THE BIZ

Every decade gets the pseudonymous film critic it deserves. During the venomous ‘80s, it was Joe Bob Briggs, whose thumbs-ups for beheadings and breast tallies appeared in the Dallas Times Herald (and were widely syndicated). The ‘90s, however, belong to Libby Gelman-Waxner, Premiere magazine’s Jersey-based suburban film-critic-cum-part-time-buyer for a line of children’s sportswear. Libby, who envisions proper hair and nail management at the core of any valid aesthetic system, is married to an overweight orthodontist and is working through her secret passion with Dennis Quaid with her analyst. She is also, some say, Greenwich Village-based screenwriter (“The Addams Family”) and playwright (“I Hate Hamlet”) Paul Rudnick.

Rudnick vehemently denies that he is Libby, though he does seem to know an awful lot about her and admits that she is “clearly the most perceptive film critic of her generation.” Perhaps because he shares so many of her opinions. “Filmgoers today,” Rudnick says in Libbyesque fashion, “want to see objects and clothing they would like to own, stars they would like to date and befriend.” Libby, he observes, regards film-going as a form of culturally sanctioned adultery.

But can a gal from Jersey truly understand Hollywood? “She needs to keep a critical distance from the Industry,” says Rudnick, who notes that she has turned down many cameo roles. “Libby has to restrict her contact to Cineplex Odeons.”

But how many Cineplex Odeons are there below 14th Street?