JoumalistnnThe Villager Anno 1979nVillage Voice, a Manhattan publication,nis an advertising organ for mattressesnand stereos. In fact, in its pages,nthese two devices stand for much more:ntogether they form an ideological symbol—justnlike the fasces of ancientnRome, the eagle and arrows of Americanand the hammer and sickle of Communism.nUsing a mattress to the sound ofna stereo is to the editors and readershipnof the Village Voice the highest expressionnof humanness, the essence of theirnethos, the sacred mission for whichnmortals dwell on this planet. And, ofncourse, the Voice is body and soul fornany radicalism, revolution, deviationnand nihilism. Not long ago, one of itsn”philosophical” beacons, ranting againstnthe demise of the 1960s (Village Voice’snzenith), wailed that meager were “thenprospects for radical change in a societynwhere most people had enough to eat.”nLeninism on North Michigan Avenueni hat’s not to say the moviesnwere never used for a political purpose.nDuring the Depression, ridiculouslynescapist ‘talkies’ served as annovel and effective opiate to keep thengreat unwashed from rioting in thenstreets. A decade later, during WorldnWar II, patriots such as John Waynenand Carole Lombard contributed immeasurablynto the propaganda effortnby churning out a steady supply ofnbattlefront pictures and by organizingngiant war bond rallies.nWhat was rarely seen was a filrnnwhich smacked of dissent or pointednto a shortcoming in this society. Whatnwas almost never heard was an actornwho dared speak out on the ‘wrong’nside of a public issue, knowing thatnto do so could bring instant professionalndeath.”nWhere do these inspired, angry, wellinformednlines come from? Pravda?n38inChronicles of CulturenNaturally, Village Voice would prefernthat people starve in order to be able tonhave a carmagnole of unisex humanoidsndancing in Sheridan Square and to benable to decree compulsory feeding ofnschool children with cocaine granola.nIn the meantime, it must find consolationnin what is closest to its sense ofnmoral elegance. In a recent issue, thenVoice triumphantly announced a newncultural superevent, a breakthrough innAmerican letters, a monumentalnachievement of Western publishing—anbook entitled Private Moments in PublicnPlaces, which consists of photographsnThe Distinguished Duncenof the American Press AwardnThis month Ms. Mary McGrory,nsyndicated Washington Star columnist,nwon hands down. In her column entitledn”Andrew Young Will Be Missed,” wenread with wonderment:n”Young, the . . . diplomat, tagged forndoing what is expected of diplomats,nlying …”nLiteraturnya Gazieta? No, from thenChicago Tribune. Is it an interview withna Soviet film critic? No, it’s a piece byna certain Mr. Michael Coakley, thenTribune’s California correspondent andnpolitical reporter. Did he transcribe hisncopy from a Soviet textbook on movies?nThis we do not know, but we know thatnhe’s lying—whether out of ignorancenor deliberately. The movies of PaulnMuni, John Ford, Frank Capra, JohnnGarfield—to mention only the bestnknown—belie his socrealistic agitpropnfervor.nA “literary critic” for the ChicagonTribune Book World, reviewing somenmasterpiece by a certain William Goldman,necstatically exclaims:n”. . .he wrote the best book of criti­nLiteralurc in . mcrhannnsurreptitiously taken in New York Cityncommunal bathrooms at the New YorknPublic Library, the Port Authority, RoselandnDance Hall, Bloomingdale’s, etc.nThe enraptured Village Voice calls thenauthors “conceptual artists” and concludesnin bliss: “What ultimatelynemerges from the pictorial essay is angentle, almost sociological overview…”nWe have another sequitur: if the privacynof even such a moment cannot be protectednby the Constitution, what willnhappen if the radicals of the VillagenVoice stripe ever Succeed in their revolutionnand finally came to power.’ DnWe sympathize with Ms. McGrory’snanguish. She’s an innocent victim ofnlife’s cruel complexities: no one everntold her that diplomats are not supposednto lie to everybody, that they are supposednto know to whom to lie and tonwhom to tell the truth. We hope she’llnaccept our award as consolation. •nOf course, he has an explanation fornwhy Hollywood was the cradle of Americannfascism:n”There are plenty of Hollywood figuresnstill around who recall vividlynthe dark days of McCarthyism whenndozens of actors, directors, andnscreenwriters found their careers cutnshort by the wild accusations of professionalnanticommunists … a sinisternforce which not only stifledncreativity but also made Americannfilms and those who produced themnpolitical and intellectual eunuchs.” Dncism I’ve ever read!”nThis confession makes him uniquelynqualified to exercise the onerous dutiesnof a Chicago Tribune literary critic. Henmight have heard names like Coleridge,nor Sainte-Beuve in a trivia contest. Dn