I have a long-standing fondness for folk music such that I would have been happy to watch a feature-length version of the Greenwich Village section of I’m Not There, so I’m curious to see how the Joel and Ethan Coen’s movie about the same period, Inside Llewyn Davis, tracking the career of fictional folksinger of the same name, looks in its entirety:

Watching this trailer, I was particularly struck by Carey Mulligan’s character, who maybe is Davis’ girlfriend, current or former, but at minimum is a frustrated truth-teller who is acutely aware of Davis’s weaknesses. This clip reminded me of something Emily Nussbaum wrote earlier this year about “a time when the legendary wildness of male New York intellectuals and artists was made possible by middle-class girlfriends who paid the rent and absorbed hipness from the kitchen. As Joyce Johnson, Jack Kerouac’s onetime girlfriend, observed in her scathing memoir Minor Characters, an account of kohl-eyed Barnard coeds fleeing to Greenwich Village, ‘Even a very young woman can achieve old-ladyhood, become the mainstay of someone else’s self-destructive genius.’”

Elizabeth Olsen is playing another character like this in Kill Your Darlings, the account of Allen Ginsberg’s friendship with Lucien Carr at Columbia, leading up to the period when Carr killed David Kammerer. She’s Edie Parker, who eventually married Jack Kerouac, also a character in the movie, for a brief period while he was imprisoned. And while she’s less angry than Mulligan’s character appears to be, she embodies the awfulness of standing by while people who think they’re geniuses self-indulge and self-destruct. It’s irritating to constantly put women in the position of having to be the in-text reminders to the audience that what male characters think is badass is not necessarily so. But better that, I suppose, than a straight-forward lionization of self-absorption. And at least Mulligan’s character gets to be an artist, too.

This is an incredible shame:

ROBOT 6 has confirmed rumors circulating this weekend at Chicago Comic & Entertainment Expo that parent company AOL has shut down the comics news site ComicsAlliance. The move came Friday amid the abrupt closings of AOL Music and several music news and video sites.

Launched in its current form in August 2009 by Laura Hudson (AOL had briefly operated a lower-profile comics blog with that name), ComicsAlliance featured a mix of news, humor and commentary and a staff of contributors that most recently included the likes of Caleb Goellner, Chris Sims, Andy Khouri and David Brothers. Hudson left the site in June 2012, to be replaced as editor-in-chief by former Vertigo editor Joe Hughes.

It’s not just the loss of jobs for good writers that’s unfortunate. It’s that Comics Alliance, which I started reading under Hudson’s leadership, was a place where liking comics wasn’t incompatible with thinking about the race and gender of people who created them, or where you could enjoy something and still interrogate why you enjoyed it. So much of popular culture coverage is geared towards either trivia or towards feeding the beast of unalloyed enthusiasm that brooks no criticism or analysis. Comics Alliance was a place where the highest form of liking something was taking it seriously, giving it credit, and also assigning it responsibility. Pieces like Laura’s analysis of the presentation of Starfire in the New 52 made a valuable argument that sexism wasn’t just bad for its social impact on readers, it made for bad storytelling and bad art. If there’s any upside to this unfortunate news, I hope that Comics Alliance writers find new jobs quickly, and bring that ethos to a whole range of new publications that could benefit from it.

Zoë Heller is a total ninja of a critic, and I think everyone should read her review of Salman Rushdie’s new memoir of his fatwa years, Joseph Anton for its evisceration of Rushdie’s self-regard (the stuff on his marriages sounds like it may not even be believed if it is seen), and even more particularly, for her explanation of a contradiction that’s evolved in Rushdie’s work. While he initially argued that literature shouldn’t be exempt from political criticism, now, Heller writes, Rushdie’s falling back on arguments that fiction of sufficient quality to be considered literature ought to be somehow exempt from political criticism:

More troubling, however, than his exaggerated claim to naiveté is the case that Rushdie seems to be making for fiction’s immunity from political or religious anger. In a departure from the standard, liberal notion that literature must be free to offend, he proposes that literature, properly understood, cannot offend. Muslims who were insulted by The Satanic Verses were guilty of a category error: just like Anis Rushdie, in his “unsophisticated” reading of Midnight’s Children, they had confused fiction with other sorts of speech…

In his famous essay “Outside the Whale,” written five years before the fatwa, Rushdie attacked various books and films for propagating imperialist myths about the nature of Indo-British relations during the Raj. (He argued, for example, that the rape plot at the center of Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet endorsed a racist fantasy about the sexual threat posed to white colonial women by “lust-crazed wogs.”) Novels, he claimed, could not be excused from criticism of this sort on grounds that they were “just” fiction: all art, in as much as it ventured to assert “what is the case, what is truth and what untruth,” was inescapably political, and part of “the unceasing storm, the continual quarrel, the dialectic of history.”

