Nobody's Perfect : The Reviews of Anthony Lane Esquire

by Anthony Lane

"Nobody's Perfect", the much anticipated collection from "The New Yorker" critic, brings together a generous selection of Lane's film criticisms, profiles, book reviews, and essays on art and culture. In the manner of Edmund Wilson and Kenneth Tynan, Lane embraces high and low with equal gusto, clearly having a marvelous time. Whether he's writing about T. S. Eliot or Judith Krantz, Alfred Hitchcock or Andre Gide, to read him-or better yet, to reread him - is to be carried along on a current of passionate declamation and urgent inquiry, wry reflection and penetrating wit. Taken together, these pieces reflect some of the most brilliant writing and thinking to have graced the pages of "The New Yorker", and they impart a cultural and artistic literacy of the highest order. This, Lane's first book, is an exhilarating volume for fans old and new.

Genres: Essays, Film, Nonfiction, Criticism, Humor, Writing, Books About Books

Hardcover

First published August 27, 2002

About the author

Anthony Lane has been a film critic for The New Yorker since 1993. Lane became the deputy literary editor of The Independent, in London, in 1989, and, a year later, a film critic for The Independent on Sunday.

In 2001, Lane’s reviews were awarded the National Magazine Award for Reviews and Criticism. His writings for The New Yorker are collected in the book “Nobody’s Perfect.”

Lane lives in Cambridge, England.

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/bio... lane

Reviews

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have no idea how goodreads orders the list of reviews for any given book and, in general, I don't really care. That said, I found it striking that the review that makes the top of the list for "Nobody's Perfect" corresponded to one of only two 1-star ratings for the book. It's a petulant "review" -- a little package of sputtering invective wrapped around "brian's" dissatisfaction that Anthony Lane is not Pauline Kael. In the ensuing comment thread, the most common charges against Lane are that (i) he is not a *real* film critic, (ii) he is whipsmart and astonishingly articulate, and (iii) that he knows that he's smart and makes no apologies. The best way to understand just how flimsy these charges are is simply to read Lane's critical pieces and form your own judgement.

My criteria for what's necessary to be a film critic are not particularly rigid. Furthermore, intelligence and fluid writing seem like qualities we should welcome in a critic, so I think the general charges against Lane have little merit. I enjoyed the film reviews included in this collection, and I continue to enjoy Lane's reviews in "The New Yorker". And yes, he is particularly adept at elegant, hilariously funny, demolition jobs. Why should that be a bad thing? Fact is, those turkeys are out there begging for it, so if the demolition must be done, let it be done entertainingly.

There are also the profiles and essays about books, which are so awesome they require some acknowledgement.

to be continued..

[Dave-O · Rating 3 out of 5]

When I can, I read an essay of Anthony Lane's out of this book before going to bed. I have to admit that when I pick up the New Yorker, I flip to the back to see if he's written the week's movie review (No offense, David Denby). His writing style is smooth, like a good drink. If he has a bone to pick with a certain director, actor or other figure he can be scathing and ruthless. On the other hand when he something moves him artistically he is sincere about his feelings. While he is intelligent about art, film, and generally everything it seems, his reviews are never stale because he is clever enough to weave so much through them: a difficulty for any columnist.

[Charles · Rating 4 out of 5]

This a great before bedtime read. Life to busy to focus in on a novel? Pick one or two reviews a night and be satifisfied. New Yorker reviewer weighs in on 90's movies and personalities you thought you never cared about.

[Liam Ostermann · Rating 3 out of 5]

The problem with this book is that while Anthony Lane is an excellent writer and has many interesting and insightful things to say who wants to read nearly 400 pages of film reviews, even good ones, from the 1990's? Being devastatingly clever or funny about films like 'Con Air' or 'Showgirls' is great but who is going to laugh now. The book has the almost antique, before the deluge quality, of memoirs written before a great revolution. Not quite Saint Simon on the court of Versailles but it was the final pre-internet, pre-social media, pre-downloads, pre-everything - people could only go to the cinema to watch movies. Those hysterical Leonardo di Caprio fans went dozens of times to watch him free Rose by drowning on the Titanic. Who now remembers diCaprio as such a skinny little pretty boy looking like a victim of child molestation when having sex with Kate Winslet? Well no one really, diCaprio is now fifty and a host of pretty boy actors and musicians have come and gone since then. At least diCaprio has allowed himself to grow up, something Nicholas Cage might think of trying, how long does he think he can go on playing someone in their thirties?

