On Realism

I like my realism served straight – no fables, myths, or allegories mixed in. Just give me the thing itself. This thought is triggered by Richard Brody’s observation in this week’s New Yorker regarding Francis Ford Coppola’s The Cotton Club Encore: “Coppola can’t avoid a dash of mythology when filming brutal killings.” That, to me, is a damning criticism. I recall seeing The Cotton Club when it originally appeared in 1985. I don’t remember anything about it, except that it was a disappointment. Maybe my response was influenced by Pauline Kael’s review of it. She called it a pastiche (“Coppola apparently believes this pastiche to be an authentic, epic view of the Jazz Age”: The New Yorker, January 7, 1985). Brody’s recent assessment does nothing to spur me to see Cotton Club again.