From the evidence, James Agee wrote his film reviews very early in the morning, after everyone else had gone to bed. Many times he was simply editing down what he had said to friends through the night about movies and the thousand other things that come up in the pieces, in apartments and bars around New York City. The reviews, then, almost can be considered transcripts of Agee's voice. And they are evidence that if there was ever an American talker as unblinkingly fine as James Agee, he or she died without writing it down. Agee's film column began appearing in The Nation in 1942. The reviews he produced in the following years are starkly different from his more well-known writings. His literary estate is populated by several major works: the wild spray of his Alabama-sharecropper book, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men; the hushed novel of childhood, A Death in the Family; as well as early poetry and late screenwriting (The Night of the Hunter being his most famous script). These works remind one that Agee once considered becoming a priest; most have a sacred aim and very often a scriptural rhythm. The reviews are the less holy Agee, the moralist with appetites and a super-fine-grain eye and what Manny Farber once called his aristocratic junkyard wit.(1) Agee remains one of the semi-religious American writers in reputation. People still get overwrought about him. His admirers talk about him as if he were a barefoot saint from Tennessee who spent a decade-long imprisonment in the Time-Life Building (that Bastille for writers), where Agee was a journalist during the Depression. Then there is the early interest in serving God, the very serious drinking, the idea that he was crushed early by his times and probably by his country, the other idea that he was too good to live happily. But the truth is that Agee's life was not exceptional. His writing, especially The Nation reviews, was. What one saw immediately in Agee's film reviews was that three things that seemed irreconcilable in a critic had come together and were now working at great heights: a hungry largeness of mind, a snapping wit, and a strong, embattled compassion. Coming at you for the first time, Agee was big and shockingly graceful, and still he thought like a Jesuit. What one thought of, really, was an athlete doing shattering things on a field he would transform forever. Agee was a possibilist. That maddened a few of his contemporaries: this critic, they said, reviews the movie that should have been made but wasn't. It's true, in a way. Agee knew the odds - both corporate and individually human - against good and great films getting made in Hollywood and elsewhere. But he seemed, by constitution, attuned to the potential of every single person, animal, and scrap of furniture in a film, and he could state clearly what they were and how each had been fulfilled or compromised. This capacity, and the occasional ferocity with which he used it, came partly from a desire to fulfill his own ambitions in movies; Agee even could be accused of blueprinting his own unmade projects in the back pages of The Nation. But it's from this place that his greatness rolled out. In fact, it is Agee's other writing that was limited by what Dwight MacDonald called his oceanic sympathies. What D. H. Lawrence wrote about Whitman in Studies in Classic American Literature applies equally to Agee; Lawrence mocked Whitman's desire to merge with everyone he met, to know everything from the contents of the man's stomach to his thoughts on the Union. Agee had the same essential nature, completely and - unlike even Whitman - for the whole of his life. He also has proved to be one of its last public examples. No clearer example of this sensibility is needed than Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Agee was twenty-seven when Life sent him down South with Walker Evans to report on the lives of sharecroppers. The experience opened him up like a knife. Agee's desire to reconnect with the people that his family had parted with a few generations back is one of the most intense literary efforts in American letters - and a sometimes diabolical one. …
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