Richard Schickel, however, is a more complicated case. Also a strong documentary filmmaker who mainly covers filmmakers of the classic era and his favorite contemporary director, Clint Eastwood, as well as a highly readable writer, I’ve nevertheless have always felt somewhat suspicious of him going back to his eighties reviews in Time Magazine. Those feelings crystallized to some extent when I heard him and critic Emanuel Levy take to task a rabbi on Los Angeles public radio while discussing Robert Benigni’s “Life is Beautiful.” They all but called him a bad Jew for not finding the film offensive and daring to admit he was moved by it, or at least that’s how I remember it.

Still, I’ve enjoyed not only several of his cinephile-friendly documentaries, but also some really good audio commentaries recently featuring Schickel discussing another one of his — and my — favorites, Howard Hawks. I’ve been in a forgiving mood.

Then, however, some editor at the L.A. Times had a very bad idea last week. I guess there’s no law that says, say, that if someone hates Picasso or Oscar Wilde or whomever, they should not review a new biography of them.  Ideally, I suppose, by itself that should not be a deal-breaker — as long as the writer in question can step away from their dislike of the subject enough to actually review the book rather than simply yell to the heavens that the revered creator being chronicled is wildly overrated while slipping in some snide remarks at the author’s expense for daring to think her subject is worth composing an entire book about.

Schickel, however, is clearly not big enough to do that, as he proved in writing this anti-Robert Altman screed disguised as a book review for the Los Angeles Times.  You can read Anne Thompson‘s take and then Patrick Goldstein‘s critique and defense of Altman, which also includes a letter from Altman’s one-time protegee, Alan Rudolph, a pretty strong and prolific filmmaker in his own right.

Again, there’s no law that says a critic cannot despise the output of a director widely seen as a great master. I happen to really and truly hate the three or four films I’ve managed to sit through by Michelangelo Antonioni, yet I know a lot of great critics and filmmakers have had their lives changed by his work. Even if we disagree, a certain amount of respect is due to all those people who are just as smart or smarter than me but who simply see something I don’t. At minimum, then, Altman’s many admirers deserve at least the respect of writing a proper book review.

Also, if you’re going to claim that you’re not disliking him simply for having a loose filmmaking style, citing such top-ranking classical formalists as Bergman and Renoir won’t get you very far. I’d like to know if Schickel has any respect for the more improvisational and experimental French, Italian, and English New Wave directors and neorealists (not my favorite style, by the way) who obviously influenced Altman far more.

As for me, I don’t see the relevance of whether or not Altman was constantly using alcohol and pot. Apparently, Winston Churchill was forever nursing a brandy, which allowed the possible ADHD sufferer to concentrate enough to fight Hitler and save Western Civilization. Whether or not Altman actually had a drug problem or was self-medicating is not for us to know or even care — whatever he was doing, he lived to eighty-one despite serious illnesses and made 45 films starting when he was about 45 with “M*A*S*H” (he’d made films previously, but he was primarily a television director before that), several of them regarded as masterpieces and a number of hits that also happened to be really good movies, and some really good movies that weren’t hits. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln, let’s find out what he was having and ship a case/pound of it to all our directors.

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And now, two movie moments from probably my two favorite Altman films, Nashville and The Long Goodbye. Coincidentally, they both feature stand-out work from, among others, two  performers who became known via “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In,” specifically Lily Tomlin in maybe my favorite scene in any film of the 1970s, and the late Henry Gibson.

I was going to cover some of the usual folderol I cover here today, but, sadly, we have another passing to note with the death at 73 of Henry Gibson from cancer.

Gibson — whose stage name derives from an early character he did with roommate Jon Voight — was a personal favorite of mine. Not a large man, he was the kind of actor who might have one or two scenes in a movie, but was pretty much guaranteed to bring something detailed and memorable to his usually hilarious scenes; a relatively recent case in point was his great turn as the befuddled shocked clergyman towards the end of “Wedding Crashers.” He’s also familar to fans of “Boston Legal” as one of the show’s recurring judges.

With his eccentric but unassuming air, he gained his greatest fame as a cast member on “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In,” a faster paced, but more shtick-laden late sixties/early seventies forerunner of SNL. His signature bit involved him reciting absurd, vaguely counter-cultural, poetry in his ultra deadpan style while holding a giant flower and bowing with exaggerated politeness at the end. (He was famously spoofed on the show by John Wayne, who brought his own unique socio-political sensibilities to his verse.)

Numerous movie and TV roles followed, including probably the closest Henry Gibson ever got to a leading film role, cast brilliantly against type as a controlling and hypocritical country music patriarch in Robert Altman’s masterpiece, “Nashville.” Later, he’d play out-and-out villains, but usually in more comical contexts. Fans of eighties comedies have a special affection for his commanding role as the patriarch of a very strange family who loom in Tom Hanks‘s fevered imagination in Joe Dante’s comedy horror homage, “The ‘Burbs.” He was also the head neo-Nazi in “The Blues Brothers.”

All in all, the loss of Gibson at the relatively young age of 73 is a sad one and hit me personally a bit harder than expected. I’ve loved Gibson’s work since childhood and, whether he was playing a Napoleonic villain or a gentle preacher totally out of his depth, there was an abiding soulful quality to his work that made him all the more funny. Truly original performers like him are few and far between.

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My friend, Zayne, has a very nice remembrance of Mr. Gibson at More a Legend than a Blog, and Edward Copeland shares my appreciation of his work as country music legend Haven Hamilton.

There’s less of him than I’d like on YouTube, but I did find a few fine moments of Gibson, which you can check out after the flip.

I suppose this bit from 1977’s “The Kentucky Fried Movie” could be considered to be in questionable taste to use in an obituary post, but I think Gibson would want us to use it. For one thing, it highlights his deadpan genius. For another, death comes to us all — and funny is funny.

Here is a rather hysterical clip featuring Gibson, once again cast brilliantly against his usually gentle persona, as a fashionably dressed ultra-bad guy incarcerating Lynda Carter on an episode of “Wonder Woman.” (Apparently, the father of whoever posted this was one of the captive athletes in the scene.)

The scene I really would have liked to post here is the opening number from 1975’s “Nashville,” “200 Years,” which Gibson wrote for his character to sing. I did, however, find an online video someone made of the song, a patriotic anthem written with the coming bicentennial in mind. In the dispassionate context of Robert Altman’s classic satirical look at American culture in the mid-seventies, the song is definitely ironic — though not sarcastic. Even listening to it here accompanied by a more straightforwardly patriotic assortment of images than Gibson or Altman intended, however, you can get an idea of the kind of commitment Gibson brought to his work. This song really sounds just like it would had Gibson been an actual talented but somewhat self-righteous middle-aged country superstar, circa 1975. Also, I think Gibson might have enjoyed the slightly incongruous final image on this video.