Someone was reviewing Stanley Gold's reviews of films and it was a cheap gimmick if anyone asked him. These were reviews of his reviews. Unwarranted. Unmerited. For Stanley Gold was a famous, veteran film critic, and if anyone could get under his skin, it was another younger critic.
At first, it began benignly, as posted comments on the online edition — simplistic remarks that contradicted his viewpoints. "Gold's a coot!... Wrong again!... The Tin Man reviews a romcom!..." Then came the blog on wordpress, in which his language was critiqued for its persuasiveness. Then came the reviews that included pointless personal assessments as when Stanley panned a movie about a talking cat, the other reviewer ousted Stanley as a "dog lover". All of this was fair enough — everyone had a right to post their opinions. It was the link on the Star Advertiser site, right below his column, that upset him.
It was a Wednesday afternoon
when he first came upon it
. The dry vog hung heavily over Honolulu and he was sitting on his apartment lanai, eating a red lentil soup and toasted sliver of french bread. He had been reading his own article on online edition of TGIF on his antiquated Sony laptop — as it was a quiet pleasure to see his own work disseminated to the masses, be it in print or pixel form — and had noticed a link to another review just below his.
In his review of the film concerning characters pondering the afterlife, he stated that the film's"meandering tone, and trite yet earnest dialogue, made for an extended exercise in navel gazing. Death and the afterlife were everywhere, but where was life? I would have rather watched my dog ponder the skyline for two hours," he wrote.
The review of his review began
"Stanley Gold does not believe in the afterlife. He does not believe in God. He doesn't have the imagination for it."
An inset photo revealed the writer to be a younger, twenty year old with a mohawk and a weak jaw. He was tilting his head and squinting one eye as if his views were skewed and he had the edge on any matter. Who in the hell did this kid think he was? How would he know what Stanley believed in? Granted, the kid was right, but it was a fluke speculation from a disrespectful young brat. Perhaps he was a relative of the publisher. At least he was confined to the internet, where the column widths were free and he could drown with the rest of the nattering bloggers. To hell with him!
From beside him, Herzog, a white Jack Russell with brown spots around his eyes and ears stepped out onto the lanai and whimpered.
Quietly, Stanley closed his laptop and set it down. "Herzog," he said. "You ready for that walk?" He struggled out of his chair. "Let's off with us. The old man needs to get some air. The place wreaks of bullshit suddenly."
* * *
There was once a film maker who proclaimed that the world was filled with two types of people – creators and destroyers – and within that continuum, critics were indeed the destroyers. They felt entitled to excellence yet they lacked the talent to achieve it. They attached themselves to art forms and acted parasitically, inhibiting the joy derived in creation, killing it from within. In the online world,
the neo-noosphere of information, most critics were just hacks. Many of them wrote without a system of rules and principles. Some lavished praise too easily, touting a film as among the best of the year on a weekly basis. Others derided films
arbitrarily, without systematic criteria, as if being
impossible to please were the qualities of a superior intellect and therefore good criticism. Mostly, the passionate yet unfocused masses were merely fans selectively reviewing films based on versions they had already imagined in their heads. These were peddlers of opinions, nothing more.
Stanley Gold was not one of the those peddlers. Although he himself received a degree in journalism and not in film theory, his knowledge of film over the decades had grown encyclopedic. He had sat on the panels of thirty eight film festivals across the country, had curated the HIFF, had written numerous essays and published collections of them. He attended Cannes and Sundance yearly, sat and conversed with Scorcese, Lumet, Altman and Leigh among others,
and was not among the cacophony of voices in the anonymous online democracy.
His reviews were in print, and he was paid as one of the few genuine authorities in film. He was neither the "destroyer" nor the "creator" of that scornful and reductive philosophy, but a guardian. It was a priviledge he had worked twice as hard for as an outsider working his way in for over 30 years. A true critic could only be someone who cared deeply about films, about the state of films, about the state of the world that is reflected in films.
So who the hell was this kid? He was a hack! Why bother being bothered?
"Darwin Shaw," the kid introduced himself one Thursday afternoon at the editors meeting at the Star Advertiser office. They were standing in the hallway, in front of a labyrinth of cubicle walls and hairlines when the kid, bigger than expected, turned to him and held his hand out.
"Stan Gold. Nice to meet you," said Stanley, clearing his throat. He straightened his back but the kid towered over him by half a foot. "Are you in one of my classes?"