Anthony Lane writes about more than movies, he also writes articles about books and authors and does profiles of people, places and events, many of them film related well over half the books 750 odd pages. They are a particular type of New Yorker writing but, like almost all journalism, it dates if only because its subject matter ceases to be newsworthy. Karaoke Sound of Music evenings are not currently filling theatres, not even the Rocky Horror Show can do that any more. Mr. Lane's views on Cyril Connolly and Evelyn Waugh are intelligent but hardly of any depth or insight. The New Yorker encourages a great deal of clever superficial literary pyrotechnics, plenty cross cultural references and little mote justs, just in case anyone reads the articles rather then skimming them while enjoying the advertisements and cartoons.

I have given it three stars because I can't say that anything in it is bad, I can't even claim to have read every page, who would? I didn't see Sleepless in Seattle or Speed when they came or subsequently so I'm not going to read a review now. I have reached an age when I can admit to myself that I will die without knowing the work of Jan Svankmajer not because it isn't any good but because life is to short and there is to much else to do know and see. As for reading a twenty year old profile of Karl Lagerfeld? Before he became skinny and wore those silly collars and died leaving a mystery about who inherits his fortune? Why bother? and that is my response to most of this book. Plus the final question of what do I do with this doorstep of a book? Is it fair to unload onto a charity shop? Is it right to just throw it away. It is after all just a compilation of magazine articles. You throw the magazines away - why not in published form? I don't know what to do with it but I know I won't be reading it again.

[brian · Rating 1 out of 5]

this smarmy jackass writes as if he considers himself a wit equal to that of waugh or wodehouse. piss off you unfunny waughnabe. unfortunate that he holds the job that pauline kael once held. she could be infuriating, stubborn, and wrong but man oh man did she love movies. and laid her ass on the line in defense (or offense) of one. lane doesn't put his shit out there.

[Robert Bagnall · Rating 5 out of 5]

Film guru Mark Kermode has a rule that a good documentary should engage you even when the subject matter isn’t something you naturally have any interest in. Anthony Lane passes that test with aplomb, as well as wit, intelligence, and erudition, even on profiles of mid-20th century photographers, or films you never saw on first release and never will. Which makes the pieces on films, books, and people you do love an absolute joy.

[Anita · Rating 4 out of 5]

Absolutely delightful writing; his movie reviews are insightful and charming, but his profiles of people/places/things are also surprisingly enjoyable. He gets a little too self-satisfied at times for my taste (as in: his pleasure at being backstage at a fashion show, getting to see Claudia Schiffer in the nude) but for the most part this was a very entertaining read.

[Daniel Hiland · Rating 4 out of 5]

Anthony Lane's New Yorker article (a few years ago) about his uncle's PG Wodehouse collection introduced me to Plum's wonderful corpus of literature. I owe the man something in return; hence this review. I haven't read a more entertaining anthology in a long time. Nobody's Perfect is a nice cross-section of AL at his best: biting, well-informed, acerbic, and humorous. Though they differ wildly in political ideology, Mr. Lane reminds me of P. J. O'Rourke, with his take-no-prisoners style. Though I'll never agree with AL's bitter assessment of The Sound of Music, most of his other reviews are spot on. Highly recommended for those seeking a critic with a difference.

[robert · Rating 2 out of 5]

I picked this up thinking it was about movies since I am a movie aficionado. I didn't care much for the book reviews or profiles. In fact, I skipped many reviews and just bounced around. Lane could be humorous and witty. But this tome is just way too much to absorb straight. One must take lots of breaks to survive the exhausting reviews. I enjoyed the reviews of movies I had seen. But even those were way too deep for a simple movie. Way overwritten IMHO. As for his many obscure reviews of movies? Rather uninspiring. I must admit that a tiny few reviews actually inspired me to revisit a movie or actually see a new one. Lane did come across a bit as being a bit too full of himself.

[Nick Spacek · Rating 4 out of 5]

bone-dry wit, clever observations, and an unending list of movies to watch and books to read. i keep thinking that, maybe, i'll end up passing this along to someone else, but keep finding new things to appreciate in lane's writings. plus, i found it for a dollar at some library book sale, and replacing it would cost me money down the road.

[Jessica Robinson · Rating 3 out of 5]

I liked the sections on books and the vaguely titled profiles more than the film reviews, which surprised me. The reviews weren’t bad or anything but the author seemed to be enjoying himself more when he was talking about books or when he was shooting the shit about directors. Maybe I’m just more critical towards film criticism than towards literary criticism.

[Gail · Rating 4 out of 5]

For the longest time, this was my go-to book if I just had a little time to read. It is mostly (and most enjoyably) movie reviews, with an addition of some other essays. I found them witty and insightful and they often made me go back and re-watch a movie or discover a new one.

