For some
unknown [likely masochistic] reason, I’ve decided to share some thoughts on the
topic of the ‘reviewer,’ both as the capacity [and practice] pertains to the
Arts in general, though more specifically to the craft of poetry, given the
nature of this particular journal in which the article is currently appearing
[if, indeed, it is appearing]. Of course, it goes without saying — though it
must be said, yes? — that due to the fact you
[the reader] are likely subscribed to this fine journal and are just now
perusing this article, it must be considered that there exists a condition of
“present company excepted” from the overall drift and tone of my following
remarks. Moreover, I must also face the notion that I am, in all probability,
“preaching to the converted” and/or “singing to the choir.” Fine. I’m good with
that. Also chuffed that I’m finally able to employ these clichés in a manner
that’s willful and to the point. And what is the point, you might well ask?
Simply, to launch some random musings on a certain subject matter out into the
ether, allow them to land where they may, and see if anyone responds, either
yay or nay.
To begin, I’m old enough to remember
when there were actual “critics” who were salaried employees in the media —
mainly newspapers, magazines, though some radio. These were people who claimed
some high level of expertise either through formal education and training or
else via years of experience within their chosen field. The expectation was
that these people, these “experts” would be able to offer varying degrees of
overview or historical context, perhaps discuss a few finer points of craft,
style, technique, and tools-of-the-trade; maybe provide some insight into the
subject at hand based on their own knowledge and experience to say what worked
or didn’t work, and give specific concrete examples as to the why and how of an artistic undertaking. In other words, share their
expertise, not only in evaluating a particular piece or project, but also help
to educate the public, so that said public may be able to make informed
decisions as to where they might spend their valuable time and money most
wisely and productively.
At some vague point in time and for
whatever reason(s) [though I’m guessing financial, mainly] the axe fell.
Someone decided that it was more “cost-effective” to contract out the work for
cheap, knowing that there were/are a lot of starving artists out there looking
to earn a few bucks and fully capable of stringing several hundred words
together in a coherent package so as to fill the gap, unnoticed.
Simultaneously, someone — the same someone, a different someone, several
someones, who knows? — must have also decided that their audience base was not
looking to be educated, they were looking to be entertained, and the word
“critic” was considered a bit too esoteric and highfalutin for their needs [all
of this without consulting said audience, of course, ‘cause, what did they
know, cretins]. Easy enough to ship the obvious eggheads (Architecture, Art, et
al) off to specialty magazines or back to the ivory towers of academia, but
what to do with the more popular pursuits: music, movies, theatre, books?
First, change the moniker to something less threatening, something softer,
gentler, something like…what? Reviewer,
for instance. Keep it light and simple, fer chrissakes; don’t bang your
audience over the heads with needless theory, rhetoric, and gobbledy-gook
bullshit erudition. Discuss the plot, the characters — if it’s theatre, maybe
say something about the set and costumes; tread carefully around the subject of
acting, stay clear of direction altogether as that’s strictly black-hole
material — at most, compare the work to something else already considered
popular and established (ergo, beyond
refute) and that people would recognize, ie: If you enjoyed such-and-such by so-and-so, then you may also enjoy this
latest offering by whomever. Or, While
certainly not up to the high standard or as elegantly conceived as
such-and-such by so-and-so, this work by whomever does cover similar territory
in its own fashion.
Of course, as poetry is [and has
generally been] an unpopular genre, with few [if any] well-known, established,
and/or recognizable titles to call upon or refer to in the collective
present-day consciousness [blamed, in part, perhaps, on 21st
Century Disease: the [[further]] dumbing down of a nation and the slow
entrancement of a society into corporate-made belief systems], AND as poetry reviews have been
eliminated from many so-called literary magazines and gradually removed from
the pages of most newspapers and relegated to small corners of the ethernet,
AND as the Art and Craft of poetry itself has slipped further and further into
a condition of flagrant autotherapy [or autoeroticism in many cases] at the
hands of those who can only best be described as poetasters, AND as these same
poetasters are writing a majority of the reviews — or so it appears to me,
whether in popular media, or on blogs or in association newsletters or whatnot
— AND since this breed of poet declares heartily that they refuse to read
[never mind purchase books by] other poets fearing it will “affect” or
“influence” or “interfere” with their own personal and unique “voice” — psst, hey… word of advice from a little
bird: your voice is not all that unique, and you’d discover that harsh reality
if you actually read a variety of other poetry, never mind that we are all
influenced by outside forces all the time and that’s not necessarily a bad
thing, just saying… — it’s easy to see why the caliber of reviewer has been
reduced to that of opinionator, in my [humble] opinion.
