Why (Even Spectator) Criticism Matters

Illustration by Shaina Rubin

Writing criticism for the Spectator is a bit of a masturbatory enterprise (I know this because I write criticism for the Spectator). But though it may be masturbatory, it’s not irrelevant. Even if a piece of criticism is only read by a writer, the writer’s friends, and the writer’s parents, the critical responsibility is not diminished—one is still entitled to approach a work with thoughtfulness and seriousness, especially given that the Spectator’s circulation rate is greater than that of many “influential” publications.

Why bother devoting a 900-word opinion piece to a review or two? Because a review is just as worthy of criticism or praise as a news article or another opinion piece and because critics for the Spectator must hold themselves, their readers, and the objects of their criticism to as high a standard as journalists for the Spectator are inherently required to do. There is no right way to write a review (or if there is, I certainly don’t know what it is)—all that is required of the critic is thought, nuance, and a degree of humility.

A recent review of Keith Gessen’s All the Sad Young Literary Men is instructive in its failures. (Full disclosure: I have done a little work for Gessen and his magazine, which has a very low circulation rate.) Here’s the critic on Gessen’s shallow inspiration: “It is impossible to separate Gessen’s reality from his fiction. Gessen is best-known as Editor in Chief of n+1, a literary journal criticized for its general elitism and yuppie staff.” It’s nice that the author is aware of Gessen’s day job (indeed, as a Spectator editor recently pointed out in a staff e-mail, any good critic must “know your context; research your review subjects”), but resorting to second-hand critique seems inexcusable. The magazine has been “criticized for its general elitism and yuppie staff”? Really? Great! Provocative! But who are these quiet critics? And could they specify what they mean by elitism? And does the staff’s alleged socioeconomic status take precedence over the publication’s content?

N+1 does not need my defense, but voiceless attribution is irresponsible and prejudicial, particularly in a review written in the ever-powerful third person. A critic who has not read the subject’s collected works can still write a capable, definitive review but must admit the limits of his or her knowledge instead of seeking authority through evasion.

A February review of the Vampire Weekend album displayed a similar absence of subjectivity. (Full disclosure: I have done no work for Vampire Weekend, though I am in possession of a cool VW sticker.) Even the omnipresent hipster critique of the band could not have justified a 172-word review that provided me with exactly four descriptions of how the album sounds (those words? “Pleasing,” “poppy,” “cute,” and “clever.” Actually, none of these words describe how the album sounds). I didn’t learn anything about the music or the lyrics, but I did learn that the album was “disappointing.” Thanks! But disappointing to whom? Based on what expectations? The critic’s? The “bloggers’”? We have no answers, just a silent, all-powerful “disappointing,” which successfully stifles all discourse despite (or perhaps because of) the review’s absence of substance.

Obviously, I’m not immune to this kind of writing (or this kind of thinking). In some reviews, I have been too eager to cast myself as a knowing adult (always a terrible idea for an undergraduate critic), and I’m responsible for such horrendous prose as “bravura performance” and the following unforgiveable, environmentally unfriendly horror: “as long as typography, photography, and paper exist, Jonathan Safran Foer remains a compelling reason to cut down trees.” Ugh. But I have tried to interrogate and doubt wherever possible—not to take artists for their words.

And that’s why the review of Literary Men was ultimately, um, disappointing. According to the piece, Gessen’s “inclusion of highbrow intellectualism perfectly characterizes [his] tendency to name-drop literary or philosophical figures ... Gessen is so earnestly immersed in this intellectual façade that it is easy to imagine him referencing Heidegger in everyday banter.” Well, maybe. Or maybe Gessen includes all of that “highbrow intellectualism” to illustrate the divide between his characters’ realities and their profound political ambitions, and the “intellectual façade” might have more to do with their own failures of political disengagement than their writer’s Heidegger-referencing yuppie elitism. This is less a thoughtful take on a novel than a rant against the perceived writer and everything that he supposedly stands for.

A good review is nothing more than an engagement with a work that merits serious consideration by default (if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be up for review). It’s a chance for a writer to explore, to provoke, to question, to criticize, and to think. Those 500 (or even 200) words may not be read by many, but they’re words for which a critic is solely responsible and of which he or she should be proud. I’m not calling for hyperbolic kindness—I cringe at the thought of Arts and Entertainment pages full of gushing, deferential coverage. I want writers to take their work seriously, as masturbatory as it may sometimes seem. In the words of deplorable elitist Keith Gessen himself, “It’s time to say what you mean.”

The author is a Columbia College senior majoring in urban studies. He is the editor-in-chief of the Columbia Political Review.