Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
Jasper Rolls: "The young boy's protests, though heartfelt, quickly lapsed into simplistic and tedious platitudes. One and a half stars!"
The work of art listened and was ashamed. It fell off the antique table and shattered on the floor. The slime looked on as the housewife swept up the myriad fragments, all shapes and colors and sizes, and dumped them sadly into the waste-basket.
"Now you are beautiful," said the slime, and vanished down the drain.
Tabitha Dickenson: I will call the police!
Riggan: You won't call the police, let's read your review. "Callow." That's just a label. "Lackluster." That's just a label. "Marginality." You kidding me? Sounds like you need penicillin to clear that up. That's a label. That's all labels. You just label everything. That's so fuckin' lazy...you just...you're a lazy fucker. You know what this is? You even know what that is? You don't, you know why? Because you can't see this thing if you don't have to label it. You mistake all those little noises in your head for true knowledge.
Tabitha: Are you finished?
Riggan: No! I'm not finished! There's nothing here about technique! There's nothing in here about structure! There's nothing in here about intentions! It's just a bunch of crappy opinions, backed up by even crappier comparisons. You write a couple of paragraphs and you know what? None of this cost you fuckin' anything! The fuck! You risk nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Well I'm a fucking actor! This play cost me everything. So I tell you what, you take this fucked malicious, cowardly, shitty written review and you shove that right the fuck up your wrinkly tight ass.