The fool's lament  Spice World is not good, and other things you
already knew  One of the conceits to which every critic must be
genetically predisposed is the idea that, at the end of the day,
his or her opinion actually matters. That some unknown phantasm
at a nonspecific coffee shop sits immersed in said critic's
latest ill-advised screed, imbibing every word as if it were
Revelation itself. That some petulant artist will rethink his or
her entire aesthetic dogma on the basis of a few neatly turned
phrases. In brief, that someone gives a shit. A few nagging
crits might assert that their main goal is simply to express a
thoughtful opinion in an articulate manner, reception be damned.
Lies, lies, all lies.  Enter Spice World. Rarely has one movie
seemed so predestined to reduce any and all attempted criticism
to so many column inches of impotent gibberish. Here is a film
for which the usual criteria for judgment--such niceties as
interesting plot, dialogue, and technique--matter little to both
those who made