American Masters is
a series of documentaries shot in a variety of styles about a variety
of subjects, but all tied together by the idea of artistic mastery.
What is most notable about the title is the way in which it puts the
individual artist ahead of their works – after all, the show isn't
called American Masterpieces,
perhaps because that would infringe on another PBS band. But there's
a pervasive sense that art, instead of being interesting in itself,
instead bestows importance on individuals who become truly important.
It would be easy to knock down the series, or at least
this episode, for its unreconstructed auteurism. After all, the
author has been dead for half a century, and was scarcely outlived by
the director or the cartoonist. But I'm not interested in
condemnation right now. Rather, I'm curious about why we talk about
art in this way, and what artistic values biographical reading
supports.
Of course, the first
and foremost reason why American Masters is
about artists and not about art is because it is easier (or at least
more familiar) to tell stories about people than texts. We are used
to the patterns of a life story, particularly the life story of a
gifted artist: promising childhood, harrowing maturation, success,
corruption, old age, and finally a well-mourned death. “Good Ol'
Charles Schultz” quotes Citizen Kane in
its opening minutes, and draws several implicit parallels between its
subject and film's most revered character. The story is already
written, and all that remains is to change the particulars of the
fiction to those of reality.
By contrast, how would
you make a 90-minute documentary about Peanuts the
comic strip? There isn't a lot of plot to recap, nor would there be
a point to doing so even if there was one. You could talk about the
strip's cultural impact, or attempt a critical analysis, but at that
point it starts turning into a dissertation committed to screen, and
it's hard to think of a way to make such a thing visually compelling.
Of course, “Good Ol' Charles Schultz” could also be a
dissertation, albeit one that would not pass much muster in today's
academic environment. Which raises the question: is there a
possibility for criticism on television?
It would be inaccurate
to say that “Good Ol' Charles Schultz” doesn't include any actual
criticism. Throughout the special we see numerous Peanuts
strips, presented one panel at a
time, the neatest way of translating serial images to video. These
are sometimes accompanied by narration by one talking head or
another, and sometimes presented without comment other than the
implicit link between the strip and the biographical material
surrounding. The first of these, documenting the first strip of
Peanuts, has some
commentary on how shocking or emblematic its bitter punchline was,
although this mostly falls into the “Why is this art great?”
genre of criticism. Later strips will be approached chiefly for
their resonances with Schultz's life.
Said life presents an
interesting challenge for the filmmakers. Schultz did not follow the
Behind the Music trajectory:
there is no crash and no sordid scandal, just ever-mounting success.
He was not a reclusive genius, or a tortured artist. There are
dramatic moments, but it does not fit into an easy dramatic arc. But
this inability to fit a narrative mold is perhaps what gives the
story of Schultz's life the amount of power that it has. You could
also, perhaps, say the same thing about Peanuts
– that beneath the generic cartoony exterior there was a kernel of
bitterness and alienation that spoke to the feelings that people felt
but couldn't share.
As mentioned above, the
opening moments of “Good Ol' Charles Schultz” are also the
opening moments of Citizen Kane.
This is the boldest directorial act in what is otherwise a fairly
standard PBS episode – it takes a lot of cajones to place your
public television documentary about a newspaper cartoonist in direct
proximity with the Greatest Film of All Time (c). The opening shots
of Kane are juxtaposed
with the familiar (and familial, for the typical North American kid
weaned on Merry Christmas Charlie Brown)
images of the Peanuts
characters, and a Peanuts strip
in which Lucy spoils the film's famous ending for Linus. These
opening shots establish a kind of thesis: that despite the obvious
aesthetic differences between Peanuts and
Citizen Kane, they
have many underlying similarities, and absolutely deserve to take
place in the same canonical situation. By having Lucy proclaim
“Rosebud is his sled” as the opening credits of Kane
roll by, “Good Ol' Charles
Schultz” alerts viewers to the fact that it is essentially spoiling
its own conclusion by telling you its central point right at the
beginning.
The explicit
justification for this comparison is that Charles Schultz watched
Citizen Kane dozens of
times in his life, and there must have been some parallels that drew
him to the film. This statement is, in some ways, a reading of a
reading: it is telling us what Schultz thought of Citizen
Kane, and then suggesting how we
should think of said thoughts. The documentary implicitly assumes
that Schultz loved Citizen Kane because
he identified with it. But there are many different motivations for
watching, reading, or otherwise studying art – escapism is just as
likely as identification [1]. “Good Ol' Charles Schultz” assumes
that good art is art that relates to real life, here the very
specific real life of Charles Schultz.
But even in this
formulation, there's a dual nature to identification. The text is
identified with the lives of both reader and writer – hence both
Citizen Kane and
Peanuts reflect
Schultz's life. All of which raises the question of whether director
David van Taylor's reading of Peanuts is
just as personally motivated as Schultz's reading of Citizen
Kane. The presence of the
director and the reasons for his interest in this topic have been
scrupulously removed from the documentary we have before us, so as to
cut off what should logically be an endless chain of interpretation.