It is not surprising that Rushdie should be a little warier of history’s storm these days, but his impulse to quarantine literature from “the cacophony of other discourses, religious, political, sociological, post-colonial” is an unhappy one, nevertheless. Certainly, not all opponents of The Satanic Verses were as alert to the ludic techniques of the modern novel as they might have been. But to claim that their wounded reactions were inconsistent with Rushdie’s artistic motives cannot be the end of the argument. Had Paul Scott been around to answer to Rushdie’s critique of The Raj Quartet, he might well have insisted that he had not meant to be racist. He might even have accused Rushdie of engaging in thin-skinned identity politics. But these rejoinders would hardly have embarrassed the legitimacy of Rushdie’s complaint.

I wish she’d made the point that quality conversations and political ones aren’t separate from each other. Falling into dreadful politics can also mean falling into cliche without transcending it. Ignoring the details and realities of life in your search for “what is the case, what is truth and untruth,” a failure to reckon with politics, can mean a failure to tell a truly engaging and revealing story. Good politics aren’t enough to make literature, of course—there’s a lot of awfully stiff execution of noble ideas. But an entirely careless approach to the politics of your subject is a danger, too.

The debate over whether genre fiction can ever count as literature is back, this time in the form of an essay from Arthur Krystal at the New Yorker. I don’t much agree with the piece, because I think it’s totally ludicrous to say that “Writers who want to understand why the heart has reasons that reason cannot know are not going to write horror tales or police procedurals. Why say otherwise?” when environments of stress, grief, or transitions between old worlds and new ones are precisely those that expose the reasons that reasons cannot know. But I actually think it’s a great example of the dodge people like Krystal perform to justify treating genre as lesser than an amorphously-defined “literature.” He writes:

The science-fiction writer Ursula K. Le Guin, for instance, announced that literature “is the extant body of written art. All novels belong to it.” Is that so? A novel by definition is “written art”? You know, I wrote a novel once, and I’m pretty sure that Le Guin would change her mind if she read it…

What I’m trying to say is that “genre” is not a bad word, although perhaps the better word for novels that taxonomically register as genre is simply “commercial.” Born to sell, these novels stick to the trite-and-true, relying on stock characters whose thoughts spool out in Lifetime platitudes. There will be exceptions, as there are in every field, but, for the most part, the standard genre or commercial novel isn’t going to break the sea frozen inside us. If this sounds condescending, so be it. Commercial novels, in general, whether they’re thrillers or romance or science fiction, employ language that is at best undistinguished and at worst characterized by a jejune mentality and a tendency to state the obvious. Which is not to say that some literary novels, as more than a few readers pointed out to me, do not contain a surfeit of decorative description, elaborate psychologizing, and gleams of self-conscious irony. To which I say: so what?

What he’s doing here is clever: essentially, Krystal is holding genre responsible for the worst stuff written in its name, while literature doesn’t have to be responsible for, say, romance novels, or Nicholas Sparks weepies. Genre is determined to be genre because it includes certain kinds of plots or takes place in certain kinds of settings. Literature is a determination of quality. Treating them as if they’re similar categories for sorting out novels, film, or television is a brilliant dodge on the part of people who don’t want to recognize that genre fiction can be literature. Why they’re resistant to that recognition is the really interesting question.

A critic friend pointed me to Molly Haskell’s 1997 essay on the cognitive dissonance of The Godfather, which I in turn wanted to pass along to all of you. It’s an amazing meditation on the movie and the environment in which it was released, and I think it’s directly relevant to the conversations we have about culture as provider of comfort and repressive nostalgia in a time of great social change. She writes:

If we had a split screen we would show opposing images: On one side, the sun shines and the music plays on the veranda during Connie’s lavishly traditional family wedding in 1945, while in the darkness of Don Corleone’s study, petitioners and those who pay homage file through and the Don (Marlon Brando) dispenses favors and justice. Fathers arrange marriages for their daughters, revenge on their enemies. Hulking in the shadows of the house, Luca Brasi, one of Corleone’s enforcers, practices the tribute he will pay when he gains an audience with the Don: ”May their first child be a masculine child.”

