WORKING CLASS HERO

I take no exception with Mr. Inglis’s review of John T. Nichols’s play, Cult (“Nothing new,” Jan. 24). He is a critic, and entitled to his opinion. In fact, in the chaotic and fickle world of the arts, a scathing review can often bring in as big an audience as one that glows.

Mr. Inglis does, however, in my opinion, owe an apology to the cab drivers of Portland, and by extension, to a wider working population. The means by which Mr. Nichols makes a living should not be fuel for ridicule or disdain. The simple fact that he has had the energy, the audacity, and the social pull to gather together a wildly disparate, but above all respectful, group of people from the community who want to help him hear his thoughts expressed aloud is a testament to the creative spirit. It is a testament to the desire to express oneself, and the will to see it through. And this desire lives all around us, in our communities. Hair stylists. Bartenders. Postal workers. House painters. Cab drivers.

We all have thoughts we wish to express. Whether you like those thoughts or the way in which they are presented to the public is your own affair — and ours, when you publish a review — but please avoid cruel, sweeping generalizations about a group of thinking human beings who work hard for a living. Drawing unjust parallels between the quality of Mr. Nichols’s artistic efforts and the quality of the people with whom Mr. Nichols works is at best unkind, and at worst, ignorant.

I feel good when I see one of those orange cabs. I feel hopeful when I see them slowly plowing through a blizzard — maybe John is working, and thinking, and I hope he’s negotiating those frozen snow banks safely. Just like everyone who works for a living is thinking, negotiating, all around you, Mr. Inglis, all the time, regardless of the nature of his or her job.

Like it or not, John T. Nichols does have something to sing, and he is singing it. We are honored to sing it with him. He drives a cab. Tip well.

Christine Marshall

Proud Stone Pinhead. Teacher. Waitress.

South Portland

HERO, PART 2

I have just read your review of the play, Cult (“Nothing new,” Jan. 24). Whether the play is as bad as your opinion indicates is one matter, but prefacing it, and obviously significantly negatively biasing your view based upon its author being a cab driver, is something less than desirable or honorable in my view. I happen to know the author, John Nichols, fairly well, having spent more than a few evenings humorously conversing about the state of the world at Brian Boru’s.

It seems that your review, and opinion, was formed long before you experienced the play, and I doubt you did more than a peripheral viewing. The only thing clear to me from your review was a negative predisposition towards cabbies as evidenced by the constant dissing of the profession throughout your piece. Granted the play may not have been to your liking. I attended on an evening where the show was only a few short of a sellout. For what the play was intended, I thought it was entertaining, tongue in cheek, and worth the $10 on a cold winter night in Portland. I noted that the near sellout crowd was quite raucous and appreciative of the effort. I would have much preferred if you had honestly presented your review minus the stereotyping of a cab driver as being lower than whale shit on your scoreboard of professions.

James O’Rourke

Portland

The author responds:

Rather than using a dislike of cabbies to explain panning a play, I used the background of the author of a terrible play to help explain my review.

I have no bias against cabbies as a group, and never called them “lower than whale shit,” though that imagery is precisely the type of offensive concept of which Cult was in dire need.

I did call J.T. Nichols “confused,” and made several observations of my own experience of Portland taxicabs, as a passenger, pedestrian, cyclist, and driver.

Further, I am certain that I, too, could spend “a few evenings humorously conversing” with J.T. Nichols. That doesn’t make him a good playwright or a good director.

And finally, I did not form an opinion of the play before seeing it. In actual fact, I not only looked forward to the play but brought my fiancée and a visiting out-of-town friend to the show (two tickets were free and we paid for the third), hoping to see a good, if unconventional, show. It failed, spectacularly, to be enjoyable or, barring that, to offend.

Jeff Inglis

Theater reviewer

LATE IN THE GAME

After having read Peter Keough’s dismal review of the Two Towers (“In medias mess,” Dec. 20), I felt compelled to write and let you know how disappointed I am in his lame attempt to discredit this latest installment of the Tolkien trilogy as envisioned by Peter Jackson.

The Two Towers was not a bad movie at all, it was an epic cinematic triumph. The fact that Keough fails to recognize this is to his discredit as a reviewer. He seems to be letting his personal feelings as “a lapsed Tolkien fan” get in the way of objectively reviewing the film. His references to the current Middle Eastern conflict in relation to this film are trite and completely unrelated. Tolkien himself stated that the books should not be taken as allegory. His snide and pompous comments only serve to make him look like a pathetic, Marty Meltz-type half-wit who is lacking the talent to be noticed by any esteemed news agency on the planet. (Marty Meltz’s, not yours)

I expected more from the Phoenixý which I view as a publication off the beaten path and therefore presumably more able to take a kindly view toward the Fantasy/Fiction genre than mainstream news sources. But Keough has jumped right on the “let’s trash Peter Jackson” bandwagon and let his ego get completely away from him.

How could anyone fail to be moved by the awesome scenery, impressive battle scenes, and classic struggles between good and evil, both inward and external of this film? Why couldn’t he see the meticulous attention to detail in costumes, scenery, and even dialogue? For most movies of this type, more than a little willful suspension of disbelief must take place.

In the Two Towers, viewers are literally transported back to a time and place as realistic as ancient memory, and as vivid as, well, a J.R.R. Tolkien novel. What a pity Keough lacks the imagination and wit to recognize a real gem when it is presented to him. High-tech video game, indeed. I really think you owe yourselves and your readers a more highly skilled and less cynical reviewer.

Sarah A. Lunt

Portland

GO CHRIS 1

Many thanks to Chris Barry for his “A writer among racists” (Jan. 17). His insider assessments of the recent widely publicized meeting of the World Church of the Creator in Lewiston brought a bit of the absurd to an otherwise serious American dilemma. I commend Barry’s grace under pressure in probing the utterly groundless beliefs of a group of individuals who are, at worst, ideologically dangerous, and, at best, confused. As a writer of color living in Maine, I just didn’t have the stomach for it. Barry helps us remember that race is “one of the many branches in the tree of humanity.”

Leigh Donaldson

Portland

GO CHRIS 2

I would like to concur with Chris Barry’s article on the pitfalls of this type of programming in Maine (“News radio doesn’t have to be bad, but it is,” Jan. 17). Even worse than WMTW and WGAN news radio is talk radio WLOB. Throughout the week, this station features Neal Boortz and Michael Savage, who rant and rave each day over how depraved the United States is, all of which is caused by the liberal element living within our society. Most of the news that they reiterate over the airwaves are half truths, false, or taken out of context. The worst of the two is Savage. Savage’s radio mainstay is his promotion of culture, language, and borders, which he is constantly advocating daily. However, he goes way over the acceptable top with his promotions. At best, he is a “hate monger,” who cleverly disguises his contempt for anything that might be perceived as being different in our culture. He is rude with most of the call-in audience, even those who agree with him.

Then, on Saturday, we are treated to two local screwballs called Weinstein and Leonard. Two pathetically warped men, who must be the lost sons of Michael Savage.

L.M. Eastman

Greene