David Thomson’s New Biographical Dictionary of Film is one of those unclassifiably quirky books, like Pictures from an Institution or Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, that are unknown to the public at large but treasured by a tiny band of loyalists. Every true-blue film buff I know owns a copy of Thomson (as the Biographical Dictionary is eponymously known to its devotees), consults it regularly, and gives it to friends for Christmas, whether they want it or not. So when I. heard that Thomson had updated Thomson for the third time since 1975, taking due note of such worthy new arrivals as Steve Buscemi, Reese Witherspoon, and Renée Zellweger, I cleared a place on my writing calendar, having long wanted to say something in print about one of the most engrossing and exasperating books ever written about the movies. Thomson’s fans are like that: always on the lookout for converts.
One reason so few people know about Thomson’s magnum opus is that it flies the false flag of a reference book. The title is anodyne, the typography is staid, and the text consists of more than 1,300 alphabetically arranged entries, starting with Abbott and Costello and ending with Terry Zwigoff, each one prefaced by a chronological list of films. What could be less enticing? But don’t let appearances fool you. H. L. Mencken once explained to Theodore Dreiser that the sober-sided title and appearance of the magazine in whose handsomely printed pages Mencken cavorted each month were mere camouflage to lull the unsuspecting booboisie: “What we need is something that looks highly respectable outwardly. The American Mercury is almost perfect for that purpose. What will go on inside the tent is another story. You will recall that the late P. T. Barnum got away with burlesque shows by calling them moral lectures.” Thomson is similarly sneaky, cramming one outrageously idiosyncratic opinion after another into the 963 action-packed pages of The New Biographical Dictionary of Film.
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