Third Factory Notebook faintly damns Alice Munro with a Johnny Depp comparison worthy of Armond White at his most contingent-- "I read the one and watched the other in a perfectly amiable and receptive state of mind, hoping for the best, but Munro's even competence was no more compelling than "Secret Window"'s steadily-worsening stupidity and both, I suspect, will pass from memory with very little trace in the coming few days. "

While the mild condescension toward Munro shown here is far from the misogynistic fury displayed by the likes of Brian Fawcett, I've never understood (or had satisfactorily explained) why she raises the ire of so many gatekeepers of the avant-garde. A clue here, though, might lie in the gap between a panglossian model of memory (from which the expendable and regrettable are immediately purged) and a natural overvaluation of one's essential amiability and receptiveness (hoping for the best!), neither of which get you much traction in Munro's universe.

(This post restored since yesterday, removed for crabbiness but no one seemed worried. Last night I tried to read the Munro story and I'm afraid the Factory was pretty much on the money, though Munro has certainly earned her present "filling in the corners" evenness of tone. But I kept nodding off. I'll wait for the DVD of that Depp movie, though.)