THIRTEEN GHOSTS' QUOTES

On this Halloween, the Ghosts Of Critissassins Past have come out to play. Leaving their usual haunts - bars, film studios, castles, gay bath houses, etc. They've e-mailed their own quotes to us from the Kinkos on Vine just below Sunset Boulevard here in Hollywood, Cal. These thirteen folks may be dead, but their brainy bon mots continue to linger, like a tasty Pink's hot dog breeze - effervescently, fighting off the stench of rotting film critic brains that waft throughout this putrified forest.

"Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves."

- Brendan Behan (February 9, 1923 - March 20, 1964)

"Criticism is prejudice made plausible."

- H. L. Mencken (September 12, 1880 - January 29, 1956)

“Don't pay any attention to the critics-don't even ignore them.”

- Sam Goldwyn (August 27, 1882 – January 31, 1974)

"If criticism had any power to harm, the skunk would be extinct by now."

- Fred Allen (May 31, 1894 - March 17, 1956)

"You know who critics are?--the men who have failed in literature and art."

- Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield Disraeli (1804-1881)

"I love criticism just so long as it is unqualified praise."

- Noel Coward (December 16, 1899 - March 26, 1973)

"If I had listened to critics, I would have died broke in the gutter."

- Anton Checkov (1860-1904)

"Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at a very small expense."

- Samuel Johnson (September 18, 1709 - December 13, 1784)

“What critics call dirty in our pictures, they call lusty in foreign films.”

- Billy Wilder (June 22, 1906 – March 27, 2002)

"There is no defense against criticism except obscurity."

- Joseph Addison (May 1, 1672 - June 1719)

“The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand.”

- George Moore (1873-1958)

"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."

- Franklin P. Jones (1887 - 1929)

"Pay no attention to what the critic says; there has never been set up a statue in honor of a critic."

- Jean Sibelius (December 8, 1865 - September 20, 1957)

Pan in Real Life

There seems to be a cynical sentiment in the world of film criticism that if a movie attempts to make its audience feel good, then that movie is somehow fraudulent and not worthy of your time. Further more, if said movie succeeds in making its audience feel good, then not only is the movie fraudulent, but the audience who enjoyed it simply doesn’t know what’s good for them.

The latest example of this strange phenomenon is the Steve Carell vehicle, Dan in Real Life. If I were to sum up the consensus amongst those film critics who didn’t like it, it would sound like this: “How dare a film try and make me laugh and warm my cold, robot heart?! I’m going to have to watch Saw IV to cleanse my palette!!!!!!”

(Notice how my composite film critic uses six exclamation points to show how exclamatory his/her statement is? What an asshole.)

Perched atop my favorite ledge, concealed by the shadows of a concrete gargoyle, I let my crosshairs roam, looking for the most deserving hater in need of popping, when I noticed a very interesting pattern—they’re all cribbing from the same hater-handbook.  

Geoff Berkshire of Metromix Chicago writes:

[Dane] Cook demonstrates yet another talent he doesn’t have when his character ‘sings’ Pete Townsend’s ‘Let My Love Open the Door.’ At least in this case he’s supposed to be bad.

So, while he admits that the character isn’t meant to sing well, he still uses the opportunity to grind his out-of-context axe.

Josh Bell of the Las Vegas Weekly also jumps into the fray, with his remark that “Cook is a failure at pretty much everything.”

Nick Schager of Slant Magazine also piles on by referencing “the casting of the reliably insufferable Cook—who, admittedly, is a tad less unbearable than usual…” While Schager eludes to the reality that Cook isn’t bad in this film (and, actually, he’s pretty good) he still paints his back-handed compliment with a negative hue.

But Sean Burns of the Philadelphia Weekly truly takes the cake, when he writes:

As Mitch is played by the odious Dane Cook, we must first take a moment to face the prospect of a universe so cruel, godless and unfair that Juliette Binoche would willingly spend more than 40 seconds in the presence of a loutish, noisy MySpace comedian who tells other people’s jokes.

