Human vs. Supercilious: A Personal Statement Regarding Film Criticism

An Introduction for my upcoming series entitled, “Mirrors”; excavations on how film and performance put flesh and bone to the scripted soul.

Film criticism is a subject that I’ve harbored conflicting ideologies about for quite a long while, and so I’ve written this statement for two reasons; one begetting the other.

First, and foremost, to set myself to the task.

To sort through my mind’s anxiety minefield, littered claustrophobically with self-doubt, vulnerability, and a fair amount of procrastinatory memes, to arrive at a conclusion for how I intend to write about films and performance.

Second, to introduce that conclusion, and myself here on Medium.

Writing about storytelling isn’t without weight, for me. It is, unequivocally, the great love of my life. If I’m to write about it, the standard that I place upon myself must forever be something to be scaled, and it must be humanly useful; preferably, without being obnoxiously rose-tinted by my endless romanticism.

Quite the fête, I assure you. It sounds lovely, but…

A few years back, I wrote three film reviews for a local publication, and inwardly, didn’t love it — kind of hated it, actually; despite positive feedback. I halted from doing it further. Just kind of not-so-slyly wall-flowered my way out of the party, without making any courteous goodbyes (this is figurative, but it is, in fact, what I do at parties).

At the time, I couldn’t reconcile why I felt so deeply uncomfortable with it; though I probably self-relegated myself to a ‘what do you know’ corner, within my own mind. Historically, a truly rubbish copout, that only throws a wall up between you and a proper self-investigative thought process.

Too hard. Must banish. That sort of thing. I digress.

So, I shelved the whole thing for an older, presumably wiser, version of myself to tackle. She’ll have this far more figured out, someday… right? Ha. Rather tired of playing that waiting game, so both you and I will have a think here with whatever this version of me has to offer.

Best of luck to us both (and my apologies).

In the years following, that uncomfortable feeling of being at odds with my own words only intensified as I ran the gamut of working on films myself — pre-production to post.

Script Supervisor. Producer. Editor. Production Coordinator. Screenwriter. Script Doctor.

It’s impossible to journey that path without taking in a fair amount of perspective on the sheer amount of human required to bring a film to fruition; even a not-so-great one. We’re talking truly admirable human qualities: tireless commitment, depths of passion, courage in the face of blinding fear and insecurity, and ingenuity truly manifesting as the mother of invention.

Seeing how the other half lives tends to often have this glorious and entirely important effect upon compassion. I became an intimate observer of humans coming together, from all walks of life, for one purpose; experiencing sheer joy and exaltation upon achieving that purpose; and then, all too often, having their hopes and dreams crushed by supercilious wit-strutting, for superficial bits of internet attention.

Also known as — reviews. And no, not all of them subscribe to the tawdry. Not all of them are geared to rip someone’s heart to shreds. But… enough are.

And that’s why I’m uncomfortable with writing about film that way.

Juxtaposed to that, though, I am a child of the Roger Ebert era. Huge swaths of my ability (meager, and flawed by human nature, not to mention a lack of formal education) to analyze film, writing, performance, and character development, was incubated in the societal think-tank of film criticism.

To me, that feels a bit like biting the hand that fed you, in a way.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) — Walt Whitman

So, here’s my reconciliation within the contradiction.

Film criticism deserves to be lauded, not belittled. Historically, those in practice of it are the very reason why film is perceived as an art form. Respected academics, from 1911 to 1920 — most notably Ricciotto Canudo, an Italian film theoretician — made the case for it, and by 1920, film was being critiqued for its merit and value to human existence, instead of as mere entertainment.

Crowned the seventh art form. A vital moment in film history championed by the first-dubbed film critics.

An academic analysis of films, theatre, performance, and serial, is very much still alive and well today, and there are voices that reverently honor that legacy.

But does academic excavation speak to… today?

Well, no, we live in a time where experts and academics are publicly ridiculed, so there’s that. Meanwhile, click-bait culture demands public attention with the same magnetism as The Beatles; there’s also… that.

All for what? To combat dwindling attention spans. You can hate on click-bait culture (I do), but there is a reason why it has become so prominent and profitable.

Oftentimes, people want a no-bullshit elevator pitch about a film, in order to feel confident enough to commit it to their evening — and they want that information delivered posthaste. That’s understandable. You’re busy, I’m busy (ish), and we’re all just trying to do our best with the hours in a day.

Fair. Enough. Because that isn’t the problem at hand. The problem isn’t how people want it. The problem is the effort, intellect, and compassion, in delivering it.

You can throw a wisp of a stick and hit someone that believes, with all sincerity, that they can and should be able to speak to a film’s merit; its execution, its writing, its pains-and-takings. And not just that, but they should be taken seriously, or even earn a paycheck. Because, well, they watch movies themselves, they know what they like, and what makes sense to them within their little corner of life experience, so they must be the everyman/woman!

