The Effects of Karl Lagerfeld on the Soul of Paul Mathers

I almost never write about movies we've watched.  I do tend toward movies that inspire or provoke or have great ideas.  While I do try to use the blog to interact with the higher aspirations of humankind, it's really just that I don't want to have the sort of blog where I talk about movies.  I am breaking that self-imposed rule here for the sake of something Laurie and I watched which has been like a splinter under my fingernail.  The film was Lagerfeld Confidential.

I try not to place too many of my eggs in the "heroes" basket and, aside from Stephen Fry, I am hard pressed to think of many living people who would qualify for that distinction in my own mind.  However, I do have a great deal of people of interest in my life and, as people who know me well know well, Karl Lagerfeld is one of those people.  For those of you who don't know, Mr. Lagerfeld is the Creative Director of Chanel, Fendi, and his own lines.  He is also an extraordinarily accomplished photographer.  He is a highly intelligent man, a bit of a Classicist himself with a fluency in Greek and Latin (and German and French and English and Italian.)  He has one of the famous and coveted personal libraries in the world.

One thing I do not wish to do here is to pass judgment on Mr. Lagerfeld's life based on a 90 minute movie nor, more to the point, on my emotional reactions to that 90 minute movie.  I felt a magnificent loneliness in the film, and I felt as if it were by the design of the documentary filmmaker.  It seemed to me that the interview segments interspersed with the action of the film were full of questions that attempted to lead  Lagerfeld to comment on his loneliness.  There were questions about his mother, his love life, his intense work ethic, the frivolity of the world in which he works, the distance of friends, his ability to break long-term ties, all of which Lagerfeld explains away as to why he is not lonely.  However, the evidence seems to mount to us, the viewers, as the many variations on the question are asked.

Along with that, the footage that was chosen from a long period of following the man often seems to back up that thesis.  In one scene Lagerfeld is shown affectionately patting a colleague's hand.  The lady comments on how it hurts when he does that because of all of the rings he wears.  In another scene Lagerfeld sits in a villa courtyard surrounded by bags of books that he has purchased on a trip.  In the background there are people milling about.  Lagerfeld, one of the most iconic figures on the planet, is framed in such a way so as to amplify that he is sitting alone with his bags of stuff.  On the streets he is stopped on a walk every few steps by someone wanting to have their photograph taken with him.  He graciously obliges and, after the photos, the people walk away looking at the picture on their cameras.  Getting a collection together, he is filmed walking up the famous Chanel mirrored staircase alone, stepping on sketches to do so.

At the end of the film, I found I felt like I knew less about Karl Lagerfeld than when I started.  I caught myself wondering what Christmas is like for Mr. Lagerfeld or what it's like when Mr. Lagerfeld has a head cold.  But there is also an appropriate armor to the whole experience.  I am not to know those things, nor should I really.  I almost felt as if the point of the movie was to show me that I should enjoy the work of the artists I enjoy and leave off trying to know anything about people I will never get to know.  I think there is a good lesson there.  We know next to nothing about Shakespeare's life, yet his work is universal and we can all still enjoy it 500 years later.  Why shouldn't that be true for contemporaries as well?  Why should we always be so concerned over who made a thing? 

Lagerfeld seems to have sort of an Epicurean Stoicism of a practical philosophy, with a dash of Existentialism.  He is not a man of faith, nor a man to whom faith seems to hold any attraction.  He speaks of his mother's constant frivolity along with Germanic arms' length, and I certainly saw the apple on the ground right next to that tree.  His is a life of constant work and he has built an empire in which he is able to 1) create the art that he wants to create, 2) surround himself with the beauty he wants to surround himself with, and 3) allow himself as much time alone as he wants.  He is constantly moving forward, chasing the dragon as it were, never looking back.  There's almost a bit of the heavenly in that sort of forgetting, the sort of thing, I know from experience, I was looking for, and to some extent finding, in alcoholism.  That sounds way more condemning than I mean it to sound.  What I mean to say is that I feel like I totally understand the impulse to constantly look forward and forget what lays behind.  Of course, his version is a lot more healthy as it is an active version: a constantly mutating vision.  But I was rattled by how much I understood this part of it viscerally.