Rather than talk about the movie in its own context, Burns (along with his hater cohorts) can’t help but shoehorn his unwarranted criticisms of Dane Cook’s career into his review, thereby demonstrating the most rampant symptom of bad film criticism—an acute inability to be unbiased.

Another peculiar similarity that popped up amongst the cold-hearted naysayers was an insistence on comparing Dan in Real Life with a far more inferior film.

Robert Wilonsky of the Village Voice (who most notably made an extended stay in Roger Ebert’s chair) writes:

One could fill this entire space with the titles of films from which writer-director Peter Hedges nicks his story, but for the sake of expediency, we'll narrow it down to a desert-island handful [including] The Family Stone.

The aforementioned Geoff Berkshire offers this:

The end result resembles a slightly warmer version of ‘The Family Stone’ with crossword puzzle contests, talent shows and group aerobics substituting for fleshed-out characters.

James Berardinelli of reelviews.net has this to say:

Dan in Real Life feels like a bad flashback to The Family Stone. However, where that one had some charm, wit, and genuine romantic impulses, this one has none of the above.

The Family Stone, if I’m not mistaken, was a comedy that didn’t work on account of its unfunny take on a dysfunctional family, while at the same time asking the audience to sympathize with an ice queen “protagonist” who had no redeemable qualities, aside from starring as Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City (whether or not that quality is actually redeemable is up for debate).

The truth is that the haters prefer a darker view of the archetypal eccentric America family, because it’s more “real” and that should tell you everything you need to know about the well from which they dip their critical buckets.

At least Chris Kaltenbach of the Baltimore Sun is upfront about it when he writes about the narrative conflict between the two main characters:

There's really no reason [the Carell and Binoche characters]…can't be upfront about their nascent relationship; in fact, they could simply tell everyone about their entirely innocent meeting and laugh it off. Or they could not laugh it off and watch the tension grow—now that could have made for an entertaining dark comedy, watching the family unravel.

Maybe this criticider comes from a simpler place, but when did it become such a cinematic sin to spend an hour-and-a-half in a movie theater smiling?

ABNORMAL COCK: UPDATE

Land sakes alive!

Thanks to you, our loyal readers, Criticide.com is now the #3 Google Search Result for "Abnormal Cock!"

The coveted top slot is well within our grasp, Criticitizens*, so don't stop now. Tell your friends/grandparents/clergyman to keep Googling abnormal cock until we're #1. We can do this... but not without your help.

Don't go soft until Criticide.com is the head of Abnormal Cocks!

*Criticitizens? Hmm... not sure if I like that. Comment with suggestions for what will be your nickname.

ABNORMAL COCK: Criticide Needs Your Help!

As Criticide's resident Cleaning Woman, you might imagine that I see some pretty, er, interesting stuff. Well, goodness gracious, were my little Crittersassins over the moon about my latest discovery. Now let me tell you, folks find our humble little site lots of different ways, but this one takes the cake... As the above screen grab of our Feedburner stats page clearly shows, it appears that last night someone Googled the words "Abnormal Cock" and it led them right to us. You're probably wondering, as I was at first, what on God's Green abnormal cocks have to do with Criticide. Then it hit me, what a darned clever way to find articles about film critics!

So your friendly neighborhood blood mopper, Yours Truly, decided to have a look-see for herself on the Googles. I tell you what, our
latest reader must have bushels o' patience, because I stopped looking for Criticide by page 24 of the search results. Who knew there were so many pages dedicated to film critics?

Then I gots to thinkin' - Page 24?! That will never do. I'll bet there's nothing my little Crittersassins would love more than to be at the very top of page 1. So be a dear and Google "Abormal Cock," then click on the link that shows up for our site. With your help, Criticide can be tops in cocks!

THE UNTALENTED MR. RIDLEY

The following is the beginning of Jim Ridley's film review of "Gone, Baby, Gone," a modern-day hard-boiled detective film directed by Casey Affleck's brother, Ben, who co-scripted with Aaron Stockard. Mr. Ridley is one of the many voices of Village Voice media and is a spoke in the wheel engulfing the cog that is Criticide.

