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Your favourite bad reviews

Oh that's easy. But it's quite long.





Probably too long for casual browsing but if you detest Michael Bay with a passion it's very enjoyable.
 
From a review of A.A. Milne's The House at Pooh Corner, written by Dorothy Parker as "Constant Reader":
"'Tiddely what?' said Piglet." (He took, as you might say, the very words out of your correspondent's mouth.)
"'Pom,' said Pooh. 'I put that in to make it more hummy.'"
And it is that word "hummy," my darlings, that marks the first place in The House at Pooh Corner at which Tonstant Weader Fwowed up.
 
And the award for best ever hatchet job interview goes to....Lynn Barber. This interview with Marianne Faithfull is priceless :D

Marianne Faithfull: 'You know, I'm not everybody's cup of tea!'

I remember that one well and found it gratifying, because I always thought Faithful is hugely overrated as a singer, she just coasts on her mythology. I like lots of singers who aren't technically great, but they make up for it by interpreting songs via their personality. They have to be great performers. Faithful sings every song the same. I once saw her live and listening to her braying her way through everything from the Stones to Brecht at the same unvarying pace, affecting world weariness, was the most tedious thing ever. People keep gong on about what a legend she is, so it was good going Barber go against the grain.
 
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Lee Hazelwood - poet, fool or bum
The review simply read 'bum'.

I'm a Lee fan but I still found it amusing.
 
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I remember that one well and found it gratifying, because I always thought Faithful is hugely overrated as a singer, she just coasts on her mythology. I like lots of singers who aren't technically great, but they make up for it by interpreting songs via their personality. They have to be great performers. Faithful sings every song the same. I once saw her live and listening to her braying her way through everything from the Stones to Brecht at the same unvarying pace, affecting world weariness, was the most tedious thing ever. People keep gong on about what a legend she is, so it was good going Barber go against the grain.
To be fair, she could actually sing at one point in the mists of time. I suspect the last time she did was before I was born though. A definitive advertisement for what too many fags will do to you.

Edit: And I'm blaming the fags because you don't normally guzzle heroin. Plus it's normally the rock star drug of choice.
 
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To be fair, she could actually sing at one point in the mists of time. I suspect the last time she did was before I was born though. A definitive advertisement for what too many fags will do to you.

Edit: And I'm blaming the fags because you don't normally guzzle heroin. Plus it's normally the rock star drug of choice.
There are many voices weathered by fags, drugs and booze which are great because the singer knows how to use that voice as an instrument, no matter how limited that instrument may be. Faithful lacks that sort of interpretive skill. Even when she still had more of a range and a higher voice, her singing was pretty but no more interesting than the voices of thousands of girls singing along to the radio in their bedrooms. That's the case for lots of pop stars who coast along on looks, so nothing wrong with that but when you come back and reinvent yourself as a "magnificent wreck", I want more substance than what Faithful manages. Just singing in a hoarse voice isn't enough.
 
this one:
Dorchester Grill: restaurant review | Jay Rayner
"So yes, you can hate the Dorchester Grill on principle. You can avoid the whole damn hotel on the grounds that its knuckle-dragging owner thinks stoning strangers to death is a reasonable response to their sexual orientation. But I think it helps to know that you can also hate it on its own terms; that the price tag will not buy you bliss or, as the best restaurants do, a moment suspended in time. It will simply buy you the sense that some people have too much money and others know how to take it off them"
 
"This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force".

this was variously attributed to Dorothy Parker and SJ Perelman, about books as various as Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, or Benito Mussolini's The Cardinal's Mistress, or a bunch of others. Turns out it has never been pinned down for sure. =
 
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Can't remember either the actor or the reviewer, but a review of a performance of King Lear back in the day said "(X) played The King as though under the impression that at any moment someone was about to play the ace."
 
While it's true that Mr. Cranky doesn't like any movies, I think "I Am Sam" deserved it.
I Am Sam Movie Review | Mr. Cranky

I Am Sam

Bomb Rating:
6.gif


On several occasions, I have used the metaphor of directors sticking their arms up my ass and working me like a puppet in their ham-handed efforts at emotional manipulation. Congratulations to director Jessie ("The Story of Us") Nelson. She's achieved a first. She not only stuck her hand up my sphincter but did it with such force that she left enough room for her entire schlock-addicted family to move in. Say hello to my colon, you tear-jerking fascists.
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How could I have hated this film more? The women sitting behind me could have taken turns kicking me in the back of the head, creating a welt that eventually filled with blood and exploded, rendering me technically brain-dead, but somehow conscious. The theater chain, recognizing my contributions to film criticism, could have then offered to pay for my life support by keeping me in the theater on a ventilator and forcing me to watch "I Am Sam" for the rest of my waking life, which I would then attempt to end mercifully by waiting until late at night (after the amorous janitor had gone home), rolling myself off my gurney onto the floor and, picking up a stray golf pencil with my one functioning eyelid, JAMMING IT THROUGH MY EYE SOCKET AND INTO MY FRONTAL LOBE AGAIN AND AGAIN OH THANK YOU GOD FOR THE SWEET RELEASE OF DEATH.
 
