From the Cheap Seats

If I turn my head slightly and look over my shoulder, from where I’m sitting I can see four tottering piles of books, stacked higgledy-piggledy on top of crowded shelves. These heaps sway alarmingly; every time I pass I hold my breath and think pure thoughts to avoid a collapse. This is my library of film books, haphazardly accumulated over the years, whenever I saw a title that took my fancy.

I haven’t added to it recently. There are fewer new film books to buy and fewer still that are worthwhile. The publishing houses are constricting their lists. Even Faber & Faber, every film fan’s favourite publisher, are easing into a comfort zone of star biographies and anecdotes. It means my stack of books is structurally more secure but it’s somehow diminished.

Oh, I can’t blame the publishers. They’re not charities. If the product doesn’t shift, they have to find something that does. It’s not like it used to be even ten years ago when Faber & Faber could put out not one but two books about André de Toth (one-eyed Hungarian action director. Made House of Wax. Married Veronica Lake. Quite the character.) But then, ten years ago, people had to pay £7.99 if they wanted a script, rather than download it off the internet for nothing.

I guess that DVD has played its part too, since the decline in serious film books pretty much exactly corresponds to the rise of our silver pal, with its documentaries and commentaries. And all very interesting they are too but surely no one thinks they can compete with a book for exploring the full extent of a career, let alone editorial independence.

There are still worthwhile titles getting published of course, and there are plenty still available that we can talk about. So, rather than dress myself in widow’s weeds and wail lamentations about what we’ve lost, I’d rather nurture what we still have. This post inaugurates what I hope will be an occasional discussion about film books old and new. And it won’t just cover more celebrated titles. Much of the most interesting work is coming from the independent sector these days, with small presses like Tomahawk Press and FAB Press showing solid commitment to cinema publishing.

To conclude, I’m going to mention three books, all still available, all of which belong on the shelves of every serious cinephile. You might not think you need Mark Cousins’ The Story of Film but bear with me on this. I didn’t think I needed it. After all, I had a pretty good understanding of how film grew. But it turns out ‘pretty good’ isn’t good enough. Just as his title says, he tells the story of film, from its birth right on up to today. And it’s a far bigger story than I had allowed, for as he doesn’t just tackle the Western canon – those films that illuminated the cinematheques in the 1960s and 70s. This is cinema as a global art. He takes some interesting new looks at old favourites too, and is refreshingly fair minded about every type of film.

Alexander Mackendrick made some of the films named in Cousins’ book. If you don’t know The Ladykillers, The Man in the White Suit and Sweet Smell of Success then you’re on your honour to go and buy them. After he retired from directing, he started teaching students at film school and the book On Filmmaking gathers together everything he said on the subject. For wannabes, it’s the best book on the subject but it’s also a most useful book even for those who don’t plan a career change.

Reading Mackendrick gives you an insight into how – and why – movies work, without ever spoiling the magic. Indeed, understanding a little more about the process of movie construction helps to appreciate them all the more – or at least be more aware of what a filmmaker is trying to do. It’s for a similar reason that I recommend Michael Ondaatje’s The Conversations, a series of colloquies with film editor Walter Murch.

Editing is the most mysterious, yet arguably most essential, part of filmmaking and Murch is one of its masters. He’s cut for Coppola (including The Conversation) and Minghella (he won an Oscar for The English Patient); he re-cut Welles (the newest Touch of Evil was his work). Listening him expound upon the role of the editor is revelatory; I’d say it actually changed how I thought about film.

All three make the best possible case for books about film. There are hundreds more to cover. I hope to return to the library soon.