Everybody's A Critic
As a webcomic character myself, I try to feign interest in all the pap and smear that oozes from our tiny world, and the latest is all about critics, and so there you go and here I am to toss in my ha'penny.
When I was in high school, I wanted to write for the school newspaper. The editor was a popular kid, and so it followed that all the other kids on the staff were popular as well, and me being not of that ilk (popular, that is) was looked at like a freak the first time I showed up for a meeting. Which isn't to say I wasn't a freak, because I was. (And thank God the Internet came along to give all of us an anonymous voice to revel in our freakiness - but I digress.) Fortunately, the school newspaper advisor was a kindly English gent by the name of John Miller (and can you get any more English than that, I think not) who for some reason found himself at my school for a year or two and drawn to the freaks because he realized, correctly, that the popular kids tended to be rather bland and short lived - a visit to any high school reunion will confirm this- and that the freaks had more staying power, potential intellect, or at least the capacity to think somewhat outside the box. Which of course, was easy, seeing as how we were never invited inside the box. Anyway, the kindly Mr. Miller recognized my plight and suggested I write a piece for the paper, and if it was any good he'd see that it got printed. This fell far short of my desire to start my own school paper and eventually drive the other to extinction, but Mr. Miller gave me the standard speech about baby steps, and I felt better. Actually, Mr. Miller sounded exactly like Graham Chapman from Monty Python, which was so incredibly cool he could have told me to go eat babies and I would have done it.
So, I had my first assignment. But what to write? I decided to write a review, because you can never have enough critics, and why else would I be writing all this unless it eventually got back around to the subject of criticism? I decide to review Mrs. Gartner's kindergarten class production of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. A savage review, nearly 7,000 words criticizing every aspect of the play, from Mrs. Gartner's minimalist set design concepts and her direction, to the atrocious performance of the lead actress, Mary Beth Hanlin. I wrote -
"I was instantly reminded I wasn't at the Old Vic anymore the minute Ms. Hanlin ambled on stage; her hands shielding her eyes from the lights as she searched the crowd for a recognizable face. One can hardly imagine Sir Larry walking the boards looking for a” friend in the crowd”. The play's the thing, and one wished Ms. Hanlin would have received at least some basic instruction in stagecraft before she was let loose before the poor unsuspecting theatre goers at St. Theresa’s Elementary. Lines constantly bungled and forgotten, horrid pacing, it was only ten minutes into this nightmare when I wished a horrible plague to overwhelm us all. Take me now Lord, I muttered to myself, and from the faces of the patrons I suspect I was not the only one. The only humor was unintentional; the efforts of Mr. William Gerard, in the role of “Papa Bear,” to reach under his amateurish costume to pick his nose. Were I the parent of any of the children involved in this horror I would at least be grateful that my offspring’s utter and total lack of talent and creativity has been exposed to me at this young age, and I might now direct them to a career more suited for their bland and soulless personalities.”
And so on and so forth for another 6,000 + words.
Mr. Miller , bless him, actually printed my review in it’s entirety. He saw it as a piece of performance art; I mean, a kindergarten theatre critic -who would take it seriously? Of course, had I known that Mary Beth Hanlin was the granddaughter of the Superintendent of Schools Oscar Hanlin, well, I probably would have still wrote it but I know Mr. Miller would have had the good sense not to print it. He kept his job as teacher, but was asked to step down as advisor to the school paper. And so the criticism became the thing, and critics of the critic had a field day. Which was sad, because no one had the guts to stand up and say, “He’s right! The play sucked!” And so that December, blissfully unaware of their shortcomings, the kids put on a Christmas play. (Not so much a play but rather a collection of carol singing and holiday themed vignettes.) I’m told this was equally putrid, but I was barred from the gym that night so I cannot give you an honest and authoritative review.
The funny thing was, I wasn’t trying to do performance art - I was just a prick with a chip on my shoulder. But when an educated Englishman reads something you wrote and says “Brilliant!” in that way educated Englishmen can, well, it’s anything he wants it to be.
Which is the same as criticism. On one level, it’s all completely valid, and on another, completely meaningless. And whether or not that means anything, or I’ve just wasted five minutes of your life, well, that‘s for you to decide. Cuz everybody’s a critic.
