ISHTARRED AND FEATHERED AGAIN

This month, Edgar Wright (director of "Shaun Of The Dead" and "Hot Fuzz) is hosting a series of his personal favorite films at the legendary New Beverly Cinema. Last Sunday, three of us Critissassins were fortunate enough to have been present for the tail end of his tribute to songwriting icon Paul Willams, who was in house for the occasion. Or perhaps the occasion was in house for him. I'm not certain. But I do know there was a camera crew and a sign on the front door: "You are being filmed for a Paul Williams documentary."

First, "Bugsy Malone" was screened. Then, "Phantom Of The Paradise." I came just in time for the third feature, a secret after-midnight showing advertised in the papers - with a wink and a nod - as "Dangerous Business." The actual title of the secret movie, I guess, was not unleashed on the masses for fear that it might keep even the "BM" and "Phantom" fans from attending. The film, one of the most critically-maligned comic masterpieces in cinematic history, is the prescient, hilarious political satire/paean/homage to Hope-Crosby road pictures, "ISHTAR," starring Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman, Isabelle Adjani, Charles Grodin, and Jack Weston.

Before the lights went down for the third time that night, Mr. Wright and Mr. Williams took the stage to introduce the film. Soon after, The Divine Edgar confessed that he had not yet seen the film and was looking forward to it (I guess that's the real reason he didn't advertise it as one of his favorite films).

"But, somebody else in here has seen it (or words to that effect)... Quentin?"

Suddenly, sideways baseball hat-wearing "Ishtar" superfan Quentin Tarantino power-walked down the aisle like he'd just won the palme d'or. Grabbing the mic white hip-hop artist-style (sans the bling), the winded Quarantino professed his unwavering support for the mother of all box office bombs.

One unfunny utterance after another. Quel response? Laughter from the pews. He reminisced about how when he saw "Ishtar" for the first time, at a screening, he was seated directly behind its writer-director, the great Elaine May. "Miss May," he had the gonads to call her, as if to say - She belongs in a magazine, not in a director's chair. She should show us her beaver and shut the fuck up !

He claimed that during that screening, she laughed through the whole of "Ishtar." Why bring that up? Was there ever any doubt that she has a sense of humor?!?!

Then, Mr. T did the unthinkable. He actually sang one of the delightfully (and DELIBERATELY bad songs from the film. The song, "Hot Fudge Love," only has eleven words in it, but he couldn't even manage to get them right. Big fan. Big joke.

After the song and the audience appreciation, Quentin asked Mr. Williams why the soundtrack was not ever made available to the public. Williams said something about Warren Beatty, then suggested that a fully produced soundtrack with Warren and Dustin (as Lyle and Chuck) could surface should a talented hot director consider... doing a remake!!!! At this point, my fellow Critissassins and I booed and hissed. I'm sure Williams didn't mean to add insult to the already insulted and injured "Miss May," but really. It's like suggesting Tarantino remake that other classic dud, "Citizen Kane," which also initially succumbed to the mercy of film critics nationwide.

Finally, the lights dimmed. And did they show "Ishtar?" Yes, but not before bombarding everyone with trailers of lousy movies that cost a lot of money to make. Like critics or Goebbels, the involved parties pre-conditioned the mush-minded with squeaky-wheeled propaganda - lumping together an underrated comic gem with "Hudson Hawk," doing exactly what the critics did in 1987, ensuring a flop. Of course only five or six of us in the audience were in stitches while the rest sat idly waiting for a face that mugs or a cockney accent. In their defense, I will say this. Though silent throughout, most stuck it through to the end, which was pretty late. About 3:30.

And what did they do as the credits rolled? Surprisingly, and inexplicably, after hundreds of minutes of dumbfounded silence, they applauded. Loudly. Sometimes, under the right circumstances, the public can be every bit as mind-bogglingly infuriating as professional film critics.

