Prometheus (2012)

I'm pretty sour on most of what Hollywood has produced in the past decade, including what's being made these days. The sense of plot-plowing, lazy archetypes and the marketing double cheeseburger (ala The Deathly Hollows, Part 2) have completely choked any true meaning (which, in this case, is thrill and spectacle) out of blockbuster films. It's just about the transient gratification and the social hype - studios will always scramble for new ways to pander and squeeze every last dollar out of consumers.

Despite this, I still find bits of ingenuity, slivers of good storytelling, dashes of satisfying action, remnants of full-fledged character development and smatterings of well-choreographed special effects within the Hollywood spectrum. These are elements that come no where near the territory of "memorable" but they do present an intriguing potential all the same. With Ridley Scott's Prometheus, there are murmurs of promise, but the uneven pacing, inconsistent acting and an ultimate desire to impress a wide-ranging audience seals the film's fate as a gun that goes off into your toes instead of your face.

The film is a precursor to the Alien series, taking place well before the events of the 1979 classic, before the eventual evolution of the xenomorphs to their iconic movie-culture image. It revolves around the crew of an exploratory space vessel, Prometheus, and more specially, the lead scientist, Shaw. Set out to a distant planet, Shaw hopes to uncover the secrets of human existence by interacting with an alien civilization that she feels may have created humans in the first place. Naturally, when they arrive, things don't go as planned.

Perhaps the best and worst thing about Prometheus is the acting. Noomi Rapace fills in Shaw with an intriguing mix of idealism, ambitious curiosity and politeness. She is definitely the heart of the film, and Rapace, being a talented actress regardless, does her damnedest to provide a fleeting sense of weight to the film's overall context. Michael Fassbender as the android, David, also makes a strong performance. Fassbender plays David as a mincing enigma, at turns courtesy, heroic and devious, he plays a key role in setting the Weyland Corporation's agenda into action. Guy Pearce also stands out as Mr. Weyland, though his role is extremely brief.

But then you have this cadre of ham-handed support roles - almost like all the creative juice was spent on Shaw and David. Rapace shares the protagonist spot with Logan Marshall-Green, a dead ringer in looks for actor Tom Hardy, but not at all as talented as him. Marshall-Green plays Shaw's love interest and fellow scientist, Halloway, as a sort of...bro scientist? The glaring inconsistency is that he's supposedly sensitive to the trappings of science, yet he provides the cowboy bravado of the crew and berates David, a pure product of science, at every turn. Throw in a goes-nowhere villianess performance by Charlize Theron, a contradictory ship captain played by Idris Elba and an inane crew that is made up of cookie-cutter caricatures (two guys that have some weird bet with each other, the spiky crewman who wants no friends, the doughy crewman who only wants to be friends with the guy that wants no friends) and you can imagine why Prometheus feels very unbalanced.

However, even more inconsistent is the way the film is paced. The first 30 minutes of the movie has this very measured flow to it, leading from Shaw's expedition on Earth to a cryo-sleep sequence where David takes care of the ship, watches old movies and shoots hoops while riding a bike. It's a strong build-up with time for the characters to breath. Right after the crew's briefing with Weyland, the film begins to jolt forward in very strange intervals. There are weird turns where important information is tossed in, then resolved within a matter of minutes (such as Shaw's infertility). It feels like the plot and subplots have all been smooshed and funneled down to fit a tight run-time, acceptable for most audiences. By the time Prometheus careens down the hill to it's inevitable conclusion, you find yourself wondering, "did all of this serious business just happen in a matter of 20 minutes?"

Even with the rampant issues of the film, there's no denying that Prometheus is a great bundle of cinematography, set design, special effects and refreshingly intense horror sequences. The ship interior is a great mixture of white bulkheads, stylish digital interfaces and glowing orange-yellow lights, the crew's exploration suits have a satisfying mix of bulky armor plates, well-placed LEDs and streamlined diving suit underlays. (SPOILERZZZZZZZ) There is a gorgeous sequence where Shaw gets caught in a sort of metal sandstorm, with small sharp chunks of shrapnel cascading around her as she hangs on to the ship for dear life. Of course, the craziest sequence has to be where Shaw finds out she has been impregnated with a monstrous-DNA fetus and must use an advanced medical pod calibrated for men along with self-injected anesthetics to extract the thing before it kills her.