On the other screen: In 1970, the 50th anniversary of women’s suffrage, a commemorative march down Fifth Avenue, with 50,000 women pouring out of office buildings in spontaneous support. Also in 1970, Kate Millett publishes ”Sexual Politics” and her portrait, by Alice Neel, is on the cover of Time. In 1971, the year-end issue of New York Magazine announces the birth of Ms. magazine, whose first issue will appear in July 1972. The Supreme Court legalizes abortion in 1973.

I’m trying to think what the modern equivalent is: the superhero as acclaimed protector? the slacker dudes claiming their manhood? Either way, it’s a striking piece, and a critical reminder that our fantasies don’t always move us forward.

Tom Hiddleston, who plays Asgardian god Loki in Thor and will be the main antagonist of The Avengers, pens a nice little reflection on the impact of superheroes on his own actorly ambitions, and the role superhero stories can play in exploring big questions:

Superhero films offer a shared, faithless, modern mythology, through which these truths can be explored. In our increasingly secular society, with so many disparate gods and different faiths, superhero films present a unique canvas upon which our shared hopes, dreams and apocalyptic nightmares can be projected and played out. Ancient societies had anthropomorphic gods: a huge pantheon expanding into centuries of dynastic drama; fathers and sons, martyred heroes, star-crossed lovers, the deaths of kings – stories that taught us of the danger of hubris and the primacy of humility. It’s the everyday stuff of every man’s life, and we love it. It sounds cliched, but superheroes can be lonely, vain, arrogant and proud. Often they overcome these human frailties for the greater good. The possibility of redemption is right around the corner, but we have to earn it.

The Hulk is the perfect metaphor for our fear of anger; its destructive consequences, its consuming fire. There’s not a soul on this earth who hasn’t wanted to “Hulk smash” something in their lives. And when the heat of rage cools, all that we are left with is shame and regret. Bruce Banner, the Hulk’s humble alter ego, is as appalled by his anger as we are. That other superhero Bruce – Wayne – is the superhero-Hamlet: a brooding soul, misunderstood, alone, for ever condemned to avenge the unjust murder of his parents. Captain America is a poster boy for martial heroism in military combat: the natural leader, the war hero. Spider-Man is the eternal adolescent – Peter Parker’s arachnid counterpart is an embodiment of his best-kept secret – his independent thought and power.

I don’t know if arguments like this will convince doubters like the New Yorker’s Anthony Lane to take superhero movies seriously. But it makes the point that these holdouts are a minority. All critics have biases, and perhaps it’s better that those biases be put on display by someone like Lane, who thinks that Battlestar Galactica is a waste of his infinitely precious time, or the New York Times reviewers who make their contempt for fantasy every time they write about Game of Thrones. I’m not saying that genre material should be turned over to reviewers who privilege science fiction or fantasy over other frameworks. But if you want to give culture that a lot of people take seriously a fair shake, it’s probably worth assigning it to a reviewer who is open-minded about it. Bad things can make a lot of money, or garner high ratings. But quality doesn’t automatically decline as profits and ratings increase. It’s a shame that some folks deny themselves great fun out of close-mindedness, and unfortunate when they try to dissuade others from that enjoyment as well.

Seriously, dude?

Be wary of reviews by female critics, as they’re probably more susceptible to the lore of this young-female-adult-propelled franchise than most. I don’t even know what to make of this declaration by Movieline’s Stephanie Zacharek: “The surprise of The Hunger Games isn’t that it lives up to its hype — it’s that it plays as if that hype never even existed, which may be the trickiest achievement a big movie can pull off these days.” If there’s one thing that defines Gary Ross’s film, it’s a feeling that he and his Hunger Games producers were acutely aware they were adapting a wildly popular literary property, and that they’d best serve the fantasies and sensibilities of its young female readers.

Because if you’re a female critic, and you happen to find art that’s about people of your gender, and about people of your gender being strong, and emotions women sometimes have about choosing romantic partners and being providers, you are just heeding the siren song of your easily-duped ladybits. But if you’re a dude who appreciates stories about, oh, I don’t know, chauvinist advertising executives, or violent automobile drivers, or self-absorbed Hawaiian landowners who happen to have your particular variety of sexual equipment, you’ve got discerning taste.

