The shibumi critic

There's this Japanese concept called shibumi, which Will Boehlke of A Suitable Wardrobe describes as a kind of quality sans flashiness. In his wheelhouse, displaying shibumi is "the best way to stand out": you do it by wearing clothes "that the eye passes over, only to return in appreciation." This concept applies well beyond men's fashion; I now find myself looking for the shibumi, the ostensibly unremarkable but subtly impressive, everywhere in life.

Peter Brunette was a shibumi sort of Marketplace of Ideas guest. I had him on the program in April to discuss the cinema of Michael Haneke, and he displayed the sort of strong grasp of craft and context a true film scholar should, not to mention the consummate lecturer's voice. The conversation's lack of unusual jags or shocking revelations perhaps caused your ear to pass over it, but did it not return in appreciation?

As anyone in film circles now knows, last Wednesday Brunette died suddenly at the Taormina Film Fest. The outpouring in response has been immense, coming from fellow critics, academic colleagues, students current and former, filmmakers, you name it. I've been seriously impressed; I suspected he was a pretty cool fellow from our interview, but he seems to have been so much more than that to so many. "My whole life is art films and foreign films and documentaries," he said to me. Calling it a life at a film festival has thus brought many of his remembers to remark that, hey, at least he went doing what he loved. But the more I happen to read about him, the more it seems to the point not that he died doing what he loved but that he lived doing it, which is maybe even rarer.

Here's a bit of Gerald Peary's memorial for the man in indieWIRE:

He was at every film festival on earth, or so it seemed: boisterous, gregarious, with that deep, booming voice, and spreading his extraordinary warmth. Who of you out there in critic-land have not shared a tasty dinner, or downed a brewski, somewhere on the globe with Peter Brunette? Who had not stuck with him, long into the festival night, when Peter—his term—would get properly “shitfaced”? Unusual in our stiff-in-our-body, I’d-rather-hide-in-the-dark profession, Peter was that weirdo film critic who really liked to have fun.

[ ... ]

“OK, I’ve got this festival figured out,” he would anounce on a first afternoon at Toronto, Cannes, anywhere, as he laid out a complicated game plan about how he would somehow get through the next days. His apprehensions started with a formidable lineup of films he’d been assigned to review for indieWIRE, or Screen International, or, in recent times, The Hollywood Reporter. Or there would be interviews he’d agreed on with negligible filmmakers because (That was Peter!) the female publicists representing them were twenty-something and damned cute.

[ ... ]

Partying away the night, Peter in the day was an unstoppable, Type-A workaholic. Also, and he agreed with my analysis, he had a Clintonian thirst to be noticed and liked. So the film reviews—and they were smart and good ones—spilled out at every festival. The publicists adored him (well, that hour) for writing about their clients. Byline: Peter Brunette.

We give lip service to living deeply, to not being one of Auntie Mame's poor suckers starving to death at life's buffet, but I find real examples strangely scant. Here is a man whose mourners have drawn an emergent portrait of as a true bon vivant, a genuine — read that adjective again, for I do not choose it lightly — lover of film, literature, travel, languages, wine, friends and "twenty-something and damned cute" publicists. In other words, a man who, even in death, probably has some lessons to teach a schlub like yours truly. Save not getting 30 more years or so, I would be surprised if Peter Brunette died with regrets.

My students go crazy because I can never remember how movies end. They say, “What happens at the end?” I say, “Gee, I can’t remember.” “What?” They’re astonished, because for them, the intrigue of the plot is most important, whereas for me, it’s striking moments, ideas that are used and played with. I rarely pay attention to plot. I know that makes me a little weird, makes my students laugh at me, but it’s just the way it is.

Comments

[Jonathan M]

Actually Colin, I'd say that the Haneke episode was among your best. Made me want to re-watch all of his films and write about them with fresh eyes. A fitting tribute to a talented critic.

[coach suitcase]

Henceforth will we shed only tears of sweat, for those of sadness or remorse or frustration are of no value in the market place whilst each smile can be exchanged for gold and each kind word, spoken from my heart, can build a castle.

[coach suitcase]

Henceforth will we shed only tears of sweat, for those of sadness or remorse or frustration are of no value in the market place whilst each smile can be exchanged for gold and each kind word, spoken from my heart, can build a castle.

[New Balance Sneakers]

What language is thine, O sea?
The language of eternal question.
What language is thy answer, O sky?
The language of eternal silence.
Do you like it?

[cheap cigarettes]

We give lip service to living deeply, to not being one of Auntie Mame's poor suckers starving to death at life's buffet, but I find real examples strangely scant.