Petric once wrote journalistic film criticism for the daily publication, "Politika," in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. His film reviews appeared in a weekly Monday supplement, and one day he was reading through it in a barbershop. "You're reading that crazy Petric," the barber observed. "Let me give you some advice: whenever he says a film is excellent, don't go, but if he says not to go to a movie, I guarantee you will enjoy it." That was the end of his career as a film reviewer.
"That helped me to realize that my judgment and approach was far different from that of the popular audience," says Petric. "If that hadn't happened, maybe I'd be one of the journalists in "The Village Voice" or "The Boston Phoenix" today."
Petric was born in Yugoslavia, and studied there, in Moscow, and in New York. He holds a B.A. in Comparative Literature, a B.A. in Theater Directing, an M.A. in Theater Criticism, an M.A. in Filmmaking, and a Ph.D. in Film Theory and History. In 1962 and '63 he made two narrative Yugoslavian feature films, and worked extensively in Yugoslavian television. His books include, Introduction to Film Theory, Film Versus Theater, and Eighth Power: Television as a Means of Expression and Communication. In this country he has contributed over 40 articles and essays to publications such as "Sight and Sound," "Cinema Journal," and "Film Quarterly." In 1969, a friend of his was producing Mel Brooks's The Twelve Chairs when one of the supporting actors bowed out. Brooks asked Petric to replace the actor--"because of my owlish eyes," Petric admits. "It turned out to be a stupid movie," he says. Before coming to Harvard, he taught at several universities and conducted seminars all over the country.
Now that Harvard has asked him to return, Petric will take the first semester of next year off(as he originally planned), to complete three books: Cinematic Analysis, a textbook for analyzing film structure; Theory of sound film, about how sound relates to images; and a monograph on Dziga Vertov, a Soviet revolutionary, avant-garde filmmaker of the silent era. He will also publish a recent interview he conducted with Orson Welles, whom Petric considers the greatest American filmmaker (though one who has been neglected).
On the basis of Welles' penetrating analysis of his own work in his recent movie, Filming Othello (which will not have a commercial release in this country), Petric has recommended to the Norton Lecture Committee that Welles be asked to deliver this prestigious lecture series in 1980. Welles, says Petric, will accept if asked. At present, Petric is preparing a screening of Filming Othello for the Norton Committee. Their invitation, he feels, will not only acknowledge Welles' position in cinema, but will give formal recognition of film as an area deserving of academic attention.
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During director Anrei Serban's recent lecture at the Loeb Drama Center--a lecture composed of a series of questions and answers--Vlada Petric directs a questions to Loeb Producing Director George Hamlin: "Since you belong to this institution, do you plan to hire Mr. Serban to change a little bit of the theater we see here, which I find very conventional, boring and stale?" People gasp, some applaud, some laugh. During a reception afterwards, Petric tells me, "Two elderly ladies just came up to me and told me that I ought to be ashamed of myself" He says it with evident satisfaction, almost gleefully. He has made this criticism of Harvard theater before, and says of the institution, "Harvard does not accept art on an equal level with science--which is disgraceful."
Petric's "lack of manners" is legendary. Often he will interrupt section leaders in his own course, and berate them for missing small details. To some, this quality of aggressive bluntness makes Petric exasperating; others find it endearing. As section leader Robert Tranchin explains it, Petric applies the same rigorous standards to his own work as he applies to others.
During our interview, someone compliments Petric's patterned shirt. In response, he quotes from a poem called "Song of the Shirt." "Who wrote that?" he asks me. I tell him I have absolutely no idea. "It begins, 'Stitch, stitch, stitch," he says. "You're an English major--who wrote it?" I shrug stupidly. Annoyed, he gets up and asks several people standing outside his office. They shrug too. "Imagine--teaching assistants, and nobody knows 'Song of the Shirt!' "By now he is worked up; he picks up the phone and dials Widener Library. The librarian refers him to the Reference Room. After several minutes, someone comes up with the poet: Thomas Hood. "Thomas Hood! Yes..." says Petric. "It was also made by D.W. Griffith into a tenminute film," he says, and begins to rummage through his papers. After several minutes, he triumphantly tosses a reference in one of his own articles to the 1908 film onto the desk. "'Song of the Shirt,'" he repeats, "an example of the relationship between literature and cinema in the earliest stage of film history!" Such obsessive thoroughness is said to be characteristic of all Petric's work and research.
To understand Vlada Petric's vision of cinema, it is useful to cite and examine specific films. When I venture to say that Lina Wertmueller's Seven Beauties is among my favorite films, he characterizes her as "an interesting but unimportant filmmaker, a kind of Jacqueline Susanne of the cinema" who "entertains bourgeoise intellectuals on a slightly higher level than junk. In Seven Beauties the cinematic structure and forms that she chose don't correspond to the narrative and ideological substance. That content is superficially conceived she treated the dramatic concept without artistic depth." He then points out that we have reached an impasse--the only way to resolve the difference of opinion would be "to undertake a close analysis of the film. We would have to clarify the distinctions in the script, dialogue, dramatic structure, camera movement, use of color and sound, montage pace, acting and shot composition."
What about Jaws, which I found cinematically dazzling? "Junk," he says. "A stupid story--the techinique is meaningless." Its deficiencies, he says, show up clearly when compared to Hitchcok's Psycho.. "There was a very deep psychological justification for the horror in this film," he says. "In the shower sequence, Hitchcock created a metaphor for human fear. He also conveyed cinematically the theme of the inability to relate to another person."
He draws a diagram to illustrate his points. On one side is narrative content, and on the other cinematic technique. In the center is the integration: art to convey a message. He places Annie Hall on the narrative content side (he considers the film cinematically inept), and Jaws on the side of good cinematic technique with trivial content. Neither bridges the gap the way Welles' Touch of Evil, superficially seen as a lurid melodrama, does, creating a broader cinematic metaphor. He gives Annie Hall a grade of B-, Jaws a D. So much for my favorite films.
Next spring, Petric hopes to teach a smaller course in either the evolution of silent cinema, or avant garde cinema. As a result of the combined promises of President Bok, Dean Rosovsky, and the Luce Foundation, he hopes to see the Carpenter Center purchase new 35-millimeter equipment, thus enabling the study of the newest films and allowing current filmmakers to introduce their works at Harvard.
As the subject of an interview, Vlada Petric is as demanding and enthusiastic as he is when teaching. "I have an ending for your article," he says, suddenly, and waves his hands while composing his sentences. "I know the future of the film program at Harvard will depend on money," he begins. "Film Studies is an expensive medium which when approached in a scholarly way does not bring back profit. But there are dreams, dash-dash, even in academia, dot dot dot, that money cannot buy." His last sentence, he explains, is a pun of a '40s avant-garde film called Dreams That Money Can Buy, which he screened for Hum 193 this year.
"I think that's a good ending."