Baghead: Big Screen Social Media?

Ann and I saw Baghead last night, a pseudo-horror comedy love story docudrama thing. It was part of Pittsburgh Filmmakers' ongoing promotion with the Pittsburgh Downtown Partnership, in which attendees of a film are invited to stay afterward at the Harris Theater and discuss the film over free food and drink.

Most of the folks in attendance last night enjoyed the film in the same way you might enjoy seeing your kid sister in a high school play -- at best, she did better than you expected, and at worst, it's a phase she'll grow out of. Ann and I, on the other hand, really enjoyed it, but that's because we recognize it for what it is: a big-screen version of what we're already doing.

Baghead is the story of four struggling (read: ne'er employed) actors in LA who, after sitting through a mediocre film at a film festival, decide they can do better than that. So they drive up to a cabin in Big Bear and set out to write their dream movie, the kind that will make them all stars. Of course, egos and sexual tension get in the way. And then there's the guy who keeps showing up at their window with a bag over his head...

It's a simple story that plays with genre conventions, but it's also a triumph of the DIY aesthetic, mining some of the same territory as The Blair Witch Project. But where that earlier film was groundbreaking in so many ways, Baghead is almost its direct descendent, proof that its conceits -- handheld cameras, shot on DV, improvised dialogue, self-referential awareness -- work even better in this age of videoblogging and microcinema.

Classical cinephiles might not place Baghead in the same category as Lawrence of Arabia, and they'd be right not to; it's a little movie about a (relatively) little thing. But we social media types should be rooting for the success of a film like Baghead, because it's a big-screen version of what we're all aspiring to create: it helps break down the barrier of expectation between film fans who only appreciate grandiose spectacle and those of us who believe you can still tell an engaging story on even the most meager means.

Who Determines the Shelf Life of "Modern" Art?

I saw a very cool play last night at the Bricolage summer reading series: Neighborhood 3: Requisition of Doom, by Jennifer Haley. It's an ultra-modern parable about communication, expectation and the nature of reality, cloaked in the guise of a horror film spoof.

The story centers around a fictional MMORPG (the titular "Neighborhood 3"), in which disaffected teens lose themselves -- literally -- for days on end. The game is a complex quest to eradicate the zombies who threaten to overrun a picture-perfect suburb -- which, the players notice, is a mirror image of their own suburban housing plan...

I'll let you draw your own conclusions about the play's themes and politics (or you can read this review of a prior performance in Louisville, which unfortunately seems to have missed out on so much of the play's dark humor). As I consider my own feelings about the play -- which I very much liked but am still processing -- a few thoughts enter my mind, such as:

* How well will hypermodern works of art age in an era of ever-increasing nostalgia, when the millennium bug already seems like it happened a generation ago?

* Can a work of art be judged a success or failure by a critic whose frame of reference doesn't encompass the ability to appreciate / process / understand the work of art?

* What's the cutoff age for understanding irony? (In my experience, irony seems to have a self-contained 30 year "generation," give or take, which suggests that the basis of humor / irony 'shifts' every quarter century or so.)

* What are the artistic reasons to create something "in the now," vs. something of an indeterminate time? How does that choice affect the audience's experience today, or in 100 years?

* How do you assign merit for a collaborative work in which the author or creator is separated from the audience by a wall of actors, interpreters or players? In these cases, who determines where the success or failure of the idea's execution lies?

* What is an artist's proper recourse when an audience or a critic misses the point?

* Which of our current cultural touchstones will still be memorable -- or even recognizable -- in 20 or 50 years?

Thoughts?

What Good Is Criticism?

I have a larger point to make, but first, a specific window into the situation:

This is the closing weekend for In Service, a powerful multimedia production that presents the stories of actual Pittsburgh soldiers who've returned from service in Iraq. The show is purposely absent of any slanted political context because it's meant to provide a rare glimpse of the soldiers themselves, not the ideologies behind the war they've fought (and continue to fight).

Ted Hoover, the stage critic for Pittsburgh's City Paper, issued a lukewarm review of the piece. Instead of basing his judgment on what the piece was, he bemoaned what it wasn't -- specifically taking the creators to task for NOT speaking out against the war itself.

To raise that complaint misses the point of the piece entirely, but it also betrays a complicated paradox in the world of art criticism (and critical thinking in general):

What IS the Role of the Critic?

