Here's a question for you: Can a movie ruin a good review? Conversely, can a review actually improve upon a movie? Sure, good criticism (whether positive or negative) should encourage you to see a film in new ways you may not have recognized before. Just as cinema itself is a way of looking at the world through someone else's eyes, criticism is a way of looking at movies through someone else's eyes. Yet, the movies themselves don't change -- only our perceptions of them (we'll put aside William Friedkin's "French Connection" Blu-ray for the moment). On the one hand, a piece of film criticism is kind of like an adaptation. It offers an interpretation of the original, but does not replace it. Other "versions" still exist, just as they always did.
I can think of several examples of criticism that I think is superior to the work being criticized, in the sense that the critic is writing about an idealized version of what's on the screen -- the movie we might wish was on the screen, rather than (or in addition to) the one that's actually there. A clarification: This has nothing to do with whether the critic is divining the filmmaker's intentions or not. It has everything to do with what the critic is seeing in, and getting out of, the film.
I think of Pauline Kael's intoxicating review of Brian De Palma's "The Fury." The movie itself was a bit of a letdown for me after that review, but Kael's enthusiasm proved infectious. I'm sure I've seen "The Fury" at least half a dozen times and it remains one of my favorite De Palmas (and Carrie Snodgress is one of the most heartbreaking of the tender, funny oddball heroines of early-ish De Palma, alongside Sissy Spacek, Betty Buckley, Amy Irving, Genevieve Bujold and Angie Dickinson). Kael's description of the movie's climactic crescendo has never left me:
This finale -- a parody of Antonioni's apocalyptic vision at the close of "Zabriskie Point" -- is the greatest finish for any villain ever. One can imagine Welles, Peckinpah, Scorsese, and Spielberg still stunned, bowing to the ground, choking with laughter.
Well, once that image has been implanted in your head to accompany the one(s) in the movie (and the villain is John Cassavettes, so there's even more auteur glee on display), it's hard to shake it. The best criticism can become a kind of poetry that does with art what earlier generations of poets did with nature: by analyzing and reimagining it, they cast their own imprint upon it. I can't think of Max Ophuls -- or the moral values implicit in camera movement itself -- without remembering Andrew Sarris's evocation of a moment from "Letter From an Unknown Woman" in The American Cinema: Directors and Directions, 1929 - 1968:
His fluid camera follows his characters without controlling them, and it is this stylistic expression of free will that finally sets Ophuls apart from Murnau and Hitchcock.... In the final analysis, Ophuls is, like all great directors, inimitable, and if all the dollies and cranes in the world snap to attention when his name is mentioned, it is because he gave camera movement its finest hours in the history of the cinema. When Joan Fontaine mounts the staircase to her lover's apartment for the last time, Ophuls's camera slowly turns from its vantage point on a higher landing to record the definitive memory-image of love. For a moment we enter the privileged sanctuary of remembrance, and "Letter from an Unknown Woman" reverberates forever after with this intimation of mortality. Love, the memory of love, the mortality of love comprise the Ophulsian heritage.
Those words echo in my brain in ways that enhance Ophuls' haunting imagery. Likewise, I can't think of "The Godfather, Part II" without recalling Kael's image: "About midway, I began to feel that the film was expanding in my head like a soft bullet." I read that before I saw the movie, but I understood what she was saying. I don't know if my experience of the movie was altered by it, but it felt like a confirmation of it:
Structurally, the completed work is nothing less than the rise and decay of an American dynasty of unofficial rulers. Vito rises and becomes a respected man while his son Michael, the young king, rots before our eyes, and there is something about actually seeing the generations of a family in counterpoint that is emotionally overpowering. It's as if the movie satisfied an impossible yet basic human desire to see what our parents were like before we were born and to see what they did that affected what we became -- not to hear about it, or to read about it, as we can in novels, but actually to see it. It really is like the past recaptured.
Kael implicitly evokes Proust, explicitly cites Tolstoy (elsewhere in the same piece), and imagines the "Godfather" films as a kind of epic "Up" documentary focusing on the Corleone family. She loves the first "Godfather" film (even calls it "the greatest gangster picture ever made") but fully recognizes the maturity of vision that "Part II" brings to it, retroactively transforming a gangster movie into something much darker, deeper and more ambitious. (Upon reflection, it's also a maturity that, sadly, Francis Ford Coppola has never again approached, which adds another strain of tragic melancholy to the familial saga.)
Passages from reviews and essays like these can frame or re-frame movies, or auteurs' bodies of work, for us indelibly. We may still be able to see these pictures in new ways, with fresh eyes, but the words of the poets critics may have forever colored our experience, whether we consciously remember them or not.
