Reviews (December 1972)

On Books

George Woodcock, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon: His Life and Work (New York: Schocken Books) $3.95

Some libertarians may be familiar with an essay by Nathaniel Branden in which Branden criticized Proudhon’s declaration that “property is theft” as an example of the fallacy of “the stolen concept.” Readers of Branden’s essay may have concluded that Proudhon was not merely mistaken in attacking the institution of property, but was an illogical jerk besides. George Woodcock’s Pierre-Joseph Proudhon will enable readers to evaluate Proudhon on the basis of a more complete understanding of his thought.

Consider, for instance, the “property is theft” slogan. Branden’s discussion of the stolen concept is irrelevant to Proudhon’s ideas because, as Woodcock points out, the slogan was not intended literally by Proudhon. Woodcock says, “[Proudhon’s] boldness of expression was intended for emphasis, and what he wished to be understood by property was what he later called ‘the sum of its abuses.’” By the abuse of property, Proudhon meant the use of property to make money without physical labor, as in charging interest for loans, or charging rent for the use of land.

Being libertarians, committed to free-market institutions, we may disagree with such ideas. But, to be fair in evaluating Proudhon, it should be noted that, in the context in which he came to hold these ideas, they made a certain amount of sense. For one thing, Proudhon’s critique of interest, rent, etc., was based on the labor theory of value, which was the prevailing economic doctrine during his lifetime. It was the labor theory of value, originally promulgated by such classical economists and advocates of free trade as Adam Smith and J.B. Say, which provided the basic premise from which Proudhon, Marx and others drew their anti-capitalist conclusions. It was not until after Proudhon’s death that economists refuted and rejected the labor theory of value in favor of a subjective value theory. Furthermore, in the society in which Proudhon lived, a society that had never eliminated feudalism, mercantilism or statism, it was in many particular cases entirely true that someone’s use of property to make a profit was an “abuse.”

Where the free market is not allowed to function, the acquisition and profitable use of property may well imply exploitation or theft. That Proudhon was not an enemy of the institution of property per se is indicated by his book, Theorie de la Propriete, in which he viewed property as “the safeguard of liberty.” Woodcock discusses this book as follows:

“[Proudhon] raises a new antimony—property versus the State. Property represents individualism, the State is the negation of individual liberty, and Proudhon therefore seeks an adjustment of property which will help men to control their own destinies independently of the State.”

The point of the preceding discussion is not that Proudhon was a consistent libertarian (he wasn’t), nor is it that he was entirely sensible in his views (I don’t think he was that, either). The point is simply that Proudhon was not as foolish or mistaken in his views as some libertarians might think.

In Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Woodcock has written a stimulating and engaging biography. Proudhon’s life was active, productive and thoroughly fascinating. He was, among other things, a printer, a newspaper editor, a legislator, a businessman, and a political prisoner, as well as the author of many books on history, philosophy and politics.

Woodcock effectively delineates the development and the subsequent influence of Proudhon’s anti-capitalist, anti-Statist, federalist, mutualist, anti-Catholic views. Woodcock’s descriptions of Proudhon’s relations with his contemporaries, such as Marx, Hugo, Bakunin and Bastiat, is quite enlightening. Also of note is Woodcock’s examination of certain incongruous conservative aspects of Proudhon’s outlook, especially his anti-feminism and belief in masculine superiority. Throughout, Woodcock’s style is lucid and easily readable.

The one major criticism I would make of Woodcock is ideological. I find his discussions of Proudhon’s ideas to be, in some respects, overly sympathetic. I have indicated that certain of Proudhon’s views, which made some sense in the social and intellectual context in which they developed, seem foolish or naive in the light of contemporary economic knowledge. Although Woodcock has the advantage over Proudhon of living a century later and having access to the works of Boehm-Bawerk, Mises, Hayek, et. al., he seems to hold similar erroneous views regarding, for example, the allegedly exploitative nature of interest on loans. I see no excuse for this apparent retention of archaic and outmoded economic doctrines. Such ideas only mar an otherwise fine book.

Reviewed by L.A. Rollins

On Film

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie Luis Bunuel has done for the bourgeoisie what Pygmalion did for Galatea. He has molded them, shaped them somewhat bitterly and with some hostitlity, and filmed them for posterity. Now with The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie he has approached the final coup d’etat: he seems to have fallen in love with them. Well, not exactly fallen in love, but he seems to have mellowed in his old age and he treats the bourgeoisie now with humourous kindness.

Bunuel started his career in the early 1930’s. He was one of the forerunners of surrealism. He made two short films in collaboration with Salvador Dali: Un Chien Adalu, and L’Age D’Or. But these films did not gain world-wide attention, and it was not until the 1950’s with films such as The Exterminating Angel, Viridiana, and Nazarin that people began to open their eyes.

