Dialogue: Tall poppies in need of a good trim

By DIANA WICHTEL

A tall poppy syndrome in this country? I don't think so. Most of us are pathetically grateful when someone from here turns out to be any good at anything.

We're still willing to claim Russell Crowe and only a nation of almost superhuman generosity of spirit could have forgiven Paul Holmes his writings about Fleur Revell's knickers, not to mention the CD.

The tall poppy thing is normally invoked only when the media that some celebrity has happily exploited to advance his or her career has the temerity to notice that the celebrity has been behaving like a complete prat.

But lately I've been thinking that if we haven't got a tall poppy syndrome, we should develop one fast. Some people really do have you reaching for the shears. It's not so much big fish in a small pond these days as piranhas in a puddle.

Fran Walsh, Peter Jackson's partner and co-producer of Lord of the Rings, is threatening to sue the Listener.

Why? Because freelance journalist Frances Walsh had the temerity to write a story about the local film industry under - the sheer gall of it - her own name.

Fran Walsh claims the magazine deliberately misled readers, overlooking the fact that Frances Walsh has a respected name of her own in the media.

Dear oh dear. Ordinary people manage these things. Over the years, there have been two people in the same area with the same name as my partner, both writers of letters to the editor.

So my partner has had to put up with people asking him why he has such redneck views on immigration and/or if he's a member of the Hemp Party. So far, he hasn't sued anyone.

A letter to the editor would have sorted out any Walsh confusion. But where would be the fun in that? There's little point in having some weight if you can't throw it around.

In another small fracas involving a big ego, Auckland Theatre Company's Simon Prast refused to supply the Listener's theatre critic with review tickets because she had the cheek to not like some of his plays.

For a while last year, Prast wouldn't give any reviewers free tickets until the fifth night of a play's run, so I suppose this represents progress of a sort.

And it illustrates my theory that, if there is any pathology at work in the national psyche, it's not so much the tall poppy syndrome as morbid fear of criticism.

There was blood all over the letters pages when some hapless British journalist called us dull. Again.

But critics have a place and it's not necessarily, as some believe, under a rock somewhere. All art is essentially about ways of describing the world. Sometimes the work of art is positive about what it describes, sometimes it isn't.

Critics, by describing the work (from the point of view, ideally, of an intelligent layperson), are a continuation of that process, not an obstacle to it. And criticism, as the popular books of Clive James, Robert Hughes and other Australians demonstrate, can be an art form in itself. So let's not get too precious.

The Listener responded to Prast's latest move by printing a blank space where its Vagina Monologues review should have been. The arts editor called Prast "the Robert Mugabe of New Zealand theatre".

All of which confirms a fundamental journalist truth - celebrity tantrums make hilarious copy. But hissy fits, especially when legal action is threatened, can become an insidious form of censorship.

English writer Toby Young wrote of watching the legal letter "uncoiling from my fax machine like a poisonous snake" when he dared to write something other than puff pieces about publishing power couple Tina Brown and Harold Evans.

When local writer Helen Martin was working on the book she co-authored with Sam Edwards, New Zealand Film 1912-1996, she was refused stills from The Piano unless she removed from the entry any reference to the fact that there was controversy about some similarities between Jane Campion's screenplay and Jane Mander's novel, Story of a New Zealand River.

"In the end," she says, "I caved in to get the book published."

Still, the world would be a poorer place if famous people always behaved. Lord knows we wouldn't want to go back to the days when a local celebrity dust-up involved writers exchanging heated letters to the editor over whether Katherine Mansfield had a verandah or a balcony.

And maybe it isn't their fault. In an age when everyone's claiming to be a victim of something, celebrities can now be victims, too.

An American psychiatrist has identified the condition - Acquired Situational Narcissism - and treats celebrity clients for it. Apparently it's all our fault for throwing money and adulation at them until they develop an unrealistic view of themselves. Before you know it, they're being beastly to waiters, taking their clothes off for Ralph magazine or, worse, running for public office.

Not that I'm suggesting for a moment that any local celebrities display any of the symptoms, which include lack of empathy, grandiose fantasies, excessive need for approval ... stop me if you're beginning to recognise anyone.

But, in the end, high-handed behaviour on the part of those who have acquired a bit of power is a mistake. It serves only to squander some of the respect built up over years of achievement. An own goal by a talented player is always a sorry sight to see.