I started off this post thinking about reviews of movies that are in some way "better" than the movies themselves -- that is, criticism that in some way elevates a movie, even if you or I are disappointed in the movie itself. I was thinking of Manohla Dargis's magnificent review of "There Will Be Blood," which captures the chill, the terror, the excitement, the coursing of blood in ways that fill me with awe. Every time I read it, it rekindles hopes that are only dashed by another first-hand encounter with the movie itself. (Cue Yukon Cornelius: "Nothin'.)
Just last weekend, though, I had a different kind of encounter that made me reappraise the things people so often say about pans, like, "I liked your review so much I don't even need to see the movie," or, "Your review is more fun than the movie could ever be." There are critics (mostly bad ones) who have built their entire careers on attempting to elicit such reactions. But I appreciated A.O. Scott's take on Sam Mendes' "Away We Go" so much that I'm hesitant to see the movie only because, from having seen Mendes's other movies, I think it's most likely all downhill from here:
The smug self-regard of this movie, directed by Sam Mendes from a script by Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida, takes a while to register, partly because Ms. Rudolph and Mr. Krasinski are appealing and unaffected performers and partly because the writing has some humor and charm. [...]
To observe that they inhabit no recognizable American social reality is only to say that this is a film by Sam Mendes, a literary tourist from Britain who has missed the point every time he has crossed the ocean. The vague, secondhand ideas about the blight of the suburbs that sloshed around "American Beauty" and "Revolutionary Road" are now complemented by an equally incoherent set of notions about the open road, the pioneer spirit, the idealism of youth.
Or something. Really, "Away We Go" is about the flight from adulthood, from engagement, from responsibility, even as it cleverly disguises itself as a search for all those things. But the dream of being left alone in a world of your own making, far from anything sad or icky or difficult, is a child's fantasy. Not an unattractive or uncommon one, it must be said, and for that reason it is tempting to follow Burt and Verona into the precious, hermetic paradise that awaits them at the end of the road. You know they will be happy there. But you should also understand that you are not welcome. Does it sound as if I hate this movie? Don't be silly. But don't be fooled. This movie does not like you.
OK, maybe I feel that I've already seen the movie now, having visited Mendes' antiseptically dyspeptic "America" several times before. Or maybe I feel that Scott has taken the wind out of my sails: No matter how much the movie may annoy me, I'm pretty sure it will annoy me in the same ways other Mendes movies have annoyed me, which is exactly what's wrong with them. (A film critic friend observed that "Revolutionary Road" lost him with the oh-so-clever shot of all the men in gray -- flannel? -- suits and hats coming at the camera in a too-literal, theatrically choreographed chorus line. That's precisely the sort of hamfisted touch that smashes Mendes movies dead.)
Care to contribute some anecdotes of your own about your experience with great criticisms of maybe not-so-great movies, and how they colonized your subconscious? (Quick: What movie is that from?) Has a movie ever spoiled a review for you? Does the criticism sometimes stand up, even if the movie doesn't? Or is the fate of one inextricably linked to the other?
UPDATES: Apologies for the strikethrough error! I typed /stroke instead of /strike in the wee small hours and mucked up the HTML. Many thanks to those who alerted me.
Girish calls attention to this Ray Sawhill 1989 interview with Pauline Kael, in which Sawhill says of her work (in an engagingly Kaelian second-person):
You come away buzzing; you take it personally -- in ways you're not used to taking nonfiction. ("Why doesn't she like Tarkovsky's or Sirk's films as much as I do?") Her reviews are so persuasive that when you don't agree with her you can go around for days arguing with her in your head.
Holy strikethrough, Batman--"the words of the poets" is (are?) wreaking havoc on the rest of the page!
As for the actual topic, it's hard to be let down by 'The Rapture,' but I always thought Ebert's review of it is at least as memorable as the movie itself. It's autobiographical, philosophical, even suspenseful and entertaining in the way a really good short story is; everything I felt when I eventually saw the film, I felt when I read the review. Is the movie a disappointment by comparison? N-o-o-o-o, I wouldn't say so. But it's really close, and that's sort of amazing.
I was definitely disappointed when I finally saw 'Goodbye Lover' after reading his sorta-complimentary-in-a-backwards-way one-star review. The movie he describes is a delirious kaleidoscope of unnecessary plot twists and kinky sex, but the movie isn't nearly as breathless, overcranked or witty as the description. I was expecting something more like 'Wild Things,' where the plot has so many 180-degree reverses and shocking revelations that you realize at some point that it's all a great big joke; instead it just sort of meandered through a plot that wasn't as ruthless, or as complicated, or as original as it seemed to think it was. It was all just sort of dull. Seeing it again I can now like it more for its sheer trashiness (and, credit where it's due, its slick visuals and a few genuinely good jokes), but it took a while for the memory of how memorably insane it could have been to fade away.
