book. You have to go somewhere, afternall, get seated and settled, and wait thatnanticipatory few minutes in which thenvenerable shape of the auditoriumnspeaks its subliminal message of dramanand ritual. All the seats are pointed onenway to a screen that may or may not bencurtained, and there is a kind of invocation,na hope that this time the experiencenmay be OK, or better than OK —nwonderful and splendid. The openingnof a book, even a new book with thatnshy smell of ink and glue, is an agreeableninstant, but it doesn’t last long. Thenpreliminary and prefatory moments atnthe movies are enough a part of thenexperience to deserve some attention.nAnd I mention them here in part tonestablish my bona fides. Even at thenMuseum of Natural History, sitting innthe theater at which the films werenscreened for the press, I had thatnpleasant sense of anticipation.nBut, as I have already implied, plansngang aft agley. It was Kurosawa who, innDreams, became suddenly tendentiousnand preachy in a series of vignettes thatnbegin well but end disastrously. We arenpromised dreams but get tirades againstnnuclear destruction and ecological ruinnand a batty Utne Reader vision of somenUtopian village where they don’t havenelectricity and where hundred-andthree-year-oldnsages spout suggestionsnabout how linseed oil is an adequatenpower source before getting up to joinna funeral procession in a long sequencenof band music, bell-ringing, flowerbrandishing,nand goofy grinning.nWell, maybe it’s just me. Being ann54/CHRONICLESnA SIMPLEnYES’ WOULDnSUFFICEnLIBERAL ARTSnAmerican, I am somewhat inured tonthis trendy stuff. It’s the Japanese whonmay find it more interesting or (withnreason) irritating. There are huntersnwandering through the bamboo grovesnof Szechwan trying to kill pandas forntheir skins so that Japanese toymakersncan produce toy pandas made of thengenuine article for the offspring of thennation’s showier tycoons. It’s the Japanesenwho have those float nets that killndolphins and who are still out therenharpooning whales. It’s the Japanesenwho rely on imported oil. (Linseed oilnisn’t going to run those Hondas, Datsuns,nIsuzus, and Toyotas, old philosopher-san.)nMaybe Kurosawa is just beingnimpish, using his considerable cloutnto say these improbable things. Ornmaybe it’s all a put-on. These eightnseparate sequences are “Dreams” afternall, and nightmares can be about thenpropagandists as much as about thenpolluters and nuclear power advocates.nBut I have the dismal certainty thatnthese are simply Kurosawa’s sincerenconvictions, which may be interestingnto know about but are no more thenbasis for the formulation of publicnpolicy than they are the appropriatenstarting point for the making of interestingnfilms. Somebody once said — itnmay have been Bufiuel — that all moviesnare either dreams or documentaries.nAnd while dream sequences are, inncommercial Hollywood movies, usuallynan embarrassment, the great directorsndo a lot of dream stuff. From LenChien Andalou on down throughnFellini and Bergman and Bunuel, andnSome right-wingers seem to think a homosexual cabal hasnexisted in the recent administrations. Do you know ofncloseted gay conservatives in such a position of influence?n[Mr. Liebman]: No. Frankly, even if I knew, which I don’t,nI wouldn’t say.n—from The Advocate’s “coming out” interview withnYoung Americans for Freedom founder Marvin Liebman innits July 17, 1990, issue.nnnincluding much of Kurosawa’s ownnbest work, there are rifts and, on occasion,nwhole movies that work at a levelnthat has nothing to do with the easyntruth of correspondence of realisticncinema. The first several sequences ofnDreams are valuable additions to thatntradition. “Sunshine Through thenRain” has a mysterious fairy-tale qualitynand an oneiric gravitas. We arenentirely invested in the little boy who isnhiding among the huge trees as henwatches the forbidden wedding processionnof the foxes, listening to their eerienmusic and watching their slow, peculiarndance. That there is a punishmentnfor this spying — his and ours — hardlynneeds to be explained, for Kurosawanhas invested the scene with magic andnguilt, for which there must be payment,nand even then the foxes’ forgivenessnis hardly assured. “The PeachnOrchard” and “The Tunnel” are alsonsmall masterpieces, and if “Van Gogh”nis oddly flawed — Martin Scorsese’snportrayal of Van Gogh is bizarre —nthere is a technical triumph fromnLucasfilms as the young Japanese artnlover romps through familiar VannGogh paintings, walks those quiveringnroads, darts in and out of those numinousntrees, and watches the crowsnswoop and soar through that unbelievablensky.nSo, yes, go see it, even expecting tonbe disappointed and assaulted by thenlast three segments. The successes ofnthe film are worth the nuisance, andneven the last three preachments haventheir attractive visual aspects. Kurosawanseems incapable of a badly framednor improperly lit shot.nAt the museum, I was more comfortable,nand my expectations of entertainmentnwere not disappointed. Thesenwere some of the funniest movies I’venever seen. Chris Owen’s Man WithoutnPigs is about one John Waiko, the firstnPapua New Guinean to be awarded andoctorate and become a professor (atnthe Australian National University).nHe returned to his New Guinea birthplace,nTabara, to celebrate, and thenanthropologist filmmakers came alongnto record this event. Evelyn Waugh atnhis nastiest could not have devised anmore scathing indictment of lazy, unreliable,nshiftless, envious, competitive,ncrafty, greedy, and unattractive nativesnconspiring to humiliate the only membernof the family, clan, or village whon