Giant

 Without really meaning to, this blog has turned into something of a meditation on what I really believe about Art, Literature, Poetry, and, especially in the case of cinema, "greatness".  Suppose I were to take this opportunity to  review where I'm at with each, and apply them to this work?

ART

A great deal of what I have come to think about Art comes from Giorgio Vasari, who seems to have come closer than anyone else to putting his finger on it.  My fairly faithful summary of his definition is that Art is the successful transmission of a truly human moment through honesty and mastery of a medium.  

Is Giant Art? At times, yes.  Three of the Artists involved deserve to be credited for their mastery and success in my opinion.  Two of them were at least acknowledged for their work: Ivan Moffat and Fred Guiol were nominated by the academy for their screenplay, which does most of the work here, especially in the dialogue.  A quick look at her other work and achievements make it likely that the real artist is Edna Ferber, who wrote the novel on which it is based.  In every scene, however, it is Elizabeth Taylor who is clearly the master.  Though Hudson and Dean were the ones recognized for their acting, it is Taylor who Vasari would have applauded: every moment both technically perfect, and excruciatingly human.  Though not recognized for her work here, it seems safe to say that her status as an artist, rather than a mere actor, is pretty universally recognized.

LITERATURE

My approach to this label is more practical and, perhaps, unique to me.  To be Literature in my mind, something need merely be literate, literary, to exist in communication with the body of human work that precedes and follows it.  This, like all of these labels, is a continuum; Literature is not a bar to be cleared, but rather an attribute.  Something is Literature "to the extent that . . . "

Is Giant Literature? Certainly.  Ferber has a place in that conversation, though not often by name.  And this work in particular gives more than it took, inspiring other works that have become inextricable from the fabric of culture.

POETRY

This definition is entirely my own, and completely unsupportable.  Poetry is more than verse; we often speak of poetic justice, or apply the term to music, visual art, or dance.  To me, and to any of my students who will listen, Poetry is layering, the act of doing many things at once with only what is necessary.  In verse, this means imagery, figurative language, texture, form, etc. all working together to create a unified moment, elegant and magical in its efficiency.  The opposite, of course, is Prose: one thing at a time, sequential, mechanical.

Is Giant Poetry? Perhaps the only element that could really qualify by my criteria is the art direction of Boris Leven and Ralph S. Hurst, for which they were duly nominated, though I can't argue with the ultimate victory going to  Lyle R. Wheeler and John DeCuir, and  Walter M. Scott and Paul S. Fox for The King and I. The one award Giant won, that for best direction, seems to be a nod to the more popular criterion that something be merely beautiful.  

GREATNESS

This is the definition that I have worked hardest to put into words.  In my current thinking, something is Great to the extent that it has a reason to exist, and then rises to the level of that reason in every facet.  It is the intersection of importance and mastery.  Truly Great things arise irresistibly from a collective moment, almost without the willingness of their respective creators.  The word itself has as many meanings as there are people, and could just as easily mean "enjoyable", but I am not known for being easily satisfied.

Is Giant Great? It certainly needed to be made.  Its criticism of Texas style capitalism, and the subtlety with which it strove to meet that need, are certainly noteworthy.  But that's the label I would give it, rather than Great: noteworthy.  The moment that called for its creation was approached, but not reached.  It remains specific, rather than universal, and is correspondingly liked, but not worshiped.