“ 'Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid,” Raymond Chandler wrote in 1950’s The Simple Art of Murder, smacking the ascot off the drawing-room mystery and all its crime-solving dilettante dandies. 'He must be... a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.' ”

While I admire the ode-like nature of Ridley's cold-open, I'm frankly shocked at the confidence and bravado with which he spews out a mind-numbing inaccuracy. Raymond Chandler wrote "The Simple Art Of Murder," an essay, not in 1950, but in 1944, when it was first published in The Atlantic Monthly. The lesson here: Hire a fact-checker. Even Wikipedia got this one right. Ridley continues...

"Chandler was laying down the archetype of the hard-boiled detective, the hero with a thousand trench coats. He might as well have been summoning Patrick Kenzie, the dark-city crusader of Ben Affleck’s Gone Baby Gone, who hails from the broken glass of Boston’s hard-knock Dorchester district."

Weak on creative observation, strong on formulaic structure, the on-line review goes on... and on... and on. Of course, his review, like some of the best crime novels and film noirs, closes with a callback, creating the intended, if clunky, unwanted reach-around. But Ridley fails to deliver, missing the opportunity to write the review in the style of a crime novelist. Yes, it might've been annoying, but at least it would've produced some kind of emotional reaction from this reader.

"The ending resonates cruelly in this time of war, as our national susceptibility to clear-cut options of good and bad keeps us from frankly considering (or avoiding) likely choices of bad or worse. But that is the scorched earth the detective walks. “It is not a very fragrant world,” Raymond Chandler wrote, 'but it is the world you live in.' "

Open and shut. By the book. One-two-three. With "Film Criticism For Dummies" in one hand, and a reprinted 1950 copy of "The Simple Art Of Murder" in the other, Jim Ridley has read but learned nothing from either. Struggling to be wise, Ridley seems to have read far too much how-to-write literature, killing whatever creativity he may once have had. Which brings me to this quote by the master of crime fiction:

"Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say."

- Raymond Chandler

WHO ARE PETER TRAVERS?

Rolling Stone's Peter Travers just might be the closest thing we have to William Shakespeare... or Carolyn Keene. It's only a theory, but I believe Mr. Travers is not one person, but at least three people with widely varying thoughts and ideas, as well as diversely different styles of writing.

Excerpt from Peter Travers' review of James C. Strouse's "Grace Is Gone" -

"Simplicity -- four-square, not sappy -- is rare in film. James C. Strouse had it in his script for Lonesome Jim. As writer and first-time director, he gives Grace Is Gone the quiet power to sneak up and floor you. A reserved father (John Cusack in a devastating change of pace) drives his young daughters, the wondrous Shelan O'Keefe and Gracie Bednarczyk, to a Florida theme park, unable to find words to tell them that their soldier mom has been killed in Iraq. That's it. No politics, no pleading. No artifice."

That was the entire review. Concise, straightforward, and very masculine. With the exception of the words "wondrous" and "artifice," it reads like somebody who writes copy. Or some hard-boiled smoker/alcoholic type non-writer who wears a fedora in public. An old-timer. Somebody who goes to the racetrack and coughs a lot. You get the picture. A sportswriter, maybe. Or somebody's dad. But definitely not a professional film critic.

Now let's look at "his" review of Shekhar Kapur's "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" -

"Cate Blanchett can do anything, even play Bob Dylan, but she can't save this creaky sequel to her star-making 1998 biopic of Elizabeth I. Fie on director Shekhar Kapur's visual and aural bombast and the script's soap-opera heart. Though the sixteenth-century queen is facing her greatest challenge -- from an armada attack by King Philip of Spain (Jordi Molla's performance comes direct from the Ministry of Funny Walks) -- she mostly moons over Sir Walter Raleigh (Clive Owen), who'd rather unbuckle his swash for lady-in-waiting Abbie Cornish. Ugh."

"Fie on director Shekhar Kapur's visual and aural bombast?" Snarky, girlie even - a completely different voice from the author of the "Grace Is Gone" review. A chick definitely ran this through her pink Underwood. Notice the choice to include the word, "Ugh." My guess? Fucking Sandra Tsing Loh was behind this one.

