From: Cold Bacon|
I get your point about the unknown pleasures of discovering new art (without the help of the mainstream). But the time for these things not being on DVD is over. Once I poison (I say poison because I can’t spell assassinate) Anthony Lane and take over at the New Yorker, the first thing I will do is shove a miniature mariachi band into David Denby’s mouth and then push him over a cliff. The days of not being wild are soon to be over. Let me assure you. My goal—as simple as any—to impose my taste at any and all cost. And how shall I do it? With humor. And if it doesn’t, I am definitely not averse to immolation, of others.
I (state your name) firmly believe that if a real film critic could take over at the New Yorker, a new era could emerge. Where there was Ang, there could be Wong. Where there was Ozun, there could be Ozu—retrospectives. Where there was Soderbergh (and Mendes), there could be two neat little piles of ashes. Where there was Michael Moore, there could be a giant vortex. I once wrote the guys at Criterion and asked if I could submit an essay to them. They said they didn’t take unsolicited essays. I forgive them.