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Monday, May 15, 2006

Hoity Toity Critics and Upstart Bloggers

Posted by on May 15 at 15:57 PM

There’s an intriguing, if not always illuminating, conversation going on at ArtsJournal about arts criticism in the age of arts blogs. Of interest to Seattle readers: the Seattle Times’ own Misha Berson weighs in here with a fine bit of sardonic hyperbole entitled “Is Blogging the Panacea?”

To be fair to Misha, some of the bloggers are getting a bit manifest-y in their enthusiasm. But not Maud Newton. I love Maud Newton.

Here’s Misha:

In mentoring younger critics, I’ve been surprised how many downplay fact-checking. Or don’t realize that ad hominum attacks on artists (or gushing, unsubstantiated praise for them) can not only be hurtful, but runious.

I’ve never taken one of Misha’s seminars (though Brendan Kiley has), but I’m frankly skeptical that her students routinely “downplay fact-checking.” As for “ad hominum attacks”? I am surprised by how many Misha Bersons downplay fact-checking! Ad hominem is not spelled with a “u”! Misha, I believe, construes “ad hominem attacks” very broadly—to include clear-eyed criticism of a famous actor’s performance, for example.


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Yeep. I still remember Skerritt's "Wait, it'll come to me," performance. Someone in the cast told me the "naturalism" of his line reading was perhaps due to him being last off-book.

Also, "runious" is, to my knowledge, not a word either.

Another cast member - me - says the opposite about Mr. Skerritt; he was one of the first cast members 'off-book' - point-of-fact. After an absence from the stage of over 35 years, Tom felt Thorton Wilder's already improvisational writing style for the character of The Stage Manager could use an assist. His expansive career in film told him an actor should always make the character's words 'his own.'

Some agreed; Others did not.

Remember when Annie was writing theatre criticism, everybody?

Remember how everyone hated her?

Gosh, that must have been a lot more fun than when she was writing film reviews. Now no one cares about her.

Too bad. I hear she's young, cute, and feisty. Shouldn't that make her an important writer?

See, now that's an ad hominem attack. Way to go, Sam.

And no, Laurence, you weren't my source. However you want to spin it, it's an unfortunate acting choice to appear as if you're up for lines throughout a play. That said, Skerritt's characterization was full of folksy charm. I thought he nailed that part.

With all due respect to Mr. Ballard, and to Mr. Skerritt, this was a classic example of miscasting. Film and stage are two completely different media, and each requires from actors a unique skillset (with some overlap of technical attributes). Mr. Skerritt's considerable accomplishments in the former medium simply did not translate into an acceptable performance in the latter.

As someone familiar with Wilder's work (I performed in ArtsWest's production of "Our Town" in 2001), I cringed at every dropped or transposed line, every gratuitous ad-lib, and every pop and crackle of Mr. Skerritt's microphone - he being the only member of the cast, so augmented.

It was painfully clear to me at least, when I saw the production on opening night, that he was out of his element, that he was not up to the demands of the script, and that he did not have the technical ability to project beyond the first few rows of the audience; all of which IMHO proved detrimental to both his performance and to the overall production.

Hey Mike:

Thank you, thank you very much. I agree with Annie: screw Misha and her call for "fact-checking" and treating artists like human beings. And I'd just like to say to all Stranger readers: if one of the writers for this paper annoys you, do what the Stranger does so well. Make a bitchy, unsubstantiated attack on their writers.

Tell Jen Graves she has bad hair.

Marvel at David Schmader's ever-expansive gut.

Laugh at Chris Frizelle's lispy voice and that weird little thing he does with his hands when he's talking.

None of this will advance debate on any important issue. But it'll give you that delightful feeling of smug satisfaction that the Stranger writers get when they take equally cheap shots at various artists, activists, and personalities.

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