28 January 1936, Pravda

Muddle instead of Music

With the general cultural development of our country there grew also the necessity for good music. At no time and in no other place has the composer had a more appreciative audience. The people expect good songs, but also good instrumental works, and good operas.

Certain theatres are presenting to the new culturally mature Soviet public Shostakovich's opera Lady MacBeth as an innovation and achievement. Musical criticism, always ready to serve, has praised the opera to the skies, and given it resounding glory. The young composer, instead of hearing serious criticism, which could have helped him in his future work, hears only enthusiastic compliments.

From the first minute, the listener is shocked by deliberate dissonance, by a confused stream of sound. Snatches of melody, the beginnings of a musical phrase, are drowned, emerge again, and disappear in a grinding and squealing roar. To follow this "music" is most difficult; to remember it, impossible.

Thus it goes, practically throughout the entire opera. The singing on the stage is replaced by shrieks. If the composer chances to come upon the path of a clear and simple melody, he throws himself back into a wilderness of musical chaos - in places becoming cacophony. The expression which the listener expects is supplanted by wild rhythm. Passion is here supposed to be expressed by noise. All this is not due to lack of talent, or lack of ability to depict strong and simple emotions in music. Here is music turned deliberately inside out in order that nothing will be reminiscent of classical opera, or have anything in common with symphonic music or with simple and popular musical language accessible to all. This music is built on the basis of rejecting opera - the same basis on which "Leftist" Art rejects in the theatre simplicity, realism, clarity of image, and the unaffected spoken word - which carries into the theatre and into music the most negative features of "Meyerholdism" infinitely multiplied. Here we have "leftist" confusion instead of natural human music. The power of good music to infect the masses has been sacrificed to a petty-bourgeois, "formalist" attempt to create originality through cheap clowning. It is a game of clever ingenuity that may end very badly.

The danger of this trend to Soviet music is clear. Leftist distortion in opera stems from the same source as Leftist distortion in painting, poetry, teaching, and science. Petty-bourgeois "innovations" lead to a break with real art, real science and real literature.

The composer of Lady MacBeth was forced to borrow from jazz its nervous, convulsive, and spasmodic music in order to lend "passion" to his characters. While our critics, including music critics, swear by the name of socialist realism, the stage serves us, in Shostakovich's creation, the coarsest kind of naturalism. He reveals the merchants and the people monotonously and bestially. The predatory merchant woman who scrambles into the possession of wealth through murder is pictured as some kind of "victim" of bourgeois society. Leskov's story has been given a significance which it does not possess.

And all this is coarse, primitive and vulgar. The music quacks, grunts, and growls, and suffocates itself in order to express the love scenes as naturalistically as possible. And "love" is smeared all over the opera in the most vulgar manner. The merchant's double bed occupies the the central position on the stage. On this bed all "problems" are solved. In the same coarse, naturalistic style is shown the death from poisoning and the flogging - both practically on stage.

The composer apparently never considered the problem of what the Soviet audience looks for and expects in music. As though deliberately, he scribbles down his music, confusing all the sounds in such a way that his music would reach only the effete "formalists" who had lost all their wholesome taste. He ignored the demand of Soviet culture that all coarseness and savagery be abolished from every corner of Soviet life. Some critics call the glorification of the merchants' lust a satire. But there is no question of satire here. The composer has tried, with all the musical and dramatic means at his command, to arouse the sympathy of the spectators for the coarse and vulgar inclinations and behavior of the merchant woman Katerina Ismailova.

Lady MacBeth is having great success with bourgeois audiences abroad. Is it not because the opera is non-political and confusing that they praise it? Is it not explained by the fact that it tickles the perverted taste of the bourgeois with its fidgety, neurotic music?

Our theatres have expended a great deal of energy on giving Shostakovich's opera a thorough presentation. The actors have shown exceptional talent in dominating the noise, the screaming, and the roar of the orchestra. With their dramatic action, they have tried to reinforce the weakness of the melodic content. Unfortunately, this has served only to bring out the opera's vulgar features more vividly. The talented acting deserves gratitude, the wasted efforts - regret.
 
28 January 1936, Pravda

Muddle instead of Music

With the general cultural development of our country there grew also the necessity for good music. At no time and in no other place has the composer had a more appreciative audience. The people expect good songs, but also good instrumental works, and good operas.

Certain theatres are presenting to the new culturally mature Soviet public Shostakovich's opera Lady MacBeth as an innovation and achievement. Musical criticism, always ready to serve, has praised the opera to the skies, and given it resounding glory. The young composer, instead of hearing serious criticism, which could have helped him in his future work, hears only enthusiastic compliments.