I think we’ve seen, all too keenly, how that tends to shake out via various public figures. All… too… keenly.

This is where I take issue, not just with them, but with myself.

I’m not formally educated; not in film, or anything at all. I’ve been hard-pressed, for a long while, to see myself as anything more than just another passerby, and I straight-up fear pretension.

I mean… it’s so boring.

Yet, somehow, it lures in unsuspecting victims like a cad in the night. Pretentiousness is a tricky little beast that will gulp you right into its oropharynx if your ego is stroked with the effectiveness of an English gent in a well-tailored suit.

Or perhaps that’s just my weakness, but anyway —

The point is… maybe there’s a middle-ground. What do both academics and the everyman/woman have in common?

They’re both humans.

Flawed. Romantic, at times. Practical, at times. Terrible, at times. Incredible, at times. Sometimes those get confused, and oddly (or amusingly) paired, and hi-jinx ensue.

You know, human. It’s a mess. A beautiful one.

Can we be studious about that, or can I? Can we find our way to being articulate, compassionate, and meaningfully analytical, about the art the mess that is human creates? Can we do that while holding an honest and forthright mirror to it?

I mean, is it just me, or does that not sound far more enticing than any of that ‘come watch this train wreck’ click-bait? Literally, anyone can get on board.

We’re all on the same maniacal and turbulent journey, are we not? Haphazardly defining what it means to be alive; realizing that was all shit; then doing it again somehow thinking we’ve got it this time — aha!; and then realizing that was all shit.

Rinse, repeat. Sharing notes on the cluster-fuck of all that, when offered earnestly, sounds completely wonderful, and fascinating, and not at all pretentious and boring.

This is what the art of a performance medium offers us.

When a film is made, when a play is staged, when a writer sits down to pen something from nothing, when an actor literally amalgamates who they are with a soul on a page in order to give flesh and bone to it… it is all… a chaotic culmination of human. Utterly, and completely. It is unbridled chaos that has been shaped by humans to give other humans a lighthouse in the dark — an instruction manual that not a soul is handed when they set sail.

Can we — can I — honor that?

Instead of hastily watching a film once and deciding, on a barely surmised whim, to reduce all of that beauty to ‘worth two hours’ or ‘not worth two hours’… can we do better?

Can we be kinder to our storytellers? To the bards, and to the mirrors, of our very existence as human beings?

Not in a kumbaya, rainbows and kittens, kind of way. Never that, please.

But in a way that, at minimum, demonstrates that you did your human homework before you criticize human endeavor; that makes crystal clear a recognition of intention, regardless of personal bias; and that champions the boiling passion — even if not yet fully formed, or realized, or matured — of those who dedicate their lives to reminding others why life is worth living, despite the turbulence.

Can we extend that brand of kindness? It really isn’t an exercise in naïveté; which, I remind, is a turn of phrase birthed by cynicism, its roots firmly sprouted from regret.

It’s just something real. You know… real. You remember. You know it. You yearn for it, too.

More real… than a paragraph, or two, that maybe was swayed by the film, and performances therein, or maybe it was just the day the author was having, the mood they were in, how long the line at Starbucks was (or how many lines they’ve done, cause you know, writers), or if their sphynx knocked a can of White Claw into the keyboard.

Highly. Plausible.

I mean, come on guys — we can do better. I can do better.

Better than what I’ve done, with a focus on what is human, because I genuinely adore what that is, what I know of it. Fascinated moreover by the multitudes that I’ve yet to discover.

I’m not a film theorist, but I have been studying humans for the entirety of my life, will always do, and it is a bard brimming with untold stories. It’s literally the most consistently fascinating thing of all — this wild endeavor to take a sliver of the insanity pile that is human, and commit it to the silver screen.

Sliver. Silver. That works, yeah? We’ll let it ride.

Walk alongside what is human, in earnest query, with the utmost heart and humor, as you would an old friend, and you can do more than window-shop the human experience.

Maybe that should be every writer’s personal responsibility. Regardless of stripe.

An argument could be made (biased; probably by a writer) that it is the only responsibility worth a damn.

Let’s do it. Sounds like great fun.

Mirrors, my film excavation series, will investigate human intention, and will additionally cover stage, serial, et al. There will be a special emphasis on performance, as I believe actors are our mirrors for the human experience, and possess the true birthright of cinema—they’ve only been doing it without the rest of the circus for centuries.

Excavations will be going up this week!

Would be pleased to engage, rib, be generally nerdy, and willfully uncool on social media, so feel free to find me on Twitter, Instagram, Letterboxd, and Facebook. If you find my particular kind of musings (rambling) enjoyable, please consider contributing to my Ko-fi.