All in all, Prometheus is a half-cleaned up mess. It looks good and it sounds good, the acting is good...sometimes, the plot is paced well...sometimes, the characters are interesting...sometimes. I feel the lesson to be learned is that all the hype and viral marketing in the world won't save a film from it's financial obligations or its attempts to satisfy everyone at once. Prometheus is ultimately a good idea crushed down by the massive car pile up at the intersection of art and commerce.

Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961)

I feel that, in order to judge a film like Breakfast at Tiffany's fairly, I need to take it at 95% face value. I think part of accurately valuing art is seeing just how it stands up to the ultimate test - time. So, how does this massively popular film, with one of the most iconic female characters in Hollywood history, stack up today? Not well. It has nothing to do with the technical elements of the film - cinematography, editing, pacing, music. The disaster lies in the portrayal of Holly Golightly, a character supposedly being criticized for her reckless spirit, but in actuality is celebrated for her idiosyncratic unaccountability and glibness.

The film centers on an upscale apartment complex in New York, where Paul, a struggling writer, moves in and meets Holly Golightly, the building's resident high school thesp (over-the-top acting is Audrey Hepburn's forte, naturally). Intrigued by her quirks and flippant socialite lifestyle, Paul begins to spend more and more time with her. The two eventually begin to confide in one another and emotions are thrown around, but Holly's tendencies soon send her flying back to her careless, gold-digging ways.

Breakfast at Tiffany's features some very well-constructed camerawork and gorgeous cinematography, that would have been better served on a character study with three-dimensional mirth. All the scenes in and outside the apartment complex have a very careful, lock-and-flow alternation that frames the meticulous set design with grace. From Holly's apartment of curiosities to the austerity of Tiffany's, the film seems to craft a diverse range of flora and fauna, all within a five or six block radius.

The film is obviously supposed to be a cautionary tale, but with the glitz of New York, an alluring actress like Hepburn filling Holly's shoes and the delightfully bizarre decorum of her apartment, I think most people are too dazzled to care. In essence, you can think of Holly Golightly as a prototype for the wanderlust pixie image that so many women have adopted and distorted over the years. Constantly strutting around like life is entitled to them, surrounding themselves with men under the pretense of "friendship" and wrapping it all up in a bow of eccentricity and tomboy elegance. Holly echoes these behaviors with her wild and superficial parties, her interest in marrying up to ease her financial burdens and her "dangling the keys" over Paul, the only man that genuinely cares about her.

Underneath that freewheeling exterior is a mass of insecurities, selfishness and a gnawing sense of hypocrisy. Holly is a woman with no direction, no direct claim on her life and she knows it. In a sense, the woman is tormented by her "nature", writing off any form of stability or authenticity as a "cage". With the right tone, Breakfast at Tiffany's could have been an extremely interesting portrait of a troubled woman, attempting to figure out how she wants to spend her life. Instead, it comes off as a shallow celebration of "wild hearted" women, with virtually no consequences to be found.

Even at the climax, where Paul, frustrated that Holly won't even acknowledge the great times they had together, finally tells her like it is: "You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself". Not moments before this, Holly was considering flying on a whim to Brazil, even after she finds out the rich suitor she was trying marry didn't want her.  And yet Paul just accepts her back? After playing the jilted fool for so long? Would she really learn anything from such a quick turnaround? So, there is this retrograde acceptance of her behavior, even when the film purports that her spontaneity has only led to unhappiness.

