Scrappy criticism

A new essay on the Bruce Springsteen movie, and a reading in Brooklyn.

Dear friends and family,

Six years ago, I wrote about why Bruce Springsteen has always had an extra-strong hold on my queer little heart. In truth, the piece felt like a bit of a reach when I pitched it—one of those where you’re trying to convince your editor that “no, I swear this is A Real Phenomenon, this is not just me and one or two randos on the internet.” So I was shocked when the essay came out and so many queer people—dykes, especially—reached out to say they felt exactly the same way. Some of them had even written about it already. Some of them later made a great podcast!

So last month, when my editor at The Nation reached out to ask if I wanted to review the new Bruce biopic, Deliver Me From Nowhere, of course I said yes. The piece came out this week, and you can read it here. The short version is: ☹️

The slightly longer version is that reviewing this movie was hard, because a) writing is always is,* and b) I didn’t have much positive to say, and I’m always hesitant to pan something. A film is, after all, the result of an enormous amount of labor by many people. Shitting on someone else’s work feels like a decision I don’t want to make lightly. I especially don’t want to take witty potshots at it just for points. One of the things I realized while writing this review was how easily the zingers come to you when you’re criticizing something. And given that we’re living in an age that’s ruled by screenshots and “engagement,” it’s no wonder that the acerbic pan has become so ubiquitous. I cut a lot of sick burns from my draft, and I stand by that decision—but it’s true that it probably makes me a less interesting critic. I’m willing to live with that.

(I also wonder how much this is related to my general allergy to bullying/meanness, which is obviously related to my own experiences of being bullied. I’ve long suspected that my softness has made me a worse writer in some ways. But again, I’m willing to live with it.)

The counterweight to all of this is that Deliver Me From Nowhere is a multi-million dollar biopic about one of the most successful musical artists of all time, and I’m a writer living in a rent-stabilized apartment in Brooklyn. So maybe Goliath can handle a puny punch or two on the toe from me.

If you’ve seen Deliver Me From Nowhere, I’d love to hear your thoughts (or even if you haven’t! Expressing an opinion on something you know nothing about is a time-honored New Yorker tradition, and I’m a New Yorker for life).

My other small piece of news is that I’m reading, alongside a bunch of very talented folks, at an event on November 14th in Brooklyn (flyer below), and I’d love if you were there! Tickets are free—just RSVP here—and the theme is “scrappy.” Still haven’t decided what I’m reading, or whether I personally qualify as scrappy, but come to find out the answers to both.

Yours,
Naomi

*As Thomas Mann wrote, “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”