What reviews should be.

Well, I’ve been thinking about this for a while – since August 2008 to be precise, after the reviews for OTOT came out. So I guess now is as good a time as any to talk about it.

To contextualise things slightly: the general opinion of Something Old hasn’t been very positive. From a personal standpoint, I agree wholeheartedly – while the premise of the play was intriguing, the way I handled the dialogue, drama and action left much to be desired.

So I’m cool with it if reviews say the play was poorly written. For one, everyone is entitled to their opinion; for another, I am my worst critic, in more ways than one: I am self-aware enough to recognise when something did not work. In the case of Something Old, it worked, but it could’ve worked better if I hadn’t been so heavy-handed with the writing.

But back to the point about reviews. What I want to question is: what is the relevance and value of a review, if the review merely says a particular piece of art was bad? (Sidenote: Students might want to approach this from the classroom perspective e.g. when you say a teacher can’t teach well.)

I think reviews – regardless of what is being reviewed – should have some relevance and value. One might argue that a review’s relevance and value is in informing the general public if a production is worth watching or a book is worth buying, etc. That makes sense: people neither want to waste their money on bad theatre nor do they want to waste money on bad books, or bad education, and so on.

But on the other hand, where is the sustainability in that? With some hindsight any artist worth her salt will recognise when a piece of art is shite. Being told that the art is shite doesn’t make the art any better, but only serves to make the artist feel crappy too. Save the stereotype of the artist as having a sensitive soul, most people are human, and if I may take this opportunity to add: not kind words from friends cut deeper than stones from strangers do.

So: here’s The Laremy Challenge (cheh…). For anyone who’s reading this – bloggers, journos, winos, blogger-journos, journo-winos and the like – I’d like you to keep the idea of sustainability in mind when you next write a review about something.

If that something sucked – be frank. Say it sucked. But say it in a sustainable fashion. Say it sucked nicely and then say how it sucked, and what could’ve been done to stop it from sucking so much e.g. if the piece had been written this way, or if it had been painted that way, etc.

I think if you try this, you might find your review still sells. People will want to read you so long as you write well, and any writer worth her salt will know how well s/he writes after a bit of hindsight.

But what’s more important is that the art you create is going to help someone else become a better artist. At the very least, you might realise that creating good art, in all senses of the adjective, isn’t so easy after all.

Why Shakespeare?

It’s a slow blog day and I thought I’d bash out a quick post on this before I lose this thought once again.

We had a forum of sorts at the NIE the other day, and I raised an issue which has been close to my heart for some time. I’m gonna raise it again here now, not only because it needs to be talked about, but also because I want to save it somewhere for posterity.

My stand:

The teaching of Literature in schools should preferably center on contemporary writers, both local and global. We should only teach Shakespeare and similar writers at the university level.

Reasons/Explication:

  1. “Shakespeare and similar writers” = anything that was published before the student’s own parents were born. To be more specific:
  2. “Contemporary” = an inversely proportional function which I will work on establishing so it doesn’t seem arbitrary. It should be something along the lines of: for students sitting for the ‘O’ level in 2009, year that work was published should be between 10 – 15 years ago. For students sitting for the ‘A’ level in 2009, year that work was published should be between 16 – 30 years ago. For undergraduates, the period/genre/text type etc. is fair game – they are majoring in Literature, after all.
  3. Reason for the above: we don’t want to spend too much time deciphering the language. The ‘contemporary’ rule ensures that the language and themes are accessible to the students.
  4. One argument against my stand: Shakespeare’s work is beautiful; we stand to lose more than we gain if we stop teaching his work. My view: I agree. His work rocks. But a majority of students really have a problem with the language (I will touch on this in my next point). Why turn them off from Literature right from the start? Maybe one way to negotiate this is to update the language used in Shakespearean works, but literary purists are going to have a problem with that as well.
  5. Another argument against my stand: students must be trained to work with the language; it’s part of the struggle to learn; there’s nothing very difficult if they try, etc. My response: The people who make this argument (and the other arguments for keeping Shakespeare in teenage students’ syllabuses) often have what I term as ‘the privilege of context’. They’re born into certain families and have access to certain kinds of environments and education which ease the struggle somewhat. For the rest of the students who don’t have these privileges, reading itself might even be a problem. We must keep them in mind when teaching.
  6. Last but not least, an argument against my stand has a bit of flawed logic in it. It goes something like this: if I went through the Singapore system and I studied Shakespeare, and I came out of it unscathed, so can the other students. No. That’s like saying we shouldn’t fix what’s broken – when we actually don’t know it’s broken because we can’t see the cracks. Furthermore, it adopts a very selfish viewpoint: I’m like this, so everyone can be the same too. The only reason why we came out of it unscathed was because: (a) even if we had problems, we could overcome it because of our inherent traits or determination to do well, and (b) See point (5).

There’s probably more to say but I’ve exhausted my words for now and I’ve to go for the production soon. But I’ll definitely want to revisit this topic again if I have the chance or if more ideas spring to mind. Nevertheless, feel free to add in your thoughts in the comments section, if you have any.

Here comes Bosola,

The only court-gall; yet I observe his railing
Is not for simple love of piety:
Indeed he rails at those things which he wants;
Would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud,
Bloody, or envious, as any man,
If he had means to be so.

(From John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi, Act One, Scene I)