It would have empowered the film immensely if there were white-hot consequences for her actions - something to really drive into her skull that such a frivolous lifestyle has a wide range of pitfalls. However, Breakfast at Tiffany's fails to send up the signal flares that so deserve to be shot, leaving an audience of uninitiated women to only take away the glamor of a wild existence. I get the feeling that generations of women have mistakenly identified Holly as a beacon of women's liberation and a personification of their vibrancy, when, in actuality, she is nothing more than a mirror reflection of the most disregarding qualities of men. She is not at all an early icon for feminism, which is about equality and ethics between the sexes. It's a distinction that I feel not enough will care to make then, now or in the future.

Shame (2011)

There's a real disappointment that occurs when movies that are generally well-conceived contain one or two disparate elements that seem to unravel the envelopment which a film had previously been building. These elements, though singular and/or intermittent, cast rain clouds over a grand landscape, just enough to taint your experience. It's that kind of nag that prods at the back of your mind, the "why did they do that?" sentiment repeated over and over, forcing any good feelings you might have had to be watered down. The goodness still remains, but the badness has gradually taken over due to sheer frustration, like a fly in your soup.

Steve McQueen's Shame falls into this unfortunate situation. Looking at the film in broad strokes, it's a smart, visually precise experience that shines light on the inner-conflict of a sex addict, played by Michael Fassbender. However, there are three particular sections of the movie that seem to ram home a hammy poignancy, under the "cool" guise of the dark modern art house drama. These sections, which occur at the beginning, near-end and end of the film, act like shitty, hastily constructed bookends for an otherwise powerful experience.

The story of sex addict Brandon Sullivan is framed by camera angles that refuse to budge - be it Brandon laying in bed, his sister, Sissy, singing in a club, Brandon and Sissy having an argument on the couch - it's a satisfying and intrusive visual aesthetic that seems to presuppose the audience's judgement against Brandon's character. Equivalent to staring hard at someone who has done you wrong, Shame gladly forces you into the role of naysayer. Yet, as the movie follows Brandon through his daily work, his relationships with prostitutes and his obsession with internet porn, a portrait slowly builds of a man tormented by his impulses. Though the air of critique remains, an undercurrent of pity begins to take shape as the film goes on.

It's not to say the entire movie is all stationary shots that invade the moral compasses of the characters, though. There is fluidity in the film and McQueen applies it expertly. The best example is a gorgeous tracking shot, that dollies from a medium distance alongside Brandon as he goes for an impromptu jog in the middle of the night. Stricken by his boss and sister having sex in his apartment, Brandon decides to get the hell out of there. Throwing a gentle piano sonata on his MP3 player, he jogs down his street in the middle of New York, the early hours of the morning weighing down upon him. The camera moves along with him, never attempting to collect a close-up here or a coverage shot there. The scene doesn't end anywhere special, but the action of Brandon leaving his own place to avoid a monster of mixed emotions is all that's needed to propel the simplified sequence to great heights.

By far the most interesting aspects of Shame are Brandon's implied incestuous relationship with his sister and his attempted relationship with his co-worker, Marianne. When Fassbender and Carey Mulligan (who plays Sissy) are onscreen together, it's pure fireworks. The two play out their respective roles with a deep, underlying frustration - an active, tormenting curb to their wild instincts. In the flourishes of violent arguments, ignored phone calls, tearful admiration and joyful reposes, you can tell that they so desire a certain passion to be affirmed, but as to what specifically, they don't even know.

For Brandon, it's a frustration that feeds directly into his doomed relationship with co-worker, Marianne. When the two embark on their first date at a fancy restaurant, Marianne speaks fondly of monogamy and marriage, which Brandon promptly laughs off. He attempts to explain to her the uselessness of relationships, that the idea of devoting yourself to one person is ridiculous. Yet, it makes an impact on him. He attempts to make a clean break from his addiction and pursues something more with Marianne, but when he whisks her away to a hotel to get down to business, he finds himself impotent. It's an incredibly powerful scene that cements Brandon's inability to indulge himself in the face of responsibility.