Mist Opportunity

As it has already been documented on this blogosphere, Roger Ebert gets a pass (most of the time) from criticassassination on account of his ability to present good, fair and balanced reviews, packaged in interesting and well crafted prose. He’s not flawless—but then again, being a professional critic of any art form sort of dictates that. But, more than anything else, there is a sense of nobility that comes with Ebert, which is why, even when he’s wrong, you never get the impression that he’s been influenced by anything other than his own cinematic conscience.

While it’s bad enough that Richard Roeper has carved out a national profile for himself riding Ebert’s coattails on his nationally syndicated show, At the Movies with Ebert and Roeper, what's worse is in the wake of Ebert’s sick leave his chair has been filled week after week by guest-critics who are more concerned with tossing a studio’s salad than making a genuine contribution to the craft of film criticism.

The most recent culprit: Michael Phillips of the Chicago Tribune

The film in question: The Mist

Anybody who has seen The Shawshank Redemption knows what sort of wonderful filmmaking Frank Darabont is capable of, so his most recent movie, The Mist, can’t be seen as anything less than a disappointment (it can’t be a good thing when the movie poster is more entertaining than the movie). As always, Roger Ebert finds just the right way to put it all into perspective. Michael Phillips, on the other hand, finds just the right way to get it wrong.

Darabont himself admits that he didn’t try very hard on this film, even if he couches his admission in director jargon. Says Darabont:

“I always wanted to approach [The Mist] with a different hat on as a filmmaker and get out of my comfort zone of a more painstaking kind of filmmaking.”

Darabont is better than this and I can’t help but think that this lazy adaptation was a convenient way for him to cash a check.

What’s worse is when a film critic, like Michael Phillips, regards a throwaway film as better than it actually is. The funny thing is that, despite his 3 ½ out of 4 star rating, you would be hard-pressed to find anything particularly glowing in his review. Phillips is more interested in taking stabs at Saw and Hostel, then actually backing up his near-perfect rating. Says Phillips:

“Good and creepy, ‘The Mist’ comes from a Stephen King novella and is more the shape, size and quality of the recent ‘1408,’ likewise taken from a King story, than anything in the persistently fashionable charnel house inhabited by the ‘Saw’ and ‘Hostel’ franchises…. People get torn apart and beset by monsters in ‘The Mist’ but not enough, I’m guessing, for the ‘Saw’ folk, who prefer grinding realism to the supernatural.”

Ebert, who gave The Mist a generous but reasonable 2 out of 4 stars, spends much more time actually analyzing the movie, which is ironic since he apparently didn’t like it nearly as much as Phillips. Says Ebert:

“Combine (1) a mysterious threat that attacks a town, and (2) a group of townspeople who take refuge together, and you have a formula apparently able to generate any number of horror movies, from ‘Night of the Living Dead’ to ‘30 Days of Night.’ All you have to do is choose a new threat and a new place of refuge, and use typecasting and personality traits so we can tell the characters apart.”

Ebert hasn’t even gotten to The Mist yet and still you get the impression you’re in the hands of somebody who wants to give you (gentle reader) a genuine review of a below average movie.

Darabont, at this point in his career, has made a name for himself as the guy who adapts Stephen King stories, but good. Nothing wrong with that. His most recent King adaptation before The Mist was The Green Mile. One need only watch five minutes of either film and it is clear which is the superior effort.

Right?

While sitting in Ebert’s chair, Phillips says:

“Darabont’s adaptation [of The Mist] is so much better than The Green Mile, which to me I think is still going on.”

While less emphatic in his written review, the sentiment is still same, when he writes:

“…with ‘The Green Mile’ [Darabont] stretched the adaptation beyond the three-hour mark. For all I know, it hasn’t ended yet. (‘The Mist’ is a full hour shorter, for the record.)”

Because, in Phillips’ world, shorter movies equal better movies.

