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© James C. Hess
As the more astute readers of these efforts may know, in addition to my duties as a film critic and movie reviewer I am also--among other things--a humorist.
Although I have told this particular tale many times in many venues it bears repeating here: Around the time I first started writing and publishing film criticism in earnest an award-winning, critically-acclaimed writer who I now consider a friend, came across my writings, tracked me down, and gave me what I then took to be curious advice: Write humor, he said.
Now, because this writer is known for his stance against drinking hard stuff I took his advice to suggest he had, in fact, been hugging the wild stuff and his advice, bluntly, was cocked. But I didn't want to offend him so I did as he suggested.
All the while continuing to write and publish film criticism. Under my own name. And when it came to writing and publishing humor I did the same, so I found what eventually transpired more than odd: A reader of my criticism confronted me one day and informed me he was going to 'expose me'.
Expose me, I echoed. What are you going to do? Yank my pants down around my ankles?
He didn't find that funny. No, he said. I found out recently that you have been two-timing your readers, your fans, your audience, and I am going to let them in on your dirty little secret.
My dirty little secret, I said. Oh. Well, if you think people need to know I break wind in bed, go ahead and tell them.
He just glared at me. When I didn't flinch he softened and said, cautiously. You don't know what I am talking about, do you?
No, I said. I don't. So before you expose me, before you reveal my dirty little secret, can you tell me what is going on?
What was going on, apparently, was that he had discovered my cache of humor pieces, and found the fact I wrote criticism and humor contradictory. Furthermore, since I had made no effort to that point to tell anyone I wrote and published criticism and comedy I was, in effect, hiding it.
I hate to disappoint you, I said, upon hearing this. But I'm not Stephen King and this isn't a Richard Bachmanesque situation. But go ahead, let the world (as it were) know my 'secret'.
Well. This revelation went to show what I don't know about people in general: Some fans of my criticism were thrilled--THRILLED--to learn I had another body of work at the ready for their literary consumption while others were horrified to find out the village elder (critic) was also the village idiot (humorist). The same could be said for the other audience. When the dust on this matter finally settled I found my original audiences had grown substantially in size and I found I had new fans of my work because, apparently, there is a conventional belief that a critic cannot have a sense of humor while a humorist cannot be a serious sort.
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