Eulogies and Memorial Funds Lawrence Austin Lawrence Austin, the manager/reviver of the Silent Movie theater in Los Angeles, CA, was murdered at the theater January 17, 1997 after being robbed at gunpoint. A female employee was wounded and is hospitalized. Mr. Austin died at the scene, and according to police, both he and the employee were shot after cooperating with the robber and handing over the money. The incident occurred around 8:30 pm, while a film (SUNRISE) was showing. The killer (dressed in black) escaped through the back exit of the theater, firing as he fled. Patrons hunkered down in their seats, while some thought firecrackers were going off in the lobby. The suspect is still at large. Austin reopened the theater in 1991, after it had been closed for almost a decade. John Hampton, who opened the theater in 1942, ran the theater, which was a haven for those who loved silent film. Illness forced him to close in 1981, but his magnificent film collection (much of which he restored himself) remained intact, and was used for showings since the re-opening. Hampton's widow, Dorothy, was prominent in the re-opening, often taking tickets at the door. I hope this tragedy will not mean the end of the theater. I know Larry wouldn't want it to be, but who knows? I pray that his killer is brought to justice, and that they get what they deserve. --Jeff Heise Richard Blumenberg My first memory of Richard Blumenberg is from 1982, when I interviewed for my job at SIU. During the visit I sat in on a "History of Experimental Film" class Richard taught. I was struck by his enthusiasm and knowledge. He was teaching things I was unfamiliar with. I thought, "I would like having this man as a colleague. I could learn a lot from him." I accepted the job. I now teach that class, and I show Bruce Conner's A Movie, which he showed that night, and I teach it in much the same way because nobody could do any better. I couldn't have had a better role model. I'm saddened when I think about all the students who will never experience him as a teacher. But then I listen to myself telling a student, "You need to have conflict in your story" or "You need to open the locations up, this is a visual medium" and I realize these are things Richard taught me, just as he taught a string of students who are now out there teaching others. I was more fortunate than most of you because I worked with Richard on a daily basis. Richard mentored me as he did his students. He generously read my conference papers and film scripts and discussed endless ideas.He appears as a film producer in one of my films and allowed me to use his house as the set for another. In the midst of work, there was a lot of silliness and laughter about "going into the (supply) closet together" or putting his "goldenrod" in the copy machine. Let's face it, how many of you and your families have dressed up as Star Trek characters for your seasonal greeting card? Richard was humble about his accomplishments and I'm sure a lot of his students had no idea of his many achievements: he'd published a book and written a second, made a feature film, been President of UFVA, acted in True West, and played classical guitar. As important as his work was, he was foremost a family man. I clearly recall the very happiest I ever saw Richard. It was about ten years ago and we ran into each other at the candy machine. He was absolutely beaming. When he spotted me, the news gushed out. His wife was going to have a baby; he was going to be a father at the age of fifty. He was later blessed with a second son, and it was not unusual to see one or both of his boys in Richard's office working at his computer. But the best was that Richard was a wonderful friend. We could talk about anything. Richard patiently listened to my stories about one failed romantic relationship or another. He would shake his head and inevitably come to the conclusion that "They're all crazy." Of course, it was never "my" fault. I visited Richard in the hospital three days before he passed away. Although it was laborious for him to talk, he spoke about how lucky he was to have three pretty women in his room (his wife, nurse, and me). He admired my shirt, telling me the color looked good on me. How kind, how generous, how gracious, how Richard. Richard Blumenberg Family Fund Southern Illinois University Credit Union 1217 W. Main Street Carbondale, IL 62901 (618) 457-3595 --Lilly Boruszkowski (lborus@siu.edu) Richard deCordova (1956-1996) Richard deCordova passed away in November 1996. Richard was an Associate Professor of Communications at DePaul University, after having received his Ph.D. in Film and Television Studies from UCLA and spending one year at the Centre Americain du Cinéma in Paris. Richard was the author of Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America, as well as a number of articles about various aspects of film history. He was also a very good friend to a number of us. --Eric Smoodin (smoodin@uclink4.berkeley.edu) Donie Durieu A memorial fund has been established at the University of Pittsburgh in memory of Donie Durieu--wife of former SCS president and former Cinema Journal editor, Dana Polan. Donie passed away on 18 October 1996 after a long bout with a malignant brain tumor. The fund is intended to honor Ms. Durieu's love of French culture and concern with pedagogy (she worked as a French instructor at a number of universities, including the University of Pittsburgh) and will be used to build up a collection of videotapes and laser disks in the area of French cinema for student, faculty, and visiting researcher use. People who wish to contribute to the fund should send a note to that effect and a check payable to the "University of Pittsburgh" to: Ms. Sandy Russo, Film Studies Secretary, 526 CL University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. For more information, email Dana Polan at 100434.2172@compuserve.com. William K. Everson (1929-1996) For me the name of Bill Everson was synonymous with the excitement of discovery. Whenever we met, I could rely on his coming up with a new film which had aroused his admiration, an item of information which could change one's outlook on the cinema, or an introduction to some fascinating figure from the past. This suggests some flamboyant Marco Polo of the cinema; Bill was nothing like that. He was often quiet and uncommunicative. He was modest and would not offer opinions or information unless he knew you wanted them. Although he was ten years older than me, we shared rather similar backgrounds—both being born in England, brought up during the war, and being profoundly affected by the impact of American culture. The United States on the screen was so much more glamorous than Austerity Britiain that I don't blame Bill for departing for New York as soon as he could. If I'd been the right age, I'd have done the same thing. As it was, I didn't get there until 1964, and then only on a three-week visit. By then, a great deal of the city's glamour was imparted by Bill. Although he was—as always—frantically busy, he sensed how important my first visit was. He invited me to West 79th Street late at night—he never seemed to sleep—and he screened the rare silent films he thought I ought to see. The experience was of enormous importance, and was one of the reasons I embarked upon my book The Parade's Gone By.... Thanks to Bill, I could appear much more knowledgeable than I really was when I met the silent stars who lived in New York. And when I finally reached Hollywood, he gave me addresses which enabled me to meet silent film personalities like Betty Bronson—someone he was very fond of, and someone he had quietly helped substantially over the years. She embarked on a new career because of him, in supporting roles, and spoke warmly of him when I met her. Some of those people would not have allowed me through the door unless I had mentioned his name. But in the forty years I knew Bill Everson, I never heard of anyone who disliked him, or who had anything but gratitude for him. This must make him unique in the world of film appreciation, famous for its jealousies and in-fighting. As far as I was concerned, as someone from an era without film schools, Bill was better than any university tutor. For besides teaching me the art of the motion picture, he started me off as a film collector, often giving me the very films he was talking about. I cannot think of certain titles without seeing him in front of me, a wry smile on his face as he said something like, "No one but you could like this director, so I am leaving this print with you...." His generosity was often concealed in this way—he made you think you were doing him a favour. "Look after this title—it's of no real interest but I'd like to have it here in case I need to show it at the National Film Theatre." Occasionally, I managed to reciprocate, but my offering was invariably a minnow in comparison to his. But his appreciation was so warm I sometimes thought perhaps I'd let slip a masterpiece—it was only Bill being kind. Although when I read his programme notes, I was often amazed at how much he had seen in the film that I had missed. All conveyed in strong, simple English without the jargon that has defaced so much writing on the subject. Bill Everson was such an important part of my life that the thought of his disappearing from it is absurd. I think of him every day. I think of him each time I consult one of his books, or browse, as I so often do, through his wonderful programme notes, or screen the precious films I would not have heard of but for him. And I remember his jokes. Few such dedicated people can have been so amusing. He was the most generous man I have ever me and if those critics in France ask which auteur has influenced me most, tell them I belong to École Bill Everson. --Kevin Brownlow. Reprinted from Film Comment (Jan-Feb 1997) by permission. Lewis Jacobs (1905-1997) Lewis