I can think of few filmmakers living today honoured with veteran status; like relics of an ancient civilisation, of monuments made from celluloid, new studio practices, and experimentalism. Martin Scorsese is surely one of those iconic, untouchable figures – somewhere between childlike film critic and craftsman, still working and still commenting on cinema with a deep-seated passion. Undoubtedly, Scorsese has achieved the status of his ‘mentors’, like John Cassavetes, Luchino Visconti, and Federico Fellini, whom he has spoken eloquently about in interviews and documentaries. When Scorsese writes about cinema, it’s with an accessible, joyous language, framed through an unmistakably cinematic eye. He feels things we all feel but can’t put into words – the sensations of watching a film for the first time or the ritualism of cinema-going.
However, Scorsese’s love for cinema has compelled him to make fiery statements, like comparing Marvel films to theme park rides and criticising streaming platforms. In his recent essay for Harper’s Magazine about Fellini, Scorsese criticised overloaded ‘content’ on the major streaming platforms and ‘devaluing cinema’, rather than careful ‘curation’ – an observation certainly validated by evidence of personalised algorithms used by Netflix and other sites. Scorsese’s worry is that algorithms will stop discoveries of great cinema, showing us content we’re algorithmically likely to enjoy. Scorsese’s essay, however, comes across as unaware and a little naïve, projecting his own personal version of cinema onto wider audiences, homogenising the spectator as an arthouse-foreign-film-lover like himself (and indeed myself). Scorsese acknowledges this touch of elitism, but it is nonetheless telling of an authoritative hypocrisy that feels condescending and blinkered.
Scorsese’s ‘safe’ conventionalism contradicts his daring rebelliousness. From urban, experimental, exploitation Campness in his low-budget short films in the 1960s, to crowd-pleasing mob flicks, to the cocaine-riddled chauvinistic capitalism of The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), Scorsese has become a mainstream, ‘reliable’ filmmaker, supported by big studios, including Netflix. Scorsese is a household name, perhaps introduced to people my age as an animated pufferfish. Mainstream cinemagoers look forward to the next Scorsese film, maybe not the next Agnès Varda film (when she was alive), or Alejandro Jodorowsky or Jean-Luc Godard film – living members of Scorsese’s generation. Despite his early experimentalism, Scorsese’s films are deeply embedded in Hollywood cinema, and therefore hegemonic and ‘universal’.
For Harper’s, Scorsese celebrates Fellini’s innovation and iconic status, and even his personal encounters with him. He nostalgically describes cinemagoing in the 1960s and 70s, seeing Alain Resnais’ and Ingmar Bergman’s films. However, I firmly believe the typical cinemagoer then wasn’t marking days off the calendar for the next Resnais or Bergman film. Instead, the majority awaited the next musical, James Bond instalment, or later, blockbusters, which took them out of their TV-facing armchairs at home and into cinema seats. Behind rose-tinted glasses, Scorsese certainly knows this but seems to suggest that film-viewing has worsened because of streaming platforms. My feeling is that Scorsese is caught awkwardly between mainstream appeal and passion for the arthouse, which emerges when praises the likes of Fellini and criticises Marvel films or streaming, from which Scorsese has ironically benefitted with Netflix exhibiting The Irishman (2019) and his sublime documentaries with Fran Lebowitz. I personally see no appeal in Marvel films, but I can accept that they are entertaining blockbusters, like those of Scorsese’s peers in the 1970s and 80s. His ‘cranky old man’ act in this essay is unfortunately hypocritical, and it feels sacrilegious to say so. But cinema has faced drastic changes since its conception over a century ago, and streaming is just one of them.
The pandemic exacerbates a feeling that cinema is dead, but there’s no need to be nostalgic for a great cinematic ‘past’ – a once-was. Like the young Scorsese, I was lucky to find Bergman’s, Visconti’s, and Fellini’s films, and others will too. When a sense of normality returns, the cinemas will reopen, and cinema-lovers will go in droves. Acclaim for arthouse, queer, independent, and non-English-language films like The Lighthouse (Robert Eggers, 2019), Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Céline Sciamma, 2019), and Parasite (Bong Joon Ho, 2019) was proof of the thriving adoration for new cinema before the pandemic. And this will continue.
Scorsese rightfully praises Mubi, the Criterion Channel, and Turner Classic Movies for their carefully curated film slots. For cinephiles, these are well-known portals of discovery. I personally discovered Joseph Losey’s filmography on Mubi, and so I agree that curations are eye-opening. However, cinephilic curations are not for everyone, just as reading Sight & Sound isn’t. Those who seek arthouse cinema will find it. Those who use Netflix may discover classics despite the algorithm, such as Scorsese’s own Mean Streets (1973), which he kindly offered to the studio. And, to put it crudely, those who watch Marvel films may feel the same level of joy as Scorsese does watching Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960).
