Sure
Seaters: The Emergence of Art House Cinema
Barbara Wilinsky
Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 2001
To paraphrase Robert Morley
in
Beat the Devil (1953)
, every assay into cultural studies
is a guinea in the bank of cultural capital. Raymond Williams’ views on cultural
materialism are still generating interest in this bank, and Barbara Wilinsky’s
Sure Seaters: The Emergence of Art House Cinema is one receipt of this
transaction. Wilinsky’s tidy historical volume, an elongation of her 1997
dissertation, is bookended with a distinction made by Williams between oppositional
and alternative culture: the former is incompatible with and contrary to the
dominant culture, while the latter seeks merely to be left alone.
[1] Art house cinema,
it is argued, is alternative and quietist, offering no threat to the governing
practices of representation. This is the view that informs the book and guides
a reading of its otherwise straightforward economic history, from the beginnings
of film to art house cinema, and on to what we have (whatever we have)
now.
Just what art house cinema was
then, post–war, when it properly came about, is still in dispute. Using
the Italian neorealist
Open City (1945), the race problem “passing”
film
Lost Boundaries (1949), and the Ealing comedy
Tight Little
Island (1949, erstwhile
Whisky Galore!) as test cases—which she
continues to use throughout—Wilinksy offers a literature review of how art
house cinema has been recognised thus far, vacillating between
ex post
facto academic definitions and utilitarian industry categorisations. She
considers art house cinema by the varying characteristics proposed: its formal
property of ambiguity, its particularised production habitudes (national,
industrial), and its commercial realities. Deciding on all and none of these
definitions, she is correctly inconclusive, although she does emphasise art
house cinema’s oft–ignored profitable intent and precarious existence “somewhere
in between mainstream cinema and experimental, avant–garde, [and] modernist
cinema […] different, but not too different.”
[2] The pervading cynicism encountered
in
Sure Seaters is in fact quite refreshingly non–adulatory,
buffered by what seems a sincere enjoyment of the films themselves
and the environs in which they screened. An abundance of detail is
provided on such minutiae as the quality of paper early art house
programs were printed on (“ranging from heavy–stock glossy paper to
plain copy paper”
[3]), what the refreshment options were like (certainly not
popcorn—coffee and Danishes were a more probable option), who designed
the foyer in any given theatre (Modernists all), and so forth. Tactility
is paramount, and there are select pictures included sparingly. Much
of this information Wilinsky obtained through interviews with those
who ran the original art houses, and she places their endeavour within
a wider, pan–cinematic milieu dating from the “little cinema” movement
of the ’20s, through Amos “Film–as–a–Subversive–Art” Vogel and Cinema
16, and on to the Landmark Theatre Corporation, which operates fifty–seven
art houses—better called art outlets?—in the US today.
Faultless in her readings, and
lucid on history and screening practice, Wilinsky is equally controlled and
acerbic on class—a debt to the Marxist legacy of Willams (and, elsewhere in
the book, Adorno and Horkheimer). In a decidedly auspicious archival find,
she describes a sublimely oblivious
Life magazine chart from 1949 that
categorises:
different cultural forms and practices as high–brow, upper middlebrow,
lower middlebrow, and lowbrow. […I]n the category of “Entertainment,” Life’s
chart lists ballet as a highbrow cultural pursuit, theater as an upper–middlebrow
activity, musical extravaganza films as a lower–middlebrow entertainment and
western movies as an activity for lowbrows. [4]
The
Life chart
proceeds to ascribe appropriate social causes to the respective brows
(art for high, Planned Parenthood for upper–middle, and so on down
the slope). Wilinsky continues, “Basically,
Life offered a
chart instructing readers how to behave to increase their cultural
prestige”;
[5] the post–war
art house cinema, she argues, is advertised as high to the middles.
[6] A commercial conundrum
arises in this marketing situation that intrigues Wilinsky: how does
one reconcile the two “conflicting interests [of] retaining the prestigious
appeal of films and making them more popular and accessible?”
[7]
The Book–of–the–Month Club provides
a historic resolution to this problem, as it was already twenty–five years
old by the time art house cinemas came about. Classical and highbrow references
+ discounts = customers. (To this equation the cinema, or its advertisers,
added luridness.) The appearance of high culture was perhaps easiest to replicate;
and when the films did not provide the type of cultural cachet expected of
European product, there was always the cinema manager, described by one theatre
runner as, ideally, “a man of culture, with some knowledge of letters, music
and art; he will wear slacks and sport jackets and will smoke a pipe.”
[8] Discounts were simple,
too, and sometimes provided on a subscription basis similar to the Book–of–the–Month
Club. The Foreign Films Movie Club appealed to middlebrows “interested in
increasing [their] cultural capital with the least outlay of economic capital,”
and for a two–dollar membership received discounts to established art houses.
[9] Jean Cocteau was an
honorary member of the Club, and an unwitting purveyor of the combination
of high and risqué art well suited to the marketing.
Luridness did not really become
accurately
associated with art house cinemas until the ’60s, although
they were always accused of it. This is not to say that art houses did not
use sex to sell films—an advertisement for
Open City in 1946 ran with
the now incomprehensibly sensational tag line, “SAVAGE ORGY OF LUST”—they
did use sex, just no more than Hollywood
. [10] Interestingly, Wilinsky
draws a parallel between the unavailability of affordable Hollywood product
and the rise of European art films in the ’40s and ’50s and, in the ’60s and
’70s, the unavailability of affordable product generally and the rise of sexploitation.
While she does not entirely correlate the market shortage to the concurrent
artistic and commercial sphere, she argues persuasively that the lack had
an impact.
In her
conclusion, Wilinsky mourns how easily alternative art house fare (in the
Williams’ sense) has been co–opted and economically dominated by the Hollywood machine. One needs to look further than the art houses
to see equivalently alternative films to those screened post–war and further
still to find oppositional films. But this is not news. What has effectively
been accomplished in Sure Seaters is a subtle summary of the complex
economic situation in post–war art house fare and a concomitant illumination
of the cultural hierarchies of the time. These hierarchies were involuted
and varied, and they allowed for the titular phrase sure seaters to
swing radically in meaning from the beginning of the 1940s to the end. Initially
referring to art house theatres in which patrons would be sure to get a seat
because no one was interested in the films, by the end of the decade sure
seaters meant that managers could assuredly fill all their seats.
Priced
at $18.95, printed on a thick stock with resilient binding, and best enjoyed
with coffee (not popcorn), Sure Seaters is worth—surely—a guinea in
a reader’s own bank of cultural capital.
[1] Raymond
Williams. “Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory.” New
Left Review 82 (November/December 1973), 10.
[2] Barbara Wilinsky. Sure Seaters: The Emergence of Art House Cinema.
Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 2001. 39.
[6] This gradient terrain of brows is an American equivalent of the contagious
British U and non–U linguistic demarcations put forward
by Alan Ross and popularised by Nancy Mitford. U and non–U came to
refer to wealth, education, and culture—“polo is thoroughly U,” one
might say, while “bowling is hopelessly non–U.”
[9] Ibid., 96. Wilinsky confines her study mainly to theatres in New York
and Chicago.
[10] Ibid., 126. Open City is noted to have run for one hundred
weeks in Times Square.