, I am jealous of his skill. As a reader, I am eager to read it again. Steve Martin said (in L.A. STORY) that "a kiss may not be the truth, but it's what we wish was the truth." I do not know if O'Brien's book is THE truth about movies in the modern mind but, oh, how I hope that it is.
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5 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Exceptional, April 26, 2000
This review is from: The Phantom Empire: Movies in the Mind of the 20th Century (Paperback)
Don't be alarmed, just go to the movies. O'Brien, in this unforgettable, beautifully written book, has come up with an idea and a work so original and startling that it is difficult to describe. Essentially, he sees how movies [and he's seen hundreds of all kinds] have helped create the pyschology of the century. In one chapter, for example, he uses the melodramatic chestnut "The Four Feathers" to show how the movies displayed the customs and manners of a class and society different than ourselves, and thus taught us how to live in certain ways. And that's just scratching the surface of a book that seems to have a new and astonishing idea on every page. Neal Gabler published on this topic recently, but to a much inferior extent. Skip that and buy this. You will never, ever go to the movies the same way again.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Courtesy of the greatest living writer of English prose, January 12, 2005
This review is from: The Phantom Empire: Movies in the Mind of the 20th Century (Paperback)
Gob's pic on the book-jacket is the grimmest cautionary tale since Truman Capote shook his booty at Studio 54. Let this be a warning to you all. This is what happens when you spend half your life gawking at Barbara Steele & Silvana Mangano: you turn bald and myopic and you have no-one to blame but yourself. My favorite line: "What did they need a script for if they had enough bad mood to poison the atmosphere for a whole planet?"
Every sentence in this book is a masterpiece. Although there's no need to worry about any Serioso High-Art Heavyosity. Gob eschewed any in-depth discussion of Godard & Bergman & Welles & Antonioni in favor of delineating the Cinecitta aesthetic: "As the sword-and-sandal cycle ran its course they grabbed whatever raw material came to hand, Tacitus and Captain Marvel, Sophocles and the Bible and Mandrake the Magician, Tiresias and the Sibyl, vampires and virgins and an endless horde of raucous men-at-arms. The contents of an old cupboard full of irreplaceable artifacts were being briefly held up to the light--for the delectation of uncomprehending inheritors momentarily amused by gold leaf or a bit of fine carving--before being discarded. All periods of history collapsed into one, enabling Hercules and Ulysses to wash up on the Gaza coast and encounter Samson. It was the final garage sale of Thrace and Carthage and Byzantium."
I read a recent profile of Godard. His unfilmed latter-day scripts are (yes, you guessed it) scripts about film directors. Movies about movies. Gob covers that too: "The ultimate film festival would then have to consist of ghost movies: the low-budget risorgimento period piece that Edward G. Robinson almost finished shooting in TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN, Fritz Lang's ODYSSEY, the Crucifixion movie that Orson Welles was directing in Pasolini's LA RICOTTA, and the movie that (in Fellini's TOBY DAMMIT) the alcoholic actor played by Terence Stamp had flown to Cinecitta to star in: the first Catholic western, 'something between Dreyer and Pasolini with a touch of John Ford, of course'."
Gob even risks the charge of psychological projection when he waxes metaphysical: "A profound underlying boredom was the emotional basis of westerns. They were basically about killing time. They were what there was to do in town, in America, year after year."
My only hope is that Pauline Kael is savoring this book in Schlock Heaven.
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