"No no. I'm actually new on staff. I write for the weekend section. I do a critic's column. Like you."
"So, you're a critic."
"Thatʻs right."
"Food critic."
"No. Actually. I comment on your work."
"That critic?"
Stanley nodded and appraised him. The mohawk was gone and his head was clean shaven.
Stanley stiffened and took a single side step away from him. "The tapeworm," he concluded.
The kid fidgeted, "I wouldn't put it that... But I just want to say, I admire—"
"You work here?" asked Stanley, pointing to the floor on which he stood, his lip curled, barely concealing his disgust.
"Yup. Right here," said Darwin.
The elevator door opened and Stanley angrily brushed past the extended hand.
As more people poured in, Stanley stood aside and held the door open. "It's one thing to have your head up your own ass. It's quite another, to have it firmly rooted up someone else's. Good luck, Shaw," he said mockingly and let the doors close.
* * *
More critics, just what the world needed! More people entitled to the best of everything. People hated critics. Industries hated critics. Film producers, writers, directors, painters, musicians, comedians, actors and actresses, they all hated them.
Once at a screening at Mann's Chinese Theatre, Ellen Burstyn herself had approached Stanley. The woman, taller and more beautiful and imposing in person shook his hand and said, "I just want to thank you, Mr. Gold. For everything you do."
Stanley was not one to be star struck. He rarely sought the company of the rich and the famous who's performances he scrutinized so closely while on the silver screen, but he was star struck then. "Thank you," he muttered.
Ms. Burstyn smiled, flashing her brilliant white teeth and tilted her head. "You know, it takes a lot of people and a lot of time to make a film. No one ever sets out to make a bad film. There are no film meetings where producers say, 'let's ruin this one'. Everyone involved, from the cast to the crew, from the star to the caterer, they invest everything they have into a film. You've watched the credits roll, you know how many are involved. For years, they work on this one thing, and they hope that it works. They may disagree, argue, make bad choices, but no one wants to make a bad movie. No one sets out to offend your sensibilities, Mr. Gold. But from it's premiere, it takes a column of about 500 words to condemn a film and send it quietly on its way to obscurity. It's as bad as actually standing in front of a theatre, waving a sign that says 'DON'T SEE THIS MOVIE'. It's actually worse. Because people read the reviews. It affects sales. And all of those hard workers, well, some may not find it as easy to find a job afterward."
Stanley held Ms. Burstyn's palm in his clammy hand and adjusted his tie. "I, well. I am..." he stammered. "A big fan..." he said, "of your other works," he added, then excused himself.
People hated critics. Creatives hated critics. Stanley hated critics. But it was his duty, and his passion, to review each film objectively, championing his standards for a better tomorrow.
A good film could reduce him to tears. It could show him something new about the world. He expected no less because it hurt to see such a powerful medium abused and so he railed against it. And, what was wrong with that?
Shaw. What an asshole. What did he think he was, the people's critic? The revenge critic? Was turning the tables on another critic by critiquing his critiques supposed to be clever? He was an asshole indeed.
* * *
On Friday, Stanley had 2 film reviews printed in the TGIF insert. He had driven home from the dog park in Kapiolani, unleashed Herzog in the apartment and sat back in his recliner.
Before settling in and starting on the new book about the Dogme Collective, he decided to look over his reviews. The first was a film about an odd couple who were randomly paired together on a road trip. He called the film's comic sensibilities "Misguided... There were moments when these characters stopped trying to be funny, and began trying to be offensive. The fatal flaw therein, that they tried at all."
In his second review about a group of middle aged men taking a vacation to the Bahamas to regain their wild bohemian youths, Stanley wrote "The film works. I laughed. I laughed hard. This is a very, very funny film."
Stanley chuckled to himself as he conjured a scene where 4 men were stuck in a hot tub together, and the sole woman had somehow disappeared within the entanglement. He was about to fold the newsprint and set it onto the back end table when he saw a name in print.
It was written in Times Roman, and was thus consecrated. Darwin Shaw had made the pilgrimmage from the blogosphere to newsprint!
"Mother Fucker," said Stanley, firming up the paper.
