Dancing About Architecture

"Writing about music is like dancing about architecture... it's a really stupid thing to want to do." - Elvis Costello.

I've seen that quote attributed to at least three different people, including Frank Zappa and Steve Martin in addition to the above credited Elvis Costello. It's witty and it's funny and in certain circles it's considered true. If you subscribe to that notion, you can widen its breadth to encompass writing about film or theater or any other format that would appeal for review on its own merits without the aid of a third party -least of which, the lowly critic.

I suppose it's a good thing, then, that it's bollocks.


As was Costello's other famous quote about Ray Charles, which I'll not post here for its inflammatory content. Unfortunately, it's become a loophole dismissal for entertainers of all practices. Opinions do matter. It's stunning to me that the people who most often wrap themselves in a cloak fashioned of the first amendment are the first to deny others those very same rights.

Recently airing on cable television is a new Jamie Kennedy (no relation) Experiment.
I give you Heckler. In it, live footage pairs with interviews to address the greatest on-the-job hazard a comic has to face: the often drunk, almost always obnoxious Heckler. Kennedy has assembled an often-impressive collection of celebrity friends who reminisce and relay the best and worst heckler responses they've built up within their respective repertoires over the years. Most of the heckling featured in the film targets Kennedy, himself, as he performs live on stage, and it can be pretty brutal. In one instance, seemingly the entire audience pelts him with ice, trash and bottles. Since we don't get to see the joke that prompted this reaction, there's no way to find justification for the crowd's actions -if they do indeed exist.

Another memorable segment features Andrew Dice Clay in a now-famous appearance on the CNN network. The anchorman (cum agitator) resorts to guerilla journalism tactics from the very top of the interview, prompting the Diceman to up and leave, but not before supplying a healthy dose of profanity (on live television!) that earned CNN a hefty FCC fine in the process.

The film explores the emotional toll of heckling on the performers profiled, but it doesn't make any distinction between the drunken heckling of a stand-up comic, the inappropriate sneak attack of an ill-intentioned journalist, or the somewhat mean-spirited panning of a less than stellar screen performance by a blogger. The documentary format becomes a soapbox from which the many celebrity guests skewer the concept of criticism. And to me, there are few things as disingenuous as a person who demands attention for a living complaining about the unfortunate attention that fame brings them.

At its most desperate, the program features the comic confronting critics of varying pedigree to argue and/or belittle them. Held in obvious high esteem by the filmmakers is b-movie director Uwe Bol, who has made more of a name for himself challenging his critics to boxing matches than by actually directing films. Anyone who has to answer an argument by resorting to such showboating (Bol was an amateur boxer in his youth) has already lost that argument, but I'd be remiss if I didn't criticize the critics who took him up on his boxing challenge. By participating in an argument that was beneath them in the first place, they've forfeit any moral high ground to which they'd otherwise been entitled.

Apparently not a boxer, Kennedy chooses to dispute the merits of Son of the Mask with bloggers who were especially critical of the film and of his performance in particular. He takes personally every disparaging remark, and rather than argue intelligently, resorts to name-calling. I've met Jamie Kennedy, and I've found him to be a witty, intelligent guy with a great sense of humor that contains a humbling self-deprecation that's hard to not enjoy. I wish that were the Jamie Kennedy that appears here. Instead, we are treated to a fragile, somewhat egotistical whiner. And you can substitute his name with just about any of the other comics profiled (with a few noble exceptions).

There are definitely a myriad of blogger critics whose credentials are nebulous and whose vitriol seems to be the only motivation in their writing (if not their lives). There are no shortage of internet hatchet men who live to tear into celebrities, and who prefer giving space in their columns or blogs to the things that they hate than to those things that they actually enjoy. Some of them are paid well to do so. I've never understood why anyone would want to give undo attention to something they completely hate. I've done my best to avoid public butchery but on occasion have gone perhaps a bit further than I would have liked.

