This review

This review begins much as you might expect — as an obsessively self-meditating exercise in supposedly "artistic" narcissism. But as the review continues, it becomes something surprising: a look into the "source code" of reviewing, a chance for readers to peek behind the gold lamé curtain that shields the primitive intellectual processes of those who merely evaluate the efforts of other, more creatively daring human beings.

After a first paragraph that apologetically acknowledges its own narcissism while promising readers something more substantial to come, the review bogs down, seemingly stunned and wandering without direction. But it then suddenly snaps into focus, suggesting that the simple process of evaluation — even of something that doesn't yet exist — is actually a legitimately creative act. The review boldly asserts that criticism that contextualizes an original work can transcend its traditional role (mere summarizing and supposedly "objective" evaluation) and become something new: a formidable creative work in its own right.

And then, suddenly, the review slumps into an almost palpable despair. The writer loses all direction, and seems demoralized by his own thesis. What the hell was he trying to do in the second paragraph? What was all that pseudo-intellectual yammering? Does anyone in the world actually care to subject something as mundane and unimportant as this review to contemplative analysis? It's not until the end of the review's third paragraph that the writer telegraphs, fairly directly, that there is a clear method to his madness.

The end of the third paragraph, of course, was probably intended as a clean segue into the more meaty fourth paragraph, in which the writer suggests that this review, as unconventional as it may be, is actually true to its roots. According the review, the review boasts:

1) An "objective" voice that suggests a distance between the creator and evaluator, meaning that some sort of fair assessment of the work can be made,

2) A structure that promises readers some sort of concrete reward for suffering through its text (like a concrete, pithy evaluation of the work as whole, or some good one-liners) and

3) A target that is both constrained in its size, but not so focused as to be completely trivial and hard for a general audience to enjoy.

This review fails, however, to be more humble than the original object. Much like The New Yorker trying to review a rap concert, this review is intrinsically flawed because its overbearing, know-it-all voice submerges the clean, throbbing honesty of the work it discusses.

Overall, reading this review is like being in Hell: There's a lot of heat, not much light, and you're the prisoner of an elaborate system of torment you don't really understand, designed by someone you don't particularly like.

To its credit, however, the review ends suddenly.

— James Norton (jim@flakmag.com)