Okay, so it now seems that we have to address the issue of preconception in critical appraisal.

The impetus is Jonathan Jones, a critic for the UK Guardian who wrote a much-derided essay to the effect that he had never read Terry Pratchett but was certain that he was nothing much.

Later, in response to a firestorm of criticism of his temerity on making such a critical judgment without bothering to read the author in question, he wrote a followup to the effect that he had since read one Terry Pratchett novel and not changed his mind.

Taking the discussion away from the realm of whether this particular critic is an asshole or not, the question remains: is this ever okay?

We are talking about the peremptory critical opinion, and we all encounter those long before the first time we ever read a book or movie review.

I can recall an occasion in childhood, a minor trauma, when my father and I were arguing over control over the TV set. He wanted to watch Program X; I wanted to watch Program Y. Being the breadwinner, he enjoyed the power of veto, but I was absolutely desperate to watch Program Y, and so I mustered all the rhetorical skills at my command to get him to understand that Program Y would be totally awesome if he would only give it a fair chance. He acceded; we turned on program Y, which began with a car pulling up to a building and somebody getting out. I assure you that the car was not the Bat-Mobile or any other obvious fantasy vehicle. It was a freaking car, and the guy getting out was wearing a freaking suit. He hadn’t spoken so much as a single line of dialogue yet. My father, who had promised to give my choice a chance, snarled, “Oh, I am not going to sit here watching this garbage,” and turned to the program he had wanted to see all along.

This upset me tremendously.

Years later, without sufficient recall of the specifics, I cannot testify with absolute assurance that the show I wanted to watch was not garbage. Nor can I confirm that there wasn’t some dead give-away indicator in that simple scene of a motorist driving up to the building that didn’t alert my father, an adult, that it was garbage. It was quite possible that he was more discerning than I was; it is also possible that he was blinder. I was a genre fan, and still am; he shuddered at any whiff of fantasy, and still does. I don’t know whether that scene was as nondescript as I remember it and therefore have no way of knowing whether he was just indulging me long enough to reassert his authority and switch to the show he preferred.

But based on the appearance alone, I thought he was tremendously unfair then and still think he was tremendously unfair now. (Of course, it’s the appearance as perceived by the kid I was, and that’s an issue too.)

Every once in a while we see a critic predisposed to consider a given art form garbage dip into that art form long enough to confirm that it was what he always thought it was.

I think of the guy who wanted to assure us that Horror fiction was a vast wasteland, who read two Stephen King books and one Stephen Dobyns book and from that extrapolated that it was all crap and that not one of the hundreds of other writers plowing the field had so much as a single elegant metaphor to offer us. That’s expertise.

Of Joe Queenan, who dismissed Neil Gaiman as nothing but a dealer in cheap shock on the basis of one, one, particularly horrific issue of Sandman.

Of the folks in places like The New Yorker and Newsweek who over the years have been assigned to find out if there was anything worth noting about this science fiction stuff, for retrospective articles, and first cracked the pages of writers like Ursula K. Le Guin, for God’s sake, looking to stuff to giggle about.

Of the Toronto journalist who was assigned to cover Worldcon, outright stated in her article that she went despising science fiction with other fiber of her being, went for four hours out a five day gathering, and returned after that minimal effort reporting that it was every bit as bad as she was predisposed to imagine.

Of the other writer I saw who “had never seen a western,” and “never would,” but felt sufficiently confident in her expertise to declare that they were all the same, as she was assigned to review one particularly lowest common-denominator example.

Of the late great Andy Rooney, casting about for some topic to fill his curmudgeonly two minutes at the end of 60 Minutes, listening to one (1) Bruce Springsteen song at the beginning of that master’s brilliant album Tunnel Of Love, and declaring with great authority that the guy’s lyrics were always uniformly stupid and that there was nothing to him.

They were all starting with their conclusions, and working their way back.

The question is: is an open mind an absolute virtue? Is it always possible to give a fair review even if you’re predisposed to think that a given writer’s work is crap?

This is where I speak from personal experience.

I am a paid book reviewer and have at times been a paid movie reviewer.

If you think that I never approached an assignment without some educated supposition of the quality level of what I’ve been assigned, you’re wrong.

I reviewed any number of low-budget horror movies, direct to DVD. Do you think I couldn’t ever look at the cover art and not know that what I was about to start watching was likely going to be a chore to sit through? Do you think I never found those suspicions confirmed? Do you think I never wrote a review that ended up being nothing but a confirmation of those original suspicions?

