Customer Reviews

Red Lobster White Trash and the Blue Lagoon: Joe Queenan's America

5 star:		(14)
4 star:		(8)
3 star:		(7)
2 star:		(7)
1 star:		(13)

 

 

It takes someone with balls to come out against musicals like 'Cats' and 'Phantom'. Three cheers for supercynic Joe Queenan who has those guts, and plenty to spare, as his poisoned pen appropriately lashes out at the worst of the mediocre, making for the best reflection on the last century I have heard of or could have even imagined. I was in tears numerous times laughing and relishing numerous Queenan insights, most of which offered me solace that my own pecular, singular, and admittedly UNpopular personal taste isn't at all unwarranted. This book is the truth spoken by one who voices the feelings of many who might(as myself) run the risk of excommunication for voicing opinions contrary to those of a highly defensive public. True, Queenan does peck off the so-called 'talents' of easy targets like musicians John Tesh and Kenny G, author Robert James Waller, and car-accident-of-a-TV-talk-show-host Geraldo Rivera. But there are hidden whoppers of philosophical revelation between the covers of this light reader as well which are sure to delight anyone who grew up thinking for themselves. If you, like me, have always had a problem being subjected to the folks in our society who walk around preening and gushing about having seen the latest Andrew Lloyd Weber extravaganza, buy this book NOW! After I read it I felt a hundred times better for having risked public humiliation in voicing my severe dislike of the film 'Titanic' (utter blasphemy to DeCaprio fans let alone anyone in Hollywood who has sold out his/her integrity to the machine that makes such monstrosities). Queenan ingeniously relates his own corruption-by-self-exposure to a Jekyll/Hyde tragedy. As he is absorbed into this world of trash and cultural squalor he can only want more. And his excursions as Hyde can be called nothing less than deliciously decadent. I'd happily toast Queenan with one of his very own "Suck Cocktails" for this hilarious effort. WARNING: Anyone offended by this book should calm down and try to realize the simple truth that just because something is popular doesn't EVER mean it is actually Any Good.

About two years ago Joe Queenan appeared on the Conan O'Brien show and in a hilarious monologue plugged a forthcoming book about his tour through the worst of popular culture. Unfortunately, this book is a letdown despite a great premise and a few funny moments. Its thinness suggests that Queenan tried to stretch out a magazine article to book-length, quitting once he reached 200 pages. Even at that length there are dumb errors, such as his comment that in "Halloween V" even Jason seems tired of being Jason. The killer of the "Halloween" series is Michael, while Jason is from "Friday the 13th". Sloppy.

Queenan's shotgun approach, which explores some subjects in depth but only touches upon others, undermines the book. For example, in the chapter on bad novels, he says that Patricia Cornwell is good for a few "howlers" per book. This implies that he has read at least one Cornwell novel, but does he tell us what these "howlers" are? Does he quote from her books or summarize her plots to prove that she is a bad writer? No, he just moves on to his next victim. If he can do a multi-paragraph dissection of "Flowers in the Attic" (one of the funnier parts of the book), surely he can do better for Cornwell than this hit and run. Other times he is irritatingly vague. He says that bad writers use highbrow quotes as epigraphs to class up their books, and cites Stephen King's use of a Goya quote in "The Shining". But does he consider King a bad writer? We never find out, because Queenan's too busy mocking King's blurb production to bother with the man's novels. (Incidentally, the cover of Queenan's book has blurbs from respected humorists. Is he the only blurb-worthy writer in the universe?)

When it comes to horror fiction, it's unclear if Queenan read any further than the cover blurbs. He groups the plots of the entire genre into broad categories that don't resemble anything currently available in the field. Like all genre fiction, horror attracts its share of hacks, but it isn't all just "creepy monsters in the basement" either. In using such an absurdly broad brush, Queenan tries to be ironic but merely sounds uninformed.

For much of the book, Queenan plays it safe, as when he attacks John Tesh, "Cats", and Kenny G. Even after admitting that everyone in the know regards Tesh's music as bilge, Queenan brings nothing new to the table. Without spending a dime you can watch Jay Leno trash Tesh and Kenny G, so why pay for more of the same? And why does he exhume the cinematic corpses of "The Breakfast Club" and "St. Elmo's Fire"? Not only are these films yesterday's news, they're last decade's news. His commentary isn't even funny; it feels phoned in. For a truly funny take on 80's and early 90's culture, I recommend "Generation ECCH!" by Jason Cohen and Michael Krugman. It's everything Queenan's book tries to be.

The book is at its best when Queenan breaks new ground. Here his narrative becomes more energetic and less perfunctory. His critiques of "Flowers in the Attic", David Cassidy's Vegas show, and Joan Collins' novel are funny and insightful. These segments work because Queenan isn't merely echoing sentiments that you can hear on any late night talk show. He shines a flashlight on areas of culture you might not have seen before. The book could have used more of this.

