There's no getting around it: You simply must read Janet Maslin's hilarious review of Michael Bamberger's new biography of M. Night Shyamalan. It's terribly cruel but also just what you want out of arts criticism: a sense that the critic has earned the right to pan the subject, and had a whopping good time doing it. I don't want to read the book, I just want to read the review over and over again.
"The Man Who Heard Voices" isn't really the filmmaker's fault. His only serious misstep was allowing it to happen. It was Mr. Bamberger who met the auteur at a dinner party ("Night's shirt was half open--Tom Jones in his prime"), became awestruck ("What kind of power could he have over me?") and started taking deeply embarrassing notes.
Tom Jones in his prime!!!!