For a really long time, I resisted the temptation to start a blog because I didn't want to think of myself as a “critic.” (Then I started writing theater reviews and that was the beginning of the end, leading inexorably to this blog.) Like a lot of people, I thought of critics as these inscrutable, arbitrary, humorless humanoids who sometimes got it right and sometimes just horrendously got it wrong (note Leonard Maltin giving two stars out of four to Taxi Driver and three-and-a-half out of four for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, aka 2 Moguls 1 Cup). There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, which makes sense because ultimately a critic's body of work is one person's take on things, and depending on how much the critic knows and how well the critic is able to compartmentalize his/her personal “baggage” the critic will be better or worse. Or, like Pauline Kael, always make it personal but be so awesome it doesn't matter.
Or, like Armond White, you can be so fucking strange that in spite of the fact no one can stand you, no one can stop talking about you either. Our Beloved Armond is probably most famous for inserting references to Steven Spielberg in every single review he ever writes, but I love him for this wonderfully bizarre column in 2008 wherein he declared Jason Statham to have “the best track record of any contemporary movie actor,” which just fucking rules. Armond White columns are basically performance art, and he never fails to bring a smile to my face.Take this masterpiece, where Our Beloved Armond declares war on Noah Baumbach, J. Hoberman, and some random publicist chick. I don't know if I've ever read a more brilliantly petulant, magnificently unfair, regally ad hominem diatribe in my life. I don't know if I ever want to. Armond has made good sport of cock-slapping Noah Baumbach at every opportunity for his whole career (which was the meaning behind a very obscure joke in this post, where I said Armond White would compare me unfavorably to Baumbach), which is a noble pursuit. Crew guys say Baumbach is a prick almost on par with the legendary David O. Russell, but that's just hearsay, really. His movies really do suck and they really are about unpleasant people of unearned privilege.
Our Beloved Armond, wearing a hat made of Savile Row's finest tin foil, advances the theory that Baumbach owes his career to his film critic mother and her interconnected, conspiratorial group of sinister racist film critics, which is why Our Beloved Armond is such a treasure. Most people would be like, “hey, if I accuse people of disagreeing with me out of racism just because I'm—tangentially—black, I may look like kind of a dick and may even set back the fight against racism.” But do you really think so singular an entity as Our Beloved Armond is going to do things the normal way? Child please. Our Beloved Armond accuses Hoberman and his “minions” of racism and even throws in the word “lynching” as a garnish.
The best part is, at the end, when he hilariously is like, “Greenberg actually doesn't suck as much as most Noah Baumbach pictures.” Because, after talking all that shit, if he just panned it, that wouldn't be interesting at all. It's kind of the same journey as Keith Phipps' in this AV Club piece, except Phipps writes his in less baroque crazy-people-talk. But then again, Keith Phipps is mortal. Our Beloved Armond is a god.
I really don't have much of a beef with Our Beloved Armond sandblasting J. Hoberman the way he does, because Hoberman is an unctuous prick, and back when I actually used to read The Village Voice my least favorite part of the whole paper was Hoberman blowing snot rockets on every movie I liked and praising the shit out of the kinds of pictures I can't stand. Hoberman doesn't do himself any favors in his fake-amused rebuttal to Our Beloved Armond, where he condescendingly pats his bête noire on the head and winks at his readers in a “this motherfucker's crazy” kind of way that's really beside the point. We all fucking know Armond White is crazy. This is why we read him. His point about Hoberman being a shitty critic still stands though, and goes unaddressed, partially because we have to consider the source (Our Beloved Armond does not, it must be said, have a leg to stand on there).
All the amusement of a war between two douchebags with too much time on their hands aside, there are larger points about film criticism to address. As much as theater people with any sense want to form a kick line and nail Charles “What The Fuck, Chuck” Isherwood in the nuts (nickname coined either by Ian W. Hill or Berit Johnson, I forget), theater criticism isn't in the sorry state as its cinematic counterpart. For one, the Broadway establishment isn't spending huge amounts of money on publicists whose job is to spread the meme that the critic is irrelevant. Hollywood is. In no other artistic medium are the patrons so indifferent to the medium's nature as an art. Sure, Broadway is all about luring tourists in to drop hundreds of dollars a seat to see revivals of shows that weren't any good the first time around, which is similar to Hollywood churning out remakes and sequels, but theater will always have a hold on actors in that if you want to be A Serious Actor, you do it onstage. The theatrical establishment has no interest in convincing people that critics don't matter, because if the critic is irrelevant, the thing ceases to be art. That is not to say that an audience needs some superior, more knowledgeable intellect to show it the way, but an educated audience likes to read a fellow educate, scratch their beard, and say, “Oh, dear, I was reading Danny Bowes' latest on the use of verfremdungsefekt in the films of Paul Verhoeven, I do say, the chap has both a point and a diverting way with words.” I'm kidding, of course, because I'm not really a critic. But does that make me a better critic? This is a question for . . . the Post-Modernist!
Faster than the audience fleeing a Noah Baumbach film! Able to leap tall non sequiturs with a single bound! (Greatest idea for a superhero comic ever, or absofuckinglutely most incredible idea for a superhero comic ever?)
But I digress. Hollywood is determined to reinforce the already-present grumpiness in the American cinemagoer viz a vis “y'all egghead movie critics think y'all better'n us,” which is both unfortunately a little too true and not true at all. The problem is, dickheads like Hoberman and Our Beloved Armond (beloved though he may be, he kind of does have Cranial Penis Syndrome) get in these pissing contests over shitty movies that no one cares about (seriously, casting Noah fucking Baumbach as Helen of Troy is retarded) and ultimately, people not already invested in Serious Cinema look at critics as these disconnected fuckknuckles who shit on the kind of movies Normal People like.
The bitter irony of this whole thing is that Hollywood wants to kill the critic, and the critics are sitting there playing Russian Roulette with five in the chamber. Knock off the fucking flame wars, you jerkoffs, and watch the movies, not your own reputations. If the critic dies, so die good movies. So, a word to all these internecine squabblers: I swear by all that is holy if you fucking children destroy cinema with your petty squabbles, when we're done leaving Isherwood singing soprano, me and my kick line are coming for your testicles next.
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