Next, let's turn to an excerpt from Travers' piece on James Gray's "We Own The Night" -

"With long takes and overhead shots that reduce humans to playthings of destiny, Gray's reach is daringly Shakespearean. For some critics, it's just conventional TV pap with delusions of grandeur and a lazy regard for period details. Or even more risible: fascist propaganda for a police state. You be the judge. Gray's first two films, Little Odessa and The Yards, threw me at first. It might take a second or third viewing to see what he's after. It's worth the effort."

"You be the judge?" Now, we're supposed to spend hard-earned cash to see a movie three times to decide if it plays more like a TV MOW or early Leni Riefenstahl? This doesn't read like any Peter Travers review I've ever read. But, then, neither do any of the others. The wordsmith who spit this one out never leaves his flat without a powdered wig. Either a barrister or a cabaret singer.

Dear Peter Travers,

If you are, as I suspect, several writers writing under one pseudonym, shame on you and you and you... If you do exist and are simply hiring ghostwriters to do your work for you, it is only a matter of time before you are outed as a charlatan. Repent now or prepare to suffer the slings and arrows of Criticide in the near future. We will find out!

If there really is just one of you and all of your reviews come from you and you alone, then I urge you to seek the help of a mental health professional immediately. There are medications out there that have done wonders for people with your condition. True, Multiple Personality Disorder cannot be cured, but it can be treated.

Salty Milkduds

I, Criticide

Long before I took up residence in Criticidedom, I was a little boy who loved professional wrestling. Nobody led me to it or even suggested it, nor did any mainstream media outlet subliminally infiltrate my pliable young mind. As is the case with most anything that we come to love, I discovered it entirely on my own. But, for all the pageantry and drama that drew me to it, there was one very important detail that kept me engaged beyond all logic:

I thought it was real.

I thought the violence was sincere and the victories legitimate. I thought that every improbable comeback was a testament to the human spirit and that steel folding chairs were the logical weapon of choice. It never occurred to me to question why nobody ever bled, because I was caught up in a delightful illusion; the same sort of illusion that we lose ourselves in whenever we sit down to watch a movie. But, on one gloomy Saturday afternoon, the illusion was broken.

Somebody told me it was fake.

It wasn’t as if they were trying to enhance my enjoyment of professional wrestling. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was a deliberate attempt to hinder my enjoyment. And for the rest of my young life, whenever somebody learned that I enjoyed professional wrestling, I was always presented with the same query: "You know it's fake, right?" It was as if everybody took some sadistic pleasure in bursting my bubble.

At the same time that I grew to love professional wrestling, I was also infatuated with the movies. Of course, I eventually figured out movies were fake, so that wasn’t a concern. We already knew that Christopher Reeve couldn't really fly or that Josh Hartnett can't really act; but that's not the point. It's the illusion that we enjoy, as it should it be. And yet, there is a never ending chorus of bullies standing behind you, each of them desperate to tell you that the movie you watched every Christmas with your parents, the movie you watched when you had your first kiss, the movie your watched at two o'clock in the morning during your first slumber party, the movie you watched in the hospital room the night your first child was born, the movie you watched when your heart was broken, the movie that is forever sewn into the very fabric of your life...

"That movie sucks!"

Not that we asked them for their opinion. No, they’re obliged to do it all on their own—and, don’t worry, they’ll pause in the end, as they await your inevitable gratitude. Of course, the only gratitude they’ll get from this Criticider is a taste of my dusty sneaker as I fit it down their throat. But it's not just movies; there always seems to be somebody who can't wait to tell you that whatever it is you love sucks and you suck for loving it. Well their parade-raining-rhetoric will no longer go unpoliced, not on this blogesphere.

So, for all those who are tired of hearing that NASCAR isn’t a sport and Tiger Woods isn’t really black:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that Dane Cook isn’t funny and Monty Python are comic geniuses:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that hairy pits aren’t sexy and gay sex is for homosexuals:

I Criticide.