Notice how in plowing the same terrain, Ebert’s criticism simply comes off as more genuine and more in the spirit of what his job description calls for when he writes:

“If you have seen ads or trailers suggesting that horrible things pounce on people, and they make you think you want to see this movie, you will be correct. It is a competently made Horrible Things Pouncing on People Movie. If you think Frank Darabont has equaled the ‘Shawshank’ and ‘Green Mile’ track record, you will be sadly mistaken.”

Phillips was given a great opportunity when being given a seat across Richard Roeper, who makes anybody in his presence look brilliant by comparison. Unfortunately, Phillips got greedy and was too anxious to please the studios so that they will keep inviting him to their screenings and giving him extra butter on his popcorn.

What a shame.

Throwing Stones At Plastic Bubbles

I'm not big on movies. I mean, they're cool, I guess, and a few have gotten under my skin, but for the most part I prefer reading.

Comic books.

Archie, mostly.

Don't judge.

I also have an enormous fear of being shot in the back of the head in a darkened movie theater. Seriously, why hasn't that happened yet? Has there ever been a movie theater massacre? Because it's the perfect place to kill people. It's dark, it's loud, your victims never see it coming... unless your victim is me. I expect to be murdered every time I set foot on that sticky, smelly carpet. That's why I'm sure to make eye contact with every person in the theater before the movie starts. I want to see who looks shady or nervous or distracted so I can be sure to sit far away from them. If they have a backpack or a large coat, I'll actually start to perspire a little. If they get up to go for popcorn during the movie and leave their backpack behind, I start reciting Hail Mary's until they return, just in case there's a bomb in the bag. (I have to say, the Hail Mary's do work. I have yet to be shot or blown to bits in a movie theater. Someone did throw a toilet paper roll at my head once, but that was during a midnight showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." And it was actually the one time I wished someone would shoot me during a movie. But I digress.)

Today's review is of a review of a movie I've watched for years in the comfort (and non-violence) of my bedroom -"The Boy In The Plastic Bubble" starring John Travolta. If you haven't seen this masterpiece, you are missing out. Definitely one of the best made-for-TV movies of 1976. And the competition was fierce back then, let me tell you. (Helloo, ABC's "After School Special"). But who cares what I think? Let's see what Randy White of Common Sense Media thinks.

Whatever it's original goofy charm, the movie hasn't aged terribly well. One 13-year-old viewer ridiculed the show and Travolta's performance. She felt that the story and the acting were "too melodramatic" and the long, highly charged pauses overly sensational. She certainly didn't like the girl next door, who she claimed was "nasty, conceited, and too dumb to be a good catch." She also found the haircuts and clothes unattractive.

Randy White don't know shit.

And what's he doing asking a thirteen year old to do his job? Hi, LAZY.

So, now... what? I'm reviewing the review of a review of "The Boy In The Plastic Bubble?" Ugh, I'm over it already.

If you're still reading, here's what I'll say to that anonymous thirteen year old (who is probably Randy White hiding behind an "alias" because what thirteen year old uses the word "melodramatic?" Um... NONE):

Anonymous thirteen year old (AKA Randy White)... were you raised by wolves? You wish you were as cool as the bubble boy. He goes to school via video teleconferencing... in 1976! When's the last time you attended class over an 11" black and white Zenith TV? (Don't even try to say you have, bitch.) He also wears really tiny, tight shorts... and that is hot. He has long feathered hair. Need I say more? No, I needn't. But I must. Because I haven't even mentioned the coolest thing ever... he is allergic to AIR. That is so cutting edge it's, like, embarrassing. (Note to Randy: "like embarrassing" sounds way more tweener than "too melodramatic"... for future reference.) And lastly, thirteen-year-old (AKA Randy White)... girls who are "nasty, conceited and too dumb" are ALWAYS the best catches. Or don't you watch "The Hills?"

