Vanity Fair’s James Walcott revealed himself to be both puzzlingly moronic and a fine wit in separate posts last month. In dissing in-depth readings of The Sopranos’ recent in-coma movie, he wrote:
“Dream sequences are a curse on series TV, equal in their artsy-kitschy intrusiveness to ghostly visitations from deleted characters, and perhaps even worse than dream sequences are dream-sequence interpretations, which compels [sic] talented critics to smack at every symbol that pops up from the watery unconscious with wooden paddles.”
While it’s fair to criticize dream sequences for being lazy and tired crutches, the offending critic’s close reading gave voice and clarity to David Chase’s elegant but dense inner narrative. Walcott’s claim is bafflingly dumb, and hints that any attempt at interpretation is not just futile but a priori invalid.
But in another recent post (on V for Vendetta), he offers this gem:
“I’m going to monitor myself at future movie screenings to ensure that my responses are age-appropriate and befitting of my status, income level, and cultural sophistication.”