All of which I find compelling, and all of which mirrors some of my own more earthly desires.  I think if I were not a man of faith, Mr. Lagerfeld's view would be about as good as it gets.  Still, after the movie, Laurie was, I think, even more disturbed than I was by it.  In talking with her about it, I mentioned that there is a figure in Christian theology who is known to have Beauty removed from Love.  Again, I do not wish to pass any sort of judgment here.  Aside from the trappings of the persona, I don't feel there's anything particularly Mephistophelean about Mr. Lagerfeld, at least no more so than any other figure in the fashion industry.  He is, after all, just another human trying to live his life.  I sincerely hope that he is very happy as he has brought a lot of beauty into this world.  I admire his work tremendously.  However, I find myself a little unnerved by what this suggests to me about beauty in and of itself.  I am inclined toward the pat little axiom of Keats about how Truth is beauty and beauty truth.  I am inclined, like Wilde, to advocate a sort of inherent goodness in beauty, a reflection of the divine delight in the aesthetically pleasing.  But after watching this film, it makes me question a bit about what is a "good life."  I think the answer is more of a question of balance.  Even in the Platonic understanding, beauty is not one of the cardinal virtues.  I do think that there is a goodness to beauty, however I feel that it is entirely limited to beauty.  We foolish creatures always want to extend that value to other aspects, but it just is not so.  Take it from a homely man.

Mr. Lagerfeld, especially in response to the sections regarding his mother, eschews analysis.  In that sense we are almost the polar opposite.  I believe in a life well examined.  I am a passionate enthusiast of Freud and Jung.  I also know that we all are beings created through a mixture of circumstance and will.  We show what we choose to show and are fully capable of hiding what we choose to hide.  It doesn't make things disappear to hide them.  He says near the end of the film "I don't want to have reality in  anyone's life because I don't want it in mine."  I understand this completely and there is a level in which I can almost covet that kind of thinking.  Reality is unspeakably awful, but I can't be a ghost.  It's not enough for me.

 

On On The Road: The Movie!

So, I read on Google News that Hollywood (or, rather, a specific film company which apathy restrains me from looking up) is about to begin filming an adaptation of Jack Kerouac's book, On The Road.  There's the Fat Man bomb. The headline in which I received the news then dropped the Little Boy that the female lead in the film (yeah, I don't remember one in the book either) will be played by the girl from the Twilight movies.  That sound you hear is, in fact, the last shovelful of dirt on the grave of the Beat Generation.  That is, at least, until their work passes into the public domain long after all of us are dead and some wag feels the book would be improved if they added passages in which the protagonists travel the country fighting the undead.

I don't usually talk about film on this blog, mainly because I get tired of re-explaining Sturgeon's Law.  In this case I'm making an exception since the material is based on a work of literature and gives an opportunity to talk about a period of American literary history sparsely convered thus far on this blog. So, before we go any further, I should probably take a moment to talk about The Beat Generation. Then we can move on to the subject of film adaptations of books.

The Beat Generation was a literary movement in America starting in the late 1940s and extending... well, to various points depending on who you talk to.  I think it's safe to say it's long over now, arguably long over before I was born.  Much like The Lost Generation of the 1920s, there seems to be little unity in the styles, themes, forms and messages from the authors of the Beat Generation. They seem to be a movement revolving around some guys who comprised a circle of friends (although even that doesn't quite fit as there are people like Richard Brautigan or Charles Bukowski who are sometimes linked to the Beats even though they were never invited to the Beat parties.  And, parenthetically, both of whom I like far better than many of the card carrying Beats.)

The big three of the Beats were Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs.  Kerouac was a novelist, Ginsberg a poet and Burroughs a platypus or something.   I like Ginsberg and Burroughs quite a bit individually.  I think Ginsberg "did it right" early on in extending a reach back to the older poets while seeking to blaze a new trail.  I have no qualm with asserting that Howl is one of the greatest and most important pieces of writing in the English language of the last 100 years.  In spite of his really shabby third act of writing and his lifelong insistence of the greatness of Kerouac, I think Ginsberg was one of our better poets.

Burroughs' work in his day was like taking an iPod to neanderthals.  His experimentation was light years beyond anything that I'm even seeing today much less fifty years ago.  The better of the Beats and their forerunning of Transgressional writing was of great interest to me. Which, unfortunately is the aspect of the Beat era that I don't see in Kerouac's work.  Other than that, I don't know what you could say about the unifying element of the Beats.  Maybe that they were urban or experimental or modern or inspired by jazz, but even all of those don't quite fit in all of the peg holes.