So, in closing, I would have to surmise that Randy White's review of a thirteen-year-old's review of "The Boy In The Plastic Bubble" leaves a lot to be desired. In his attempts to be cool (i.e. consulting a "teenager" for his research) the Randster is incredibly uncool. In fact, his commentary reeks of dorkdom. In FACT, in a word, Randy's review is just plain wrong.

I know what you're thinking. Why so harsh, Critty? People are entitled to their opinions.

Yes, they are.

But not if they differ from mine.

Being Franz Kafka

(Note to reader: In my consolidated sympathy with the clan of WGAers and their attempt to fight the good fight, I’ve decided not to write about an actual movie or any of its actual critics. Instead, I will be reviewing a movie that doesn’t exist.)

If there were a single filmmaker roaming the land of dreams capable of committing Franz Kafka’s surreal masterpiece, “The Metamorphosis,” to celluloid, then it would have happened a long time ago—which is why it should surprise nobody that a cinematic super group comprised of Ron Howard, Clint Eastwood, Steven Soderbergh and David Lynch were brought together under the watchful eyes of Brian Grazer and the brothers Weinstein in order to take on the daunting task.

As it’s been well documented in blogs and film forums all over the net, Miramax/Paramount/Warner Bros had one heck of a time getting a filmable screenplay on paper. Grazer had the out-of-the-box idea of bringing in a novelist to adapt Kafka’s short story, settling on Tom Robbins (author of a number of books loved by hippies and hated by most everyone else.) “He’s as close to Kafka as I’ve ever seen in print,” Grazer said, before later admitting to never having read any of Robbins' novels. But Robbins' insistence on adapting Kafka’s short story “from memory” and his refusal to travel outside of Seattle convinced Bob and Harvey Weinstein to excuse him from the project and go with the more obvious choice of Charlie Kaufman. While Kaufman made for a natural fit, negotiations stalled when he refused to sign on to the project unless he was allowed to collaborate with Tom Robbins’ non-existent twin brother, Rob Robbins. The Weinsteins eventually agreed and pre-production was under way.

There is much to be admired on the part of The Filmers of Cinema (as the filmmaking quintuplet was named by Grazer, after a secret tree house meeting with Ron Howard) in the casting of Gregor Samsa, the stories protagonist. Jim Carrey would have been the easy choice, especially after he lobbied for the role by dressing up as a cockroach on every late-night show that would have him. And despite Soderbergh’s insistence that George Clooney would be ideal for the role, because “he’s actually willing to morph into a cockroach to prove his ability as an actor,” it was Lynch who managed to get The Filmers of Cinema to agree on a less obvious choice: Dakota Fanning.

I couldn’t possibly write this review if I didn’t at least acknowledge the much publicized on-set fighting that went on between Ron Howard and Clint Eastwood. The most notorious fight came on the first day of shooting when Howard showed up to the set and Eastwood said, “Hey, who invited Happy Crap to the party?” To which Howard replied, “Yeah, well at least my boxing movie didn’t kill off the main character!” This was met with silence from everybody, except for an out-of-sight Brian Grazer who was heard high-fiving himself behind the crafts service table. The silence was broken when Eastwood retorted by calling Howard a nerd, causing the entire crew to erupt into laughter.

This is a film not to be missed! It’s an extravaganza of cinematic treats! If my eyes were any happier, I would have had to leave them alone with a bottle of lotion and tissue! The world of film has been rocked off its axis and it will take a Herculean effort of dubious proportions to set it back right! I can’t wait to see it!

Cast & Credits

Gregor Samsa: Dakota Fanning
Grete: Natalie Portman
Gregor's father/Gregor’s mother: Adam Sandler

Miramax/Paramount/Warner Bros presents a film directed by The Filmers of Cinema. Written by Charlie Kaufman & Rob Robbins and Tom Robbins. Based on the short story “The Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka. Running time: 302 minutes. Rated R (for intense sequences of violence and some sexual material with insects).

