Word: hollywood
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Faulkner spent his prime writing years perpetually strapped for cash. The energy poured into novels like The Sound and the Fury (1929) and As I Lay Dying (1930) netted him almost nothing, and the private squirearchy he was establishing in Oxford, Miss., cost money. Hollywood offered him periodic stints of screen writing, and these paid some bills. The marketplace for short fiction provided another recourse. Luckily for Faulkner, at the time it was enormous: the Saturday Evening Post, Collier's, American Mercury, American Magazine, This Week, Woman's Home Companion, Country Gentleman, Scribner's magazine. Faulkner received...
...like The Private Life of Henry VIII and The Four Feathers, he singlehanded, and almost overnight, turned the moribund British movie industry-and his company, London Films-into an international force in the 1930s. Indeed, about the only place it did not work for him, at least initially, was Hollywood. But that really was not his fault: the place had no hotels or restaurants that met his exacting standards...
Their present adjacency, like their parallel career paths, is the stuff of Hollywood. Some 30 years ago the same two bartered theories on the subways of New York. Twenty years ago, they crammed physics in the libraries of Cornell. Although on graduation one went West and one went East, they retained common academic interests, publishing papers from California and Copenhagen on the same topics. They reunited in 1973, when Weinberg left MIT to join Glashow, and the rest of Harvard's celebrated physics Department on the second floor of Jefferson...
Davis Hall delivers Arthur's monologue, a 25-minute anthology of cliches about America, with more spirit than technique. This sequence can be one of Stoppard's funniest; its droning tour through Hollywood images of American cities in the '30s, with recaps in every train station, ought to build from a slow start to demonic possession. Hall starts off with too much energy, and, unable to add more, resorts to flailing his arms to hold the audience's attention...
Even if this film were consistently funny, it could not avoid ticketing as slick Hollywood escapism. No dumb palooka, Pakula has proven capable--with Klute and All the President's Men--of far worthier cinematic ventures. But given the dearth of screenplays in Hollywood, the flipquel will probably haunt us for years. Watch for Queen Kong...