When I was talking to Laurie about this, I think she hit it on the head when she said "Kerouac is like Pink Floyd to me."  I knew what she meant.  She meant that a lot of people get really really into it and think it's the greatest thing ever when they're about 16 years old, but then usually completely lose interest in it by the time they are about 22 or 23.  That's all well and good as I suppose Kerouac could be a gateway author into a habit with greater authors down the road.  I suppose I shouldn't knock that, but I have grave doubts that I'll ever read the man again.

I have a friend who is a literature professor who recently told me that the academic market in America is absolutely flooded with "experts" on the Beat Generation.  This didn't surprise me as there was a huge spike in their popularity in the 1990s, about the time the last of them were dying off.  I was no exception in the spike in interest in their writing at the time and now I sort of feel like I dodged a bullet.  Had I gone for my teaching credentials in the mindset I was in during the mid-1990s, I very well may have focused my expertise in that direction as well.  Although, like all great literature, the flooding of that market is not indicative of how widely they are read.  Some may be fixing to object to what I've just said, but stick with me for a moment here and I think you'll see what I mean.

In the 1950s and 1960s, the Beats were the counter-cultural figures in American literature. There was also a literary community of sorts of the young Establishment literary elite who included people like Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer and Truman Capote. I absolutely adore Capote's work. Vidal I could take or leave, and those who know me know how strongly I dislike Norman Mailer.  Capote famously responded when told that Kerouac wrote On The Road in only 2 weeks, "That's not writing. That's typing!"

I would add that these men are also not terribly widely read today. There are people from that generation of authors in America who are still widely read but who wouldn't have been invited to the parties of either group.  I speak of Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut.  There's probably a lesson there for writers.

I would say that if American Literature of that period were a college, the Beats would be the hipsters or art students, the Vidal group would be the frats, and Bradbury would be like the quiet, studious honors student whose name you didn't even know but who, years later, becomes a billionaire.

All in all, as with any time period, time weeds out the awful, and the enduring remains.  This is not to say that there aren't lost masterpieces by any means.  I think history has revealed that there are tons of lost or forgotten masterpieces.  What I am saying is that what is popular today doesn't necessarily indicate what will be read in 500, 100 or even 25 years from now.

I don't want to come down too hard on Kerouac.  I do like some of his work although it's mainly the less popular, darker pieces like Maggie Cassidy or Big Sur.  I've heard rumors about a film version of On The Road for years, but one has never happened until now.  I think there is a reason for that.  I don't think there's a movie in it because I don't think the story by itself is that captivating.  What's interesting about it is the words, not the visual story.  The visual story is a couple of unemployed young men travelling the country, listening to jazz and, I don't know, maybe talking here and there about this and that.  It is in Kerouac's exposition where he attempts to elevate the experiences to the celestial, the holy, the grand.  Whether or not he is successful in that endeavor and regardless of what I say about quality, his voice is what makes the book interesting.

Fans of Hunter S. Thompson's writing can explain to you the difference between the 1980s movie Where The Buffalo Roam, which was (very loosely) based on several of his works, and the 1990s adaptation of his magnum opus Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.  The former was a failure and the latter somewhat of an uneven success as a film.  That is because the former shows what Hunter Thompson is doing, which isn't nearly as interesting as showing what's going on inside of Hunter Thompson's head, which is what the latter attempted.

Which, in the end, is the problem with most film adaptations of books.  Put simply, the problem with a film adaptation is that it is not the book.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that no one should ever make a film adaptation of a work of literature.  I think there are fine adaptations out there of works of literature into film.  Hiroshima Mon Amor, Jules et Jim, Betty Blue, Satyricon, and, hey, if we're desiring our fallutin' to not be at quite such astonishing heights, I even liked the V for Vendetta adaptation.  I thought it cut in understandable places and reworked the material in an attempt to speak to the time and place of its release (Bush's America instead of Thatcher's England.)  And I'm sure there are many more exceptions, but still, there is a reason why "the book is so much better" has become a cliche in reference to film adaptations.

