Writing on Film History, Far from the Canon

Cleopatra went on general release throughout the world in 1964, but, as usual, those of us who lived in Istanbul did not get a chance to see Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor's star turn until two years later. In those days, films came to us several years after release, because Turkish distributors were not able to meet Hollywood's price for opening-run distribution. . . . Istanbullus would sigh with impatience and say, "Well let's see when it finally gets here."

—Orhan Pamuk¹

Turkish author Orhan Pamuk's remarks on the belated arrival of films in the late 1960s and most of the 1970s reveal not only a cause of exasperation for the filmgoing public, but also a source of great unhappiness for this aspiring (teenage) film critic of the time. "When I think back to that day when I first saw Cleopatra," Pamuk goes on to say, "what I remember best . . . is not the film itself but the thrill of watching it."² The mere "thrill of watching the film" was, although satisfying, not enough if you wanted to put films into some kind of context, make sense of and write about them. Even if it was only in your own "film notebook."

I remember my childhood days turning into agonizing adolescence, not only because of the usual growing pains but also because of such painful considerations as: "What do I make of this Chabrol which is one of two Chabrols shown during this French film week? Is still another viewing of the Battleship Potemkin (Bronenosets Potyonkin; Sergei M. Eisenstein, 1925) too much of a good thing? At least, Potemkin . . . is a classic. But I am sick and tired of it. And of Şarlo (Charlot = Charlie Chaplin) too. Why can't we have some Keaton? I long to see some 'decadent' films! Is Death in Venice (Morte a Venezia; Luchino Visconti, 1971) it? Or is it about Dirk Bogarde pursuing 'the Platonic ideal of beauty'? After all, the auteur of Rocco e sui fratelli (1960) and La terra trema (1948) cannot be frivolous. However . . ."

In the rather suffocating political and cultural climate of the times, with the city cinematheque a shadow of its French counterpart—only much poorer and much more sectarian—one was restricted to a frugal and capricious diet. One had to make do with what was on the program and be thankful for the cinematheque café. The various "cultural institutes" of the city might or might not be forthcoming. Cinema was important for most of them, though they each approached it differently: Italians specialized in gala-style affairs where you had to sit with the socialite who wanted to see "this shocking art film." The English were dodgy, and the Anglophile filmgoer had to make do with 1940s English cinema or the Ealing comedies, at best. The French obviously had very good taste in films—but why did you have only one screening of The Mother and the Whore (La maman et la putain; Jean Eustache, 1973) and that next to the latest de Broca comedy, when you really wanted to see some Godard? The Americans had sporadic screenings—and then none at all: too many security considerations. To enjoy the odd screening of a Kazan or Ford film felt like winning the lottery. The Germans were serious and good at programming and did not seem to be intimidated by the latest Fassbinder folly or even an unfashionable Kluge. One was thankful, if somewhat lost. How to put Rainer Werner's interesting but crazy output into context?

The viewer who was not a "-phile" of any of those cultures—which was difficult since the majority of teen film fans attended one of the high schools in the city teaching in one of their languages—but simply a fan of "cinema" had to be everywhere, all the time, trying not to miss any opportunity that came around. Still, vigilance was not enough.

Reading books helped. Literature did put a lot into context. Tennessee Williams was a godsend in making sense of Petra von Kant. Or when you'd read the novella...