From the first minute, the listener is shocked by deliberate dissonance, by a confused stream of sound. Snatches of melody, the beginnings of a musical phrase, are drowned, emerge again, and disappear in a grinding and squealing roar. To follow this "music" is most difficult; to remember it, impossible.

Thus it goes, practically throughout the entire opera. The singing on the stage is replaced by shrieks. If the composer chances to come upon the path of a clear and simple melody, he throws himself back into a wilderness of musical chaos - in places becoming cacophony. The expression which the listener expects is supplanted by wild rhythm. Passion is here supposed to be expressed by noise. All this is not due to lack of talent, or lack of ability to depict strong and simple emotions in music. Here is music turned deliberately inside out in order that nothing will be reminiscent of classical opera, or have anything in common with symphonic music or with simple and popular musical language accessible to all. This music is built on the basis of rejecting opera - the same basis on which "Leftist" Art rejects in the theatre simplicity, realism, clarity of image, and the unaffected spoken word - which carries into the theatre and into music the most negative features of "Meyerholdism" infinitely multiplied. Here we have "leftist" confusion instead of natural human music. The power of good music to infect the masses has been sacrificed to a petty-bourgeois, "formalist" attempt to create originality through cheap clowning. It is a game of clever ingenuity that may end very badly.

The danger of this trend to Soviet music is clear. Leftist distortion in opera stems from the same source as Leftist distortion in painting, poetry, teaching, and science. Petty-bourgeois "innovations" lead to a break with real art, real science and real literature.

The composer of Lady MacBeth was forced to borrow from jazz its nervous, convulsive, and spasmodic music in order to lend "passion" to his characters. While our critics, including music critics, swear by the name of socialist realism, the stage serves us, in Shostakovich's creation, the coarsest kind of naturalism. He reveals the merchants and the people monotonously and bestially. The predatory merchant woman who scrambles into the possession of wealth through murder is pictured as some kind of "victim" of bourgeois society. Leskov's story has been given a significance which it does not possess.

And all this is coarse, primitive and vulgar. The music quacks, grunts, and growls, and suffocates itself in order to express the love scenes as naturalistically as possible. And "love" is smeared all over the opera in the most vulgar manner. The merchant's double bed occupies the the central position on the stage. On this bed all "problems" are solved. In the same coarse, naturalistic style is shown the death from poisoning and the flogging - both practically on stage.

The composer apparently never considered the problem of what the Soviet audience looks for and expects in music. As though deliberately, he scribbles down his music, confusing all the sounds in such a way that his music would reach only the effete "formalists" who had lost all their wholesome taste. He ignored the demand of Soviet culture that all coarseness and savagery be abolished from every corner of Soviet life. Some critics call the glorification of the merchants' lust a satire. But there is no question of satire here. The composer has tried, with all the musical and dramatic means at his command, to arouse the sympathy of the spectators for the coarse and vulgar inclinations and behavior of the merchant woman Katerina Ismailova.

Lady MacBeth is having great success with bourgeois audiences abroad. Is it not because the opera is non-political and confusing that they praise it? Is it not explained by the fact that it tickles the perverted taste of the bourgeois with its fidgety, neurotic music?

Our theatres have expended a great deal of energy on giving Shostakovich's opera a thorough presentation. The actors have shown exceptional talent in dominating the noise, the screaming, and the roar of the orchestra. With their dramatic action, they have tried to reinforce the weakness of the melodic content. Unfortunately, this has served only to bring out the opera's vulgar features more vividly. The talented acting deserves gratitude, the wasted wfforts - regret.
tl;dr
 
From the Quietus review of the new animal collective album:

So when I tell you that Painting With is absolute dogshit from start to finish, you know that what follows isn't some stunt hatchet job on a band I don't care for. It's as if they've deliberately used their powers for evil this time. In fairness, co-founding member Teddy Bear has said that they set out to make three-minute pop songs partly because they knew it wasn't their strong suit. Admirable enough, but by their nature experiments often fail - and this nightmare of airless forced fun emphasises the point in garish capital letters.


The kindest thing you could say for the promotional materials heralding its release is that they manage your expectations well. Lead single 'Floridada' sets the template for the whole album, their trademark, often plaintive harmonies transmuted into an oppressively jaunty kids' TV theme tune ravaged by EDM belches. Lyrically, it's a faux–naïf tableaux centred on "the queen of everything fancy" (never the king, is it?) in the sunshine state. It's as catchy as a PTSD flashback to that week spent imprisoned in a ball pool, being tortured by playschool teachers as a cackling Skrillex looked on. In a few years' time, some former Domino employee who'd been charged with promoting this thing will hear it again and crack, throwing the nearest person over a rail like the troubled nanny in Curb Your Enthusiasm.

...now I have no opinion on the music because I haven't heard it, but this review confirms my suspicions that in order to write for the Quietus you must pass two tests: one for unbearable smugness and one to ensure that you have zero ability to string a sentence together.
 
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