It's important for one to know why a work of literature is a work of literature.  If what makes the book great is the language of the storyteller, one might do well to avoid attempting to twist it into the medium of visual story telling.  It's the same reason we don't have Plato's Republic: The Musical.  Film is a visual story telling medium which would suggest having a story that is visually interesting.

Even better than examples of exceptions, there are films about authors which are excellent and serve to introduce new audiences to works. American Splendor springs to mind.  As does, staying on topic, Cronenberg's Naked Lunch, which wasn't an adaptation of the book so much as a collage of William Burroughs' life surrounding the period in which he wrote the book.  I have heard that the recent Allen Ginsberg biopic Howl was excellent. I thought that the recent film Capote was fantastic. It would seem to me that making films to inspire audiences to dig deeper into books would both bring in the fan base dollar as well as, look out, I'm going to go for the Newton Minnow sounding admonition, being a responsible film maker and respecting the original work.

I would also point out that there are many great, struggling LIVING authors who could use the money from a film adaptation of their book way more than a man 40 years in the grave. 

So, my whole point is that, like it or not, I don't think making On The Road into a film is a very good idea but, like it or not, they didn't ask me and they are going to make it anyway. Also, for those who know about Kerouac's life and his severe difficulty in coping with fame and the general public's misunderstanding of his work, the most honoring thing one could do for Kerouac, if one was so inclined, would be to make sure that none of one's money goes toward such a thing.

It would be unfair and irresponsible for me to say that this film adaptation will be awful. It may be the best film adaptation in the history of film for all I know. I am not a prophet. However, I think we can all sense patterns in the established data which indicate that 1) film adaptations of books tend to be uneven, probably less than 25% being worthwhile and 2) especially with books that do not lend themselves to visual story telling.  My thesis is that this book does not lend itself to visual story telling.

And, in the end, hearing a book I like is being adapted into a movie tends to elicit the same response as when I hear a song I like used as a commercial jingle. I know that the original work will outlast the parasitic offshoot. But it doesn't do much to soften the blow of watching something you love sacrificed on the altar of the god Millions of Dollars.

Short Cuts

I thought I would do a miscellaneous post as there are a few short items in our life worth mentioning.

- We took Agnes to the vet, which was something we'd been meaning to do for about 3 years now. Agnes was the stray who used to be fed by our neighbor who moved away and abandonded her. Several months ago, you'll remember, we brought her into our home, gave her worm medicine, tried to clean her ears, and generally gave her a happier, safer, warmer life than she'd probably ever had before. But her ears continued to bother her and she wheezes so we took her to the vet.
She had stuff (pus, earmites, etc.) in her ears so bad they had to put her under to clean it. Even then they couldn't completely clean her left ear. She has had a respiratory infection for probably about as long as we've known her. She's on antibiotics (the good news is that she seems to love the flavor of the medicine. That makes our job a lot easier.)
The most striking thing is that it's like having a new cat. In spite of the cost, there is no doubt in my mind that we did the right thing. She has such a visible sense of peace in her expression that she's never had before. She's not nearly as timid anymore and will come up seeking attention. She's playing. This afternoon she even jumped up in my lap for the first time completely unbidden (although not in the least unwelcome.)

- So, there was the noise of an evil, hell beast living underneath our bathtub. At night we would hear it clawing, breathing, sometimes growling. All of our pets were beside themselves when this noise would start up. So, we rented a trap. My assumption was that it was a possum and we would trap it and release it somewhere far from our home. But after almost 2 weeks, we only managed to trap our outdoor cats a few times. Finally we assumed it was a large rat and went to buy poison.
There's a panel in Tony's bedroom closet which opens on the plumbing of the bathroom which is the next room over from his. It's clear that his room and that bathroom were later add-ons. It's also clear that this place was a rental for decades and there wasn't a lot of love put into the place. Hence, there's a panel you can open and look at the pipes coming out of the bathtub.
We opened it to put the poison down there and found a big possum looking back at us. We closed the panel, freaked out for a few minutes, then called Animal Control. They told us 1) it's illegal to trap and relocate possums (in which case I don't really understand why the feed store even rents them, but that's not really any of my business I guess) and 2) we would have to call the county trapper (yes, that is a real job that someone holds) and the trapper would, for a fee, come and kill the possum in our wall.
Hours passed and I walked into the kitchen, and this is the part of the story where a lot of people might think we're crazy, but I saw our cats on the counter eating their food and thought "you know, that possum isn't going to eat our wiring or anything. The only real difference between that thing and our cats is aesthetics, really. And how messed up is to to kill something just because you think it's ugly."
I told all of this to Laurie and we decided that we would throw some mothballs and ammonia down there some night while the possum is out to encourage it to find another place to live and be done with it.

