I wrote a letter to the editor of our school newspaper recently, and the idiots published it with a paragraph break at the exactly wrong point, thus ruining all the irony which the letter had been building up to. They honestly could not have more inept, and it’s extremely frustrating to know that the maimed letter is sitting in the newspaper with my name under it. (But I do wish I had put the very last sentence in a new paragraph—it is a new topic).
However, my youthful joi de vivre did succeed in making them assume what no bartender or liquor salesman has ever since I turned 15 or so—that is, that I am younger than 21. When the letter appeared, it was signed by me, “junior.”
Exhibit A (straight from the author’s pen):
Dear Editor,
I gather that the article “Love and _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _” (November 23, 2005) is intended to refer to the recent mainstage production of “Love and Intrigue.” It is indeed admirable to have said so little, even when given such a small space. In fact, there are only two keys to the content: the eight blanks in the title (i-n-t-r-i-g-u-e) and the burbling about Schiller in the nether portions of the column. I can understand such coyness when reporting on a production on the hill that must not be named, but surely our author does not dread being put on a hit list if he gives facts sufficient to ascertain the subject of his musings.
He could have mentioned the magnificent costumes. Or the overtly slimy secretary and his boss, the subtley creepy prime minister. Or the pathetically eager father, who has lived without romantic love so long that he can’t understand his daughter’s need for it. Or the dramatic irony in the last scene, when center stage is occupied by the torn pieces of a letter which could avert the entire tragedy. In fact, the only thing we learn from our erstwhile critic is that he seems troubled by dialogue of more brawn than that of a reality TV show. Of course the play would have been better if all words of more than one syllable were elaborately pantomimed for the vocabulary-challenged. Good acting will always make up for the audience’s deficiencies. This is the kind of criticism which will challenge the Drama Department to rise on the stepping stone of its lesser self to become a better and higher thing.
Exhibit B (Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.):
[Everything’s the same up to the last three sentences:]
… In fact, the only thing we learn from our erstwhile critic is that he seems troubled by dialogue of more brawn than that of a reality TV show. Of course the play would have been better if all words of more than one syllable were elaborately pantomimed for the vocabulary-challenged.
Good acting will always make up for the audience’s deficiencies. This is the kind of criticism which will challenge the Drama Department to rise on the stepping stone of its lesser self to become a better and higher thing.