NO JOB FOR OLD MEN (OR WOMEN)

I hate two-fers. Not only is lumping together two movie reviews into one an exercise in laziness, it's insulting to the film makers of both films being reviewed. No movie, not even a feature starring Dane Cook, deserves having to share the stage with another in a half-baked write-up. Like a cut-rate Universal Life Church minister, 79-year-old Andrew Sarris of The New York Observer has officiated the wedding of Sidney Lumet's "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" and The Coen Brothers' "No Country For Old Men" in his article, "Just Shoot Me! Nihilism Crashes Lumet and Coen Bros."

After giving "Before The Devil" an unenthusiastic hand tremor, not to be confused with the uncontrollable tremor of his other hand, Sarris turns to "No Country," ceremoniously giving it his "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" before high-horsing into the sunset to collect his Big Fat Greek Paycheck. Some wedding, huh?

The fact that Sarris disparages both films (and Cormac McCarthy's novel, "No Country For Old Men") because they are Nihilistic, and therefore some kind of ideological threat to the universe, is even more offensive than Nihilism itself. That level of closed-mindedness has no place in a film review, and is surely a signal of how he'll be voting next November. Talk about a threat to the universe!

I personally believe Mr. Sarris' near-octogenarianism might be the determining factor in the loss of his critical thinking skills and his inability to put forth a convincing argument built on a foundation of quicksand. This is something every professional critic should know how to do and do well, either to flesh out a thin critique or to give a studio-bought review the desired result (yea or nay). He used to be a crackerjack at it. Don't get me wrong, he's still sharp with the bon mots, but there's no meat and potatoes.

In the "No Country For Old Men" portion of his article, Mr. Sarris does acknowledge the great performances by Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Kelly MacDonald. Strangely, though, he describes the film's insane, murder-mad villain (the Bardem character) as "a subhuman killing machine with a touch of whimsy." Doesn't that sound like the job description of a movie critic?

The Javier Bardem character is not the only kindred spirit Mr. Sarris has found on what he cynically calls "this reportedly endangered planet." He is married to fellow critic and author of "From Reverence To Rape: The Treatment Of Women In The Movies," feminist Molly Haskell. As of late, MRS. SARRIS(!) has been de-balled, not unlike Janet Maslin, and has gone from being a film critic to being a book critic for The New York Times. It is unusual for me to review book reviews, as I think books are jive-ass, but since she is a "once was" and is married to a "still is," I'll make an exception.

Between authoring books such as "Love and Other Infectious Diseases: a Memoir" and "Holding My Own in No Man's Land: Women and Men and Film and Feminists", Miss Molly writes about one review every fifteen years - probably because she chooses only to write good reviews, and probably specifically for her female writer friends.

In one of her more recent reviews (written in the year 2000), "High-Wire Artist," she does a fine job of not reviewing Kate Buford's biography, "Burt Lancaster: An American Life." But for a single blurb-friendly line where she calls the 400-plus page monster a "splendid biography," Haskell instead reviews Burt Lancaster the man, choosing to treat the article more like a book report than a critique, more like an advertisement than an analysis.

Perhaps she has finally grown a conscience after years of abusing imaginationeers in her film reviews, subscribing now to the "If you have nothing nice to say" philosophy. Or perhaps, and more likely, she has become one of those voiceless, powerless women without opinions - the kind she obsessively writes about in her books - a victim of her husband's success and egomania. With no point of view to call her own, Haskell is a failure as a critic, but at least she's a human being.

Her spouse, on the other hand, has opinion-eggs crawling out of his bony ass. And even with his teeth in a glass by the bed, he's got more bite than she has ever had and probably ever will have. He is a God-fearing, God Complex-having Nihilist-hater who seems determined to piss on creative people for the rest of his days.

How can we stop him? Depends.

DON'T HONK IF YOU WANT SCREENPLAYS WRITTEN BY HENRY SHEEHAN!