[Lia Marcoux · Rating 3 out of 5]

Literate and vinegary. I enjoyed the reviews more when I had seen the movie or had a pretty good awareness of it, so most of the highbrow stuff left me a bit cold, but he was obviously passionate about his subject.

[Christopher Walker · Rating 5 out of 5]

Anthony Lane's criticism encompasses film, literature, and photography; his essays are the perfect combination of erudition and wit, and represent precisely what you might expect from an Englishman at the New Yorker.

[Jan · Rating 4 out of 5]

No one can hold a candle to Anthony Lane. Thoroughly enjoyed this collection of movie and literary criticism from the 1990s.

[Gordon Howard · Rating 3 out of 5]

More than just film reviews. With books like this one root can read the interesting short chapters and skip the others.

[A · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hilarious. Some lines (and entire chapters) are spit-take funny.

[Andrew · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm a book savorer. Like, when I like a book, and I like the writing, I like to read it slow, in morsels. And even though this is ostensibly a book of criticism, which is ostensibly "secondary" literature, there is much to savor here. And so easy to do so, as the film reviews are only a couple pages at most, and the essays don't meander much past 12 pages.

So I read this book over the course of a little more than 2 years, and loved it all. The real difference between Lane's criticism and other contemporary purveyors of such goods is that Lane's tone exudes pleasure in both the act of writing and the act of viewing/ reading/ whatever. And if the object being experienced by Lane doesn't offer enough pleasure, or doesn't contain enough humor or bite or intelligence or sensuality, his writing about its lack of those things will.

His power of perception mixes with his ability to feel and he has the rare talent to turn his sensitivity to both acts into communicable thoughts.

And what's even more rare and marvelous is that his sentences take on a true life of their own. If you know people who genuinely doubt that critics can be artists, Lane should be exhibit 1 to the contrary. Here is what he writes about Showgirls:

"The movie's big discovery is lap-dancing , an erotic pastime that it presents as something of a revelation but which it looked to me as if it had been going on , more or less unchanged for the last 3000 years. To lap-dance, you undress, sit your client down, order him to stay still and fully clothed, then hover over him, making a motion that you have perfected by watching Mister Softee ice cream dispensers..."You fuck em without fucking em" as James delicately puts it. If Verhoeven were really bold, he would have used that line on the poster. Showgirls is not about sex at all; it is about the business of sex, which is a different matter."

And his review continues from there. The greatness of his writing is that he establishes himself as someone whose perspective you trust, because he doesn't come across like a brat or an elitist and defender of hoi polloi: he comes across as someone who likes to read and watch movies and have sex and live and eat etc. And that attitude is important, because it is so rare in the world of criticism. And it makes Lane's insights that much more palpable, earnest and thoughtful. Here's a couple I'm not going to tie to the movie or writer or whatever they refer to, so you can see range and put into context when/ if you read the work:

Self-pity is just vanity with a poker face, and it kills any writer long before suicide gets there.

Yes, my character is larger than life, but that is your fault for finding life too small.

He prefers to slob around, doing good in the way that other people get drunk.

I began to sense that somewhere, wrapped up inside his generosity and eagerness, is a tiny sliver of boredom. it is not inertia; it is the boredom of Wilde and Huysmans, the boredom of the man who is cleverer than the people around him, who has to keep his mind fresh with a flux of ever more startling sensations, and who knows that what he does with his life is at once thrilling and void.

The wittiest shot in the film comes after a brawl around a fountain, when the characters depart and a little dog patters and splashes into view. The composition is born of comic instinct - that is, of the need to hang back and wait for life to resume its normal service once the abstract tumult has passed on. Comedy, like happiness, is a long shot.

Evil, like sugar, is best left unrefined.

The imminent prospect of losing one's life is, among other things, a matchless education in the art of treating it lightly.

He saw evil in the prospect of labor without pleasure

It is in seasons of peace, of course, that perplexity comes into full bloom.

The great love of a life may be a long falling out of love.

Vagueness is the enemy of nonsense.

The book is over 700 pages, and it only collects things published before 2002. We are long overdue for another collection of his writings, but this one reanimates all the pleasures of living and thinking and fucking and loving, so it'll do for now.

[Heather · Rating 5 out of 5]

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, people made movies with people in them, and some of those movies made sense. Then something happened, and the people started to vanish from the movies, along with most of the sense."

Thus begins Anthony Lane's review of The Phantom Menace. He goes on to note:
"It is, of course, profoundly gratifying that The Phantom Menace should emerge as a work of almost unrelieved awfulness. It means, for one thing, that the laugh is on all those dweebs who have spent the last month camped out on the sidewalks beside movie theatres, waiting for the big day...For the first ten minutes you think, What the hell is going on?, and two hours later you want to cry out, 'Is that it?'"