Have I mentioned how much I adore Maureen Ryan? Because I adore Maureen Ryan a lot, and she makes a critical point about the representation of women in the television industry and the resulting content in her scathing review of I Hate My Teenage Daughter:

Before we all link arms and dance a jig of glee about the number of ladies in the realm of TV comedy, a few reminders are in order: First, this trend is long overdue, given that women have always been funny (yes, even before Tina Fey), and this fall’s uptick in female representation doesn’t erase the fact that, as I explored in this story, the overall number of female writers in the TV industry is shrinking.

Also, the sad fact is, women are as capable of writing a misogynist, soul-killing TV comedy as anyone else. Exhibit A: ‘I Hate My Teenage Daughter,’ a shrieky nightmare that premieres 9:30PM ET on Fox.

Sherry Bilsing-Graham and Ellen Plummer Kreamer are listed as the executive producers of this show, which takes as its premise that people will enjoy seeing two women relentlessly mocked and humiliated by everyone around them. In the unlikely event that that premise strikes you as funny, what’s on display here is so stale and mean-spirited that I urge you to avoid it at all costs.

The entertainment industry doesn’t need token ladies who will write things that conform to male perspectives. It needs a lot of women, some of whom will be one of the guys, some of whom will write stories that explore and illuminate female worlds, some of whom will work in established tropes, and some of whom will lay down new markers. Diversity isn’t about quotas. It’s about perspectives.

The folks behind Longform.org and Alexandra Lange are launching a site dedicated to picking the best of culture criticism, essays, and reviews. Let’s Get Critical is up and running, and I, for one, am already Instapapering things.

But I’m not just glad to see this because it’ll give me new things to read. Criticism performs a different function than reported journalism, but that doesn’t mean it’s less important, just that it functions in different ways and comes at societal problems from different directions. I’m glad to see folks who have done so much to insist on the importance and relevance of a form a lot of people have treated as if it’s prematurely dead are bringing their attention to a form that a lot of people treat as if it’s fatally light.

Maura Judkis, who works in the Style section at the Washington Post, raises a provocative question, and offers one potential answer:

It might seem, then, that Millennials have no appetite for arts journalism, but that’s not the case: Younger readers want to read and share stories more than ever. They just want to have a say in what’s being read and shared. They want to be the critics. So where do arts journalists fit in?

There is an abundance of opinion on the Internet, but bringing reporting into criticism is what will set the professional arts journalists apart from the amateur. Reporting on process—the behind-the-scenes stories that enable readers to identify with artists—will attract audiences who might otherwise overlook an arts journalist in favor of their best friend’s Tumblr…Just as this generation is many things—social, savvy, sub in any web 2.0 catchphrase here—it is a generation that derives more value from the arts when they feel like insiders, or can relate to the participants. Look at the TV we watch: American Idol and Top Chef have hooked audiences by showing them the way the sausage is made (quite literally, for the latter), and allowing them to potentially have a say in the outcome. This is not to equate these shows with higher art forms; it’s to demonstrate that our interest in process over product is transferable to other art forms, high and low.

I think this is definitely true: it’s one of the reasons casting and production news plays such a big role in so many pop culture publications in particular. Though even that sort of information’s gotten more democratized. It’s relatively easy to get on press calls and press lists these days — the threshold for what counts as publication has gotten lower, and I think that’s a good thing.

But I think more to the point is the idea that telling people whether they should watch something or not is not the only, or the most important, form of criticism. I write whether I think things are good or not, but that’s a tiny percentage of the things that I write, and many of the things that I think are most interesting (though by no means all of them) don’t qualify as high art, or even in the top tier of popular art. Some of them are outright bad, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not important.

Criticism has always been a kind of service journalism, and the service used to be that someone like me would tell you what to watch. Now, that doesn’t seem to be a service that people need at the same level or in the same way any more. Instead, the service readers want instead is criticism that sets the stage for interesting discussions of which they can be a part. In my case, the discussions about politics, and representation rather than about camera angles. Criticism will survive: critics just have to figure out what their market is.

(Relatedly, see this very good, research-oriented post on recaps, cultural consumption, and strong and weak social ties by Gabriel Rossman.)