Manohla Dargis, one of the
most saturatingly compen-
sated critics of our time,
has actually written, and
the Library of America has
enshrined, literally, this:
Movies, Mr Cronenberg un-
derstands, make meaning:
they entertain, therefore
we are.
No one takes pleasure in
the embarrassment of his
readership, in a disclo-
sure of this prohibitive
extent of what our spe-
cies may wring, at any
given moment, of the
gift of life as we know
it. And who among us is
not accustomed, nay inur-
red, to allocations of
reward only the gods may
understand, as a parlour
game of blindman's bluff?
And who could care, that
Manohla Dargis might be
wafted in her limousine,
to the head of the line
at Le Bernardin, thence
to prattle over nages of
dismissed caring?
But I was going to write
about cinema, because it
holds the means of being
about being, as the pre-
vious entry asserted, as
Confusion, risk, redemp-
tion. You know: getting
out of jail isn't free.
It isn't even in the
deal. It is always pur-
sued, as Dickens made
plain, for someone else.
Manohla Dargis
Once Disaster Hits, It
Never Seems to End
Phillip Lopate, editor
American Movie Critics:
An Anthology from the
Silents until Now
The Library of America, 2006©
Charles Le Clainche, left
François Leterrier, right
Robert Bresson, director
Un condamné à mort s'est échappé
1956
Criterion Collection, 2013©
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