What I have noticed of late, reading
poetry “reviews,” is that they [the majority] fall into three categories: i) we
are given an explanation [or theme] of five or six poems in the collection —
which I can figure out on my own, by the way, thankyouverymuch, as the poems are not all that complex, often
[even] explained by the title, so — along with a personal comment, such as:
it’s a poem about a mother’s death, and who amongst us hasn’t suffered the loss
of a loved one, so that we identify with, and share the loss of, said
personage, along with the poet. What? Sez who? I didn’t even know the woman. Or
else there’s a comment about the poet delving into a political or philosophical
issue that goes about as deep as a sheet of single-ply toilet paper and about as
useful. And then there’s the obligatory example of a “heartfelt” line that the
reviewer considers poetic and is [instead] recognizably trite or clichéd, ie:
“a sound as soothing as birdsong” [as if birdsong is always soothing… I mean, I
could tell you stories… besides the plain boiled potato fact that if I
encounter the word ‘birdsong’ in one more goddamn poem I may either vomit or
slash my wrists…] ii) reviews of lacklustre, cliché-riddled poetry that the
reviewer intends to raise to a higher literary degree by applying the poet’s
personal life or beliefs or political stance to the work, so that just because
the poet has suffered hardship or has an axe or an ex to grind or a flag to
wave or whatever, we the readers, are supposed to forgive and/or praise the
result, ignoring the shoddy craftmanship. Oh, by the way, in these instances, I
blame the publishers/editors as much as the poets, for allowing the work to
enter into the world in this unschooled condition in the first place. iii) [and
what I believe to be the most egregious] the reviewer who attacks a collection
of poems [and the poet, personally] for what ISN’T in the work. In other words,
the review is used as a platform for the reviewer to talk about their own
personal beliefs and attitudes, and says little, if anything, about the work
itself.
You’ll notice that in each of these
loose categories the bulk of discussion focuses on the content and/or themes of
the poems, while very little attention is given to the actual craft of how the poems are assembled, what
techniques are used, and the way words and phrases are constructed and employed
to promote, enhance and bring to life said content and/or themes. The same lack
occurs, of course, in most reviews these days. In fact, funnily, an example
just crossed my desk, printed in The Toronto Star: “…that [earlier]
prize-winning novel fit comfortably within the Canadian literary canon. At a
glance it evoked books by Margaret Laurence, Alice Munro and Madeleine Thien…”
Proceeding with the latest book: “[These] stories invite readers into
out-of-left-field portraits — of marriage, childhood, grief, and our glum
zeitgeist — that delight, provoke and entertain.” The reviewer goes on to give
a short synopsis of several stories, go figure. Nowhere is there any mention of
craft or calibre of writing employed to create these “thoughtful, inventive,
and clever” — [what do these abstract(ed) terms even mean? as compared to what?
on whose say-so?] — stories, though there are a few lines quoted meant, I
suppose, to elucidate the variously plucked themes.
So it goes.
The dictionary defines “review” as: a
critical appraisal of a book, play, movie, exhibition, etc., published in a
newspaper or magazine. See also “critique, assessment, evaluation, judgment.”
Basically, what I’m seeing is lazy, uninformed writing. As my dear old mother
used to say: If I wanted your opinion, I’d’ve asked for it. As my good pal
Conrad was fond of saying [cruder, I admit, though more to the point [[you
remember the point, yes, as mentioned earlier in this article?]]: If you don’t
have anything interesting or intelligent to say, shut the fuck up.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t expect brilliance each
time in a review [from a reviewer], though I am hoping for something that
resembles a modicum of thoughtful, critical analysis/appraisal, rather than
something more akin to a play-by-play or an emoji.
Still, as they say, any press is good press, right?
And we should [must] be pleased that anyone is writing reviews at all, given
the sad state of the world.
And yet...
Stan Rogal hangs his hat in the quaint borough
known as Toronto. He is the author of several books, the most recent — a novel
titled Darkness at the Edge of Town — will be launched virtually in
April. He has high hopes that the launch will be successful, in that it gets
off the ground in one piece. Stuart Ross once described him as a man-about-town
and bon vivant. Judith Fitzgerald labeled him an intellectual redneck. The
truth likely lies somewhere in between. In the words of Gertrude Stein: I am I
because my little dog knows me. What greater recognition can one aspire to?
