MAILBOX

This week: Someone thinks the Dude of Life is deluding himself; others don’t like hearing about “Jew Camp;” and yet another thinks Steve Pollak could be up for “Dick of Life.” Plus, a reader defends Armond White, while a couple of others think he should stop picking on Sidney Lumet.

Dude’s Delusions of Grandeur
I’m sure countless numbers of college sophomores receive clever nicknames on drunken, shroomy nights (“The Dude of Life,” Feb. 6-12). Some of those nicknames may survive the night or be uttered by a handful of friends for a short time and then, appropriately, forgotten. The “Dude of Life” just happened to have a talented roommate who made it big. He and his ongoing delusions of grandeur should have been left in that dorm room years ago. I’m sure most Press readers were scratching their heads over this one.
—David Welker, Soho, NY

Make it Hebrew Camp
Just finished reading Becca Tucker’s article on the Dude of Life…great read. One line puzzles me, however: “I found someone who had gone to crunchy Jew camp with his niece, Sarah Pollak, where they held a day of mourning when Jerry Garcia died.”
I am far from PC, but my guess is Becca could have used a more user-friendly term than “crunchy Jew camp.” If I am the only person who has expressed disappointment in this, then please let things be and allow me to enjoy my moment of free speech in the same way Becca has. Should others express a similar sentiment, then perhaps a gentle reminder to Becca that the term “Jew camp” could be better expressed… such as “Jewish camp,” or “religious camp” or “Hebrew camp.” Anyway, you are all professionals and I am sure could come up with better alternatives than mine.
Thanks for listening, peace and good health to you.
—Steven LaKind

Jerry & Jew Camp
Decent article, but I thought the author’s reference to “crunchy Jew camp” was borderline offensive. Honestly, in another context, I think this could be acceptable, but in the current context it is not. She didn’t even say “a crunchy Jew camp,” either. The exact quote is as follows, “I found someone who had gone to crunchy Jew camp with his niece, Sarah Pollak, where they held a day of mourning when Jerry Garcia died.” I get the feeling the author did not mean to slight anyone. A change to “a crunchy Jewish” camp would make this non-offensive in my opinion. Also, Great Woods (now the Tweeter Center) is in Mansfield, Massachusetts, not Maine.
—Jamie Aresty

Dick of Life
Steve Pollak should be content with his current role as suburban dad/schoolteacher.
There was never any legitimate mystique surrounding him in his Phish days. For him to say, “I have to do this family thing for a while” then go on to suggest that his true calling is to fulfill his destiny to be a rock star should earn him the title “Dick of Life.”
—B. Clendenan, N.Y.

Don’t Pick on Lumet
Hey, do me a favor. Can you please tell Armond White that you have one reader in Los Angeles who thinks he’s a real piece of shit. Picking on an 83-year-old man (“The Lumet Myth,” Feb. 6-12). That’s real tough. Why doesn’t Armond go after someone who has a vested interest in fighting back? Is he that much of a coward? Maybe Armond wishes Lumet made more movies like Game 6, since he obviously identifies with Downey Jr.’s character. Yes, Armond, oooooh, we’re all so afraid of you. Especially Lumet. I bet he’s drinking his coffee over at the Sly Fox right now, reading your sucker punch and questioning every choice he’s ever made. Lumet has forgotten more about the process of filmmaking than Armond White will ever know. And tell Armond that he doesn’t need to be jealous of Dale Peck anymore. He is Dale Peck, and like Dale Peck he will soon be relegated to the dustbin of critical infamy.
—Chris Okum, Los Angeles

Prince of the city
I found Armond White’s entire piece on the truly extraordinary Sidney Lumet strange and obtuse. You gotta be so not-in-the-mix not to get a masterpiece like Prince of the City. Keep up the good work...
—Eduardo Victor Sanchez III,
Jersey City, NJ

Defending Armond White
Armond White has always inspired a lotta hate mail, but never before have the anti-Armond crowd occupied as great a proportion of the Mailbox as they have in recent weeks. Every week, it seems, a brand-new uninformed Armond-basher (or two) steps into what has become a reserved swath of the letters page, with little or no room set aside for rebuttal. As a longtime White reader and admirer, I felt compelled not just to contribute some words in support of this great, embattled critic but also to attempt to clarify why the man matters urgently, not just to me but to what’s left of our culture.
Fresh examples of White’s artistry appear every week, but I will quickly examine his review of Vince Vaughn’s Wild West Comedy Show (“Antiques Roadshow,” Feb. 6-12). The first thing that should strike the reader is its brevity. In fewer than 700 words, White does much more than a mere overview or concept description. With impressive precision, he isolates details that speak forcefully (meaningful punch lines and the audience reactions to those punch lines—signifying moments of performance and communication). With dazzling lucidity, he builds an argument based on these examples, finding a socially rooted theme beneath the movie’s overt theme. Along the way, he comes across prevailing perceptions about comedy, movie stars, “fratboys,” etc. but never simply accepts them; he always subjects them to rigorous, passionate scrutiny. Reading the film becomes a way to access deep truths about art, culture and society.
Unfortunately, it’s clear that the Armond-bashers don’t care about truth. Their letters about White’s review of There Will Be Blood aren’t intelligent, impassioned responses; they’re outraged attempts to bully White into the baa-ing herd of critics who make a living transmitting Hollywood’s callousness and complacency to their readers. The readers, in turn, bask in the buzz of feeling superior to both popular taste and cultural history. White won’t join in, so he’s called an elitist. That’s an irony worthy of Altman, but far beyond the ken of Paul Thomas Anderson.
—Benjamin Kessler,
Manhattan