The review was titled The Gold Standard, and began "If you feel that Stanley Gold's reviews of this week's films seem contradictory, you are not alone. In one, he decries the slapstick mentality of the plot. In the second, he praises the very same mechanics. He laughs. He takes joy in it. Note the sudden flurry of visual details in relaying the hot tub scene. It's a standard scene. I've seen it. It is not funny. Yet he laughs fondly. Why? He is not laughing at the actors, or at the director's staging of the sequence, or at the beats in the script. He is laughing at himself. And once again, he reveals a bit of who he is for us readers and fans. Let me tell you how. It happened in a jacuzzi not quite like the one on screen. It was 1972. It was summer...."
The review went on in detail, describing that long lost summer day on his 22nd birthday in which he and a girl and three other friends tried to get into a jacuzzi. The girl's name was Haven. She was 25. Stanley was in love with her. She was an aspiring poet, as he was. They had all just seen the premiere of The Godfather and he was awestruck and aglow with inspiration. He had told everyone he suddenly wanted to become a film maker, and if he could produce a film half as good as Coppola's, he would have been happy. His enthusiasm was infectious.
They drank beer and joked and laughed, not minding the small, cramped quarters.
She kissed him in that awkward and crowded space, it was something that he would not forget.
"You see, for him the scene evokes nostalgia," wrote Shaw. "You can see it in the way he caresses the scenery and catalogues every detail. It's a lapse in professional conduct — a film review should never have anything to do with yourself — but it's a minor trespass. We're all human. In taking such pleasure and creating such a reverie linked to such a cliched scene, you may have wondered, what's come over Stanley Gold? Well, now you know."
"Jesus," growled Stanley. He crumbled the newspaper and threw it across the room. Herzog ran after it and returned with the crumpled tabloid hanging wet from his maw. "Herzog!" cried Stanley. "Trash!" The dog walked over to the white trash can in the corner and clumsily lowered the paper into it. "Good dog! God dammit," he stammered.
Shaw was precisely right. But how had he known this? Stanley got up out of his chair and fetched the leash.
"Shaw. I'm gonna have you fired... By god. Easy as you please, you'll be shit-canned.
Herzog. How's about another walk?
"
* * *
The editor of the TGIF section didn't back down. Shaw was now a full time member of the staff, and among his many contributions, "The Gold Standard" as the column had become to be known, was among the more popular articles. "It was the blog format," explained Mitch Dostevsky, the editor. "He had about 4,000,000 followers. Can you believe that? I mean, that's a hefty number. I don't think the entire cast of Glee has that many followers on twitter. Not that I follow them."
Stanley scowled, "Glee?" He shrugged. What the hell was that? They were sitting outside the Starbucks on Bishop Street late in the afternoon. "Where does he get off? What's with the fixation? Did I pan some distant cousin's buddy cop movie?"
"No, nothing like that," said Mitch. "It's just some new media thing. He pitched it, it was an interesting hook, and he had the readers. It's good for our numbers. That's it."
"This is insipid. You know this," said Stanley, tearing a napkin in half. "The state of film criticism has reached an all time low. Brainwashed by Hollywood. All of 'em fanboys of the highest degree. Do they even know what real criticism is?"
"It's a puff piece. The kid's a fan. This isn't hard news, it's entertainment."
"It's supposed to be critiqued. It's supposed to show and reveal what most wouldn't see. All we have now are consumer reports of commodities. And don't even mention the thumbs up system!"
"It's in the interest of the people."
"It seems the entire paper is one big human interest story..."
"That's why you're still here, buddy. Hawaii's own beloved, venerable, craggy, crusty, grizzly film critic."
Stanley glared at Mitch, took a sip of his coffee and crumpled up his napkin. He looked more and more like a Sylvain Chomet illustration. All fine lines and exaggerated angles. "Go see a Pauly Shore movie," he growled. "You're not bothered by this? You went from News A to the entertainment section. Our National news is laid out like some Top Ten List as if it makes it more palatable. This is basically tabloid fare."
Mitch waved his hand in dismissal. "Just another new animal shored up by these strange, new tides. Come on. Lighten up. At least they kept us on board after the buy out. We could have been on skid row. I mean, you would have been fine, what with your book deals and lectures. No kids. Healthy. But I would have been sunk! Don't rock the boat on this, I won't be able to back you."
Stanley thought about this. He was alone, then. A young woman walked by wearing a pair of gym shorts and Stanley's eyes obediently trailed her down the sidewalk. He fetched his memories of lost loves. Old friends long gone and wondered aloud, "Shaw — how's he know so much about me?"
