For a couple of years in the early 1970s, millions of Americans hunkered down together every Saturday evening as CBS rolled out one of the strongest lineups in network television history. All in the Family and M*A*S*H would spark discussions of—and the occasional heated argument about—abortion, civil rights, or the war in Vietnam. The Mary Tyler Moore Show would have moms and dads wondering out loud how it is that such a smart young lady like Mary—and with such an attractive figure!—couldn’t land a husband. And then, before things got loose and silly on The Carol Burnett Show, The Bob Newhart Show presented one of the era’s most likable and yet also one of the least emotionally accessible comedians as, of all things, a psychologist.
In the New York Times,Jason Zinoman calls Newhart, who passed away on Thursday at the age of ninety-four, “one of the founding fathers of stand-up comedy.” With his 1960 chart-topping, Grammy-winning album The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart, he established a schtick, uniquely his, and stuck to it. For good reason: it worked like a charm, every time. Often using a telephone as a prop, Newhart gave audiences just one side of a conversation—an ad guy, for example, with Abraham Lincoln on the other end of the line—and the succeeding clicks of recognition of what the unheard voice must have just said triggered the swelling cascade of laughs.
Newhart appeared in a fair number of movies—he was Major Major in Mike Nichols’s Catch-22 (1970) and Will Ferrell’s dad in Jon Favreau’s Elf (2003)—but The Bob Newhart Show was such a beloved landmark that the 1980s sitcom Newhart gave it an uproarious callback before signing off. Last November, Judd Apatow celebrated one of the most unlikely but genuinely tight friendships in all of show business, the one between Newhart, the buttoned-down nice guy, and Don Rickles, the gruff king of insult comedy.
Born just a year before The Bob Newhart Show went on the air, Shannen Doherty was another television star who occasionally gave memorable turns in movies. She appeared in Michael Lehmann’s Heathers (1988) and Kevin Smith’s Mallrats (1995), and she “epitomized the experience of growing up female in the ’90s,” writes Time’s Judy Berman. “Like her iconic Beverly Hills, 90210 character, Brenda Walsh, she contained a volatile mix of Gen X angst, teen fragility and feminist grit. She thrived as a porcelain-skinned, dark-haired drama queen in a world of tan, blonde valley girls, and owned her identity as an angry young woman before Courtney Love and Elizabeth Wurtzel made it a trend. She wasn’t for everyone, but that was part of her appeal.” Cancer took Doherty last Saturday. She was only fifty-three.
Pioneering video artist Bill Viola passed away last Friday; he was seventy-three. “Across five decades, his installations found new uses for state-of-the-art audio and visual technology and interrogated the human experience—birth, death, consciousness—in works that drew on eastern and western spiritual and philosophical traditions,” writes the Guardian’s Rachel Healy. In 2001, Observer critic Laura Cumming wrote that Viola had become “the Rembrandt of the video age, an artist who has done more than any of his contemporaries to advance the emotional and aesthetic content of his medium.”
Writing for the Guardian in 2021, Sukhdev Sandhu called Manfred Kirchheimer America’s “least-known great documentarian.” Kirchheimer, who passed away on Tuesday at the age of ninety-three, was known for such New York City symphonies as Stations of the Elevated (1980) and his last film, Free Time (2019), which was “assembled from 45,000 feet of 16 mm footage he shot between 1958 and 1960 with his friend Walter Hess. It’s a quiet rhapsody, a dreamy portal to a mostly disappeared New York, a montage of quotidian yet precious urban tableaux.”
Yvonne Furneaux, who played one of five unhappy women in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Le amiche (1955), Marcello Mastroianni’s fiancée in Federico Fellini’s La dolce vita (1960), and Catherine Deneuve’s sister in Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965), has died at ninety-eight. Cheng Pei Pei, who starred as a swordswoman on a rescue mission in King Hu’s Come Drink with Me (1966) and the villainous Jade Fox in Ang Lee’s Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), died on Wednesday at seventy-eight. And Anthea Sylbert, who worked as a costume designer with Mike Nichols (Carnal Knowledge), Elaine May (The Heartbreak Kid), Roman Polanski (Chinatown), and Hal Ashby (Shampoo) before becoming Goldie Hawn’s producing partner, has passed away at eighty-four.
Festivals and Events
Locarno (August 7 through 17) has set its juries and announced that a lifetime achievement award will be presented to Alfonso Cuarón, who has selected Alain Tanner’s Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000 (1976) to screen at the festival, where Cuarón will discuss his career. Paul Schrader will preside over the competition jury in Sarajevo (August 16 through 23), and he’ll be joined by fellow filmmakers Una Gunjak and Juho Kuosmanen and actors Sebastian Cavazza and Noomi Rapace.