So far, Shame sounds like an intriguing and stylish film, but it's about time I talked about those shitty bookends. Employing a montage format, McQueen drops a nuclear bomb of dramatic goo with scenes of Brandon fawning after a girl he sees on the subway and a night where Brandon goes around having anonymous sex, whilst ignoring pleading calls from his sister. These scenes are set to painfully yearning string arrangements that would make John Williams blush. Considering how downplayed the rest of the film is, these moments blast their way in and out of consciousness, and you're left wondering what the hell happened. Yes, I understand that Brandon is tormented by his addiction. No, I don't need swirly bear strings and throat-shovel montages to reinforce the already clear-cut narrative.     

It's funny, because I felt similarly when I saw McQueen's other film, Hunger. He has these great scenes and well-developed characters, but it's almost like he doesn't feel confident they'll get the message across. So, he inserts clunky transitions, heavy-handed music and little aside situations that he hopes will solidify things, but they drag his movies down instead. Essentially, that is what Shame boils down to. It's a good movie with solid performances all around and a strong visual construction, but it's brought down to a mediocre experience thanks to this insistence that we won't get the point without a good dose of spoon-feeding.

Alice in the Cities (1974)

Wim Wenders' films exhibit a power of placement. It's a power that is subtle and burns slowly, but, oh man, does it burn so good. Never one to shy away from deeply reflective and minimal journeys, Wenders has an intense interest in his characters - who they are, why they are who they are, where they are going and how they will get there. His films may float along, but they are always defined by poignant character development and gorgeous cinematography. He may have some followers amongst the "mumblecore" crowd, but he saves himself from any true association with the movement (besides his time and placement in cinema history) by recognizing that even meditation and subtly must be made interesting with a strong, permeating context.

Alice in the Cities is a great example of all these things, made immediately apparent by the way the film softly treads around German journalist, Philip Winter. It exudes such a world weary compassion that there is no doubt Wenders held a personal vestige in the character's life.

The film tracks Philip as he travels listlessly towards New York City, taking pictures of American life along the way. Lingering too long over an assignment for his European publishers, Philip finds himself forced to return home. He meets Lisa, a fellow German, and her daughter Alice at the airport while attempting to buy a plane ticket home. Spending the night in a New York hotel, Philip becomes acquainted with Lisa and Alice. The next morning, Philip finds himself left alone with Alice and a note from Lisa, asking him to take care of her daughter. Events gradually lead Philip and Alice to travel back to Germany together, where they go in search of Alice's grandmother.

In all honesty, the plot is just an excuse of happenstance, all in order to put these two characters together and to see what might happen. Philip and Alice's adventure feels like a favorite pair of old shoes - comfortable and well-worn. They quarrel and bicker constantly, but there is always a presiding sense of compassion through a shared uncertainty in their destinations. Philip must deal with the fact that he doesn't know what to do next in life, while Alice must contend with the idea that her mother has abandoned her. They are two characters that are searching, but don't want to deal with the ramifications of finding answers.

The pair's bittersweet relationship gives Alice in the Cities a vitality that engages without trespass or frustration. Alice criticizes Philip, but retains a charming wonderment about his life, especially his lack of direction. Her blunt questions about his parents and his photography force him to accept his current status in life, while the pair's continued journey gives him a good reason to just be. On the other hand, Philip becomes irritated by Alice's constant misdirection (in order to delay having to leave him), but he finds comfort in reassuring her that she's not alone.

Framing New York and Germany in sterling black and white, Alice in the Cities is shot through with small experiences that leave a resounding impact. In these experiences there is a natural blend of humor and poignancy. Scenes such as when Alice wants Philip to tell her a bedtime story, then subsequently falls asleep as he struggles to tell one, as well as when Alice asks a woman if she thinks Philip is her father, leading to Philip and the woman having sex and Alice becoming jealous, illustrates how a movie of little occurrences can be more powerful than one with a centralized structure and huge moments.

