Remembering Jay Scott: Twenty Years Later

My introduction to Jay Scott came rather late in his career, and in a medium other than the one which made him famous. Although I had been aware of his tenure as a newspaper film critic at The Globe and Mail, it was really only in the early 1990s, when I truly “discovered” him- but on television, not in print. At that time, he was also the host of TVOntario’s Film International, which broadcast every Friday night. His insightful introductions made me another of his many fans, and in short order, I too began reading his film reviews in the Globe's Enterainment section. Jay Scott had become my literary hero.

From 1977 to his untimely death in 1993 (20 years ago today) at the age of 43, he was one of the most influential film writers of his time. He was the rare critic to win the respect of readers, programmers and filmmakers alike, to say nothing of fellow writers. 

People read his words for their insight, dry humour and dazzling, intoxicating style: his breathtaking, paragraph-long sentences were whirlwinds of thoughts on the human condition, references to pop culture, somehow all grafted into a film review. Even more impressive is that he managed to adapt this stream of thought into a deeply personal, conversational tone that further endeared the reader. But he made writing fun; he was a brilliant scholar who still had the wide-eyed, childlike joy of discovery. His infectious tone inspired countless readers to investigate films with marginalized distribution, and his voice was also powerful enough that even distributors would be incited to capitalize on his enthusiasm. In one famous incident, Jean-Jacques Beineix's new-wave classic Diva was nearly dumped by its distributors until Jay Scott's raves became instrumental in its becoming a major art house cult classic in the 1980s.

Of all his virtues, perhaps Jay Scott's greatest gift was to show that the film reviewed, no matter how obscure, was part of the larger canvas of our collective pop culture. References to literature, painting (Rabelais was a favourite), fashion and, of course, other films (Fassbinder was a favourite), would be woven into the fabric of his reviews to give the films a greater context.

With his motorcycles, leather and earring, Scott created for himself a colourful, hip persona that lived outside his words. He transformed amazingly well to television- it was a delight for viewers to see that on camera he was as much the warm, wickedly funny and insightful human being that was communicated between the lines of his columns. Even more impressively, as the host and writer of Film International, he didn't have to compromise his prose or his tastes; neither were "dumbed down" for mass appeal.  His onscreen introductions were as full of the nuance as his printed work, and the programming extrapolated on his written agenda to raise awareness to films that otherwise wouldn't find their rightful audiences. He didn't have to pander to the lowest common denominator- he rightfully assumed that the foreign-language and independent works that he showcased would also have appeal to viewers that lived in smaller cities or towns and couldn't access them otherwise. To his mind, high art was for everyone- it didn't have to be relegated to closet admiration by a chosen few.

The early 1990s was a great period to be a Jay Scott fan, as one could enjoy his work in more than one medium. I will be indebted to Jay Scott's Film International for introducing me to the works of Aki Kaurismaki, Paul Cox, Luis Bunuel, Margarethe Von Trotta and several others: it opened the door to a different world of cinema that I could only read about in my limited small-town resources.

But still, these were troubling times too, as his health began to decline. Although he never kept his AIDS-related illness a secret, it seemed however that we were still going to have Jay Scott for a while longer, as he was always working. In addition to his Globe reviews and television appearances, he also wrote book reviews, longer arts-related pieces for other publications, and published a book on artist Helen Hardin. However, in 1992, we began to worry when he appeared ever more frail than his already thin frame. Our concerns escalated when a month's worth of programming was guest-hosted by Kay Armatage (one hoped it was because he was on assignment elsewhere). In the spring of 1993, Film International had a couple of programs devoted to cinema about AIDS, including the independent feature Parting Glances, and the short Dead Boys Club.

Even so, because Jay Scott was still in the public eye, his death in the summer of 1993 came as a huge shock. (He was even writing a book review on the day of his passing.)  A huge outpour of tributes would follow in the next few weeks, not just from fellow journalists who loved his craft, but from filmmakers, and especially from fans. It seemed that everyone mourned the loss of not just a titan in film writing, but also a literary giant (as his finely crafted reviews were indeed works of art) and most of all, everyone felt they had lost a close friend, whether or not they personally knew the man- so intimate was his style with everyone.