Bunuel has always tried to shock his audiences. In Un Chien Andalu, he and Dali constructed a short scene in which a woman’s eyeball was cut in half by a straight razor: the purpose, they said, was to shock the pants off of the bourgeoisie. As a matter of act, Bunuel has practically spent his entire life damning and demeaning the bourgeoisie; it seems to be his entire purpose in life. His humor is dry, laconic, and very biting. He is not the sort of man I would like to get on the bad side of.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, his most recent film, is a certain departure for Bunuel. It is described as a light comedy and in a way it is, but it is also one of the funniest, one of the most frightening and haunting films I have ever seen. The Exterminating Angel concerned a group of people at a party who are so drawn together that they cannot leave; it’s not that they don’t want to, it’s just that they are not able to. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie turns this idea around: a group of people try to get together for dinner but find it practically impossible what with certain complications here and there, and dates getting mixed up. One thing leads to another as we see the group continually walking down a road with, it seems, no end to it.

The film is full of dreams: dreams within dreams, and dreams told in flashback. Some are funny, some are sad, some are frightening. But all of them lead to a certain degree of despair and hopelessness. We are all empty, Bunuel seems to be saying, and our dreams show it.

However, they are all handled with the touch of a master. The film is broken down into little comedy sketches that weave in and out of one another; Bunuel seems to have approached them as an old-time vaudevillian might have. The roles played by Delphine Seyrig, Stephane Audran, Bullie Ogier, Fernando Rey, Paul Frankeur, and Jean-Pierre Cassel are mere caricatures with just the slightest touch of humanity, and the actors play them accordingly.

There is just one harsh note: when a priest comes to deliver the last rites over a dying old man, the priest discovers that this same man was the one who killed his parents many years before; the priest very calmly finishes his service, then just as calmly lifts a rifle he finds in the corner of the room and shoots the old man. We don’t know how to take such a scene in the midst of all the high spirits, and it is a very hard scene to adjust to especially when Bunuel very abruptly cuts to another comic scene.

At times, Bunuel can be unfathomable, but still the man is now seventy-two years old and to see him in such a joyous, exuberant mood is remarkable. In fact, it seems his entire technique toward film has grown more fluid as he has grown older. I only hope it continues, and that Bunuel keeps on pestering us with his silly shoe fetishes for a long time to come.

Play It As It Lays

Frank Perry’s new movie, Play It As It Lays (based on the Joan Didion novel), is such a trivial bit of nonsense that it’s quite laughable, and even provokes a few titters and howls where it’s not supposed to. But an enigmatic glow surrounds the film and this is mainly because the novel was not laughable and definitely not nonsense. And the enigmatic glow comes from the fact that the movie follows the book very closely—in fact, too closely. (The screenplay was written by the authoress and her husband, John Gregory Dunne.) But when you begin to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, they all point to one person responsible for the damage: the director, Frank Perry.

Now I’m not totally discounting the somewhat disastrous efforts of the screenwriters, but whoever said it was possible for the author of a book to transfer his or her work to the screen? (Leonard Gardner did a fine job with his novel, Fat City, but that’s because the director was John Huston, who has always had a great and vivid sense of film imagery.) Frank Perry has never had a great sense of anything when it comes to film and apparently he has learned too little from his ex-wife and former screenwriter Eleanor Perry, since there wasn’t much there to learn in the first place. David and Lisa, their first film, was utterly bland, entirely overrated. The Swimmer was a mediocre attempt at allegory. Last Summer was a distorted vision of teenagers and a useless waste of time. Diary of a Mad Housewife was the ultimate in mediocrity: chic mediocrity. And Doc, written by Pete Hamill, had such a clumsy, awkward script that it would be better left forgotten.

Now comes Play It As It Lays, a film dealing with human suffering. Maria (pronounced Mar-eye-ah), a former model and film actress, has been committed to a sanitarium by her ex-husband, Carter Lang, a film director. She strolls through the garden paths of the institute recounting the incidents which led to her being committed: her estrangement from Carter; her abortion; her being busted on marijuana charges; her ultimate divorce; her close friendship with B.Z. (a charming homosexual who produces Carter’s films) which eventually leads to suicide. The movie, to be a success, should have shown the emptiness of longing, the pain of acquiescence; instead, it is just plain empty of any emotion or feeling. Perry has failed to discover any suitable means of transferring Miss Didion’s torture-wracked prose style to the screen. The look of the film is Hollywood chic— a strident accoutrement.

However, the main difficulty with the film is that it follows the novel almost word-perfect. The things that work in a novel do not necessarily work in a movie—that is, if the novel is well-structured and uses all the narrative devices at its disposal. The primary faults of Perry’s film are a transparent as glass: they are all narrative ideas and techniques. The dialogue in most books cannot be successfully transposed to the screen, especially in such books as Miss Didion’s: it comes off as very heavy-handed and we are supposedly fooled into believing that we are watching real people. I have a word of caution for Mr. Perry: “The more fool you!”

The actors make do with what they are given, but it is only Anthony Perkins who comes off truly unblemished; he has always been a fine actor with his body and his face in such films as Psycho and Catch-22, and it is good to see him in fine form once again especially after Claude Chabrol’s abortive attempt at a mystery thriller, Ten Days Wonder; Perkins gives a beautifully controlled performance and almost makes the film worth seeing. Tuesday Weld looks great, and she does fine things with her face and voice in the beginning of the film, but her character does not progress—she just remains an appealing blank. And I feel the fault for this lies with Mr. Perry once again. Either he didn’t understand the character or else he didn’t care, and when a director doesn’t care about his characters then he’s in trouble.

