AI came after I had decided that Mr. Spielberg owes me an apology before he gets another dime of my money, therefore I did not bother.

Ugh. I hate Spielberg's tripe, too (but, like you, I LOVED Raiders of the Lost Ark. Star Wars, even the highly-hyped original, did nothing for me. Big deal, I thought then and think now!

I think the very nadir was A.I.--I couldn't even get through that. At that cheesy, pseudo-portentous stoning scene, I snapped off the TV. What bilge! Such audacity!

I hate to use this term, given its horrendous origins, but "paintings" made by animals are the epitome of "degenerate art." There is really no other term that describes so well an art market that would ascribe ANY value whatsoever to such nonsense.

Rockwell is just fine if he is seen as an illustrator. I admire the Californina fruit crate labels, vintage Cinzano posters, some comic books, and so forth. However, all of these things are in a different league than Michelangelo, Matisse, Diebenkorn, Piero della Francesca, etc.

Steven, on the contrary your comments about Mr. Spielberg are overly charitable. I don't think that he would collect something so odious simply "if he could get away with it," rather he would collect something like that if he thought that it would boost his image as a great populist.

How's this for splashing paint around the canvas? Fetching $200 a throw -- and the equivalent of much of the critically-acclaimed contemporary art out there today.

Can't argue too much with your list of overrated films, and will be posting something anon. But I must stick up for the Rembrandt of Punkin Crick. His magazine illustrations are what they are, and among them are some true gems: "Freedom from Fear," for example, I find very touching. I also like his image of the little black girl being led to school by US marshals, and of the GI's tenement homecoming. Pop television is capable of fine drama and beauty, and so is its artistic equivalent. Cheers, MCNs

Dear Eric,

Reading over last night's post, I do note that I shouldn't comment late at night. My comments regarding Mr. Spielberg should be struck as immoderate and intemperate. My apologies.

shalom,

Steven

Dear Eric,

I think the judgment against Rockwell perhaps harsh. The same could be levied against many a depression era artist--we are, whether we care for it or not, formed by our times. As for The Wake being a semioticians playground--perhaps, but certainly not necessarily so. I learn it without that, forgive the term, contaminating strain, so Finnegan's Wake can be read without the stigma. Unfortunately, by the time I was into film, the Semioticians were in full force and it was impossible to see them otherwise. I find this strain of postmodernism at least somewhat more congenial, as it still does tie back to the work being examined--but I do not care for the form of analysis as a whole. Some are better, some worse--just as with much of postmodernist theory.

But, you also do not care for Renoir, who I do not like as much as Courbet, Corot, and Monet, but whose work I find very convivial. I think of all the artists, he would have been one of the more pleasant to know and talk to--his paintings convey a sense of great joy, amusement, and fun. His technique sufficiently differentiated from Monet's to be interesting in its own right. I do admit to having little patience for the seemingly endless picturs of girls with or without hoops, watering cans, and other appurtanances of a life in the late ninetheenth century.

As to Pollock, let us agree to disagree. I have spent a great deal of time analyzing his and other canvases, and as with your appreciation of Stockhausen and his ilk, I have no time or patience for mere technique dolled up as art. I know you insist otherwise, but I have seen no evidence of what you suggest.

Ah well chacun á son goût!

shalom,

Steven

Steven,

I am curious as to who would qualify as "one who would push randomly dripping buckets of paint over a canvas and then sell the results to museums." I have heard the description, but have yet to see it happen. Jackson Pollock may seem so if only seen in reproduction, but to take a long look at the actual canvases yields something incredible.

I am not saying that such abominable "artists" don't exist: in fact the contemporary art scene is so full of non-talents and poseurs that I have almost completely stopped going to the galleries. Technique must always be a handmaiden to composition, structure and coherence. I agree that a "new technique" in and of itself is yawnsville, except as an exercise directed towards artists (and not art as in finished product).

As for Rockwell, he is the pictorial equivalent of television: flat images, lit for TV, made for massive reproduction. The values he depicts are for the most part good, but a purely didactic painting does little for me, whether the cause is Marxism or Americanist nostalgia. He is also overly Protestant. Material wealth is definitely equated with spiritual well being. I only tolerate Calvinist artists when their art betrayed a Catholic soul (Rembrandt or Van Gogh, for instance).

I definitely recommend seeing La Strada and 8 1/2 again. I have yet to see such a great depiction of an artist in the throes of second thoughts and doubts as accurate as 8 1/2. It is a semioticians playground, but so is Finnegan's Wake. Being a lover of semiotics, I am attracted to both, but it is the coherence of the artistic vision that keeps me coming back for more.

I probably also should have listed My Father's Glory and My Mother's Castle, two of the finest films ever made. Maybe I will post my list of films one of these days. I have one I did a few years ago, but I will have to go over it and see if I still agree with it.

Dear Eric,

I must admit to agreeing to nearly your entire overrated list with the exception of the first redaction of the first Star Wars film, which, while not a major masterpiece was quite an enjoyable little romp until redacted into Special Effects oblivion. Ditto your comments on Spielberg whom I find tedious to watch much of the time. (Although I do still like Jaws.

I disagree with your assessment of Rockwell. While not of the first caliber, he certainly is as much of an artist as one who would push randomly dripping buckets of paint over a canvas and then sell the results to museums. Yes, sentimentality did tip the scales, overtip them at times. Still and all, I'll take the practiced hand over those who would attempt to convince us that new technique equals art. However, I do agree that about the implications for Spielberg, who would probably also collect the works of John Wayne Gacy if he could get away with it without being noticed.

I have to say that two of your top five are also on my list of highly overrated glitzy foreign filmdom, but I may have to give them a second chance. 8 1/2 and La Strada stand out in my mind as symbol-stuffed overblown semotician's wet-dream kind of stuff. But then I saw them in a class of very pretentious, very trying-to-prove-they-were-with-it college student groupies of a popular teacher. Along with Antonioni's Blow-Up and several other films, they may have been unfairly besmirched. Your good word for them, along with your other favorites, suggests that I may be too harsh in my judgment and recollection. Sometime I may give them another chance.

As to my own top five--I can't even begin to think--but the entire oeuvre of Billy Wilder (at least that in English--don't know his European stuff) suggests numerous possibilities. I'll have to think about it. Thank you for the unexpectedly provocative post.

shalom,

Steven

I guess I'm something of a philistine. I like the work of Norman Rockwell, for no reason other than its basic goodness. His work lacked complexity, but he could be subtle and was more than a blind copyist.

It's a good question because at first glance it would seem that he was a skilled draftsman, a keen observer, etc. But when it came down to it, his lines lacked confidence and vigor. Look at how, say, Renoir (who I generally dislike), drew scenes of the table, or Rembrandt or Titian. Their lines had life. Rockwell projects the feeling of a blind copyist. His work could have been traced from photos. It lacks life and makes up for it in sentiment and an obnoxious hard edge clarity.

There is a lot to like about some of his illustrations, but they must be seen as that and nothing more. To collect this stuff as art is making a statement, which taken with the rest of Spielberg's pseudo-populism, is a bit creepy.

What's wrong with Norman Rockwell?