What’s the point of calling shots?

Certain things cling to my liking by mere threads of attachment, and when their tenuous grasp is broken, I am finally over them. Take, for instance, reviews. I am so done reading reviews. I remember when I took a film class at the New School in NYC back in the early ‘80s. The teacher was Richard Brown, who was the first host of Entertainment Tonight. We would see an unreleased movie on Saturday in Greenwich Village, and then in our Wednesday class we would meet the stars and directors and talk about the film. Timothy Hutton, Debra Winger, Paul Newman, Jerry Lewis and others attended. It was very cool. One thing that stuck with me was Mr. Brown’s adamant declaration to never read reviews; “reviewers are bottom feeders and scum suckers” was one of his favorite admonitions. “If Vincent Canby of the Times writes a bad review of a film about roller coasters, is it because he had a traumatic experience on one when he was 10? Do not let someone’s opinion of a work of art sway you from firsthand experience.”

Anyone who has ever been involved in a public display, be it an art opening, a musical gig or even a storefront downtown, knows full well the fickleness of the public and the desperate need Americans have to share their opinions. It’s as if we are all so disempowered from having any real effect on things at large that we jump at the opportunity to share our deflated two cents’ worth with a captive target. I mean, when you’re in the public eye, the customer is always right, or so the saying goes. My point is that anyone in the limelight has heard on the same night, “It’s too hot; it’s too cold. It’s too loud; it’s not loud enough. It was great; it sucked.” Unless you want to go insane, you learn to take all these plastic pearls of wisdom with a placid resolve.

Reviewers, on the other hand, take their one-sided facet of opinion and jam it in the public ear. To be fair, there are some good reviewers. People whose love or disdain transcends the narrow format of the written word and conveys an intended emotion to the reader. But for the most part, it seems to me, most reviews are a travesty. Middle-of-the-road declarations, neither affirming nor denying, giving no pause for reflection nor reason for printing.

So my point? Go see the Blue Room’s References to Salvador Dalí Make Me Hot. It’s a dreamy trip through a woman’s hot libido. Director Margot Melcon will make your watch melt.