And for all those who are tired of hearing that all good movies go to Oscar heaven and film critics are just doing their job:

I Criticide.

REQUIEM FOR A HEAVY MENSCH

I just found out that the once-popular TV film critic Gary Franklin died two weeks ago at his home in Chatsworth, CA. The cause of death: unknown. But what was and is known is how he wanted to be remembered. In 1991, Mr. Franklin had this to say to The L.A. Times:

"I have always let my social conscience influence my criticism. People should be speaking out about the effects of movie violence, brutality and sexuality in the world, and I'm glad I've had the chance to make a tiny impact."
According to his obit in The L.A. Times, Franklin told Variety that when he informed "studio flacks" who called after a press screening that he was going to give a film that he really liked a 9, they often lobbied for a 10."

"TO MY EVERLASTING SHAME AND DISGRACE, I'D MAKE IT A TEN ," he said.

After giving "Natural Born Killers" a zero in 1997, Gary found himself persona non grata at Warner Brothers. This was the beginning of the end for his professional film critiquing, but it was also the beginning of the beginning of something else. It took a few years, but Gary finally made his way, with mouse in hand, to a computer, officially kicking off a website called "garyfranklin.com." Then, off to the blogosphere. In 2005, he started "The Franklin Scale." Here, between four fatal strokes, he would review films without accepting so much as a nickel from anybody. No studio flacks, no corruption, no nonsense - nothing but his honest opinion and a clear conscience.

At the time of his passing, he was 79. Survived by his wife, Sylvia, two daughters, four grandchildren, and millions of fans. On a scale of one to ten, Gary gets two thumbs up. That's an eleven.

CHOPPING DOWN THE PUNDITRY

I have nothing against Roger Ebert.

He's a terrific writer and has a genuine affection for the cinema, but the fact that he was one of the countless suckers hoodwinked by the profoundly overstated/overhyped/overbearing auto-fellatio of Crash/Babel is reason enough to generally give his reviews the grain-of-salt treatment. That he almost uniformly adores anything that might be considered a "popcorn movie" while hate-hate-hating the justifiably creamed-upon Blue Velvet, seals the deal for this Criticassin.

Let's get one thing straight: I begrudge no man his opinion. Love or hate what you will; it's hardly my problem. Until, of course, it is.

A couple of weeks ago, Forbes Magazine announced that, due to his 70% (!) penetration into the hearts and minds of my fellow countrymen, Roger Ebert was found to be the most influential pundit in America. In other words, of all the know-it-all blowhards peddling their self-proclaimed expertise in the ubiquitous back alleys of the American media, he's the know-it-all-iest.

On the one hand, he really is an expert whose opinions are almost always thoughtfully (though by no means flawlessly) constructed. And when considered alongside his runners-up, he is certainly the least likely to debase or divide. On the other hand, it's a puzzle that someone so uncontroversial would be anointed in the Temple that Wally built.

My concern isn't that he earned such a distinction, it's that such a distinction even exists. Beyond feeding our inner rubbernecker, punditry has no value (and remember, you read that on Criticide). Even at its most entertaining, it is a primarily humorless amusement. It is an intellectual vacuum disguised as debate, intent on shoving any remotely gray area so far up your ass as to never be seen again.

And yet, its pervasiveness in this country that I consequently recognize less and less each day has inspired a seemingly never-ending orgy of equal and opposite reactions, and a commonly held belief that we each must have not only an opinion about everything, but an extreme and provocative one at that. And not the good kind of opinion - the one born of personal experience and observation - but the kind recycled from some persuasive, and usually venomous, prattle on a cable show. We are constantly expected to pick a side in each of an ever-propogating list of grievances so that the Land Of The Free looks increasingly like a generations-long director's cut of West Side Story (minus the ballet basketball and promise of Puerto Rican tail).

The fact that this year's pontiff of pundits is someone dedicated, not to demonizing Mexicans or polarizing political parties , but to advancing an art form is somewhat heartening. So while slapping someone on the back for regularly sharing his opinions makes about as much sense as buying flowers for a hooker, at least in this case the hooker was Roger Ebert. The pundit with the heart of gold.