Jacobs died at the age of 92 in February 1997. His The Rise of the American Film was, to my mind, the beginning of serious film scholarship in America. Unlike other writers, Lewis Jacobs was not a tourist from another field. He was a film maker and film artist who became a film scholar. Taken in its time, The Rise of the American Film was a monumental contribution to a field that hitherto had been dependent for its history on publicists and memoirists with self-aggrandizing selective memories. His magazine, Experimental Cinema, was a treasure of ideas and insights from people who took the art of the cinema seriously. He was the godfather of us all. -Henry Breitrose Nina Leibman (1957-1996) Author of Living Room Lectures. The Journal of Film and Video will soon publish an issue in Nina's memory. Cal Pryluck 1924-1996. On December 15th, 1996, Cal Pryluck died, just a month shy of turning 72 years old. Probably the first time Cal was shy about anything. I met him in 1969, both of us beginning Ph.D. students at the University of Iowa. He was a good twenty years older than the rest of us and, with Dudley Andrew, assumed the role of master teacher: Ted Perry and Ray Fielding had recently left Iowa, and graduate students were led for a year by Dudley and Cal and a sprinkling of visiting profs-it was an exciting way to learn, the lunatics running the asylum. There was Joe Anderson, and Chuck Berg, and David Bordwell, and Don Fredericksen, Chris Koch, Dennis Lynch, Ed Small, others. Cal taught production and talked mostly about theory; we all took theory courses from Dudley while we wondered about production. It was the time of social protest, against Viet Nam, against social injustice in general, and Cal was a sage guide amidst all the ferment. I remember the night after the Kent State massacre, when Cal and I served watch over Iowa's Old Armory housing the Ph.D. students (and their dissertations), assuming that the growing protests might aim their incendiary wrath at a building with such an offensive name. We spent the night just jawing, gulping coffee to stay awake, and getting to know each others souls. He became my uncle, my older brother, at times my surrogate dad, always my friend and my fiercest critic. In the '60s, for a white middle-aged couple of Eastern European heritage, to arrive in Iowa City fresh from Purdue, with their two adopted African-American children-well, cultures were bound to clash and demand reassessment of deeply-seeded prejudice. Cal and Naomi's strength and commitment were undaunted and often awe-inspiring. They were your basic big city Jews, raised in that era when Marxism was simply Communism, when Sacco and Vanzetti, the Scottsboro boys, the Rosenbergs were the outward and visible sign of a deep and insidiously hateful prejudice. Cal's educational heritage included the rough-and-tumble New York City school system, NYU, UCLA, Penn: he'd been there, done that, and was never reticent about sharing what he had learned. His "Toward a Psycholinguistics of Cinema," co-authored with Richard Snow (1967), and "Structure and Function in Educational Cinema" (1969), outlined the principles of semiology before this perspective gained any popularity in film studies. And this highfalutin egghead stuff from a meat-n-potatoes laborer. He stood up at a UFVA meeting (then UFPA) and announced that the absence of Black members in the organization was a disgrace. He challenged the gods of academic film and bravely (often loudly) commented on the lack of clothing for a few of them. He created "Film Research in Progress" as a resource and repository for ongoing work, a predecessor to the list-serves on today's Internet. His "Ultimately, We Are All Outsiders: The Ethics of Documentary Filming" (1975) has remained the definitive statement on the subject. And his knowledge of cyberspace matters has been instrumental in moving UFVA into a new age of communication. What can one really say about a master teacher, a mentor in the truest sense? His students at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and later Temple University had the chance to be enriched by his wide diversity of interests and his strong (very strong) opinions. His colleagues were challenged by his thinking and his conclusions and his extremely high standards for proper professional and collegial behavior. And his friends were nurtured by his tough love, his candid assessments, his brusque compassion for them as worthy human beings. He could often be difficult, but that's true for all things valuable. I never published anything without sending it to Cal first. This notice can't benefit from his keen editorial eye, his unabashed opinions, his demand for a strong lead. But it has what he always demanded, a love and compassion for the subject. When I'd thank him for his critique, he'd always say, "Hey, I do what I do." Yes, and you did it very well, Cal, very well. --Timothy J. Lyons

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