Haven’t done one of these in a while. One has to take a break sometimes…but, as the world insists on turning round and the sun insists on shining, so to do the crit-illuminati continue in their ceaseless quest to rearrange reality…Ergo:

Elvis might never have been born, but someone else would surely have brought the world rock ‘n’ roll.

No such logic accounts for Bob Dylan. No iron law of history demanded that a would-be Elvis from Hibbing, Minnesota, would swerve through the Greenwich Village folk revival to become the world’s first and greatest rock ‘n’ roll beatnik bard and then—having achieved fame and adoration beyond reckoning—vanish into a folk tradition of his own making.

(J. Hoberman, “Like a Complete Unknown: I’m Not There and the Changing Face of Bob Dylan on Film” Village Voice, November 13, 2007)

Now that, “never been born” bit is maybe a touch too illuminating. It trades the subtler forms of thought control for wish fulfillment.

But as the world’s foremost interpreter of crit-illuminati speak, let me translate the whole thing for you.

Elvis is not one of us. (If we can’t make him go away, we can at least make that point perfectly clear!)

Bob Dylan…he is one of us!

See how simple that is?

One thing I’ve never been clear on is whether there is some sort of entrance exam required for either entry to crit-illuminati circles or promotion therein.

If there is one, I’m pretty sure extra credit must be given for being able to say stupid stuff about Elvis and Bob Dylan at the same time.


Once the rumor spreads…

“Frankel notes that the year Cynthia Ann [Parker] was taken, three of America’s four best-selling novels were by James Fenimore Cooper, with captivity figuring in all; the fourth was the true story of a settler woman who, captured by the Seneca Indians, married into the tribe, had seven children and refused to rejoin white civilization.”

(Source: J. Hoberman, review of Glenn Frankel’s The Searchers: The Making of an American Legend, from New York Times, Feb. 22, 2013)

We’ll lay aside that “novels” should be books (as the quote itself admits the fourth was a nonfiction account). And I  really don’t want to drag Frankel’s book into this. I’m reading it now and it’s quite good (I’ve already turned up one nugget I plan to use in my next post about the movie). Overall the book seems a well-researched, well-written labor of love and Frankel clearly put a lot of work and care into it.

So I was just going to pass over the messy bit Hoberman cites as one of those things. We all make mistakes. But now that it’s been given the imprimatur of the paper of record, it’s worth mentioning that Hoberman’s reference does clearly demonstrate one of the dangers of what I like to call “industrial criticism.”

So here’s the relevant quote from the book under review:

“At the time of the massacre at Parker’s Fort, [the historical event that forms the basis of Frankel’s book] three of the nation’s four biggest sellers were novels by Cooper–The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder and The Deerslayer, all of which featured captivity as an important plot element.” (p. 35)

Since the massacre (and abduction of Cynthia Ann Parker) took place in 1836 and The Pathfinder and The Deerslayer weren’t published until 1840 and 1841 respectively, this is a somewhat dubious statement.

Again not a terribly big deal in and of itself. Perhaps Frankel really meant bestselling books of the era or “the time” (as opposed to the specific year). Perhaps there was some lapse of research or memory. Perhaps some  initially clear language was garbled at the editorial or typesetting stage. There could be any number of perfectly good explanations.

But, of course, if you do make a mistake–or at least the impression of a mistake–that’s likely to be the very thing a reviewer cites! And he’s likely to apply compound interest. (As here, where the lack of clarity and specificity implied by “the time” immediately becomes the completely counter-factual “the year.”)

Since Frankel’s book is largely about the relationship between fact and “myth” it’s a little ironic–and frankly pretty interesting–to find such a perfect example of how one soon becomes the other in America’s most prominent reviewing space. The author planted a seed. The reviewer (with hundreds of pages to choose from!) immediately homed in on it and turned it into a sapling. Pretty soon word gets around and there’s a mighty oak tree standing about, obscuring all kinds of things!

It won’t surprise me to be googling the subject five years down the line and find that it has been spun into something that is very, very far afield. What that “something” might be I won’t try to guess. For now I’m letting it be the inspiration for The Sixth Maxim:

Please do sweat the small stuff!