OBVIOUS LEE NOT AN AMATEUR

The profession known as "film critic" is on its last legs. The writing is on the wall. And because film critics spend most of their time deep-throating their own turds (no wonder they like German Cinema so much) and writing about movies, the majority of them don't have the time to read the writing on the wall. Some of them, however, make time.

Consider Nathan Lee of The L.A. Weekly. His intentionally dumbed-down review of "Balls Of Fury" is nothing more than a clever ploy to win over the common folk by attempting to pose as a complete amateur, and an idiotic one at that. Do not be fooled! Keenly sensing that the end is near, he is simply struggling to secure himself a place in the future, a time when, if all goes as we suspect it will, his two cents won't be worth a nickel in this town. Not unlike an S.S. Guard offering matzo to a Survivor during the last days of the Holocaust, Mr. Lee will be held accountable for his past crimes, regardless of his recent conversion to Regular Guy-status. His Judgment Day will come, only it won't be at Nuremberg, but in the court of public opinion.

Here is the truncated version of the accused's "Test My Balls Of Fury," published by the reliable L.A. Weekly. Funny as it may not seem, it is laughable.

"TEST MY BALLS OF FURY"

1. Balls of Fury is a movie about:

a. A former table-tennis prodigy (Dan Fogler as Randy Daytona) enlisted by the FBI to infiltrate the underground pingpong tournament of a legendary Chinese criminal (Christopher Walken).

b. Suppository jokes.

c. Little worth discussing and even less worth seeing.

d. All of the above.

2. In his first leading role for the big screen, Fogler, a Tony Award–winning actor (The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee), can best be described as:

a. A comedic genius.

b. Killing time until his agent gets a call from Judd Apatow.

c. A cross between Jack Black and Richard Simmons.

3. Because the FBI agent who approaches Randy is played by a Latino (George Lopez), he will be made to say:

a. “Maricón!”

b. “¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!”

c. “Nigga, pleez!”

d. “Say hello to my little friend!”

4. When Randy undergoes intensive pingpong training at the Happy Mu Shu Palace (“If Mu Shu fits, wear it!”), his guru, Wong (James Hong), offers the following inscrutable advice:

a. “Be as the cricket.”

b. “The cheeks cannot hold the smoke. That is what it is.”

c. “Pingpong is not the Macarena.”

d. “I miss you, Victor Wong.”

5. Are Chinese people funny?

a. Yes.

b. No.

c. Totally, like with those weird little sticks they use to eat and everything!

6. As Feng, the criminal mastermind/pingpong enthusiast, Walken can best be described as:

a. A comedic genius.

b. Killing time until his agent gets a call from Judd Apatow.

c. Ka-ching, bitches!

7. When Feng’s Amazonian henchwoman offers the services of sex slaves to Randy, it’s funny because:

a. They’re dudes!

b. They’re dudes who scream like little girls.

c. Oh, I get it: sarcasm. Lighten up, homo.

8. Maggie Q co-stars as:

a. A pair of breasts.

b. A pair of breasts that know kung fu.

c. Who’s Maggie Q?

9. Balls of Fury is best viewed:

a. At the multiplex.

b. On an airplane.

c. Loaded.

d. Never.

Dear We The People,

Professional film criticism is on the respirator. Now it's up to us to rise up, walk over to the outlet and show some mercy by pulling the plug. Once we put Nathan Lee and the rest of the Opinion Whore Corps. out of their misery, not to mention us out of ours, we will be free to enjoy the element of surprise and eliminate the corrosive element of corrupted pre-conditioning. We urge you to send hate letters and e-mails (written IN ALL CAPS) to every publication that appropriates funds for film reviewers. We cannot complete our mission without your help. As the President might say, if you're not part of the solution, you're not part of the solution.

Salty Milkduds

POPPING THE CHERRY PICKERS

Cherry picking is an effective method of persuasion used by critics to prove a point. Now it's our turn.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

-- Theodore Roosevelt


"I write to please myself and hope that it will please you, too."

-- Peter Rainer, film critic for The Christian Science Monitor