To the editors:
The scratchy "review" of Macondo by critic Tom Boeker (6/24/88) was so bright I hadda wear shades. His personal nuclear explosion radiated against everything he seems to have seen within the context of the Dreiske Performance Company without ever revealing anything outside of his own pathos.
Obviously upset because she wasn't "burdening herself with the responsibility of a faithful dramatization," Boeker shows us his own burden of bias. So who promised this guy anything anyways?
Jumping with combat boots into his own solipsistic conclusions, he screams about "unbridled narcissism [as] the overwhelming theme of the evening," saying quite pretentiously, "It reminds you of L. Ron Hubbard or Sylvester Stallone." I wonder why he chose "you" over "me" in that sloppy mess of wordage. This is strange criticism!
Personally, I'm still wrestling with my own interpretations of Macondo, and view it as I would a new language: different, strange, exciting, unknown. Yet I support Dreiske and her Company for taking on new levels of theatrical imagery while knowing the critics are laying in wait like so many sharks. What I really ponder is when was the last time critic Boeker stuck his ass way out on the line in real life, and off the typed word. Maybe I'll write Cecil and get the straight dope!