This is perhaps not a flaw in biographical criticism, or
identificatory reading, but a sign that analysis is never so neat as
American Masters often
makes it look. Criticism has a funny tendency of leaping out of
bounds and catching the critic in a way they never anticipated.
If we didn't get the
message already, we then immediately see a photo of a young Schultz
with a sketch of Charlie's Brown head fitted over it. They aren't
really a match, at least no more than any person's head would
resemble Schultz's broad, universalizing character designs. Maybe
this image becomes, instead, a symbol for the looseness of artistic
comparison: just as Charlie's Brown head can fit any head, so can the
themes and tropes of Peanuts map
onto any life in the way this documentary does for Schultz. Or at
least that's how I would like to think of it.
Still, one of the talking heads poses an interesting
point in this sequence: “What does it mean to draw 18, 977 comic
strips? Drawing fifty thousand times Charlie Brown's head? You must
be looking for something”. This is one of the distinctive
qualities of the comic strip as a form: it is an endless, daily
repetition, less a bolt of inspiration than a constant effort. It's
this workmanlike nature of production that makes comics easy to
dismiss as art. What the aforementioned quote, placed prominently
right before the title sequence, does is to reverse this assumption
by turning this production schedule into proof that Schultz was in
fact a tortured artist drawing on inner emotional dissatisfaction.
This claim is highly questionable – the artists of Hi & Lois
and Hagar the Horrible have also drawn the same thing
thousands of times, but we are less inclined to assume that their
work stems from a deep melancholic longing. The film briefly touches
on the idea of process, but quickly abandons it for more
psychologizing.
The psychological experience of toiling away at a comic
for decades could be a potentially fascinating subject, but it's the
one that we have the least ability to understand. Schultz left a
huge amount of material for any prospective biographer. He was not a
Salinger-esque recluse, but maintained a modest public persona as a
kind of jovial uncle. The documentary includes numerous clips from
interviews and a goofy hockey-themed promotional video [2]. American
Masters is able to give us some idea of how Schultz thought about
his art and the world. But what interviews don't preserve is
everyday experience, the sense of routine and habitus necessary for
the production of so regular an art as a daily comic strip. There is
no way to archive or replay the experience of a life.
So the question of what it means to draw Charlie Brown's
head fifty thousand times is perhaps unanswerable, or at least
unanswerable by so functional a TV program as this. Still, “Good
Ol' Charles Schultz” does pay a decent amount of attention to the
habitus in which Schultz lived. In particular, the segments about
Schultz's Xanadu-like residence in California, which projected the
kind of idealized and sanitized family life that Peanuts never
believed in, have a kind of genuine power if only because of the
strangeness of Schultz's ersatz living situation. That private
encampment, of course, was a form of suppressing the fault lines in
Schultz's family that would eventually lead to divorce – a
classically Freudian narrative.
The psychoanalytic lens taken throughout suggests that
Schultz is in some ways a tragic figure, an artistic genius caught in
arrested development and consigned to the Sisyphean task of drawing
the same characters every day for sixty years in search of inner
peace. But American Masters also wants to celebrate its
subjects, and that is certainly true here, as seen in the plentiful
testimonials and visual evidence of Peanuts' incredible
success, both commercial and critical. So the documentary ends up at
a kind of impasse: Peanuts is simultaneously the product of a
tragic yearning and an artistic masterwork that brought joy to
millions. I actually don't think these two narratives are
contradictory, and I've always believed that art can be more than two
things at once. Picasso and Dostoevsky, for instance, made great
works of art drawing on the inner problems that eventually doomed
them – their art was great for the world but harmful to them.
Schultz, as presented by American Masters, is a kind of
suburban American version of that tortured-artist narrative, with the
demons less dramatic and the success much more popular and less
high-cultural.
The ease with which such comparisons can be made
suggests that this narrative about Charles Schultz's life ultimately
doesn't tell us much about Peanuts: any other acclaimed work
of art could easily have taken its place. Biography makes poor
criticism, but maybe that's because it's not meant as criticism.
Perhaps it would be fairer to judge American Masters as
producing biographical narratives. On that level, “Good Ol'
Charles Schultz” is more of a success. It's not exactly riveting,
but it has a bit more style than your average PBS documentary, and
there's enough fairly interesting material. But it still leaves me
hungry for a TV show that would genuinely engage with works of art.
[1]I've been looking
into different modes of study for a “serious” academic project,
so maybe it's just because of my current circumstances that I'm
seeing resonances in this documentary. Regardless, if you're
interested in further theorizing about why and how readers read, Rita
Felski's Uses of Literature is
one of the best books I've read on the subject, and certainly the
most approachable to a non-academic audience.
[2] The amount of video material available on Schultz
makes the film a bit more visually interesting than a documentary on,
say, a nineteenth-century novelist, but it also has the effect of
demystifying Schultz. One wonders if, a couple decades down the
line, we'll be able to work up reverence for authors whose entire
life is available through banal Twitter feeds.
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