Readers of The Spectator—the London one, not its American
cousin—will remember the fracas that erupted last fall when William Cash
published “Kings of the Deal,” a story about Jewish influence in
Hollywood. Indignant charges of anti-Semitism were immediately lodged
not only against Mr. Cash but also against The Spectator and its
editor, Dominic Lawson. Never mind that Mr. Lawson is himself Jewish,
or that he wrote a penetrating essay on the virus of political
correctness with special reference to this controversy (see “The Gagging
of America” in The Spectator for November 19, 1994).

We do not
wish at this late date to comment on the controversy itself—though
we shall long treasure the ridiculous missive signed jointly by a
number of Hollywood stars, including Barbra Streisand, Kevin Costner,
and Tom Cruise. We do, however, think that our readers will be
pleased to know that Leon Wieseltier, the inveterately sophomoric
literary editor of The New Republic, contributed the following
minatory effusion to The Spectator:

Sir: William Cash worries about “inevitable shrieks of
‘anti-Semitism’” as a consequence
of his anti-Semitism. Not to worry. People
as powerful as us have no need to shriek. We
will bide our time and silently see justice
done. Maybe before Passover. You run a filthy
magazine.

Gee. We thought we had a low opinion of Mr. Wieseltier, but clearly
it was not low enough. It was with some amusement, then, that we read
Guillermo Cabrera Infante’s review of the third edition of
A Biographical Dictionary of Film in The New Republic for January
23. Here is how it begins:

The other evening at Le Bistro, in South Kensington, supping with
an Italian film
director, all of a sudden and apropos of
nothing he praised Robert Aldrich. “What a director!” he exclaimed
with garlic-scented vowels. “Just imagine, Kiss Me Deadly was his
first film!” For a moment I heard him say Kiss Me Daddy.
Then I
retorted (I always retort), “But that was not Aldrich’s first
movie.” “Yes it was,” affirmed the regista. “It wasn’t,” I
insisted. “He made
Apache and Vera Cruz first.” Obviously he didn’t believe me. To
redirect him, I said: “See Katz.” He said, “But Cats is an
English musical!” I should have laughed, but when it comes to the
movies I am always serious.

Film directors shouldn’t argue with me
about movies. I can kiss them deadly. I explained what Katz was,
The Film Encyclopedia by Ephraim Katz,
and suggested to the Italian that he buy a copy,
since he could afford it. (Not
many people can.) When I came home and consulted my Katz, I found
out that I was wrong, too. Aldrich had made The Big Leaguer and
World for Ransom earlier. That’s why Katz has nine lives. David
Thomson’s A Biographical Dictionary of Film (both books have just
been reissued) has even more lives than Katz, but unlike Katz,
Thomson is a killer with a deus ex machinegun.

To appreciate the cause of our amusement, one must have read the
review by G. Cabrera Infante of the third edition of
A Biographical Dictionary of Film (and of the book by
Katz
mentioned above) that appeared
in the December 31 issue of The Spectator.
Here is how it begins:

The other evening at Le Bistro, South Kensington, an Italian film
director with whom I was supping all of a sudden, and à propos of
nothing, praised Robert Aldrich. “What a director!” he exclaimed,
with garlic-scented vowels. “Just imagine, Kiss Me Deadly was his
first film!” For a moment I heard him say Kiss Me Daddy but then I
retorted (I always retort): “But that was not
…”

Yes, yes, it goes on and on: Katz, Cats, and their nine-plus
lives. Mr. Wieseltier might think The Spectator “a filthy
magazine,” but he clearly finds things to admire about its taste in
book reviews.