By Sheldon

One of the most useful learning experiences of my high school days was when I took an English class that required us to read several (somewhat) current novels and evaluate them. Up to that point, I had generally assumed that if we were assigned to read something, it was because it was worth reading. That’s a great way to get in touch with some interesting and brain-tickling prose, but it has the disadvantage of giving you the impression that anything that someone tells you to read is going to be worth reading. This is particularly true if that someone is a teacher who has the power to grade you based on your reaction to said reading matter.

One of the books assigned was Glendon Swarthout’s 1970 novel Bless the Beasts and Children. This was later made into a movie with a typically overdubbed and syrupy title theme by the Carpenters. I was used to soldiering through assigned books, even if it was heavy going or not totally clear what was happening. But I persisted, and in the end it was a revelation.

I remember finishing the book, closing it, putting it down on the desk and thinking to myself that this was, quite possibly, the worst piece of literature I had ever read. This was a novel in which the characters started with no redeeming values and throughout the course of the book, I had not detected any discernible growth, no development. The fact that I realized this was something of a shock. I had read something that I assumed was supposed to be good, and discovered that it was just bloody awful. My critical faculties had emerged!

Sometimes you need to encounter truly bad art to appreciate the good stuff. I don’t know to this day whether the teacher thought the novel was good or bad. For all I knew, it was put there to see if we would recognize it as a world-class stinker, or whether we would suck up and write a glowing analysis because that was what we thought the teacher wanted. I panned the book, and I got an A in the class.

Sometimes bad artistry highlights good artistry in the same work. When I first saw Star Wars (aka, A New Hope)  when it first came out in 1977, I was utterly enthralled. The effects, the scope, the production values, the pacing was absolutely thrilling. Like pretty much everyone else on the planet that year, I became a major fan. I saw the movie many times in the few years following.

Then life became a priority. Years went by and lengthened into decades. A couple of months ago, I found the movie for free on the web, so I started watching it, anticipating a rerun of youthful exuberance. It has been at least 20 years since I had seen the show. About 20 or 25 minutes in, I realized something that hit me like a brick. This movie had absolutely the cheesiest, stupidest dialogue I had ever heard in my life.  I recognized the lines, remembered many of them, but it was just appalling how awful they were. Seriously, who wrote that crap? (Turns out it was none other than George Lucas himself)

But there was no denying that the movie was–and remains–an iconic part of cinematic history. It changed the movie industry and spawned innumerable imitations. It changed science fiction forever. It was compelling when I first saw it. I recalled learning some years later that Lucas has been a very diligent student of Joseph Campbell, who introduced America to The Power of Myth with a little help from Bill Moyers. Campbell explained how myth taps into our deeper psyches, leverages symbolism and even archetypes to articulate narratives that we live by, often without even realizing it. Lucas may have produced hideous dialog, but the story, the mythology was exactly right. The question is, would it have been harder to see if the dialogue had been flawless?

Scientific experiments work by observing something happen, and then watching it again while changing a single variable. The overall change reflects the significance of that altered variable. In the case of Star Wars, the variable was the dialogue and the movie worked in spite of it. The horrid, stilted lines made it possible to appreciate the movie’s true genius: the storyline crafted to channel deep, compelling mythical narrative.

For this reason, I think that education should include exposure to some really bad art. But don’t tell the students that you’re doing it.