So Many Movies . . .

The recent death of Blake Edwards reminded me once more—as if I needed reminding—that there is so much cinema out there I've yet to experience.  While Edwards's stylistic flair and comedic gifts (in the service of a rather grim outlook on life) earned him a lofty spot in the directorial rankings Andrew Sarris assembled for his seminal 1968 book, The American Cinema—specifically, Sarris put him among the directors who fell just short of "Pantheon" status, the category he labeled "The Far Side of Paradise"—I find, alas, that my own sampling of Edwards's output remains just that, a sampling. I've seen 10, Victor/Victoria, S.O.B., at least one of the Pink Panther farces (A Shot in the Dark, I think), and maybe a couple of others. I've not seen Breakfast at Tiffany's, Days of Wine and Roses, What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?, etc., etc.

And as I flip through Sarris's book for perhaps the five hundredth time, I'm struck by the many other worthy directors whose films have largely escaped my eyes: Frank Borzage, Erich von Stroheim, Gregory La Cava, Leo McCarey, even most of Cukor, Capra, and Minnelli, for heaven's sake. I could go on and on, and I'm only speaking here of American directors whose works mostly predate the mid-twentieth century. When Film Comment hits my mailbox every two months, or whenever I peruse some film website or other, I read of an important new talent from Europe, Asia, Latin America, or the Middle East that I really ought to check out. When will I ever get to them all? And I say this as someone who's seen thousands of movies!

Netflix has been a great aid in remedying gaps in my film-watching experience, but I often think I could see three movies a day for the rest of my life and never feel that I've earned the right to call myself a proper cineast. And let's not get started on the books I haven't read . . .