Jay Scott’s passing was at a pivotal point in my life- just one month before I moved back to Toronto for the second and last time, to study broadcasting in college. In previous months, not fully aware of his condition, I had wondered if somewhere down the road our paths would cross, as we would both work in media, but his career ended before mine ever began.

In the months after his death, I vigilantly collected any tributes I could find in print, or on television. Film International devoted six weeks of programming to guest hosts like David Overbey, or TVO producer Risa Shuman, who knew the man and shared some of their memories. In October, The Bloor Cinema had a double-bill in his memory (which I attended)- Coline Serrau's Pourquoi Pas and naturally, a Fassbinder film (Veronika Voss). And of course, like many writers, I attempted to copy his style in the many film reviews I was writing for myself at the time.

Of the many Jay Scott stories that were shared after his death, my favourite was by David Overbey who went to visit his friend in the hospital, just one day before he passed. Scott was flat on his back in bed smoking. Overbey commented on the cigarette, and asked if the nursing staff knew he was smoking in his room. Scott replied that they probably did, as they should have been able to smell it. Overbey asked, "Have they said anything to you?" Scott replied, "Well what are they going to do, say, 'Mr. Scott, you're in big trouble?". Even in these final moments, Jay Scott had his dark sense of humour, valiantly laughing at death, and continuing to live his life as he saw fit.

Our culture has a strange fascination with celebrities who died prematurely, from Jimmy Dean to Jimmy Morrison. I'm not alone in that- Jay Scott was mine. This morbid fascination continued until my brother's sudden death in late 1994. I couldn't handle it any more- I wanted to think about life more. And for that reason, I had forgotten about Jay Scott for several years. 

Someone once wrote that Jay Scott's period (1977 to 1993) as a critic was during a time when cinema was the least interesting. That may be true, but we were blessed to have him, as one needs a trustworthy writer like him to point out the works that got lost in the juggernaut of the Blockbuster Era. It is a pity he wasn't writing during the 1960s when international cinema exploded (and to paraphrase Susan Sontag, a new masterpiece came out every few weeks), and "cinephilia" was on high (where critics like Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris became Pop Stars). It is equally unfortunate that he died just before the indie boom of the mid-1990s: one wonders what his reactions would have been to the Three Colors trilogy or a little thing called Pulp Fiction. 

Indeed, twenty years after his death, no real testament of his legacy exists in present form. Google searches reveal little of his work. It is a pity that no-one thought to comprehensively reprint his review columns in book form every couple of years like the several volumes accorded Pauline Kael or John Simon. Sadly, the Globe hasn't made an online archive of his work, no doubt contributing to the dearth of online discussion about Jay Scott.

Samples of his work were only collected twice- for Midnight Matinees in 1986, and the posthumous release, Great Scott!, published in 1994. Both are long out of print, but can easily be found for sale used online or at second-hand bookstores. For the Jay Scott fan (or for someone who just wants to discover him), these are both worth having.

Midnight Matinees may be the superior volume, as it also includes some longer-format pieces, including his brilliant articles on the career of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, and the Canadian Tax Shelter era. The titles selected for the section of film reviews better reflect Scott’s popular image, of championing lesser-known “art house” pictures, and creating a greater awareness of them. Great Scott!, on the other hand, has more reviews of mainstream titles than obscurities, but this book is also necessary in understanding Jay Scott. His forte was to bring lesser-known films into public view, but make no mistake: he was not a cultural snob. He saw the worth in everything: popular and “niche” films could be praised or damned in equal measure. Because Great Scott! collects samples of his work from his entire run at the Globe, from 1978's The Big Fix to 1993's Jurassic Park, it is also an entertaining, satisfying collection that creates a synthesis of his consistently great style throughout the years.