Alas, Mr. Perry’s in trouble.

Reviewed by Cary Leiter

On Music

The Cat

With flashlight in hand she was up and down the aisle all night telling people to “put it out” or “no smoking please.” I lifted the tangerine to my mouth and one inch away blazed my friend’s lighter. She passed my test of her hustle with flying colors. Within seconds she was on me like a cat with her light in hand illuminating the entire twentieth row. Her efforts were for naught. I swallowed the citrus, pits and all, and sat back to watch the real “Cat” perform.

His album titles have been incongruous, his voice incomparable and his style imaginative. Yet, at Philharmonic Hall on November 8, 1972, Cat Stevens erased all signs of vagueness and revealed himself as the truly great performer that he is. His latest release, Catch Bull At Four, is his boldest move at engraving his own personal niche in the big rock mountain.

Few artists today can match Cat’s total consistency in growth and performance.

I waited over a year for Catch Bull At Four, and my rewards were well worth waiting for. This new release is saturated with such prizes as 18th Avenue, Boy With a Moon and Star On His Head, Sitting, and especially Angelsea. My expectations were high and upon my first listening I was only mildly disappointed. My second, third, and fourth listenings, however, made me realize that Catch Bull was one of Cat’s most imaginative creations yet. The use of the moog synthesizer carefully placed and a male chorus daintily dubbed give the album a flavor much different from Cat’s earlier Teaser and the Firecat and Tea for the Tillerman.

The Cat’s stage performance did justice to the elegance and splendor of Lincoln Center. In the flesh, Cat enhances his mystique even more than does a Van or an Elton. A virtuoso guitarist and pianist, he made me wonder if maybe, even at this late date, I was not too old to take piano lessons.

An orphan from the old Fillmore East days, I now find myself longing to hear at concerts the sound of the high ear-splitting guitar work of dudes like Alvin Lee or Mike Bloomfield. Much of the music today (with very few exceptions) just does not cut it. I mean you’re not going to find me holding my breath to hear a Grand Funk or a Lesley West. But I can live with a quality sound. Indeed, a vibrant and mellow sound will more than suffice. The Cat’s done more than an adequate job to provide just this sound. Songs like Angelsea and Peace Train done as the Cat has prepared them can disappoint no one.

The concert was preceded by an animated cartoon created by the Cat based upon his album Teaser and the Firecat. Reminiscent of Yellow Submarine, it featured Moon Shadow and was well received by all in attendance. A fine introduction to a fine evening.

Say Hallelujah, or Hail, Hail, The Gang’s All Here

Capitol Records has just announced plans to release an opera based upon the Beatles’ historic album Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Carefully orchestrated leaks to the music trade papers have indicated that the cast will consist of some pretty noteworthy celebrities. “It’s still too early to say,” “W.C.,” a Capitol executive, was quoted in Billboard, “but it looks like Curt Gowdy will play Pepper.” Others, rumor has it, who are being considered for parts are Moms Mabley as the notorious “Lucy;” Betsy Palmer as “Lovely Rita;” Mier Kahane as “Billy Spears;” Henry Kissinger as “Harry the Horse;” Lance Rentzel as the anonymous person digging a hole; United Federation of Teacher’s “Head” Albert Shanker as the man anticipating his 64th birthday. The barnyard sounds in Good Morning will be performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. There was some conern over how the climax in A Day in the Life would be recreated without sounding “hokey.” Fortunately, Hubert Humphrey offered one of his rubber ducks, and his offer was quickly accepted.

The person directly responsible for the concept of this extravaganza has so far refused to comment on his idea, reveal his real name (he keeps referring to himself as “Mort”), or be seen in public without his two husky bodyguards. Apparently he believes that a rival record company which has just released its version of the rock opera Tommy has taken out a contract on him.

Six weeks ago, before the Sgt. Pepper Opera was even conceived, one of our reporters talked to “Mort.” “It’s just terrible,” he told us. “They’ve taken a good rock-and-roll album and have turned it into a tasteless piece of plastic. They must think that if you bring a few big names together, add a symphony orchestra, and the entire state of Utah as back-up vocals, you’ve created a piece of art. What they’ve actually done is to further convince rock followers that Super All-Star groups with super-elaborate productions can be very easily done without. Humbug!” he sneered. “Rod Stewart, Richie Havens, Ringo Starr, Marry Clayton and the Who may be excellent performers individually, but whatever possessed them to dive en masse into this mucky sea of sterile music is beyond me. It’s not even silly. Christ, I don’t even feel like laughing.”

Presently, the Sgt. Pepper Opera is at the Electric Lady Studios in New York for dubbing and mixing. The three-record set is expected to be released shortly to reach the Christmas market.

Reviewed by Allan Silverstein