In a sense, the characters are simultaneously the most interesting aspect of the film and also simply a part of the scenery. That's the exact point where Wenders skills shine the brightest. He allows the movie to breath, but never to waste away. I feel like so many directors try to make triviality, slow pacing, reflection, meandering and quiet into something that pushes against the normal rigors of narrative films, but they end up tripping over themselves into trite idiosyncrasy and sloppy matter-of-factness. Alice in the Cities is a form of proof that Wenders doesn't take anything for granted. He says, "Hey, check out these characters, they might interest you. Please enjoy their journey", where as some other filmmakers say, "HEY, CHECK OUT HOW FUCKING WEIRD AND INTERESTING THESE CHARACTERS ARE! CHECK OUT HOW LIFE CAN BE SUCH A LISTLESS TRIFLE BUT TOTES PROFOUND AT THE SAME TIME, AHAHAHAHEEEEHAHAHA".

Alice in the Cities is such a relaxed film you could almost imagine Wenders directing it from a beach chair. With aimless characters, low-flow pace, a reflective acoustic guitar score and expressive locations, the film lingers in the best way possible. It allows you to turn off your busy schedule, to turn off the expectations of life, to turn off the constrains of a linear path and just hit the road with two endearing people. To hell with the destination. It seems like such a cliche "enlightened world traveler" sentiment, but Wenders finds a genuine articulation of the idea in Alice in the Cities.

Daisies (1966)

Over the years I've soured on '60s New Wave films - the more I see, the more I am disenchanted. I think most of the movement has been overly romanticized by a lot of critics and fans. It's as if the historical and social associations in which they came from are enough reason to keep propping them up year after year as amazing, undefeatable works of art. There's not enough focus on the content and not enough separation from the historical context to warrant a genuine reading of the entire movement. However, there are a few New Wave films that I feel successfully escaped the ravages of time. They've side-stepped the movement's inevitable irrelevance and bounded into the territory of eccentric legacy. It's always nice to discover even more of these films, especially by surprise. The Czech film, Daisies, is my most recent addition.

I can't say I thoroughly "like" Daisies, but at the same time it provides an endless amount of curiosity and unforgettable imagery. It's not so much a movie as it is an abstract narrative collage, pieced together by disparate moments, revolving camera filters and esoteric set pieces. Director Vera Chytilova goes out of her way to disorient and muddle the story of two spoiled young women as they indulge in extremely reckless, selfish, and ultimately, meaningless behavior in order to throw her audience for a loop and most likely poke holes in a male-centric bourgeois class of Czechoslovakia at the time.

The pair of women (whose names are never clearly stated) have a freewheeling appetite for destruction. They swindle old rich men out of their money, manipulate love-struck suitors into falling for them, crash fancy parties and banquets for free food and booze, lounge around in bed with scissors as they systemically destroy their own room out of boredom - all the while laughing it off without a pang of conscience to speak of. These are two girls that you hate to love - they're hyper-intense unaccountability becomes charming in a very backwards way.

You don't want to condone their lack of etiquette, you don't want to smirk at their cocky narcissism, you don't want to be endeared by their flippant disregard for other people - but you do. At least, I did. It's kind of like watching a car crash and being awestruck by the force and gravity of the event itself, rather than focusing on the horrible aftermath. These two women are demons incarnate but they are charismatic, gorgeous and, most of all, intriguing.

As it remains vehemently wild and unpredictable, Daisies is filled to the brim with small details, scatterbrained vignettes and a frothing sea of minutia. The girls' room, for example, is a testament to the intricacies of set design. It seems every time the story returns the pair to their room, it is decorated differently - always in garish, haphazard fashion - but always different. Chytilova takes time to pan slowly around the room as the two bask in the consequences of their behavior, snipping sausage links with scissors and pasting magazine cut-outs on the wall. In a sense, these are the calm moments before the storms. These are the moments where you reflect, almost in conjunction with the characters, on why they act the way they do.