When Jay Scott left this world, the Internet was still a few years away from becoming the dominant medium.  He had managed to move effortlessly from print to television without having to sacrifice his style, and one wonders if he would have adapted to the electronic age with equal ease. Would have he embraced it like film critic Roger Ebert with his own website, blog, and Twitter account? Would he continue to have a voice that stood apart from the countless online movie blogs?

Cinema and media distribution has changed significantly in the past twenty years. In this current climate of mega-billion-dollar superhero franchises that continue to eclipse smaller works that demand our attention, we need someone like a Jay Scott again to chart a course.  When film criticism (or entertainment journalism in general) is being squeezed out for celebrity scandal trash, and newspapers are endangered species, would he have become a trailblazer in the new medium, or would he, now 63, be chuckling to himself and thinking of calling it a career?

I'm tired of griping about the present. I'm simply grateful that some of Jay Scott is still with us. I'll be cracking open his books with some red wine. It'll be good reuniting with an old friend. Good night, and thank you.

Who's Singing Over There? (1981)

In the few years before his death in 1993, the late, great "Globe and Mail" film critic Jay Scott also lent his talents to the television medium for TVOntario's "Film International", which would show some unsung foreign films every Friday night. Before this show became a weekly entity in 1990, "Film International" simply existed as an annual six-week mini-series shown on Wednesday nights in the late 1980's. No doubt this venture exposed international cinema to a lot of people in southern Ontario who would not normally have access to it.

Even more, "Film International" offered immeasurable insight into foreign film which still remains elusive-- even to those in the big city. One of the true joys of the six-week seasons was the broadcast of the superb Yugoslavian film, Who's Singing Over There? (1981). Many consider this to be the finest film made in that country. North American cinephiles mostly associate the nation's cinema with the works of Emir Kusturica (Underground) or Dusan Makavejev (WR: Mysteries of the Organism)- not exactly inaccurate mind you, but I am told by a Yugoslavian native that this picture was a phenomenon in its own land. It is a crime that this gem is not commercially available (save, perhaps, from those dealing in imported DVDs). I am happy that I still kept my off-air VHS copy from "Film International" in 1988.

For his maiden effort, director Slobodan Sijan was inspired by, of all things, Roger Corman biker movies and Russ Meyer's southern-fried sexploitation films. In truth, this film seems to be crafted by someone immersed in Luis Bunuel. This funny, surreal, bawdy, harsh, violent road movie has a lot of trademarks of that director's work, yet transposed to an Eastern European milieu. However, the emphasis is less on religion than politics.

The film opens on April 5, 1941- one day before the Nazis would bomb Belgrade. As fate would have it, the story concerns a busload of eclectic characters who are travelling to that city. The old bus owner and his klutzy son (who does most of the driving-- sometimes even blindfolded) are joined by a fancy dan singer, a hunter (whose gun always fires at the least appropriate times), a retired Army veteran, a salesman, a newlywed couple, a TB sufferer, and two gypsy musicians.

Four times in the film, the musicians break from the story to sing to the camera- chiefly to advance the plot. This device is not new by any means, but it makes perfect sense in context with the rest of the film. A consistent verse in the gypsies' sung narration is "But to have dreamt it all." We are seeing this film through their eyes (they appear in every scene). As the movie escalates with hatred (especially towards them), they wish that this voyage was nothing but a dream after all. By the same token, the movie itself looks dreamlike. Almost entirely shot in hazy gray overcast, it has a slightly unnatural look to it. This is also complimentary of the metaphor of war, itself an act that is unnatural, yet a fact of life. It is not only ironic that these two are the sole survivors at the end once a bomb drops on the bus, but the gray haze of the day is replaced by gray smoke from which they emerge, wishing this life was but a dream.

