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A Written Case of Conflict?
(October 2005) You’ve probably
never read a film review by a movie director about another auteur’s work.
It’s just not done. Sure, some film reviewers go on to make films (Rod Lurie
and Paul Schrader), and some even go from art to criticism (Roger Ebert
penned three of Russ Meyer’s sexplotation pics in the 70s), but you never see
anyone in the filmmaking industry doing both at once. (Imagine you trashed a
producer’s film and then later needed to turn to him for the green to spin
your latest box office gold; it’d be career suicide.) Not so in the literary
world. A few years ago John Updike lambasted Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full
in the pages of The New Yorker. What ensued was a vitriolic and very
public pissing contest between two gigantic, alpha-male egos. The debacle (which pulled
Norman Mailer and John Irving into the fracas) made the literati elite appear
puerile and cheapened their stature. Time and publicists have repaired the
damage, but is it viable to have one artist evaluating another when they’re
also (inherently) rivals? It could be construed as a conflict of interest or
worse, a cheap means of trying to ascend the throne of greatness by putting
down another. In the case of Updike and Wolfe, both are well established
enough that neither really has anything to lose as far as getting their next
novel published, but what of those aspiring poets and novelists who often
(more than you would suspect) write book reviews for The New York
Times and The Boston Globe? In their struggle for visibility, do they put down in
order to push up? Take Steve Almond, a prolific and talented Boston based
writer on the rise. Here’s an except from his disemboweling of Bret Easton
Ellis’s Lunar Park, in the August 14th 2005 edition
of The Boston Globe: As for the prose,
again, I defer to Ellis himself. He writes of Jayne, "Her face softened
and for the first time this morning she smiled genuinely, without forcing it,
without any affectation. It was spontaneous and unrehearsed." If
you’re keeping track at home, that’s five reiterations of the same
information. Elsewhere,
we are treated to gems such as "My hand was a white-knuckled fist
clenched around the .38" and "We waited for what felt like
eternity." Ellis announces that a ghost-detecting machine "resumed
beeping again." At this point, I began to wonder if the book wasn’t some
sort of elaborate prank. Do
they no longer employ copy editors at Knopf? But then, why should they
bother? People will buy this book, regardless of the juvenile writing and
absurd plot twists. Is his knock a sincere and
honest form of criticism (the “that’s five reiterations of the same
information” bears merit, but that’s squeezing it), or a writer throwing a
dagger at another out of envy? (Like or dislike Ellis, he is wildly
successful in terms of money and fame.) I have read Ellis in the past (American
Psycho and Less than Zero) and can imagine that some
(perhaps all) of Mr. Almond’s assertions are true, but that does not
alleviate the dubious tang of one writer bludgeoning another under the guise
of providing a helpful service to the reading public. One could argue that a
literary writer (I would prefer to say “creative writer,” but anytime pen
gets put to paper, be it a novel, a letter to mom or a book review, there is
always a degree of creativity. “Literary” is problematic too because it
connotes a standard of excellence, and in this context, Daniel Steele
unfortunately is lumped in the company of Ernest Hemingway.) could better
evaluate the work more for its technical craftsmanship and flaws than someone
whose primary occupation is to read and review—takes one to know one? And
surely Almond, who teaches creative writing at Boston College, and Updike, a
literary uber mensch, are both qualified, but is their opinion valid and
fair? Hard to say. Criticism is not reporting.
There is a degree of telling what happens in the work but it is more the
pouring out of opinions and tastes onto a page with the readership and the
book’s (or film’s) audience in mind. Critics with journalistic roots are
trained to focus on these angles—and obviously posses the requisite expert
level of knowledge to be critical, authoritative and credible. Authors and
artists (arguably) are more passionate and less restrained. Does that
inherently mean they can’t be as objective as the critic when they sit down
to pen a review? Creative ego might obscure such vital considerations as
their publication’s readership, the book in question’s target market and the “it
is, what it is” factor. Writers are a funny lot when it comes to ego (Not to
pick on Steve, but for a wonderful and humorous travail of writerly egos
clashing, catch his blip on Salon.com). That’s not to say they can’t wear
many hats and do it with the objectivity the consumer needs, and wants to
trust and value. Both bibliophiles are well versed in the history and styles
of the written word and possess a deep inner love for it. The critic reads
without impulse or jealousy, only the joy or sour apples served up by the
book in hand, noting plot plausibility, character development and the book’s
worth within its self defined context. The lit. writer (by day, critic by
night) on the other hand might admire a verse or conceit and either embrace it
glowingly or pursue it with harsh scrutiny, seeking to discredit the genius
that did not spawn from their seed. Worse than jealous evisceration, is
fawning admiration or shameless idolization. Neither is objective and neither
helps the reader in their goal to determine if the book is for them or not. In the end, it falls back
on the reader to evaluate the review in terms of its tone and their
preferences: the one looking for a critical opinion must first be the critic.
Those whose sole occupation is to write about books objectively are probably
the safer bet—they do it more and without doubt, have developed consistency,
voice and a rhythm and flow. Those who publish in bound print however, have
the insight and wisdom reserved only for their ranks. It’s a piquant trade
off that makes me wonder if it’s not time for me to pitch my talents to The
New York Times or The Boston Globe. I could review Steve
Almond’s next book and tell readers how Almond doesn’t know to pen a sex
scene to save his skin, while in the back of my mind, I know (wish) I could
do it better. Not that I’m jealous or anything, I’d be totally objective. - TBM |
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