Another flaw is the tone. Queenan tries to be ironic and edgy, but instead sounds snotty and irritable. An example is his comment that James Michener's audience has to move its lips while reading his books. He tries to excuse his attitude by describing himself as an "elitist." But as he repeatedly cites his credentials (he speaks French, he listens to Elvis Costello, he watches Belgian movies), it sounds as if he is protesting too much. He can't seem to reconcile his highbrow tastes with his enjoyment of a Ken Follett novel or a meal at the Sizzler. Instead of enjoying these experiences on their own level, he condescendingly tells us that they weren't as bad as he had expected. Nor can he accept the fact that not everybody shares his tastes; consequently, when he has a bad time at Red Lobster or Atlantic City, he criticizes the consumers of trashy culture rather than the purveyors. The book could have used a little insight as to why people choose low- and middlebrow entertainment. Queenan has the tools to do this -see his reviews for The American Spectator, or his book "If You're Talking to Me, Your Career Must Be in Trouble." But instead he plays it safe - again.

Joe Queenan once referred to himself as a "hatchet man" critic. This book would have been much better if he had left his hatchet home and used a scalpel.

When I first read Joe Queenan, I thought he was about the funniest writer on the planet. He is still very funny and very talented, but his shtick can get just a bit old, and fast.

This book started as an article, and if you can, I would track that article down and save yourself the money and the time it takes to read this very slim yet somehow plodding hatchet job on anything popular for Middle America.

This subject was stinging and hilarious as an article, running the perfect length and not overstaying its venomous welcome.

But as the book drags on, Queenan is so relentless with his targets that the reader feels a backlash coming. Sometimes it seems like the mere mention of "Tony Orlando" or "Phil Collins" is supposed to be enough to make you laugh and understand how disgruntled Queenan is. And simply the word "suck" is used and used again to describe everything Queenan doesn't like. Okay, Joe, we get it. It's a bit tired to read page after page of insulting "middle American huckleberries", etc. I guess if people are not as fortunate, intelligent, or rich as Queenan, they're more or less despicable cretins to be mocked by the admitted "cultural effete".

Another problem is that many of Queenan's references are either already outdated or beyond obvious. The entertainment industry does the job for him when cheap targets like Steve Guttenberg or Joe Piscopo are chewed up and spit out by the industry itself once it has no use for them. The vast majority of figures like this really do wind up just going away, and why? Because the audiences--the middle Americans Queenan loves ripping to make himself sound smarter--disgard their product. Queenan's biggest problem is with crap that poses as art, and he even admits that certain cheese is not so bad, as long as it's aware that it's cheese (as he discovers that Manilow is a good entertainer, if a cheeseball). However, I did find it a bit nauseating when our intrepid author, who has immersed himself in popular culture and become addicted, needs to take a trip to France to cleanse himself and rediscover real beauty and culture. Can you say vomit?

It's very, very funny at times, and the index is hilarious. I wouldn't pay much for this book again; you may be able to track his rants down online.

I have had a soft spot in my heart for Joe Queenan ever since I stumbled across If You're Talking To Me Your Career Must Be In Trouble, his collection of search and destroy movie criticism. His two subsequent books (Imperial Caddy and The Unkindest Cut) did little or nothing for me. The latter was based on the protagonist (Queenan) going to extraordinary lengths to make a jackass of himself, a tried and true form of humor that leaves me cold even in expert hands. The former was yet another involved Dan Quale joke, and I'm at least nominally a Republican. Still, I held out some hope that Queenan's new book Red Lobster, White Trash, and the Blue Lagoon would live up to Talking. It doesn't, quite. The central problem is that Queenan expects the spectacle of a previously sophisticated man wallowing in the mass culture to be inherantly funny. He is condescending about nearly everything, and thereby fails to make a number of important distinctions. He goes on at some length about three moderately priced chain retaurants; Red Lobster, Sizzler, and The Olive Garden. He is startled that Sizzler is as good as it is because he doesn't stop to realize that by and large a steak house is a steak house. The primary differences between Sizzler and Ruth's Chris Steak House is a slightly better grade of beef and a $50 surcharge. The food in both is so basic that it would take real talent to do it badly. By contrast Red Lobster deals in seafood, an altogether more delicate matter. A mediocre steak is merely tough. Mediocre lobster is inedible at best and frequently deadly. In between these two extreems lies The Olive Garden. To someone accustomed to the best Italian food in New York the fare is a poor substitute but it is miles above S'barro, a distinction that Queenan misses entirely. The three chains are not competing with the output of the best chefs in their class, they are competing with Denny's. Sizzler and The Olive Garden do so successfully, improving on the steak and spagetti platters respectively. Red Lobster does not manage to improve on Denny's seafood platter. If Queenan had taken note of this he could have made the grade as a man of some insight. As it is he merely comes across as a snob. Similarly Queenan goes to some lengths to skewer the Broadway production of Victor/Victoria . Unfortunately he is so busy comparing the (Awful) performances by Julie Andrews, Liza Minnelli, and Rachel Welch that he fails to put his finger on the show's disasterous flaw. The Movie was watchable only because of the performance of Robert Preston as an aging homosexual humbug. Lacking Preston the Broadway show was doomed by the basic taciness of the premise. Had Queenan noticed he could have drawn parallels with S.O.B. , another Blake Edwards fiasco rendered marginally watchable by Preston. Lacking that insight he is left thrashing about at nothing much. Queenan gets a few things right. Wayne Newton does continue to pack `em in in `Vegas bacause he is an Old Trooper. He knows how to put on a show, and even if you don't like the show you have to respect the showman. But Queenan apparently cannot recognize Showmanship outside of a narrow range of perrennial headliners (Wayne Newton, Barry Manilow, Andy Williams, Jerry Lewis). None of these are GREAT ENTERTAINERS because none of them produces much in the way of content, but they are all good at form for the sake of form. Queenan is always demanding content of forms that are poor at sustaining it. He is also hard on people who do not push the envelope. It is a very rare entertainer who can consistantly reach a new level, but that does not mean that the ones who have a command of the level they are on are contemptable. Queenan lumps the merely competant in with the imbecile. He cannot see that Donny Osmond is worse than Billy Joel; a workhorse who is good at what he does, and knows his limitations. By contrast Barbara Streisand (whom Queenan also cannot stand) was a good singer, and then a fair commedienne. She could have stopped at either one and maintained some level of respect. Unfortunately she failed to appreciate the limits of her form, and has become a byword in the field of schlock dramatism. In the end this is Queenan's failure: he expects every broadway production to be on a par with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Thus he cannot diferentiate between Victor/Victoria (a limp drag comedy bereft of its trick wheel) and Cats (A costumed spectacle that is ment to be nothing more than what it is). In Queenan we have the failure of the Intellectual Critic, the inability to criticize a thing on its actual merits.

