An open letter to Rolling Stone.

Dear Rolling Stone,

I understand that magazines are not traditionally judged in their totality by any one columnist, and I also understand anyone who would judge an entire magazine by such a standard should be viewed as a crank, a crackpot. It is my hope that my cognizance of this will to some extent give credence to my position that Peter Travers is an abomination in print and is destroying the integrity of your periodical.

His writing is so bad. He uses writing devices that only appeal to writers who stopped reading after high school. Why does he continuously ask me questions and then answer them for me? An example from his review of The Dark Knight:

The Dark Knight, director Christopher Nolan's absolute stunner of a follow-up to 2005's Batman Begins, is a potent provocation decked out as a comic-book movie. Feverish action? Check. Dazzling spectacle? Check. Devilish fun? Check. But Nolan is just warming up. There's something raw and elemental at work in this artfully imagined universe. Striking out from his Batman origin story, Nolan cuts through to a deeper dimension. Huh? Wha? How can a conflicted guy in a bat suit and a villain with a cracked, painted-on clown smile speak to the essentials of the human condition? Just hang on for a shock to the system. The Dark Knight creates a place where good and evil — expected to do battle — decide instead to get it on and dance.

I appreciate his energy and excitement, and agree that it is often lacking in many of the reviewers at the New Yorker and The NY Times. But seriously, can't you sic an editor on him that'll swat his muzzle with a rolled up back issue and say: "No!" a couple times in a loud and authoritative voice? That's absolutely inexcusable writing that wouldn't even make it past the editor of a high school newspaper. There is no fucking way you read that just now and didn't cringe.

This isn't isolated! He does this constantly. Here's an excerpt from his review of WALL-E:

First reaction: WALL-E, directed with a poet's eye by Andrew Stanton (Finding Nemo) from a whipsmart and shrewdly accessible script he wrote with Jim Reardon, is some kind of miracle, Talk about daring. It's Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot mixed with Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Terry Gilliam's Brazil, topped with the cherry of George Lucas' Star Wars and Steven Spielberg's E.T. , and wrapped up in a G-rated whipped- cream package. What could have been a mess of influences is instead unique and unforgettable. Tons of movies promise something for everyone WALL-E actually makes good on that promise. It's a landmark in modern moviemaking that lifts you up on waves of humor, heartbreak and ravishing romance. Want proof that animation can be an art form? It's all there in the groundbreaking WALL-E.

I'm not even going to touch upon the fact that you're letting him end sentences with commas now. Just look at that mess of italics, and all for the sake of reminding us that he's seen Brazil. By the way, someone needs to let Travers in on the difference between influence and homage; getting that straight might clean up his writing or at least make his juvenile penchant for list making meaningful. Here's a question I would like Travers to answer for a change: why does his writing always have to sound like a local radio host trying to pitch me a new diet soda or brand of condom?

My favorite is when he tries to affect the demeanor of an elitist: "Misguided souls will tell you that No Country for Old Men is out for blood, focused on vengeance and unconcerned with the larger world outside a standard-issue suspense plot. Those people, of course, are deaf, dumb and blind to anything that isn't spelled out between commercials on dying TV networks."

I love how emboldened he gets when he insults a crowd that only faintly exists in the real world. But wait, you'll love this, from the same paragraph: "It's also as entertaining as hell, which tends to rile up elitists. What do the criminal acts of losers in a flyover state have to do with the life of the mind? Plenty, as it turns out."

You know, I really do understand your inclination to tell me to "just not read it." I completely agree that when I read these entire articles I am responding to a dark and morbid part of my psychology; it's the same part that also encourages me to check if there's blood and flesh smeared on the road after a car accident. However, you have to understand that on Rotten Tomatoes I frequently have to look at the selected blurb from his article in order to find blurbs from the reviewers whose opinions I do ascribe value. But, God help me, I see Travers there and he's usually asking me questions I know that idiot has already answered, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad that I have to be exposed to that. It makes me mad that his influence has sway on the Cream of the Crop tomatometer. It makes me mad that underneath his name I see your magazine as the source of its print and power.

I am not alone in my confused loathe. Many people laugh and scorn him. Friends of mine have thought about printing out a few of his random reviews and playing a drinking game to it, though I have discouraged this because that would actually lend his writing some kind of function. Besides, better drinking games can be played, and no amount of alcohol stops me from snarling at his writing. If anything, Travers would make me a mean drunk.

I understand he's probably an institution at your magazine by now. He's probably really nice and brings donuts and coffee in the morning, asks you how the kids are doing and even seems to care. So fine, don't fire him, just please EDIT HIM. Let him know when "readers" (heavens no, not you, you love his writing--pat his shoulder) might find his sentences awkward, cloying, unctuous. Perhaps he could limit his rhetorical questions to maybe one every two reviews--or maybe you could just edit them out without telling him and send him a special copy so he'll never know. The point is, you guys have options and there's no reason why his column has to be an albatross around Rolling Stone's neck.

--Adam