When I was in high school, I wanted to write for the school newspaper. The editor was a popular kid, and so it followed that all the other kids on the staff were popular as well, and me being not of that ilk (popular, that is) was looked at like a freak the first time I showed up for a meeting. Which isn't to say I wasn't a freak, because I was. (And thank God the Internet came along to give all of us an anonymous voice to revel in our freakiness - but I digress.) Fortunately, the school newspaper advisor was a kindly English gent by the name of John Miller (and can you get any more English than that, I think not) who for some reason found himself at my school for a year or two and drawn to the freaks because he realized, correctly, that the popular kids tended to be rather bland and short lived - a visit to any high school reunion will confirm this- and that the freaks had more staying power, potential intellect, or at least the capacity to think somewhat outside the box. Which of course, was easy, seeing as how we were never invited inside the box. Anyway, the kindly Mr. Miller recognized my plight and suggested I write a piece for the paper, and if it was any good he'd see that it got printed. This fell far short of my desire to start my own school paper and eventually drive the other to extinction, but Mr. Miller gave me the standard speech about baby steps, and I felt better. Actually, Mr. Miller sounded exactly like Graham Chapman from Monty Python, which was so incredibly cool he could have told me to go eat babies and I would have done it.
So, I had my first assignment. But what to write? I decided to write a review, because you can never have enough critics, and why else would I be writing all this unless it eventually got back around to the subject of criticism? I decide to review Mrs. Gartner's kindergarten class production of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. A savage review, nearly 7,000 words criticizing every aspect of the play, from Mrs. Gartner's minimalist set design concepts and her direction, to the atrocious performance of the lead actress, Mary Beth Hanlin. I wrote -
"I was instantly reminded I wasn't at the Old Vic anymore the minute Ms. Hanlin ambled on stage; her hands shielding her eyes from the lights as she searched the crowd for a recognizable face. One can hardly imagine Sir Larry walking the boards looking for a” friend in the crowd”. The play's the thing, and one wished Ms. Hanlin would have received at least some basic instruction in stagecraft before she was let loose before the poor unsuspecting theatre goers at St. Theresa’s Elementary. Lines constantly bungled and forgotten, horrid pacing, it was only ten minutes into this nightmare when I wished a horrible plague to overwhelm us all. Take me now Lord, I muttered to myself, and from the faces of the patrons I suspect I was not the only one. The only humor was unintentional; the efforts of Mr. William Gerard, in the role of “Papa Bear,” to reach under his amateurish costume to pick his nose. Were I the parent of any of the children involved in this horror I would at least be grateful that my offspring’s utter and total lack of talent and creativity has been exposed to me at this young age, and I might now direct them to a career more suited for their bland and soulless personalities.”
And so on and so forth for another 6,000 + words.
Mr. Miller , bless him, actually printed my review in it’s entirety. He saw it as a piece of performance art; I mean, a kindergarten theatre critic -who would take it seriously? Of course, had I known that Mary Beth Hanlin was the granddaughter of the Superintendent of Schools Oscar Hanlin, well, I probably would have still wrote it but I know Mr. Miller would have had the good sense not to print it. He kept his job as teacher, but was asked to step down as advisor to the school paper. And so the criticism became the thing, and critics of the critic had a field day. Which was sad, because no one had the guts to stand up and say, “He’s right! The play sucked!” And so that December, blissfully unaware of their shortcomings, the kids put on a Christmas play. (Not so much a play but rather a collection of carol singing and holiday themed vignettes.) I’m told this was equally putrid, but I was barred from the gym that night so I cannot give you an honest and authoritative review.
The funny thing was, I wasn’t trying to do performance art - I was just a prick with a chip on my shoulder. But when an educated Englishman reads something you wrote and says “Brilliant!” in that way educated Englishmen can, well, it’s anything he wants it to be.
Which is the same as criticism. On one level, it’s all completely valid, and on another, completely meaningless. And whether or not that means anything, or I’ve just wasted five minutes of your life, well, that‘s for you to decide. Cuz everybody’s a critic.
posted by Norman P. Function @ 10:49 AM
21 comments