But Chytilova doesn't have any answers to offer. Amidst the camera's playful flip-flops between black and white, color, blue filters, red filters and orange filters, the film never makes a point of explaining why the two women act the way they do. There are a few moments of exposition that reprimand the duo, but it concedes that they would not recognize how to change their ways, even if they were willing to.

You could perhaps construe that it's a meditation on women's liberties in the '60s, and that such behavior was seen as destructive by men in Czech society at the time, but I feel like it leans more toward the transcendental quality of cackling anarchy. I enjoyed the film because it never apologized for the behavior of the women, instead glorifying their foolishness to an absurd degree. It's perhaps an even more deviant and frightening portrait of what society might be like without responsibility and ethics thrust upon it, than the countless post-apocalypse scenarios you find all over the place in movies and books.

Daisies is a film which ultimately points out that life is a mess and sometimes there is nothing moral or meaningful to be gleaned from it. It's that sentiment in itself that makes the movie work so well. It's chaotic structure and black-humored self-awareness provide a straight shot to the gut that will definitely leave you pondering. Nothing is sacred and there are no consequences. It's just two crazy women getting trashed, smashed, sexed and stuffed - in a very evocative and satisfying fashion.

In Favor of Articulate, Discriminating Moderation: Irrational Positivity (Critic)

Irrational Positivity (Critic)

In my last post, I spoke about the breakout of irrational positivity found in the audiences of art - those willing masses (or small groups) who seem to want every new form of popular or niche stimuli they are exposed to be the ultimate/thrilling/romp-tastic/ridiculous/amazing thing that either holds their attention for all of two and half weeks until they move on to their next big catch OR remains in their big, slouching bag of opinions wrapped in a coating of superficial context. The important point I attempted to outline last time was distinguishing between genuinely positive opinions of works of art - wrought from reflection, moderation and discrimination - and blinded-by-science, rah-rah enthusiasm - a combination of short-term memory, lazy wonderment and fair-weather acceptance.

There's a major difference between enjoying Citizen Kane on a deeply felt, pure level and enjoying it because expectation and common wisdom have dictated it be so. I remember hearing my entire life how "amazing" Citizen Kane was, how much of an American masterpiece it was, how vital of an experience it was. I was bombarded with these grand-standing slogans at every turn and it was hard to form a cogent, personalized expectation of the film. I finally saw the damned thing and, of course, I didn't quite share the effervescent cheer that so many critics and fans (irrationally positive and genuinely positive) had.

It wasn't that I went into Citizen Kane with the resentful aim of hating it no matter what - that would be a hefty dose of hypocrisy. I went into it as neutral as possible and gauged it for what it actually was. I'll be honest, I thought it was an interestingly shot film with an engaging premise, but these particular elements of a film do not make the whole experience. I also found the film meandered and provided it's own painfully transparent self-importance. In short, I thought it was -alright-. The film, in my opinion, is not nearly worthy enough of the obligatory praise that it receives on a yearly basis.

There's a line of thinking where a work's historical context is the insurmountable argument against negativity towards it. Which, naturally, is total bullshit. There's a difference between respect given to works of art for the conditions they were fostered within and actually enjoying the work itself, IN ADDITION to respecting said context. And this, my friends, is where the IPCs (Irrationally Positive Critics) enter the game - because where else is historical context more perpetuated, than by critics?  

Citizen Kane is such a perfect example of this ideology. IPCs would have you believe that the film was the end-all-be-all of American cinema, ramming it's historical relevance down your throat until your personal taste is completely suffocated (whether you realize it or not). Citizen Kane contained many technical achievements and  an unprecedented amount of artistic freedom at that time in Hollywood, but is that merit enough to automatically enjoy it? IPCs think so. Their brand of irrational positivity comes from a dogmatic education and interpretation of film born from the halls of academia.

