Wolcott on Medved and the New York Times book review
By James Wolcott says what needs to be said with his trademark aplomb about everyone’s favorite right-wing Stalinist film critic, Michael “I can’t for the life of me imagine why people prefer Lynch and Scorcese to Robert Zemeckis” Medved, on the occasion of a glowing NYT review of his new memoir:
When a skullful of mush pays tribute to another skullful of mush, that’s amore. In next week’s NY Times Book Review, Harry Stein extends a warm huggy to Michael Medved on the occasion of Medved’s simpering new memoir Right Turns: Unconventional Lessons from a Controversial Life. I wasn’t aware Medved’s life was controversial; perhaps he mistakes a nation’s indifference for indignation, since I’ve never encountered anyone who considered him to be anything more than a minor nuisance, a chronic post-nasal drip.
This post inspires an anecdote and an observation.
Anecdote: Many years ago I was fortunate enough to attend an advance screening of the Coen brothers masterpiece The Big Lebowski; the same screening that local critics attended. I was unfortunate enough to be seated directly in front of Medved, who proceeded to yammer away like a moron thoughout most of the film. The next day, his review came out: a lazy, pro-forma pan.
Observation: OK, this is obvious, but I’ll say it again: The NYT book review is a disaster. One of the biggest problems is that they can’t pick appropriate reviewers. This Stein clown is, given his affiliations, almost certain to fawn over a twit like Medved. Last week, I discussed the decision to allow Easterbrook to review Jared Diamond’s lastest, another obvious invitation to idiocy (although no one could have predicted the scale of it).
If I were editing a book review, One thing I’d try to do is match reviewers with books in which the outcome (positive or negative) isn’t utterly and complete predictable. Far too few of the reviews in the NYT are critical, but those that are more often than not written by hacks with an axe to grind in the general direction of the author. Do they really think the audience for the review will be enthused by this sort of fawning, or Easterbrook’s hackery? Do they think that little of us?