if you're feeling fed up with pop culture and all of the tripe that it tries to shove down your throat, rest easy... joe queenan is here with a defense that's mightier than the swordfish pate, and for this readers occasional mood, it was just what the doctor ordered. his thoughts on broadway, film, food, fiction and rock& roll are absolutely hysterical, and all because they are entirely true. he's an arrogant, intellectual, self proclaimed music and film specialist with a tendency towards masochism for sport. this is a must read for anyone about to release any kind of product that was created while listening to john tesh or yanni, or for that matter, even owns any of these artists records. BEWARE OF DOG JOE QUEENAN!

but side-splittingly, bowel-pinchingly funny nonetheless. Queenan's ability to skewer people --his sheer power to just _unload_-- is what drives this book. It's page after page of vitriolic commentary on Americana, and although the tone never changes (he writes like a frustrated pop culture critic...oh, wait...that's because he is one), it's still an absolute thrill. Just a laff-riut.

Sure, there are times when he strikes close to home, and you feel like unloading on the author himself. ("Hey, Queenan! Hop on down from yer little East Coast throne of self-indulgence and chat with the mortals! Maybe we read pop novels because WE ENJOY THEM! How's that intellectually taxing job at TV Guide going, by the way?") But as long as you engage that third brain cell, and have the ability to laugh at yourself, then this book is a must-read. It's a real peach.

Dear me, I am as much a snob as the next one, but really, this book left me cold. What let me down was that Queenan spent more time telling me X, Y, and Z sucked without ever really exploring why, and what about our culture encourages such suckiness. After a while it became so repetitive (this sucks, that sucks, etc.) and completely lacking in insight.

Queenan delivers one of the best critiques of American garbage I have ever read. More than once I was reading his book while sipping a drink and I found myself spraying drink all over the room while trying to stifle a laugh.

Queenan is one of the absolute funniest writers around, and has a vast knowledge of twaddle. Read it, and laugh, unless you are a complete chucklehead.

I recently saw Queenan on the "Late Show with Tom Snyder" discussing his book which was a satirical critique of "mainstream" American society. Admittedly, I found the topic interesting so I decided to purchase it. Queenan pulls out all the stops lashing into everything from Red Lobster to Billy Joel. He delivers written tirades that delve into almost every major category of society. The reason I disliked the book wasn't because of its content. In fact, I agreed on a lot of the things he tore apart. I, too, have no desire to see "Cats" and Steven Seagal is the worst actor since Mark Hamill. My parents are going to Branson, MO for their 35th anniversary and I continously chide them for that. So we do agree on a lot of the same issues. My displeasure of his book came from his condescending and pretentious attitude. He displays a "holier than thou attitude" which really becomes intolerable. I love sarcasm but can Mr. Queenan really dislike all of these things?

Joe Queenan's latest title is a disappointment. I expected insightful and humorous commentary, (even if I did know in advance that Queenan was attacking obvious targets such as _Cats_, _The Celestine Prophesy_ , _The Bridges of Madison County_, and, yes, Red Lobster restaurants). The cultural criticism in this book never rises above the level of "it sucks." Oddly, the only even mildly amusing display of wit in the book is in the index's off-the-wall entries.