I was in the midst of writing a highly intellectual blog entry about how “chill through spine” might be a glorification of a certain liquid state of affairs, resulting from a barrage of horror movies, when a good friend of mine, during some conversation, bluntly put forth the premise of how movies could be equated to being a waste of time. Of course, this blog isn’t a direct consequence of the statement, I’ve been pondering oh-so-often writing about the issue, but it certainly acted as a catalyst.
Obviously, this is not an innuendo by any means; I’m utterly incapable (in terms of both literary and intellectual abilities) of such high-level constructs of cynicism against peers.
I could easily just replace ‘movies’ by ‘books’ in this entry, but I’d rather be slightly prudent and be presumptuous about a topic that I’ve relatively more experience with (note the emphasis on relative). Books have their own place of course, there is no better means of deconstruction of a story, scenario, or character as a great writer can achieve. However, I am of the opinion that, successfully expressing all possible complexities in a span of a few hours, is a greater (and more difficult) achievement. Obviously, artists in both realms have different means at their disposal to exploit; if one has the advantage of loquacity, the other is armed with the power to tingle multiple senses extraneously. Anyways, comparisons among the two art forms is a topic of its own, let me not digress, and rather try to absolve films (great ones for that) from the aforementioned allegation.
I don’t deny that certain movies are nothing but a gross waste of time, and I don’t have a problem with people stating the same. What I do have a problem with however, is generalizing the premise of a movie, any movie, to be a waste of time.
However one might try to glorify commercial cinema (commercially viable I mean), there is not much doubt that the truly great movies are the ones from the parallel genre. Movies from the intellectuals: directors that are constantly facing a paradox of acceptance of their ideas and imaginations by a wider audience, for a constant want of appreciation where on the other hand, they couldn’t care less about the commercial success of their ventures. Movies where clichés are not thrown around like peanuts, instead a few hours are meant to leave an indelible impression on the audience.
What constitutes a great movie? A compelling story is certainly an advantage, but I’ve inevitably discovered that great movies are considered those which are reflections of the artist making the film, most usually the director. Great films are akin to philosophy; making you think, appreciate and self-discover.
Not to mention, there is some sort of sadistic pleasure one drives out of a surreal, cryptic, perverse, ambiguous movie that is open to interpretations; that drives you wild, constantly in the search of achieving parity with the director … and I’m sure the feeling’s quite prevalent considering such movies are alluded to be masterpieces from their creators, be it in the form of Persona by Bergman, Interiors by Allen or Mulholland Drive by Lynch.
Great movies are ones which consist of unforgettable (be it gratifying or harrowing) images, ones that contain stylistic statements probably resulting from personal references and beliefs to an extent that every scene has an identity of its own, carrying a mark of the director with it, for instance, you can identify a Bergman or Scorsese movie quite easily without exercising too many grey cells.
It is stupid (for lack of a more subtle term) to categorize the movies I’m talking about to be inaccessible. Inaccessible, to one’s sentiments, for reasons of alien dialect, austere plots, cultural references, cryptic ideas, etc. With the risk of sound preposterous, I would attribute such illusions to be an inability (probably resulting from inertia) to embrace a movie to be an art form, with all its dimensions, and not just a titular existence meant only for purposes of senseless entertainment.
I’m not saying I’m completely oblivious of the horrendously corny, stupidly slapstick, glaringly redundant movie that often comes out, and I’m certainly not proud of my inability to be so. Everything you see, everything you read, must ideally leave an impression on you; make you grow, realize your mistakes, or consider a new approach to life or a circumstance, marvel at the beauty of the artist’s vision, or his ability to implement it so flawlessly on celluloid; or what the heck, simply shed a tear or two, from sadness or joy.
Anything else, yes, is certainly a “waste of time” …
Posted by mone 
Posted by mone 
Posted by mone