Nobody's Perfect cemented a place on my bookshelf nearly ten years ago, shortly after I subscribed to The New Yorker and discovered the gigglefest that awaited me in Anthony Lane's reviews. In fact, it was common practice at my workplace to read his reviews aloud, excerpted or whole, to bring relief to our otherwise tedious and frustrating day. And to this day if I need an erudite larf, I can count on pulling out this tome and flipping to nearly any page.

It is important for a newbie to note that readers of The New Yorker generally fall into being a vehement fan of Anthony Lane, or a naysayer of Lane and ardent fan of David Denby. And this reader is no exception! While Denby's work is arguably more nuanced, his reviews also tend to be horribly boring. If I'm still awake by the end, I feel like I've eaten a serving of particleboard wrapped in electrical tape. Blech.

It's tempting to spoil the whole book by serving up zinger after delicious zinger. There are so many laugh-a-minute reviews: Indecent Proposal, Poetic Justice ("The main character is named Justice, and she writes poetry. Get it?"), The Mummy, Charlie's Angels. Instead though, I will share just a couple more excerpts from Lane's review of that sexy, schmaltzy classic, Showgirls. First, Lane educates his readers on the art of lap dancing:
"To lap-dance, you undress, sit your client down, order him to stay still and fully clothed, then hover over him, making a motion that you have perfected by watching Mister Softee ice cream dispensers."
And finally, highlighting an actor showcasing his craft:
"Zack is played by Kyle MacLachlan, a real actor, who, for the purposes of this movie, graciously sinks to the level of the other performers. Still, I got the feeling that he was trying to hide behind his long, curving forelock in the unactorly hope that he might not be recognized. But that's him alright—buck naked in the swimming pool with Nomi, sipping champagne beneath the quietly tasteful dolphin-shaped fountains."

Anthony Lane, I love you so hard.

[Nancy Loe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Anthony Lane is scathingly funny and an excellent reviewer and not just because I usually agree with him. This compilation of his New Yorker film reviews and some other essays (the one about reading the New York Times bestsellers is great) is a keeper. My absolute favorite is his account of a Rocky Horror-style sing-along Sound of Music he attended in London. "There were...a load of people who looked like giant parcels. I didn't get it. 'Who are they?' I said to the nun who was having a quick cigarette before the movie. She looked at me with celestial pity and blew smoke. "Brown Paper Packages Tied Up with Strings." I am relieved, on the whole, that I missed the rugby team who piled into one screening as Girls in White Dress with Blue Satin Sashes; on the other hand, it is a source of infinite sadness to me that I wasn't at the Prince Charles [Theater] when a guy turned up in a skintight allover body costume in bright yellow...he explained he was Ray, a Drop of Golden Sun." That's Anthony Lane and offering a good friend's highest praise, I'll say I'd do him in front of my grandmother.

[Rachel C. · Rating 4 out of 5]

PA, that Anthony Lane is your movie reviewer while Roger Ebert (obliquely disparaged by Lane himself in his introduction) is mine says a lot about the two of us. Check out a few of Ebert's reviews online - or better yet, one of his books - and you'll see what I mean.

Anthony Lane is snarky, hilarious and one of the most creative insulters I've ever encountered - Elizabeth Berkley, for example, probably cries herself to sleep every night. Lane is the guy you want to be laughing with in a corner at a dull office party.

As is true for all types of reviews, it's more fun to read his opinions of the disasters (like Con Air and Indecent Proposal) than the triumphs. He's a hard man to please, cinematically speaking, and it's also very satisfying when he ridicules critically acclaimed movies that I hated (like Braveheart).

His review of The English Patient, however, is dead on. If I may be so cheeky as to insert a movie review inside a book review, I'll say that it's undoubtedly Anthony Minghella's magnum opus. I don't think any movie in the 12 years since can match its epic and haunting love story.

[Danielle DeTiberus · Rating 5 out of 5]

Anthony Lane, where have you been all my life!?! (Thanks, Emily!) Let's just put it this way: his review of "Indecent Proposal" made me actually go out and rent the "film" for the first time. And yes, Woody Harrelson in a shaggy wig pretending to be a high-school student IS "one of those preposterously, sublimely wrong moments that make you glad to be a moviegoer." And then there's this gem from his review of "Contact:" "She does get laid in the film, but only by Matthew McConaughey, and that doesn't count. It certainly has very little effect; he plays a thinker and author named Palmer Joss....I suspect that one of Ellie's reasons for wanting to reach out to creatures other than us is that, whatever happens, it can only be more fun than a one-night stand with Palmer Joss." Zing. His critical vantage point has me chuckling at the very fact that, in 1997, someone actually hired McConaughey to play a theologian. And, although I was only seventeen, I wince when I recall very much digging old Palmer's "insights" and flowing locks. Furthermore, see his review of "Showgirls," his profile of both "Cookbooks" and "Julia Roberts," and his musings on "Obituaries."

