GETTING THE CLAP

Three Minutes? You Call That A Standing Ovation?

An insulted film director says goodbye to all that

I didn’t dedicate my life to cinema to receive standing ovations at film festivals. But goddammit, I didn’t dedicate my life to cinema to NOT receive standing ovations at film festivals, either.

It’s an epidemic: at Venice and Telluride and Cannes, films and performances are bringing the world’s most discerning audiences to their feet, for unfathomably long stretches of time.

At Venice, Ana de Armas’ performance as Marilyn Monroe in “Blonde” was gifted a 14-minute standing O. Brendan Fraser banked six vertical minutes for “The Whale.” The Queen, Cate Blanchett, basked in six minutes of bliss for “TÁR.” Timothée Chalamet reaped 10 solid gold minutes of professional “YES!!” for “Bones and All.” The film “Banshees of Inisherin” luxuriated in 12 (12!) minutes of soul-nourishing rise and clap.

And that’s fine. Really. Good for you. These precious minutes are yours to savor, colleagues. I’m sure you’ll never forget them.

It is in this context I debuted MY film, “Paraquat,” a fond yet devastating B&W evocation of my childhood during the Carter Administration to the festival audience in Venice.

After the last credit rolled, the lights came up and the audience rose to its feet as one. And suddenly the room was awash in applause. Healing, validating applause.

For three minutes.

Actually 3:02, per my AppleWatch.

And then it stopped. The clapping. For me. And then everyone just…split.

Three minutes and two seconds? Che fucking cosa, Venice?

Did you not know this was my Ana de Armas moment?

That a so-much-longer-than-three-minute standing ovation was meant to wipe away decades of insecurity, of nay-saying, of feeling like a journeyman hack for Hulu?

You could have bathed me in validation, Venice, but instead you grudge-clapped for three lousy minuti, then turned to your partner and said, did you eat? I could eat.

What happened? Did your arms get tired? Was ten to thirteen minutes of light cardio too much to ask in the celebration of Art?

Everyone else is getting theirs. Why not me? When Spielberg’s upcoming “The Fabelmans” shows at the AFI Fest, he’ll probably get a 30-minute standing O afterwards. 35, even. The audience may have to stand and ovate in shifts. There may be an intermission to break up the ovation.

But for me? Niente. I’m supposed to stand here naked with my begging bowl and say thank you sir, for your contemptuous three minute “ovation.” Apparently, a glacially slow four-hour evocation of my difficult childhood is worth only 182 seconds of your noblesse oblige.

I am done being judged by an audience who would rather pee than think.

Yes. I am quitting show business. Finished.

Had you chosen to spend just six to eight more minutes on your feet I might have been inclined to soldier on, might have been inspired to create something magical. Timothée Chalamet magical.

But no, you have made your feelings known.

It took a three-minute standing ovation for me to learn the meaning of the word “cancelled.”

Cinema, you have broken my heart.

Goodbye. From here on, I leave the heavy lifting to Brendan Fraser.

***

The T. Kent Jones omnibus never closes. Free Parking!

There’s so much comedy behind this blue-eyed cat.