Go, <i>Times</i>, Go!
            

            Margo,

            I am in no mood to mini-boycott the Times this morning. (Perhaps I will have a change of heart
tomorrow.) In fact, as I write this I am turning toward 43rd Street and
saluting in the direction of culture editor John Darton and the family
Sulzberger. I am ecstatic about their appointment of Elvis Mitchell and A.O.
("Tony") Scott as tag-team replacements for outgoing film critic Janet Maslin.
(See this morning's New York Observer .) Allow me to
write the press release: This may be the best--and certainly the most
interesting--lineup of film critics that the Times
has ever fronted. Daily film critics are generally a sorry lot. They have to
contend with so much Hollywood hokum that they're driven to overuse of
overwrought literary pyrotechnics and banal humor. (There are exceptions, such
as Roger Ebert and the Wall Street Journal 's Joe
Morgenstern.) But I am guessing the new-look New York
Times crew will be the bright shining lights in their dim profession.
Mitchell, currently with NPR and the Fort Worth
Star-Telegram , has the perfect sensibility for writing about a steady
profusion of disaster movies and romantic comedies. He's a hipster with a canny
understanding of the popular culture. It's hard to imagine him praising every
Steven Spielberg flick that comes his way, but it's hard to imagine him
dismissing them outright either. Plus, he can write wonderfully scathing pans.
Scott, on the other hand, brings intellectual heft. As far as I know, he hasn't
done much in the way of film reviewing. But this is a plus. It will be fun to
watch him get his legs.

            There are other reasons for a rosy cultural outlook
this morning. (Be cheery, Margo!) A piece in the Washington Post notes the demise of rap impresario Puff Daddy--the
Skip Gates of hip-hop. Fans have backlashed against Puffy, accusing him of
exploiting the death of his friend and collaborator, the Notorious B.I.G.
Recently, record sales have been disappointing. It's a deserved fate. This is
not to diminish his career. His work with B.I.G. was slick yet irresistible.
(If Notorious had lived, perhaps their partnership would have flourished into
the rap equivalent of the Miles Davis-Gil Evans relationship.) And his rap
empire is a great success story of capitalism. But Puffy's career has been,
well, puffy. His music does dwell on his friend's death in a way that feels
disgustingly hollow. And the rest of oeuvre consists of forgettable, not very
catchy ditties. In other words, he's commercial without being listenable. And
that makes him merely crass. Finally, I think that the existence of the Boring
Institute in Maplewood, N.J., is a reason for optimism. I am not sure what they
do, and I don't agree with their choice of Hillary as most boring celeb. For
that category, I nominate Puff Daddy. I have an idea, dear Prudie. With your
expertise in etiquette, I propose that we put out a special millennial edition
of Breakfast Table--Best-Mannered Celebrity of All Time. We're now accepting
nominees. (I have begun creating a set of criteria and my own list of choices,
which I will submit later.)

            Your friend with the pompoms,
Frank