- Last week I had an interview with what will probably be the most serious job I've ever had in my life. I am fully convinced of my capability to do it. I have no idea how the interview went, although one of the interviewers did tell me that I did "very, very well" on the test. I should know at least if I've made it to the next round by the end of this week. I'll write more on this then.

- Laurie and I watched My Dinner with Andre (one of my favorite movies), the Spalding Gray monologues (which is what I wanted to do for a living about 10 years ago. My own monologues, of course) and then almost got whiplash going to a silent film, City Lights (which competes in my brain with The Third Man for the position of "my favorite film ever.")
Synapses seem to be popping and I seem to be moving in a spiritual/well being direction I'm not entirely sure of yet. Some people who have known me for a long time probably know about the spark that went out of my eyes a few years ago, the peace and joy that went away. Well, I've had a few moments like the "we're going to need a bigger boat" scene from Jaws lately. More on this soon as well. Laurie and I have been talking a lot and she's been helping me tremendously in my walk and keep my internal reactions focused in the right direction.

-The dining room is almost finished and then we paint the front room. Also, Schubert and I have lost a little weight. I'm trying to walk him at least five times a week as both Schubert and I could use to drop a size or two.
So things are good. More soon.

Oh, and we're almost at enough questions to warrant another Bull Roaring post, so if you have a question, any question, you would like to ask me, I can't guarantee a right answer, but I can guarantee a response. Personal, recommendations, advice, anything. Send them here: http://www.formspring.com/forms/?805682-tVpvj8P8KQ

Quick update

Well, it's been an uncharacteristically interesting few days for us. On Friday I posted some photos on my Livejournal which lead Laurie to mention that she'd never seen a Woody Allen movie before. I marched her straight to the video store where they had a deal on renting 5 movies at a time. We got Annie Hall, Sleeper and Zelig, as well as Das Boot and Terry Gilliam's Brazil.
That first night we watched Brazil and as we were watching it I came down with a fever. I slept most of Saturday, but by Saturday night was pretty much well again.
On Sunday I taught my class in the morning on George Whitefield and in the evening gave the 3rd Advent service sermon. At the request of a few people, I will post my notes from the George Whitefield class on this blog very soon.
Part of the reason why the fever on Friday night was a frightening thing, beside the obvious, is that today I had a job interview. It was the first I've had in a while and it was for a place where I would really love to work. I would really like to get this job. I should know about it by the end of the week.
Also today, my mother went in to surgery for the cancer on her forehead. It looks like it was a complete success. But then Laurie's Mom went into the hospital with congestive heart failure this morning. Laurie's been at the hospital with her all day. So by strange coincidence, if you believe in that sort of thing, both of our mothers were in the hospital today.

So, that's where I find myself this evening. Life's thrown a few uncertainties our way over the past few days.

Die Meistersinger

Long ago I was given the sage advice "Never meet your heroes."

I did meet a few of my heroes and it went well. Ray Bradbury was one of the nicest and most wonderful people I've ever met in my life. But, I also knew that the few I'd met I had met on good days in controlled environments, and that just because I liked what a person was known for did not mean that I would like the person or that the person would like me (The converse also holds - just because I didn't like what a person was famous for didn't mean I might not get along splendidly with the person.) Some monsters make great art; and some saints create mediocre art. So I stopped seeking them out and I still think that that's wise. With eBay and a little bit of wisdom, I can have autographed copies of books without leaving this chair.

Once again, I had a news story for my Thursday News In Review which I thought I could write a whole blog entry on. But then it morphed inside my brain and turned into something I've wanted to write on for a while now. The story in question is the arrest of Roman Polanski who, as I'm sure you all know by now, drugged and raped a 13 year old girl about 30 years ago. He was convicted and fled the country before sentencing because he claims he was afraid the judge was going to make an example of him. He fled to Europe and spent the bulk of my lifetime living like a prince.