A dozen years ago I was the film critic on a Los Angeles radio program hosted by Riki Rachtman on station KLSX (97.1). He was a good guy, not a shock-jock, and the program was predominantly "feel good" oriented, which is perhaps a surprise that we were the number one talk show on FM radio during the evening drive time. That very coveted slot went to Tom Leykis when Riki lost the show over an incident involving fellow jocks Conway & Steckler. I really enjoyed working on the show, where I would co-host a twenty-minute segment on film every Friday. I was lucky enough to not have to interview the talent during my weekly segment, and usually insisted that any such interviews take place before a film opened so as not to be in the uncomfortable positions of having to discuss a film I didn't like while the actor or director was sitting next to me.

One week in March 1997, that blissful schedule was interrupted, when I was called upon to appear in a Thursday segment with an Australian newcomer, whose film I had seen the previous night. It was an inoffensive film about twenty-somethings searching for meaning while finding themselves and their sexual identities against a background of middle class privilege. It swept the Australian version of the Oscars.

I hated it.

To make things worse, of the three main actresses, I was to sit side-by-side with the girl I felt had given the worst performance in the film.

Riki did the interviewing. The young actress was lovely, sweet and perhaps a tad naive. She was very attractive and had a wonderful disposition. She was everything I'd hoped she was not: really, really nice. I sat in relative silence through most of the proceedings, and when Riki was finished he turned to me and asked," So... what did you think of the movie?"

I had an obligation to my audience to be honest.

I held real contempt for those critics who seemed to kiss everybody's bottoms on their shows, then rip them to pieces later. I breathed in slowly and exhaled even slower. My air swarmed the microphone with a silence that let everyone know that what I had to say wasn't going to be very nice. With the least damaging words I could muster, I turned to my left, looked directly at the girl whose hopes and dreams hung in the very balance and I told the truth.

"I know that this is your first trip to LA, and you are obviously taking meetings with various producers and casting agents, but my advice to you is to not use this film as your calling card. You seem very nice, and I'm sure that charisma comes across when you meet with these people, but this film is really not very good, and it's a very poor representation of you, specifically."

I took a quick swallow of the saliva that had been building up in the back of my throat, and I could see that her eyes were starting to water. I looked immediately down at the panel in front of my microphone, and continued, "I know that this film won a lot of awards in Australia, and it's interesting to me how two countries that speak the same language can have such different taste. You'll obviously have a lot of opportunity down under, and soon you'll be able to return with a better film that better showcases your ability."

I thought that would be it.

Riki could cut to a commercial break and I could jet the hell out of there.

This was not to be.

The ingénue's agent (who was also in the booth with us - against policy, I might add) pressed the speak button on her microphone and asked, "What didn't you like about it?"

Without hesitation, even though I would rather not done so, I trashed the film.

It was ugly.

I took no prisoners.

It was a public execution, practically.

When I was done, there was a pregnant pause, but Rachtman asked if I had seen anything good that week, and I was able to launch into a stream of positive sentiment about another film, which took us to commercial. As I was about to stand and leave, the agent stepped toward me. She was a slight, in-her-thirties-but-athletic-looking woman.

She extended her arm, then her fist, then her finger, exclaiming, "You're a f***ing ***hole! You can forget about getting anybody from our studio on your ****ty little show ever again."

This was followed by some more hyperbole before she turned to leave, expecting her client to follow. She did not.

She rose, extended her hand to me and said, "Thank you," before exiting the room herself.

I felt like a first-class heel, but I had not compromised my position as critic.

As a matter of fact, I ran into that girl again -just a few years ago. She's doing quite well. She's starred in several films, at least one of which grossed over a hundred million dollars at the box office. We were standing side by side at a red carpet event and she politely introduced herself, inquiring my name as well.

I told her, and then confessed that we had met years earlier on her first American radio interview.

She let out a big laugh. She told me that my critique, which had been devastating, empowered her to succeed. She said it set the tone for her to build a thick skin for criticism; to listen to what that critics have to say, but take it all with a grain of salt.

"Oh my god! I've got to get a picture with you for my mum! She'll absolutely die!"

I obliged.

The girl's name was Radha Mitchell.

As of this writing, Fox Searchlight Pictures has still not released Love and Other Catastrophes on DVD in America.