On The Aviator

The substance of The Aviator is endless jive. By and large Howard Hughes made lousy movies and he made bad planes too, at least, when he was using the government's money. He had money to waste and he wasted it. He didn't have anyone's ass to kiss, which in Hollywood must often seem like heaven, but it didn't make him a genius. Scorsese seems to be channeling Vincente Minelli in one year and Douglas Sirk in the other. Queer theorists will be living off this film for decades.