Look, Rosemary's Baby, and Chinatown are classics. There's no question in my mind that he has produced some fine films. The Pianist deserved its Oscars. I even kind of liked The Ninth Gate, although the book was astronomically better and a completely different galaxy of a story than the weird thing Polanski directed. But it's not about any of that. It's about raping a 13 year old girl and fleeing the country to avoid whatever the US Justice system deems an appropriate punishment. I'm sure there are other pedophiles in prison now who are capable of making great art. Some of these hypothetical pedophiles may even have had loved ones brutally murdered in their lives. None of that changes the pedophilia that they committed (which was the eventual actual charge by the way. The rape charge was dropped and he pled guilty to sex with a minor) which we as a people correctly agree is wrong. We also correctly agree as a society that fleeing justice is wrong. It doesn't matter if the now-grown girl forgives him. Doesn't matter if the mother tarted up her daughter and pushed her on him (in fact, doesn't that make it worse?)
I can't take anyone who defends Polanski seriously.

Although admittedly my artistic regard for Polanski is limited to a moderate appreciation of a handful of films which I'd gone years without thinking about even once. That's really all I have to say about him and all it's done has reignited something I've been thinking about for some time now. What this whole story has me thinking of is a book that if I turn my head slightly to the left right now I can see on my shelf taunting me. The book is titled My Life, and it is the autobiography of Richard Wagner. I've not read it yet, but I will, and probably will very soon; but I'm a little afraid to. I hold Wagner in very high artistic esteem, and it's rare that a day goes by that I don't at the very least think about The Ring Cycle, or mention Hans Sachs or Tristan or The Flying Dutchman (or, at the very least, leitmotifs) in conversation. And Parsifal I can only speak of in the hushest of tones and, were I one who wore hats, I would have to remove it whenever the opera is mentioned. I think he was one of the greatest artists in the history of Western Civilization. It would be a high watermark in my life if I ever am able to make a pilgrimage to the Bayreuth Festival. In spite of everything I just said, I probably wouldn't call myself a Wagnerite as I am also definitely and outspokenly a devotee of Johannes Brahms. I have no problem with loving both.

But personally, as I understand Wagner's life, he was a horrible man. He was strongly and outspokenly anti-semitic. He played with sort of proto-themes of the uber-mensch and was strongly nationalistic. Although he had some very close Jewish friends, he published many anti-semitic pamphlets and highly nationalistic pamphlets on what it means to be German. On one level it's fortunate that he kept this aspect of his worldview from being explicit in any of his operas. However, in case you didn't know, and as you can well guess from the direction of the rhetoric of his pamphlets, there is much heated debate over the responsibility of Wagner for the Nazis. I could point out that Parsifal was one of the operas banned by the Nazis. I could also point out that Wagner was not by any means anywhere near the only artist that the Nazis cannibalized. But, when it comes down to it, yes, I have to agree that the question arises as to artists' responsibility over what they incite.

To a large extent, you cannot blame the artist for the actions of the fans any more than you can blame the fans for the actions of the artist. We all have personal responsibility for our actions. Wagner was not a Nazi and it's hard to imagine if he had by some remarkable circumstance survived (he would have been 120 at Hitler's rise to power) if he ever would have been a Nazi. Still, there is no excuse for some of the atrocious things he said in his pamphlets. I tend to think of him as a heinous man who happened to produce some of the most beautiful works in the history of western civilization (a bit like how Salieri saw Mozart in Peter Schaffer's masterpiece Amadeus.)

But, then, on the other hand, the work of art lives outside of the artist in history. We should be able to fully enjoy the work without knowing a single thing about the artist (and, in some cases, we might be happier if that were the case.) If I were to despise every work of art by an artist who I found some flaw in their character, the only art I would enjoy would be by Anonymous (although art does exist which advocates horrible, foul and evil behavior, we're not talking about that right now.)

However, the individual is accountable and responsible for his behavior. If one does something evil, doing something wonderful does not nullify the evil action. One is still accountable for the evil action while the something wonderful floats away from the artist into the world to have a life of its own. All of which I suppose is a very long winded way of saying that I have no problem saying the following two statements with equal enthusiasm:

1) If you've never seen it, do go rent Chinatown. It is one of the greatest films in the history of film. It is a wonderful work of art and a masterpiece in the medium.
2) It would be entirely appropriate and just if Roman Polanski spends the rest of his life in prison.