Something I find increasingly troubling is the ease in which people refer to the fact that someone has died as being a good thing or that they are glad that it has happened. Jerry Falwell, a lightning rod of controversy, died last week, and while I don't think I ever agreed with any of his vitriolic statements that were racist, homophobic, and just plain awful, I can't say that I'm "glad" that he's dead.

Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I feel that death is too sacred of an event, if that's the right terminology, to actually partake in any sort of frivolity from the fact that it has happened to someone who is actively disliked. I also find it hypocritical to say, if one subscribes to the notion that death is something that can be wished upon someone and celebrated after it occurs, that some deaths are off limits while others are more than fair game. For instance, in this country September 11, 2001 is so ingrained into the psyche that any criticism is off limits, and, yes, I'm referring to Ann Coulter's hideous remarks regarding the deceased spouses of the "widows" she slandered in her latest salvo against the left. These people were victims of a crime, and no one is arguing that, but to posit that it's unacceptable to make any sort of disparaging comments, not just about the victims but also of the day itself, while openly embracing the death of someone from the other side of the aisle is absurd. Were all of the victims of that day truly innocent people? Who knows, but what I do know is that Jerry Falwell wasn't a serial killer, mass-murderer, or brutal dictator known to have slaughtered millions of people. No, he wasn't any of those things at all. He was simply a man with a limited vision of the world that was misguided by religion and an open proponent of hatred and intolerance all in the name of God. Does that mean his death should be celebrated? Probably not.

At the end of 2006, two artists, one notorious for being a recluse and the other just as notorious for his strangeness, returned with new offerings for the public’s consumption. Of course I’m talking about Thomas Pynchon and David Lynch respectively. The works, Pynchon’s new novel “Against the Day” and Lynch’s film “Inland Empire,” were greeted with fervent speculation and enormous anticipation. What were either about? Was Pynchon’s novel really nearly eleven-hundred pages long? A three hour Lynch film and shot on digital video? Are you serious? For most ravenous fans, this sounded like a veritable feast, an excessive bounty from two of the more deliberately contemplative artists of our time. The span between new works for both was long, almost a decade for Pynchon and five years for Lynch, especially when one considers that artists routinely put out new products on a yearly basis in most fields. Then, as with most niche artists, the anticipation and exhilaration sputtered out after an initial wave of fury. Sure, the more intense fans are still dissecting the works to this day, which is to be expected from a massive tome such as Pynchon's and a lengthy feature film as with Lynch.

However, what you don't seem to find is active criticism of the works themselves by the professed fans. Both met with critical acclaim from a majority of reviewers, but they also had their fair share of detractors as well, some pretty intense in their criticisms of the artists, especially Pynchon. One could chalk it up to the animosity resulting from having to speed read through a mammoth book like, "Against the Day," quickly enough to compose a coherent and thorough review, or the ass-numbing amount of time one had sit in a darkened movie theater trying mightily to digest what appears to be a personal compendium of Lynch's most inner weirdness. Either way, I have sympathy for someone under a deadline, and I can understand the rush to judgment that may result from a quicker than recommended reading or a long, long viewing of a film. What I don't agree with is the unblinking acceptance and total reluctance to be critical of the works by the fans. In what I'd like to term the necessity of "killing your idols" in an effort to truly dissect a work and place it within the pantheon of the works not only of the artist themselves but also of the greater artistic community at large. To me, that seems like the only truly honest way of assessing any work of art, and regardless of how painful it might be to be critical of someone whom you adore, it only seems right to be as unflinchingly honest as possible.

To illustrate my point, I'd go so far as to claim that neither Lynch nor Pynchon edited anything out of these works. If they did, I'd be incredibly surprised. Lynch seems to have just shot scenes and compiled them together into one massive film leaving little on the cutting room floor (Lynch apparently shot many, many hours of film, so the fact that he whittled it down to three hours and it still retains this quality is astonishing), and Pynchon appears to have just dropped his manuscript on the publisher's door with a note stating that any alterations would be unnecessary. Any film or book of the lengths these two produced is bound to have stretches that seem irrelevant or tedious. It's just that these two works seem to have more than average. However, if you read any of the numerous blogs or fan sites devoted to these artists, the criticism in this regard is rather muted or absent altogether. Like I said above, it might stem from the many factors, but I for one feel like the above are criticisms are necessary to contemplate. The idea of swallowing hook, line and sinker from a beloved artist just isn’t that appealing to me as a consumer and appreciator of art. Criticism, in my mind, is a good thing to engage in. Not only does it help you as to be critical as a consumer, but it also, in some roundabout way, may influence the artist. In this wireless age, it’s not unheard of for artists to lurk within the communities of those dedicated to them to glean some form of feedback. A recent example, albeit not the most perfect one, is that of Anne Rice and her feud on Amazon’s comment section.

My ultimate point is that even though I’m all for the freedom of an artist to present whatever work they’ve completed in the form they so desire, but at the same time I also feel that they should be responsible enough to recognize that when they produce works of such grandeur that they are asking for a time commitment by the consumer, and that you shouldn’t feel as if it always boils down to, “Well, I just don’t get it, so it must be me.” That type of thinking only floats for so long and it’s really not that productive, because how often does one feel compelled to actually follow up on what may be the root cause of the problem that prohibits understanding? Probably not all that often, which is especially true when one is dealing with Pynchon, who crams so many obscure references onto every page that, it’s possible, one could devote years to reading just one of his books. I commend those who do take this task seriously. What I don’t feel like is justified, though, is to put one’s self down for the purpose of consuming art, or feeling like it’s an act of betrayal to criticize a work by an artist you adore. That, I think, would go against the spirit of the entire enterprise of art itself.