Heaven’s Gate. Once again he makesnAmerican pluralism his subject matter.nHe proclaims loudly that its historynand its vicissitudes were written innblood, not ink—a veracity which is allntoo easily converted into a cliche. Henseems not to know that only sin, crimenand personal wickedness can be uni-nVocal, while all social dilemmas suffernfrom a chronic ambivalence. Cimino’sndepiction of the criminal murderousnessnof Wasps and the martyrdom of newnimmigrants in the cattle wars of Wyomingnat the end of the last century arenunenlightened by a single sigh of moralnor cognitive incertitude. It is, however,nequipped with the dialectics of almostnSoviet-manufactured socialist realism:none single upper-class Wasp liberal isnthe only just man among the wicked,nwhich proves that consciousness-raisingnis possible and remains in keeping withnthe Marxian gospel.nThis philosophical sleaziness impingesnon form. Gone is the spare cinematicnimpressionism of The Deer Hunter,nthe stark pursuit of the oppressive visualnessnfiltered through the stylishnessnof the story. In Heaven’s Gate mannerismsnare on a rampage: the immigrantnSlavic peasants look like Berkeley antiwarndemonstrators; their women arenindistinguishable from Greenwich Villagenfeminists; and the Waspish establishmentarians,nthugs, marshals andnhired killers all wear the same ParknAvenue Sulka shirts and Countess Maranties(ties.’ In Johnson County, Wyoming,n1890?) during their most bloody encounters.nStylization becomes ludicrousnand unbearable: in their free time, thenGerman and Ukranian farm laborersneither trek in columns through thenWestern wilderness, as orderly as if theynwere guarded by Cossacks or SS guards,nor they roller-skate in their communitynhall with the impish gracefulness ofnBaryshnikov. And so on, and on, andnon—in killing and dancing and lovemaking,ncouched in a dialogue that couldnhave been written by Max Brand if henhad ever had to make his living in theneditorial offices of the Village Voice.n42inChronicles of CulturenTwo questions are never answered:nWhy does the central character, whomnwe follow from the first to the last scenenand who is a Harvard Law graduate ofnEastern establishmentarian stripe andnNewport-style wealth, become a scruffynalcoholic marshal who lives in a logncabin in Wyoming.’ And why has Mr.nCimino made two movies at an earlynage, of which one is an exemplar andnone an exercise in pompous, if not embarrassing,nineptitude? Both questionsnprovide an inherently fascinating amplitudenof possible answers—a literarynproposition in itself.nExcalibur; Written by John Boormannand Rospo Pallenberg; Directednby John Boorman; Warner Brothers.nby Stephen MacaulaynDuring the early 60’s, when I was anpreteen, my brother and I spent almostnevery Saturday afternoon at the movies.nFour types of films were shown: horrornmovies (sucked blood or chopped-offnheads); war films (a sweaty jungle in thenPacific); Westerns (boot leather andnflying lead); and science-fiction filmsn(a monster or flying saucers wreckingnthe capitals of the world). My brothernoften threw a jacket over my head whennthings were too gruesome; slightlynolder, he could take it. Later, the theaternI went to switched to porno.nExcalibur should be a film for thenyoung, and it should not be necessarynto throw jackets over their heads. Yetnit’s dressed up with Jungian psychology,nWagner’s “Siegfried’s Rhine Journey”nand other pomposities. Take out thennude scenes, spill fewer gallons of blood,nthereby eliminating the “R” rating, andnthe movie still remains a film for adults.nHowever, not a particularly good one.nThe problem is that John Boorman’snfilm takes itself too seriously. But what-nMr. Macaulay is a youthful movie fannin Detroit.nnnever the reason, the movie does not worknas well as it could. Mallory, for all practicalnpurposes, is the touchstone for Arthuriannromance (only purists will pointnto Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History ofnthe Kings of Britain or the Mabinogionnas the proper points of departure). Boormannshould have been more faithful tonMallory, who spun a good yarn.nLe Morte d’Arthur is very anachronisticnin terms of its characters and setting,nbut who really notices? In one ofnthe “serious” segments of Excalibur,nBoorman emphasizes time: at the weddingnof Arthur and Guinevere, a Christiannceremony. Merlin laments thenpassing of the pagan and the power ofnmagic; he tells neophyte Morgan le Faynthat their time is gone. The audiencenis supposed to discreetly wipe its tears.nArthur is shipped off to Avalon withnless emotional emphasis. The Matter ofnBritain is fourth fiddle to the Mattersnof Magic, Violence and Sex. Whichnmakes the movie often visually astoundingn, but its priorities are all wrong. DnRecordsnBechetnMUSICnSidney Bechet; The Giants of JazznSeries; Time-Life Records; Alexandria,nVirginia.nTime-Life Records (produced bynTime-Life Books, Inc.) has issued in itsnseries, “Giants of Jazz,” a choice selectionnof Sidney Bechet’s recordings inna single three-disc album. It’s a glory.nAs a cultural phenomenon, jazz, thenonly authentic musical revolution ofnmodern times, is intrinsically connectednto the stormy technological upheavalsnof our epoch. Its artistic legacy and itsndocumentation is the phonographic record—anrelatively young invention.nThere is no other way to perpetuatenthe improvisational substance of jazzn