The trick was always to watch those specimens and note what I was watching, story, screenplay, camera work, performances, and so on, enough to write about them with conviction; to say that this is bad because of these specific reasons; this is grist for mockery for these specific reasons; this is appalling for these specific reasons, and yes, clearly I watched the whole thing, paying attention. I actually looked. I actually found data. I actually formed conclusions that were independent of my original, peremptory impression.

The trick was also to recognize transcendent quality when it existed. Even the worst movies sometimes had the occasional well-written line, or determined performance by young actor who wanted to give it her all.

The trick was also to occasionally allow myself to be surprised when some film with no positive advance word turned out to possess virtues far in advance of what I expected, even to the point of excellence, and there were any number of times I championed such works at the top of my lungs.

The trick was not to say, in advance, “I know this is shit, and I’ll watch it only long enough to confirm that I’m right.”

Andy Rooney did not pick up Tunnel of Love expecting to love Bruce Springsteen. That’s a given. It is quite possible that if he’d listened to the whole album he would have proven just as opaque to the rest of the songs as he turned out to be to the rather simplistic opening ditty, “Ain’t Got You.” But he would have been able to document that he had listened to the whole thing, if only by not subjecting the entirety of that rather nuanced and humane album about human relationships to the false statement that none of the songs were about anything. He would have understood what he was hearing enough to offer specific educated criticism of his chosen subject.

This would have been a fair review even if the music had not spoken to him or proved sufficient to change his mind.

Instead, he wrote an assurance to people his age that this guy Springsteen was nothing worth worrying about, which was the opinion he started with, and the opinion he ended with, and the opinion they listened to him to have confirmed, with no actual information being provided.

This fellow in the Guardian snotted that he had “glanced at” a Terry Pratchett book at one point or another, and found it “nothing special;” hit with criticism he confirmed that he had read some Terry Pratchett now and that his opinion had not changed, but you will note: he did not provide specifics. He did not tell you what he found in Pratchett, good or ill. He did not express any reactions to the particular elements he found in Pratchett. He provided nothing. He gave his second look no more work than he gave the first look he didn’t bother to give. He went in looking for nothing but confirmation that he was right.

How many books, fair ones, good ones, great ones, even piss-poor ones, could have survived that peremptory refusal to engage?

“I’ve never seen a western but I know that they’re all alike and that none of them can be any good.”

Then seeing a cowboy on a horse.

“Ucch. I already hate it.”

I need to tell you something.

I am not a Terry Pratchett fan.

I am not.

Oh, I possess some vague admiration for him. I know that he had an impact on millions around the world. I know that he continued working long after his final illness should have sidelined him. I know that he is generally considered a good man and that he left behind a legacy of philantropy.

But my first exposure to his fiction slid off me, unable to find a purchase. It did not speak to me. I remember nothing of it and am not particularly motivated to give him a second look.

I am told that with dedicated attention to certain great Pratchett books, read in the right order, I may be able to correct this failure and be as infected by his charms as so many other people have been.

Maybe someday. I am not currently motivated to do so. I have other books to read, a stack so high that I’ll never get to the bottom of it.

The difference is that I do not feel comfortable in making the authoritative claim that there was never anything to this guy. The difference is that if I found myself professionally obligated to write a retrospective of his work complete with critical conclusions I would not begin with what is now a pre-existing bad impression and read only enough to confirm it; I would not dive into that rather substantial library determined to read only as much as I needed to in order to snot that I was right all along. I would feel obligated to read as many books as I could stand, looking for specific qualities that I could talk about and point to, whether to illustrate the weaknesses or champion the strengths. Any snark I brought to the table would be a reflection of what I found during that reading, not what I brought to that reading, because doing any less would be cheating Pratchett, any readers of that article, and myself.

That’s how you write a review when you have a preconceived conclusion. That’s how you arrive at the truth even when you think you know what the truth already is.

The distinction should not be that difficult to understand.

It really shouldn’t be.

Tags: 60 Minutes, Andy Rooney, Assholes, Bruce Springsteen, Fantasy, horror, Joe Queenan, Life Wisdom, Movies, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, Ursula K. Le Guin, Westerns, Worldcon, writing | Category Books, Commentary, Horror, Life Wisdom, Movies, Science Fiction, Sneaky Metaphors, Uncategorized, Writing