If You Can't Say Anything Nice Then....

“Works of art are of an intimate loneliness. Only love can grip and fairly judge them. Consider yourself and your feeling right every time.” — Rilke

“I liked it!” Remember when Jean Hagen spoke those words in Singin’ in the Rain as the ditzy blonde movie star who just attended a premiere everyone else hated? That’s what I usually do when I experience something, with everyone else wondering “Who’s the idiot?”

What is it with people who run to see something and then only comment on the negative? I knew so many people like that. They’d go to an opera and the first word out of their mouths was the conducting was bad. They’d see a painting, the reds were too strong. An afternoon movie matinee and the plot was weak in the middle.
We all have our opinions, but whatever happened to just enjoying the thing for what it was, not what it wasn’t? I never understood Salvador Dali half the time either, but I sure liked what I was seeing. I wasn’t in control of these pieces of art, so I may as well enjoy what was there.

In my thirties I started to really watch some of these people who’d jump on the negative, and it seemed to me they were taking such stands to show their superiority, hiding their own low self-esteem. Many times it’s the people with the strongest prejudices who have the deepest fears.

I’m not saying I haven’t acted that way too, but I’d better have a good reason to back up the negativity, or else I just look like an ass.

An afternoon matinee of the Broadway musical The Boy from Oz was exactly what I was expecting, cheesy and fun, with Hugh Jackman simply oozing charisma out of every sweaty pore as he undulated his hips across the Imperial Theater stage. My God, sounds like I’m writing porn.

At the beginning of the first act, the character of Peter Allen as a little boy approached his grandfather, an elderly man rocking away on the porch, not paying much attention to anything other than his newspaper. The kid started tapping away, throwing his hands out in that flamboyant style the real Peter Allen had been famous for.
“Grandpa! Who am I?” the excited child asked.
Without missing a beat Grandpa said, “Ann Miller.”

Sounds like my childhood.

By the end of the show, everyone but Liza was dead, I mean, you knew how it was going to end, right? Leaving the theater, I had thoroughly enjoyed myself despite the unhappy ending, which, by the way, they overcame in the finale, with Judy, Peter and the entire cast descending a staircase from heaven, all dressed in white, singing and dancing to “I Go to Rio”.
I didn’t expect it to be high art when I walked in, but I loved that it was high camp once I walked out.

A couple in the lobby said, “Other than Hugh Jackman, that was awful.”
Another man said to me, “This show isn’t going to last long. What did you think of it?”
Of course I perked up, “I liked it!”

That same night I caught Taboo, Boy George’s musical life story, right across the street from the stage door of the Imperial. I’d been spending so much time in dark theaters my contact prescription had changed.

Again, I really enjoyed the show and I don’t know why it wasn’t a hit, although by now I had enough of musicals where the characters die of AIDS. During intermission I stood outside and some guy walked up asking me how the show was. Of course I gave him my usual three word response, then he pointed across the street to the Imperial with it’s poster of Hugh Jackman.
“Well, it’s got to be better than that thing over there. It was so bad I walked out after the first act!”
Thinking I’d put this snob in his place I beefed up my enthusiasm and said, “Oh… I loved that!”
He eyed me up and down as if I told him I had leprosy and walked away.

Now that I’ve gotten the sermon about the power of positive thinking out of the way, I have to admit, The Sopranos final episode was stupid, reality shows are demeaning, fauxhawks should be outlawed and Lucy’s version of Mame was a pile of crap.