Common academic methods, such as analysis and contextualization, can be useful tools in forming coherent, discerning opinions on works of art, but there is a dangerous line to be walked when applying said methods. Academia can stifle intuitive understandings of the art work in question and even force people out of their gut feelings entirely in order to fit some subsidized cultural interpretation. The opinion, though eloquent and thoughtful, is representing one very specific way of reading a work of art. It voids most of the personal enrichment that could have come without the needling clockwork and societal extrapolations of academic theory.

On the other hand, you have the "feel-good" IPC, who turns even the shittiest, most detestable work of art on the planet into a light-hearted tease. Film critic Gene Shalit was a major proponent of this method, using ridiculous puns to soften the blow for any film he did not like and kiss the cheeks of the one's he did. The irrational positivity here is self-evident. How do you learn anything from a person so afraid to actually dig in and tear something to pieces when the need arises? How do you learn anything from inscrutable praise based on fluffy observations, marketing buzzwords and cute rhymes?

I am not a fan of Roger Ebert, but at least he has the gusto to be passionately negative about a film when he thinks deserves it. Ebert hates a favorite film of mine, I Am Curious Yellow, and though I disagree completely with his assessment of the movie, I respect that he had a genuine reaction to the film and articulately communicated thus to his masses. On the flip-side, Ebert adores the New Wave classic, Last Year at Marienbad, which I despise, but I appreciate that his positivity is culled from an authentic place within. He is primarily steeped in academia, but I do think Ebert injects enough personal reflection into his reviews to warrant respect.

Naturally, IPCs and IPAMs (Irrationally Positive Audience Members) are a self-perpetuating and self-congratulating lot, so it's hard to plunge your hand in and rip away the heart of the beast. Their fervor for positivity is so strong, they would see the world burn around them before they gave an inch on the merits of Community or the integrity of LCD Soundsystem. Still, folks who are aware enough of their own tastes can learn a thing or two from the world of spoon-fed enthusiasm. You can avoid the indiscriminate and unaccountable paths people take to arrive at their cardboard "opinions" on works of art. You can hold on to the works that really mean something to you, despite the tumultuous sea of endless new trends. You can sidestep preconceived notions, academic posturing and party-line critical praise in order to form your own opinion. You can do this and be proud of the fact that when you liked that movie, that album, that book, that sculpture, that mixed-media collage, it was an appreciation that came, first and foremost, from within.

In Favor of Articulate, Discriminating Moderation: Irrational Positivity (Audience)

I thought I'd take a break from movie reviews this week to drop some thick cultural observations on the various ways people react to arts criticism and the methods in which art critics present their opinions, all in an effort to expel some personal grudges and present how I developed my own methodology when it comes to reviewing art. These are opinions that have been marinating in my brain for a little while now, and I'm hoping they taste just right - that I did not put too little or too much brain-sauce on these slabs of thought. However, it's one of those things where passion tends to trump cordiality, politeness, benefit-of-the-doubting, etc, in favor of a wild dose of pure honesty.

To ease the presentation of these scattered thoughts on arts criticism, I've decided to explain my ideas in four sections that I feel succinctly organize my whole point - Irrational Positivity (Audience), Irrational Positivity (Critic), Irrational Negativity (Audience), Irrational Negativity (Critic) - sections that highlight the disparity of opinions and overblown reactions to specific works of art. I'll end things with a fifth section, Discriminating Moderation, in which I'll explain how my own critical methodology (both as a critic and an audience member) was formed in an effort to avoid the pitfalls of the previously mentioned mind sets.

Irrational Positivity (Audience)

Firstly, what do I mean when I say "irrational positivity" as it applies to arts criticism and an audience? Irrational positivity  describes the way some people act after they have experienced a work of art (especially right after), where discrimination goes out the window and the work gives them a kind of exuberance (in this case, a mixture of genuine and forced) -  so much that it's practically oozing out of their eyeballs. It's not to say a  person is "wrong" for developing a fervent bond with a work of art, I don't think that has to be explained. However, I do find that there is a disparity between the honest construction of a newly formed positive opinion and a slippery synthesis of collective appreciation, first-timers syndrome and a general lack or all out negligence of self-reflection.

