What’s the point of calling shots?
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.