Two weeks into the strike and still no sign of an act break. This one's shaping up to be an epic. The kind you don't want to watch. A Michael Bay epic. Black Hats Vs. White Hats, plenty of explosions, and unbelievable dialogue. Of course, there might be a plot twist. Just imagine Armageddon with an unhappy ending.

This may sound far-fetched, but I believe screenwriters may one day find themselves in the ironic position of reviewing their own films. Should the strike last as long as many fear it will, some TV and film writers may end up looking for work wherever they can find it. Whether it's writing for Paramount or cranking out movie reviews for "The Sacramento Bee," writing is what writers do best. In most cases, it's the only thing they can do.

And who will be left to take the screenwriting jobs? I'll give you a hint. We'll probably be seeing a lot more American films with English subtitles, sympathetic child-molesting protagonists, and inside jokes that only Gene Shalit gets.

UNREEL

HONK IF YOU LOVE WRITERS!

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. So racked with guilt about the previous day and how I ducked out on the picketers after only thirty minutes of support, I decided to return and give it another whirl. This time, I brought earplugs.

But when I got there, no one was striking. Probably not the first time any of these writers started the weekend off early, I thought. But, during a labor dispute? How bourgeois. Just as I was about to leave, I looked up to notice, across the street, a billboard staring down at me like some scowling Biblical dude from the top of a mountain. I had to do a double-take. It was an ad for The L.A. Times featuring a photo of their illustrious opinion-whore Kenneth Turan alongside one of his quotes - "It's Hard To Imagine A World Without Films." One last cynical thought before heading to the Mac Store - In the immortal words of John Lennon, "It's easy if you try."

Overcome with a sudden sense of melancholy, I made my way to a laptop at The Grove's Mac store, hoping to discover that a minor miracle had taken place. No such luck. The WGA Strike was, in fact, not over. I felt awful. I wanted to make amends with those young Comedy Central writers I had taken to task in my Thursday post. I wished I hadn't written it. I wanted to take back every nasty jab. Yes, I would love to live in a world without film critics, but not if it means living in a world without films. We need our writers, young and old. The annoying and the curmudgeonly. The good, the bad, and the smugly. This is not the time for infighting. Something bigger than all of us is going on here. All creatives MUST stand together stoically against the Greed Machines who are trying to keep every last one of us at bay.

Where was I? Oh, yes. So, anyway, drastic action was called for. Somebody had to cover for these lazy 3-day-weekending scribes. Like a bat outta hell, I ran home, got out a sharpie, some cardboard, and made my own sign - "HONK IF YOU LOVE WRITERS!" After fashioning a make-shift picket sign, I ran back to CBS and picketed for about 45 minutes... all alone. During this time, I did not get so much as one honk. Derisive laughter, yes. Pointing and headshaking, looks of pity, you bet! Maybe the occasional thumbs-up by a passing trucker, but not one toot. When the tape came loose and the sign fell apart, I was so forlorn that I just walked home with my head hung low. As I was approaching my apartment with that brokedown sign under my arm, some smartass neighbor of mine honked her support and had a good laugh before speeding off to her Friday night yoga class. After entering my humble abode, I plopped myself down at the 'puter to check my e-mail.

After opening my server, I noticed a news story had recently broken - "THOUSANDS RALLY AT 20TH CENTURY FOX."

NOTE TO ALL WGA MEMBERS IN GOOD STANDING:

PLEASE DISREGARD THURSDAY'S POST. YOU ARE ALL WELCOME TO JOIN CRITICIDE AS HONORARY CRITISSASSINS. HOWEVER, DUE TO THE EXPECTED HIGH VOLUME OF RESPONSES, WE WILL BE CAREFULLY SCRUTINIZING ANY AND ALL MATERIAL SUBMITTED. IF WE DO NOT ACCEPT YOUR MATERIAL IMMEDIATELY, DO NOT BE DISCOURAGED FROM TRYING AGAIN. A RESPECTFUL LETTER OF REJECTION IS NOT AN INDICTMENT OF THE QUALITY OF YOUR WORK. THERE MAY BE A VARIETY OF REASONS WHY YOUR POST IS NOT PUBLISHED THAT HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR SHORTCOMINGS AS A WRITER.

