Sharing the love
I love reading really harsh performing arts criticism, at least when it’s directed at highly-paid professionals. (It’s hardly ever appropriate to eighth grade choirs, wouldn’t you agree?) Why did Frank Rich ever agree to give up his perch as the unchallenged Butcher of Broadway to become another eminently forgettable, unremarkable liberal mediocrity on the Times’s op-ed page? Sure, we all want to sit at the grownups’ table (that’s why we swung this blog out from the IP blog, after all, right?), but if anyone was in a position to know the Jerry Lewis Story, you’d think it would have been Rich. He’s still alive, right? (Very big in France, maybe?)
I digress. Just read this lede by Dana Stevens in Slate, then go get something to eat and put up your feet before clicking the link to take in the rest:
There are good movies. There are bad movies. There are movies so bad they’re good (though, strangely, not the reverse). And once in a while there is a movie so bad that it takes you to a place beyond good and evil and abandons you there, shivering and alone.
The movie? Mike Myers’s “The Love Guru.” Myers is a talented guy, too, and hardly guilty of taking himself too seriously. He knows he’s a clown. But he seems to have reached that Edddie Murphy-like point where he has no one around him to tell him … to just tell him.
So Dana’s going to tell him.