Let's use Jurassic Park as an example. Let's say Ted goes and watches Jurassic Park  for the first time, well after its prime and initial popularity, but riding a wave of nostalgic or classic popularity. He says that he loves the movie. But does he love the film itself or the film's reputation? Does he love the film or does he love the director's reputation? Throughout his life, Ted has likely been told how great Jurassic Park and Steven Spielberg are (conversely how much they suck, but I'll get to that view point later) by friends, family, an indiscriminate assortment of web writers and, if he's enough into reviews, critics he enjoys reading.

With all that outside influence, can Ted watch Jurassic Park in any kind of true, original fashion? Personally, I don't think so. Not unless Ted is self-aware enough to step back from all the opinions he has synthesized, really open his eyes and watch for himself - not his friends, not his family, not the critics - himself. If he can place himself within the space of the movie and just let it be, than he can have a genuine reaction, whether it be positive or negative.

Comedian Pete Holmes phrased it well in one of his podcasts, where he talked about people actually having an "opinion". In speaking about one of his unfinished bits, Pete explained that he hated when he went on dates and asked them what they thought about something, like a movie, and they simply said, "it's amazing" in response. For Holmes, that is NOT an opinion. There is nothing backing it up, it has no sinew attached to it. They just blindly adore that particular movie.

And fuck forbid you actually challenge the sweeping joy for a film or record of one of these IRAMs (Irrationally Positive Audience Members), because they will crucify you with smugness and passive aggressive condescension at every turn. Even suggesting some lack of even-handed observation on their part will send them on a tilt-o-whirl of over-compensation, with wildly aimed judgements at your own thought process. It's that kind of "oh, well, he's questioning my joy for this thing I love and suggesting that maybe, just maybe, this film I love is not the definition of perfection - time to undercut his criticism by making him out to be a negative, pretentious troll".

The issue that IRAMs don't seem to understand is - especially in a public space like Facebook, a forum, a club meeting, a comment strand or other communicative arena - opinions are fair game for scrutiny, even by friends and acquaintances. I understand that trolls have kind of ruined the credibility of those who actually have reasonable but discriminating taste, but IRAMs certainly don't understand the distinction. It wreaks havoc on a genuine, fair-minded exchange of thoughts. Even if IRAMs ask why their opinion of a beloved work has been questioned or criticized, it's nearly always posed as a challenge rather than a welcome cycling of ideas.

A great example of this lies in the arena of highly anticipated Hollywood blockbusters. It's not like Hollywood has ever given us a consistent reason to anticipate anything they put out, but if you speak a single critical word about a serious huge flick, ala The Dark Knight Rises, such as the possibility it's just rehashing ideas of previous entries in the series, which weren't amazing to begin with, IRAMs will eat you alive. You haven't suggested that the movie is going to be downright terrible, you haven't said it's not worth watching, but it doesn't matter to the positive lynch mob. In fact, I think IRAMs are more obsessed with the anticipation and trends surrounding the film, rather than the film itself.

This definitely happened when Kick-Ass was coming to theaters, everyone rode that bandwagon hard and never gave a second thought as to how it'd be executed. It was a graphic novel movie with a slight post-modern twist on comic book heroes, and that was enough. Then it was pretty much universally terrible, except a few interesting elements, and people said it was still "a good attempt" to save face with their social circles.

I feel many lessons can be learned from the IRAM view point, not least that you can love something to pieces and still recognize and tip your hat to the flaws in it. Another lesson to learn is that there isn't always justification for those flaws found in some round-about logic. Naturally, all art is subjective but there is a line where people need to just let go and admit that, yes, this part of this work is personally shitty to me and I don't like it. The most important lesson, though, is taking art with a grain of salt from the get-go. Some might assume this stifles natural reactions and expression to a work, but in fact, tempered scrutiny will only strengthen your bond and allow you to take the negativity in stride, debate with reasonable coherence and set the bedrock for a well-informed, multifaceted taste.