IF YOUR SUBMISSION IS CONSIDERED FOR PUBLISHING ON CRITICIDE.COM, YOU WILL BE ASKED TO SIGN A RELEASE FORM FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION. IN ADDITION, YOU WILL ALSO BE ASKED TO SIGN A BINDING AGREEMENT WHICH ABSOLVES YOU OF ANY LEGAL RIGHTS TO YOUR OWN WORK. SHOULD WE SUDDENLY ATTRACT SPONSORS DUE, IN PART OR ENTIRELY, TO YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS, YOUR ANONYMITY WILL BE PROTECTED UNDER FEDERAL LAW.

DON'T HONK IF YOU HATE WRITERS!

Today, I did the unthinkable. With the best of intentions, to show my solidarity with the thousands of unemployed scribes here in Hollywood, I infiltrated the WGA's Writer's Strike. But only for half an hour. That's all I could take.

There I was, at the front entrance gate of one of the major television studios, marching alongside a bunch of twenty-somethings who don't know dick about shit. Yes, there were a handful of gung-ho over-fifties who seemed invigorated by this ordeal, thrilled to be duking it out with Goliath. These righteous elderfolk with their heated passion and unsinkable vitality should have been an inspiration to their younger counterparts, the latte-drinking mopers in expensive ratty clothes. Did these cool whippersnappers take the opportunity to co-mingle with the older-but-wisers? Of course not. Just as most children who go to public school today tend to have no respect for their instructors, these dumbass know-it-all kiddies missed a great opportunity to learn from the "out of touch" Methuselahs, choosing instead to pitch their latest works of genius to each other. It was all too surreal. A couple Comedy Central writers refused to pitch any good ideas, but they spoke endlessly about, well... being Comedy Central writers. Shameless self-plugging, networking by the not-working. They were kind of funny, actually. You know, like Jerry Lewis is funny when he's serious. I mean, for me to know that these guys were Comedy Central writers within five minutes of picketing with them speaks volumes. You gotta hand it to 'em, though. They've got to keep it up for four hours a day. Mind you, verbal viagra hasn't even been invented yet.

Ah yes, then there were the brooding loners, in their own heads, silently pitching their own works of genius... to themselves. I even wanted to tell them to shut up. I kept moving to different parts of the picket line, hoping to escape the sounds of the mono-syllabic word-slingers and their kindergarten logic.

Finally, I met a very interesting lady. She was the lone African-American woman in the crowd. Side by side, with our picket signs held high, we walked and talked. She was by far the most down-to-earth person in the group - talkative, but not obnoxious. Charming and cute. Funny, but not phony. Wouldn't you know it, she turned out to be an actress, a SAG member just showing support for a worthy cause.

I am not rescinding my invitation to striking writers. Criticide needs Critissassins. The offer still stands, but now there's a qualifier: TO JOIN US, YOU MUST BE AT LEAST FORTY YEARS OF AGE. If you're younger than that, you know what an internet is. Congratulations. Now leave the writing to people with experience, wisdom, and genuine self-loathing.

HONK IF YOU HATE CRITICS!

To our creative brothers and sisters, WGA members in good standing -

Sloped shoulder to sloped shoulder, if only in spirit, we stand with you during these trying times. Yesterday marked the first day of the writers strike. There hasn't been a WGA-backed walkout since 1988. The world, what with the emergence of the internet and DVDs, has changed since then, but you know all about that. What you may not know is that a conspiracy theory has already surfaced regarding the actual reason behind this year's strike: Could it be possible that the corporations backing the studios and networks are intentionally forcing the current situation? Yes. How else can one explain their ludicrous proposal to "overhaul" the residual situation that's been in place for over twenty years? Did they really expect your union to roll over on that? No, of course not. They expected what they got - an angry reaction, an unwillingness to negotiate.

