- Since Faust was a tragic play, an opera, and a film, how can Schlesinger “paint” his defection as Faustian? Sure, Goethe was an occasional painter, but even he had his doubts.
- Also, as neologisms go, “irono-babe” is about as inviting as Infobahn. (And why the hyphen? The first step in coining any noun is to present it without a grammatical eyesore.)
- How can Schlesinger be an omnivore “and a carnivore?” An omnivore eats both plants and animals. Since this little contradictory morsel was inserted via a hyphenated clause, could it be that the copy desk doesn’t know the difference between a herbivore, a carnivore, and an omnivore?
- What business does an unsubstantiated rumor about Philip Roth’s sex life have in a review of Exit Ghost? I cannot help but wonder if Clive James was asked to spice things up with an indiscretion.
- If a dead man “has been close to all” four men throughout Graham Swift’s Last Orders, must we conclude that these four men have been lingering close to the dead man’s ashes throughout the novel? Or is proper past tense not part of NYTBR house style?
- Likewise: “In telling her story in a nighttime whisper, Paula reveals facets of herself and her experience the reader might otherwise never glean.” Conjunction junction, what’s your function?
- If one buys a book online, one buys it from one’s home computer, not necessarily from Britain.
- If a shape is a visual form, how does it snap back? Aren’t shapes silent? Also, if time “warps at the edges and then stops altogether,” is time a temporal or a visual noun here? Make up your mind.
- Also: “Together, this seemingly ordinary couple became the poles of Hampl’s existence, opposing magnetic forces that held their conflicted daughter firmly between them.” Aside from the messy syntax here, this sentence could be easily read the wrong way. If Hampl’s parents are opposing magnetic forces, would they not repel their daughter?
- “Her previous memoirs portray a woman watching the world go by without her, an outsider gazing in.” Wait a minute. I thought she was gazing outside. Danielle Trussoni appears to be directionally challenged.
- Conflict of interest much, Sammy baby?
- “The essays are more chewy — what one imagines Milan Kundera might sound like before his first cup of coffee.” Nice try, Ms. Harrison, but why not evoke a chewy snack instead of coffee?
- You “want” this and you “want” that, Mr. Taylor. Good Christ, you sound like a spoiled teenager who demands a Porsche on his sixteenth birthday. Criticism isn’t about wanting. It’s about interpreting and understanding.
Author / Edward Champion
John Patterson: A Pox Upon Cultural Journalism
So, John, I read your article and it seems that your number is up. Perhaps you’ve run out of ideas or things to write about. (In the Internet age? With all this interesting information around? Man, you must really be a dunce if telling Nicole Kidman to retire is the best story idea you can come up with.) I mean, here you are, making one of the most ridiculous arguments I think I’ve read in a while about a celebrity who, truth be told, I really don’t care all that much about. And you’ve devoted about 500 words to this and, good Christ, even collected a paycheck for this bullshit!
If only you’d retire. Because now would be the time. With all the fascinating subjects out there pertaining to film (the advantages of shooting in DV, the effects of YouTube and the efforts at control by Viacom, Hollywood people beginning to bankroll their own projects because the studios are being a bit more wary — to name just three lazy things that come to mind as I remain half-awake), this is the best thing you can come up with? Christ, you make Charlie Brooker look like fucking Updike writing about golf. Of all the mangy dogs hungering for freelancing scraps on Fleet Street, how did you of all people get this gig? Was the editor who assigned this so out of his gourd that he looked upon you, John, the rheumatic runt who nobody wanted, to write this feeble attack piece? Did you boff someone? I mean, there’s simply no rational reason I can fathom for the level of self-entitlement (why should a specific actress cater to you when there are countless others out there who you can enjoy?) and bullshit I get from your article. (If you’re going to write a rant, have a purpose, for fuck’s sake.) How long did it take for you to bang this out, Johnny? 45 minutes? (And can you even write? Isn’t “sweltering hot day” redundant? “AWOL” is capitalized, you dunce, because it’s an acronym. What kind of a lede is “It seems that rock’n’roll is no longer paying the bills for some people?” Why can’t you get your math right? You can’t be seriously suggesting that David Lean should be dethroned because Brief Encounter wasn’t prescient enough to reflect the changing sexual mores of the past sixty years, can you? You didn’t really quibble with Sean Connery’s depiction of Bond because he wore a hairpiece?)
That cultural journalism has declined so readily into this unsubstantiated claptrap and that it chooses to favor the John Pattersons of our world — bitter cranks who, in a just world, would be pumping petrol somewhere — is a sure sign that journalistic standards have fallen.
Writing and the Internet
R.U. Sirius was kind enough to include me among many more distinguished writers in asking the question, “Is the Net Good for Writers?”
A Kinder, Gentler NYTBR Podcast
It appears that the NYTBR podcast has shifted to a kinder, gentler opening tune — which is to say opening music that as safe as elevator music (but certainly not houses). And Tanenhaus is now trying harder to sound warmer than he has in the past. One can only imagine the memos that were disseminated. I commend Tanenhaus for attempting to access that lovely portion of the human spectrum that exists beyond the walls of the New York Times building. But Tanenhaus has all the believability of Tor Johnson in Plan 9 from Outer Space. All the media training in the world won’t do anything to change a man who has all the charisma of a bitter accountant in early April. This podcast, predicated on the We Take No Chances model of corporate complacency, really needs to be abandoned or taken over by someone who still has a shred of genuine ebullience about literature.
Write-In Candidate
Tod Goldberg as Parade Editor-in-Chief? Well, Mr. Goldberg is certainly the dark horse candidate. But if it means more “fucktards” in Parade, as opposed to garden-variety fucktards writing for the magazine, then what will it take to make this happen?