Before you think this question doesn't apply to you, consider this: when was the last time you recommended an album/ movie / TV show / book to someone else?

Did you recommend it because you thought it was legitimately good and worth their time, or because the creation in question was closely aligned with what YOU, personally, enjoy?

Now consider the last time you told someone a book / movie / TV show / song was horrible.

WHY was it horrible?

Was it because the execution was terrible? Because the artist was a fraud? Because the communication was unclear, or the artistic choices were false?

Or, did you simply not like it? (Or, worse, did you not understand it, and therefore you presumed no one else would either?)

The Thin Line Between Criticism and Control

Critics are cynical enough to realize they can't support something their readers won't like. Stray too far from your audience's tastes and they'll forsake you. Thus, to remain relevant, a critic must review all art AS THOUGH HE ALREADY KNOWS WHAT HIS AUDIENCE WILL ACCEPT.

For example, in the case of Pittsburgh theatre, the target audience tends to be adults over the age of 50. Therefore, any play that doesn't speak directly to that demographic is likely to be panned, or commended with caution.

As you can imagine, this creates a stifling atmosphere for artists attempting to create new work, because they have two uphill battles to fight: the one to get an audience to take them seriously, and the one to convince the powers-that-be (who shape the choices of the populace) to convince the masses to take them seriously.

Personal Anecdote Time

Before I ventured into social media, I spent 2+ years as a music critic for the nearly-major music website Splendid (now defunct), out of Chicago. In that time, I reviewed hundreds of CDs, averaging a minimum of 3 per week.

Considering this was an unpaid, "free time" gig, it was in my best interests to plow through the CDs as quickly as possible. Most reviews were written after one or two listens, with only the ones that caught my attention garnering additional quality time.

I know from artist feedback that my reviews validated the burgeoning musical careers of several underground indie artists, who drew strength from my support of their work. I also know (from scathingly-worded emails) that my negative reviews cut the musicians deeply. If I helped keep some artists active, I don't think it's unreasonable to presume I may have also driven others out of their musical dreams altogether.

Looking back, it's ironic that a review written in haste might have caused a potentially talented musician -- who happened to not yet be "up to par" with others of his / her ilk -- to throw in the towel prematurely.

And yet, that's the power (fair or not) that every critic has with each word he commits to paper and page.

So, the Real Question Is...

... should a critic support the work of an artist who has the potential to become great, even if that work isn't yet fully commendable, because the risk of smiting that dream too early might mean the absence of new work that could someday change the world?

Or, should a critic be exceedingly harsh and unrelenting, fostering an environment where only the strongest survive?

Is a critic's primary function to be a guide for the audience or the artist?

How each critic answers those questions determines the role he seeks to fill: cheerleader or executioner?

Then again, EVERYONE'S a critic -- so what do YOU think?

Constructive Criticism?

My mom is writing a book. It might be a novel, or a novella, or a short story -- she's not sure. Neither am I. But she's done with the first draft, and she gave it to me to read -- with one request: be honest.

So I read it. Or, to be more precise, I read the first 43 pages. And then I stopped.

I called her and I gave her the news I'm sure she didn't want to hear: I think she needs a rewrite.

I think the characters are more "types" than individuals. I think the plot feels contrived, rather than organic. I think the way the narrator imparts information on the audience is confusing -- sometimes too much, sometimes too little, and sometimes completely unnecessary, given the thrust of the plot.

In summary, I think she has a bunch of raw elements that COULD become a compelling story, but they haven't coalesced yet. I think she's a few rewrites away.

In reviewing her, I started reviewing my own work, especially on Something to Be Desired. Ironically, we're in the story development stage for Season Five, which is the perfect time to apply this same level of scrutiny to my own work.

So what have I realized?

I've realized I have dozens of questions that I, as the writer and creator, can't answer. I also see structure and character holes that are screaming for attention. And there's a debilitating lack of plot that can only be due to my own lack of understanding of the characters (and their goals).

It's disheartening, in some ways, to realize I'm so far from where I'd like to be in the creation of the story. On the other hand, it's gratifying to know that I'm identifying the problem areas and taking positive steps to improve them, getting ever-closer to where I want to be. It helps me realize that a few minor setbacks aren't the end of the world -- they're actually a sign that I'm on the right track toward something I can really be proud of.

I hope my mom realizes that.