Is it heresy to whisper that the sainted Thomas More is a bit of a bore? Even Frank Langella, an actor who can be counted on to put the pepper in mashed-potato parts, doesn’t find much variety in the monolithic goodness of the title character of “A Man for All Seasons,” Robert Bolt’s 1960 biodrama about More’s road to martyrdom during the reign of Henry VIII. . .
Cromwell is easily the most intriguing soul onstage. Now there’s a character Mr. Langella could sink his teeth into. Surely, it would be more rewarding than being the fixed if towering center of a shrine.

And then, just a few weeks ago, this blasphemy (Up was a damn good movie, by the way):

Those thrills begin to peter out after the boy, Russell (Jordan Nagai), inadvertently hitches a ride with Carl, forcing the old man to assume increasingly grandfatherly duties…
[M]uch like Russell, the little boy with father problems, and much like Dug, the dog with master issues, the story starts to feel ingratiating enough to warrant a kick. O.K., O.K., not a kick, just some gently expressed regret.

It’s something like the converse of what Tushnet notes in our reception of Coward’s play. Just as the audience had no trouble interpreting as straight what was meant as satire, that wretch of a Times reviewer couldn’t take seriously wholesome scenes presented without any snark.

I’d love to see a brief history of American culture which took as its turning points the moments at which the works of notable satirists and shock artists were played straight and accepted without irony.

Interesting notion. I doubt we’ll see one anytime soon though. Unless of course someone blogs about it…