[Kevin Simons]

I like Anthony Lane's writing. It is clear and he is often funny. He is also such an accomplished culture vulture that I feel like an absolute rube reading him sometimes. Yes, I like movies, but I don't live for them or yearn to analyze them. I've seen movies by Eisentstein, Kubrick, Buñuel, Hitchcock, Wilder, Da Sica, and even the Farrelly brothers, but I don't really understand it all. I can't lavish that much energy or mental power–I lack that level of mental power–to see where Orson Welles borrowed from Dorothea Lange or how Julia Roberts's smile is the zenith of late 20th Century American Something Obvious to Us Eggheads or how ... What was I going on about? As I said, just not that smart.

It took me nearly four years to read because it is best in small doses. He's funny, he's a good writer, he's smart, and I do like movies, but it gets a little tiresome after a while.

[John Jackson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Anthony Lane is a marvel. More astonishingly literate, funny, and perspicacious in one paragraph of a movie review than other critics can hope to be in a career. Let alone his always being right -- putting words to (at least) my own thoughts on the movies I see. But it is the accretive effect of the movie reviews taken in sequence in the book, the book reviews that follow, and then finally the profiles that really blows the hair back. His essay on the joys of reading cookbooks -- not working from them, but simply reading them -- gives us a picture of what literacy as a whole can offer and what Lane is supremely gifted at distilling -- the minuteness of experience.

[Laura · Rating 4 out of 5]

While you might not always agree with Lane's reviews (I admit that his opinions and mine are quite congruent), his writing is pure New York -- trenchant, pungent, and very often bitchy (while it's too recent to be included in this collection, see if you can get your hands on his review of Revenge of the Sith). This book collects not only a Lane's writing on film, but also his writing on more general topics. His evaluation of the New York Times fiction best-seller list is as opinionated as his film reviews, and while I think he wildly over-praises The Alienist, it's fun to see him dip his toe into literature.

[Adam · Rating 4 out of 5]

I keep wanting to write "Anthony Lane is the best kind of film critic..." but I don't really know if that's right. Jonathan Rosenbaum referred to Lane as a stand-up comic. Forgetting that this is supposed to be an insult, I think I know what's irking Rosenbaum. Reading Lane isn't necessarily going to enliven a film for you, he's not the deepest of critics, and he doesn't wear his smarts on his sleeve. I don't think his aim is to dig into a film and raise your appreciation of it -- at least, not usually -- he's writing light, entertaining essays. I *think* I want a film critic to raise my appreciation of something ... but I choose to read Lane much more often than Rosenbaum.

[Billy · Rating 5 out of 5]

The movie reviews are the best, of course -- bursts of snarky erudition, which dismantle the ridiculousness of so many films yet all the while manage to avoid being ill-tempered or condescending. The review of "Indecent Proposal" is very funny.

For some reason, his New Yorker reviews now are all about movies that he actually likes, which is helpful if you share his taste, but not if what you've really got an appetite for is the light-touched disdain. Thankfully, there's a heaping dose of that in here. If Anthony Lane had a Satan, it would be James Lipton.

[Vicki · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are two people's film reviews who I love and consult and trust (so far -- I'm not a snob about movies by any means). One is Roger Ebert and the other is Anthony Lane. They're both very witty and intelligent writers, and more often than not, their reviews are actually essays. Especially with Lane. He's sharp and has a really good context for anything connected to any movie he's writing about. To me that's what sends it over the top.

[Mary Beth · Rating 4 out of 5]

As a critic, Lane isn't the most reliable: one gets the sense that he's often more interested in writing an entertaining essay than in seriously reviewing the film in question, but that, of course, is why he's such an entertaining essayist. Sharp-tongued and perfectly droll, Lane extravagantly lacerates those works he looks down on, and when he is impressed, he demonstrates that he's actually capable of great insights.

[Tony · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love Anthony Lane's work in the New Yorker. This book is just a continuation of that body of excellence. Lane demonstrates a great feeling for the history of film. He's a reviewer who can use his cutting tongue to praise a film as well as strafe it.

What comes through in this book is the feeling that he likes going to the movies. A critic who likes his milieu. What are the odds of that?