Giornate degli Autori (August 28 through September 7), the independent program that runs alongside Venice in much the same way that the Directors’ Fortnight does in Cannes, has unveiled a lineup that includes Stephen and Timothy Quay’s Bruno Schulz adaptation Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hour Glass and Marie Losier’s Peaches Goes Bananas, a portrait of the electroclash musician shot over the course of seventeen years. And Toronto will open on September 5 with David Gordon Green’s Nutcrackers, starring Ben Stiller, and close on September 15 with Rebel Wilson’s directorial debut, The Deb.
Let’s make note of two upcoming events in Los Angeles tied to the release of Caden Mark Gardner and Willow Catelyn Maclay’s new book, Corpses, Fools, and Monsters: The History and Future of Transness in Cinema. Gardner will be at Whammy! tonight for a secret screening and at 2220 Arts + Archives on Sunday to copresent the program Gender Troublemakers: Trans Authorship, DIY, and Experimentation Through Film with director Cary Cronenwett.
This Week’s Highlights
Giornate will screen two new Prada-commissioned Miu Miu Women’s Tales, and one of them, The Miu Miu Affaire, is directed by Laura Citarella (Trenque Lauquen), one of four founding members—with Mariano Llinás (La flor), Alejo Moguillansky (The Gold Bug), and Agustín Mendilaharzu (Clementina)—of the Argentinian filmmaking collective El Pampero Cine.Joshua Bogatin (who, by the way, has written a very fine piece on Hiroshi Shimizu for Screen Slate) has an El Pampero Cine primer at the Notebook. “Equally screen maximalists and minimalists, they have made some of the biggest small films of the past two decades,” he writes. “Working largely with consumer-grade equipment and refusing most public financing, the spirit of El Pampero Cine is one of limitless creative possibility and roguish independence.”
Claire Denis “could be the strongest French filmmaker of the post–New Wave generation,” writes J. Hoberman in the New York Times. “She is certainly the greatest risk-taker—unafraid to eroticize her male actors, unleash outré violence, or subsume an elusive narrative in a fiercely lyrical force field.” No Fear, No Die (1990), newly restored and opening at the Brooklyn Academy of Music today and at the Gene Siskel Film Center in Chicago tomorrow, “does all three.” Dah (Isaach de Bankolé) and Jocelyn (Alex Descas) are immigrants working for Pierre (Jean-Claude Brialy), the somewhat sleazy owner of a club on the outskirts of Paris. Jocelyn is drawn to Toni (Solveig Dommartin)—off limits, as she’s married to Pierre—and as Clayton Dillard writes at Slant, it “becomes increasingly evident that it’s just a matter of time before Jocelyn’s interior angst will explode into some sort of exterior action.”
Japan Cuts is on in New York through the weekend, and for Ultra Dogme, Nel Dahl interviews Gakuryu Ishii, the director of the “mercurial” August in the Water (1995) and his 2024 adaptation of Kobo Abe’s The Box Man. For Metrograph Journal, Dora Leu talks with Tatsuya Fuji about his work with Kei Chika-ura on Great Absence, a NYT Critic’s Pick this week, and with Nagisa Oshima on In the Realm of the Senses (1976). Fuji says that when he first read the screenplay, he thought Oshima had lost his mind. But then he read it twice again, “after which I felt a jolt as if I had been struck on the head. What had become distinctly visible beyond the many sex scenes was the story of one woman and one man’s life-staking love. It was a screenplay that depicted irrepressible human pathos.”
Starring David Bowie, Rosanna Arquette, Marlee Matlin, Eszter Balint, Buck Henry, and André Gregory, The Linguini Incident (1991) got director Richard Shepard tossed into movie jail. Soon after its release, it “disappeared to dusty video store racks of unloved VHS tapes and inglorious midnight cable runs,” writes Shepard at Filmmaker. “Still, the movie had its ardent fans, but the fact was, I wasn’t one of them.” Now that he’s secured the rights and put some more work into it, he’s got a version he can live with. “The early ’90s were weird,” he writes, “and so is the movie, which is what I wanted from the very start. It’s not perfect—not a lost masterpiece, for sure. But finally, good or bad, this version of The Linguini Incident is one I can own, both literally and figuratively.”
We’ve heard quite a bit this week about how violence has no place in American life, but fifty years ago, Alan J. Pakula drove home the point in The Parallax View that, actually, yes, it very much does. “You’ve heard of a downer ending?” asks Matt Zoller Seitz at RogerEbert.com. “More specifically, you’ve heard of a 1970s-style downer ending? This one has one of the downer-est endings ever. But it’s one of the greatest and most correct endings of any film. Its ruthless commitment to the truth of the film’s bleak vision of life is thrilling and cathartic. Watch Parallax once, and you’ll be mesmerized and made to think. Watch it again, and you’ll appreciate the simplicity and efficiency of the film’s construction. It’s the movie thriller as sniper rifle.”
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