Mark my words, ultimately they will sit down and deal with you, but not until they are forced to deal with the actors at next year's scheduled SAG Strike. Or perhaps they'll hold out until Giuliani is elected President. I'm not implying that the corporations and media moguls who are beholden to the Bush administration are doing everything in their power to keep Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert off the air until then. I'm shouting it from the rooftops! As you know, the REAL news on TV comes to us from the satirists, each of whom will be rendered politically impotent in this particular medium, increasingly so as time goes by. How effective will Bill Maher's "OLD RULES" be next November? Think about it.

Anyway, I'm writing to you not entirely for altruistic reasons. I cannot speak for all of the resident Critissassins here at Criticide, but I will say this... you have my support and my sympathy. Four hours a day, networking with other writers when you should be in a plush Starbucks chair reading the paper and kvetching about the state of the world. It's probably even worse than it sounds. Now, while your resistance is low and you have a little extra time on your hands, I would like to appeal to your sense of justice, which may or may not be recently acquired. We are Criticide. We take down professional critics, some of whom might have slighted you in the past. Those of you who are not accepting scabwork and are sympathetic to our cause are cordially invited to join us as honorary Critissassins, helping us fight our fight - a fight, not unlike your fight, worth fighting.

CROSSING CROSSWALK

Crosswalk.com is an unholy mess. A Christian-based website dedicated to film criticism makes about as much sense as a Muslim-based website dedicated to Judaism. As a fence-sitting agnostic, I was both shocked and horrified to hear that such an internet hotspot actually existed. Thought it would be nothing but good reviews, following the "If you have nothing nice to say..." credo, but man was I mistaken. The facts are even more disturbing than I'd imagined. Recently, contributing writer to Crosswalk, Christa Banister, cast more than just a few stones at the new baseball flick "The Final Season" :

"Although they’re both set in Iowa and they’re both about baseball, let’s get something straight right off the bat (no pun intended): The Final Season just can’t compete with Field of Dreams. Sadly, with a screenplay that is more mediocre and a sappy musical score, you might think you were watching a subpar, made-for-television movie."

She ends her article with the final word on "The Final Season?" Nothing you wouldn't find in the final chapter of the Book Of Revelations:

"Ultimately, it’s these jarring twists and turns in the storyline, not to mention the lackluster acting and poor editing, that cause The Final Season to strike out from the first pitch. In what’s already a formulaic genre, it would have been better to offer more than a line like “How do you want to be remembered?” during a crucial moment. Instead, perhaps taking a cue from its Iowa-set predecessor would have helped. When Kevin Costner’s character finally plays catch with his father in Field of Dreams, one can’t help but tear up. But if you’re doing so during The Final Season, it’s only because you’re hoping it will end sometime soon."

If all this Hell, Fire, and Brimstone (not the law firm) weren't enough, this review was paid for (thanks to the religious ads), which is only one of several of MY Ten Commandments that were broken by Miss Banister. What's more, I'm pretty sure that someone speaking on the Lord's behalf, especially when it comes to film, is blasphemous.

Dear Believer,

Jesus, Christa, what's with the crucifying? Where's the love? Do the words, "Judge not, lest ye shall be judged" mean anything to you? While this brand of Christianity, wrought with hypocrisy and mean-spiritedness, defines the religion itself for some people, it is sinful to real Christians the world over. I suggest you put down the poisoned pen, pick up a hammer and go build some houses for the poor with the other J.C. (Jimmy Carter). You cannot simultaneously be a true Christian AND a critic, unless you share the same morally ambiguous values of the hate-mongering, limousine-escorted soldier of the Christian Righteous, Pat Robertson.

Salty Milkduds

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.