Remember when Frank Sinatra died a few years ago? There was a huge funeral, and people walked around moping for a day or two saying, "I can't believe he's gone." It's like when a relative you've ignored drops dead. You should have been more attentive. Likewise, why didn't we appreciate Gene Kelly or Jimmy Stewart when they were still with us? We knew they were around — Jimmy would show up to support his annual marathon; Gene might pop up now and then in a photo in Seasons — but we feel guilty that the celebrity died, and, like that obscure relative who lives in another state, we never got to say goodbye.

Why don't we pay attention to our aging celebrities? The truth is, we don't have a use for them anymore. When Gene can't dance, or Frank's pipes aren't what they used to be, we forget that they are still with us. And in death, suddenly the celebrity becomes more than just his talent. Regardless, the sadness people feel about the death of a once great entertainer generally comes from nostalgia (Remember the good times he gave us in the past? He was great!), and nostalgia is an emotion that makes my stomach turn.

Celebrities lose their human quality when they become famous, and they are not allowed to age. They become an ideal, and we do not want them to change. They give us something to strive for, someone to impress, someone whose opinion and validation actually means something. When Gene Kelly was alive, did the young dancer strive to jump higher, just to impress the master? I would imagine that a director like Tarantino would have no greater thrill than to have Martin Scorcese see his movies, or that playing onstage with Jimmy Page is the dream come true for a Black Crow.

For many years, the dream come true for a film director was a positive review from Pauline Kael. She was the one to impress, the one whose opinion dictated whether or not a film really was good or bad, quality or trash, entertaining or dull. And if you read the myriad reports on her death, it's easy to recognize Kael's great strengths: She loved movies; she wasn't a snob or pretentious; she was a vigorous soldier on the frontlines of the great movie debates. She was the one.

There was a point in the history of the movies when audiences really did listen to film critics, when a writer such as Pauline Kael could affect the fate of Nashville, when a battle over the importance of Bonnie and Clyde between Bosley Crowther and Kael really had some resonance. Reading from her collection, For Keeps, there is a section where she responds to angry letters from her readers. The writers seemed to really care about movies, care about their fate and fair appraisal, and Kael's opinion was the final word.

But movie audiences today don't participate in this type of dialogue with their critics because we don't go to the movies expecting quality. We go simply as something to do. On the front page of the Los Angeles Times Calendar, in the same edition where Kael was eulogized by Charles Champlin (which was like having a little leaguer eulogize Pete Rose), there was a story about dwindling attendance at movie theaters. One studio head was quoted as saying, "We seem to be able to sell almost anything, regardless of quality. It's a little frightening." The key phrase is "regardless of quality."

Indeed, we hadn't heard from Pauline for awhile. It was rumored that she said that Forrest Gump was the "death of American cinema," but I've never been able to substantiate this quote. She showed up in Vanity Fair, gave an interview to Modern Maturity, published a collection of reviews — but basically, Pauline Kael was done.

So, why should I be saddened by her death? Like Frank or Gene, she had her use and then retired. But I think the sad thing is not so much in her actual passing, but more that her type of critic, and the times in which film criticism meant something, has been facing a slow death over the past decade since she stopped writing. Critics used to want to be like her. Now, without her around, I wonder if the art of film criticism will continue its slow demise into the category of "entertainment reporting."

I think the cynicism of movie audiences reflects the state of the critics as well. To tell the truth, I haven't read a truly ballsy review in years. A perfect example is the most recent offering from Steven Spielberg — A.I. How this movie got away without one scathing review from a major metropolitan newspaper is completely baffling to me. I don't think it takes much mental strength to determine that A.I. was a dreadful film. But for some reason, no one had the guts. The reviews were almost uniformly lukewarm. Instead of saying something nasty, and questioning the great Spielberg-Kubrick combo, they just didn't say anything at all — like an imaginary dinner party at Wolfgang Puck's house where everyone knows the food tastes like poison but they simply avoid the topic, smile, and eat.

It seems to me that we have strayed dangerously far from the days of Pauline Kael. The days when a critic would take on a Spielberg, and felt that it was her duty to do so. The review used to be an integral part of the creative process. An artist needs an educated eye, and Kael's column was the place directors and writers went to learn what impression they made, if the film worked, why or why not. These days, most critics seem to be too lazy or jaded to even have an opinion. Kenneth Turan, in a recent essay about Amores Perros, wrote that he "just didn't get it" so he didn't review the movie. Huh?

Even more disturbing, a few months ago, yet another Hollywood scandal broke. Sony Pictures Entertainment created a fake critic to render a positive review of A Knight's Tale. I suppose we all should have been more outraged. But most people were shocked, not that the studio had lied, but more that Sony was stupid — there were probably dozens of critics who would've gladly given positive reviews of the film just to see their names in print. This is the new critic — the starfucker-blurbmeister. Are you listening, Peter Travers Jeffrey Lyons, Lisa Schwartzbaum?

Can we remember a time when a critic's positive review meant more than a way to manipulate box office? Certainly, good reviews have always been part of a film's marketing campaign. But a good review was a reward, not to be taken for granted. Now, it seems, a good review is an assumed part of the marketing — publicity is the critic's raison d'être. Flipping through the ads in your local newspaper, Joe Moviegoer asks: What else is the critic for but to urge me to see a movie and help ticket sales?

A good review from Pauline Kael meant something. You listened to her. These days, I can't think of a critic who can influence public opinion, and so it shouldn't be surprising that a studio head can sell anything "regardless of quality." More disturbing, I wonder if filmmakers themselves have a critic whose poor review might give cause for reflection. If Kael wrote a scathing review of American Pie 2, I somehow think the director and writer might take notice and want to do better — without her, it's just another bad movie that made money.

So now what happens? There is no standard-setter for what movies ought to be. Speaking for myself, I was always comforted to know that Pauline was out there, watching. As I sat through The Mummy Returns, I wondered what she would have thought. I hoped other people wondered as well. Now that we know she's not watching anymore, is it possible that those in charge of making movies will care less? An old adage comes to mind: When the cat's away, the mice will play. And like movies post-Gene Kelly, real film criticism will go the way of the great dance number.

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