"Come on, Stan. It's not supernatural. Nor serendipitous. He's a gifted reporter. He's done the research. There's a wealth of autobiographical material sitting at the library. Native Books. Borders. All by you."
"Maybe he came from the Rupert Murdoch School of Journalism," said Stanley, air-quoting journalism.
"Could be."
"I wonder," said Stanley. "If he's somehow attached to my past?"
"What past? You haven't even dated a girl after Havanah left you. That was what, thirty years ago?"
"Ah, Haven. Maybe she's had a kid after all."
"You keep harping on about her. Why don't you move on? You need someone."
"Aw. I was never good at dating. She was the last. Explain this, how do you suppose Shaw knew about the incident with the hot tub?"
Mitch sighed as he normally did when the topic moved to Havanah. "Research. You can't keep your pen cap on. It's in one of your two collections. I read it myself."
"Maybe he interviewed her."
"Stan," said Mitch crumpling his paper cup. "He didn't need to. You dwell, and divulge. Don't get sentimental on me. Nostalgia is a killer. It'll stop you dead in your tracks."
* * *
The reviews continued. Shawʻs reviews of Gold's reviews had shifted over the months. At first, they deconstructed his writing techniques, his sentence structures as if he were combing through stanzas of poetry. Then they began to cross reference his previous writings on cinema, comparing and contrasting minor points from one of his earlier collections of essays. Then slowly, they became more caustic, and revealed personal aspects about his life. They drew on his associations and critiqued his social circles in an attempt to explain his viewpoints. Through it all, Gold refused to comment on any of those reviews. He had nothing more to prove. This was no pieta, no usurping of authority, nor a critical coup. This was simply another form of critic, and now he knew how the auteur's felt.
When Stanley published his review of an animated tale featuring inanimate objects speaking to each other whenever humans weren't around, he asked "Will kids like this? Is there any mystery here? A light switch speaks through a lightbulb. An oven heats up when angry. Will kids get the domestic satire? Where has all the wild, unfettered play gone? The open spaces? Asylums from adults? What we have is child's play curated and controlled by corporations and their commodities. This is a sad state of affairs for children." When it was published, he read it at his desk while eating a spread of sky flakes with homemade guava jelly, and black tea.
With resignation, he read his review and then turned the page to The Gold Standard, by
Darwin
Shaw. The review was titled Farewell to Childhood, and it began "Stanley, oh Stanley. You've never had kids. Havanah and yourself, nor you and anyone else, for that matter. Havanah left you because you were lacking in empathy. You show a curious lack of empathy for any case of anthropomorphics. Curiously immune. You showed a lack of empathy for Pinocchio
when it was remastered and rereleased because, well, if a thing isn't real, it isn't human. Bambi was a deer, how could he feel human emotions? And therefore, how could we? you asked. Robots and toys suffer the same fate under your scrutiny. You were once a child, don't you know that to draw eyes on an object is to make it real? You would have understood, had you a few children on your own."
Quietly, gently, Stanley folded the newspaper and set it aside. This was not how he had envisioned the twilight of his career. If he had spent a lifetime antagonizing the work of others, well here it was coming back to him on his own turf, in his own home, is his own life. They say you should separate the work from the artist. They say artists should never take criticism personally. But what of this new animal? Did Shaw expect a rebuttle? A comeback? Some sparring? Well, he wasn't bolstered for it – not at this stage in the game. If this were the state of criticism, he wanted no part of it. He bent over, scratched Herzog behind his ears, rose out of his leather chair, then walked to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed in Mitch's number.
In a resolute voice, he grumbled into the phone. "Hey. It's me. Just wanted to jump on to let you know that this week's review will be my last," then he hung up.
* * *
The year passed by quietly. Stanley continued his lectures at Hawaii Pacific University. He taught classes at the University of Hawaii School of Digital Media. He encouraged students to take risks – to create from the gut. He critiqued their works fairly, and refrained from making any of the harsher judgements he had employed in his published articles. He tried again at writing screenplays but failed to complete any of them. He wrote essays on the Pacific Rim movement. He published his fourth and final compilation of reviews. He started a food blog, and ate out alone regularly.
Meanwhile,
Darwin
Shaw had grown irrelevant. With no reviews to review, his articles focused on other topics, like the Sun Noodle factory, or the different types of poke. It became clear that
Darwin
Shaw was a talentless sensationalist, perhaps with some connections in high places, and in Goldʻs absence was struggling to find new and meaningful subjects. Stanley was afraid that