But still, Who's Singing Over There? is worthy of Bunuel. The simple premise of a busload of strangers whose destination is consistently frustrated by the most outlandish of events is right out of Mexican Busride or Discreet Charm of the Burgeoisie. In most cases, however, the delays are politically motivated. Initially, the road is blocked by the army, so the bus has to detour over a farmer's field. The property owner, however, who is suing the government anyway, is making back revenue owed him by the state by charging people to travel across his land because of the barricade. Also, a bridge is out of service because it was weakened by the army carrying cannons over it. Then, the bus is commandeered by the army-- they even enlist the son!

Further, there is a subtly subversive tone to the whole piece. When the funeral procession appears, the dapper singer throws a stone at the horses drawing the casket to make them go faster-- suddenly the procession of mourners (on foot) is running to catch up to it! It is also at this point that the immature newlywed groom takes his bride to a meadow to consummate their marriage!! Naturally, all the passengers come to watch-- thus, their "holier-than-thou" behaviour gives way to expose the primitive beings they really are.

Another delightful moment occurs when the roly-poly man falls from the bridge that has been weakened by drawing cannons, the other passengers are unable to find his body. They put his bowler hat on his knapsack as a place for him on the bus! When the busload later stops to have lunch by the river, the man is spotted floating in the current! Alas, he runs into more bad luck when the hunter shoots him in the rear end while trying to bag a rabbit.

Throughout the movie, the people's petty conflicts are compounded by an unseen entity that all of the characters must pledge allegiance to. The old bus owner continuously grumbles that he must follow regulations to the letter or get reported (he even forces the hunter to walk another 200 metres to be picked up at the next designated bus stop, instead of taking him in right then). The army is continuously affecting their route -one man mutters that the impending German takeover would be a good thing because "at least we would have some order over here".

Another amusing facet of this journey is always the symbol of money as power. "Following regulations", the older bus driver rechecks everyone at a certain point to make sure that they still have their ticket stubs. The old farmer won't let them cross his field without paying -the wizened old man's goliath sons start to let the air out of his tires until he does- and then in order to leaven the pressure from that deflated wheel everyone has to stay on one side of the bus. This is already after they have been herded to the front after the old man has blocked off the last row of seats to put in pigs ("I make more on one pig than on all of you."). The gypsy musicians are always being accused of theft- the dapper singer makes sure the old man's wallet doesn't fall out of his pocket before the gypsies lift it. However, the owner of the bus pays them to play music while he sells food and drink to the passengers, and even promises a bonus if he sells everything! And of course, in the final fateful conflict, once a man's wallet does disappear (it has actually fallen on the road), everyone beats up the gypsies who are accused of theft.

In this one day, we get to see the characters evolve. The foppish son of the bus driver becomes a "man" (he surprisingly shows pride for his son). The suave singer puts the moves on the lovely young bride and tries to convince her that her new husband is a waste of her life. And the hunter... well, he's just trying to get back on the bus.

In this microcosm, we see people squabble over money, race, religion and class. (That the gypsies are constant butts of their derogatory comments are ugly reminders of the acts of genocide in World War II, and Bosnia's ethnic cleansing in the 1990's.) However, all of that is shockingly silenced by a bomb. The violence towards the gypsies is slowed as the sound of offscreen planes gets louder. The invading forces are treated as some invisible force-- an evil one to be certain, but they almost seem biblical in a sense, because the passengers' insolent behaviour is rendered meaningless by a (literally) higher power.

Who's Singing Over There? is a very funny, quite surreal black comedy, yet also a harsh portrait of human cruelty. Although this is set in the early 20th century, this film nonetheless has a medieval quality about it-- if you take away the bus and the sound of planes, there is really very little that is modern. People still live off the land, and the road is merely two little brown lines. The look of this film also has an engagingly primitive aspect. Many times it gives the illusion of being shot merely with available light, further adding to its gritty feel.

With such an ambitious storyline, scenes of hilarity and pathos, and, during a time of (more) war, it is a moving portrait of ordinary citizens always living under the threat of combat. Nearly thirty years later, we still can't find Who's Singing Over There? under the "Foreign" section at the video store. This is a real shame. This may be one of the greatest films you will never see.

(Adapted from a review originally published in ESR #9)