Hi Jim -
Ironically, one of your very own reviews fits in this category - that being your "Disney remake" take on "Life is Beautiful," a film I just recently saw for the first time.
I did not like the movie, and didn't hate it quite to the extent that you did, but in reading you review found myself feeling as if I SHOULD feel as strongly about it as you did. Does that make sense? I feel you were able to crystallize all the film's many absurdities and miscalculations; but our reactions were somewhat different. I thought the film's conceits were just laughable and I treated them accordingly; for you, they made you legitimately angry. Your anger and moral repudiation of "Life is Beautiful" hit me harder than not only anything in the film itself, but anything that I felt about the film myself.
Can a review improve upon a movie? This is one I'm interested in. A couple of years ago I saw The Lord of War, which did get particularly great reviews or word of mouth, and I absolutely loved it, though I thought it was a bit pitchy. Looking for some proof that I wasn't crazy, I went online, and found some support from Stephanie Zacharek and Roger Ebert. The both were enthusiastic about the film, and were touching upon what I thought about the film.
Than I read David Denby's review. The man said exactly everything that was on my mind, yet he put it together so elegantly that I think it made me remember a smoother film. I can't really say now, since every time I've revisited the film, I've loved it, and thought it went down totally smooth. I'm not actually sure if it's all because of Denby, but it might as well have been.
About great criticisms of not so great movies- The Fury is definitely one for me, as well. I bought the Kael collection just because I'd heard good stuff, and was entirely intimidated by it for years. I couldn't relate to anything in there, irrelevent of whether or not I agreed with her view. The Fury is one of the first reviews I read that told me that something was different about Kael. I'd seen it once before, and hated it. I've seen it twice since, and think it's rather negligable. But I know I'll always feel like I'm missing something. It's probably the only case where, for some reason, I'm sure Kael is right, but I'm just not seeing the light. She'll never convince me that Network or Raiders are bad, or that everything Mazursky touches is pure gold (though I am fond of the guy), but I firmly believe that one day, I will come to the conclusion that The Fury is great.
Movies have certainly spoiled reviews- that happens regularly. Every single film I watch because Pauline Kael gushed about it and I don't feel the same way. Kael's a unique case for me, I've spent more time with her books than any other single critic...I've read some of the reviews several times before seeing the movie. I'm almost seeing the movie just be able to understand what she means when she says something like 'he looks like the skinny offspring of Robert Redford and Paul Newman' (She's talking about William Atherton, naturally).
p.s. most recent thing I can think of is Uhlich and Zoller-Seitz (with a bit of Armond White...yes, I still read him. Sorry, Jim.) managed to convince me that Indy 4 was a great, visionary film, and that 'the space between spaces' was not actually the tossed off mumbo-jumbo I thought it was. I was focused on seeing it there way, but the first time I saw Cate Blanchett, I realized I was having the exact same experience I had trying to dig deeper into it, on the second viewing
Seriously, those strikethroughs are unbearable. How about some brackets instead with the words "imagine these lines crossed out".
I always think of Manny Farber's quote "I can't imagine a more perfect art form, a more perfect career than criticism." Criticism, about any medium of expression, is the art of understanding. Reading great criticism is an exquisitely prismatic undertaking, opening up new pathways for consideration of a text in a kind of dialogue between the critic, his or her philosophy, tastes, and aesthetic appreciation, and the artist's own.
Actually, a great example of criticism enhancing an understanding of a film, while being superior to the film itself, is your own essay on "Million Dollar Baby." I was quite moved by the film the first time I saw it, but, as often happens with me, further reflection produced some doubt. Your essay cut through the usual media discussions about the "controversial ending" and recognized Hilary Swank's suicidal impulses for what they were: something the plot demanded for dramatic effect, not necessarily something that felt true to the character and her fighting spirit. Perhaps your essay diminished my appreciation of the film, but it certainly helped me reconsiderate in a more reasonable context than a lot of the overblown praise of it at the time (or absurd criticism about Eastwood insulting the disabled or encouraging euthanasia).
I also enjoy Robin Wood's appreciations of Hitchcock's "Marnie" more than the film itself, although it certainly is a rewarding achievement in its own right. And I find it difficult to separate Jonathan Rosenbaum's sensuous review of Spielberg's "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" from the movie. I thought it was a great film the first time I saw it, but after reading (and re-reading) Rosenbaum's essay, "A.I." enshrined itself in my mind as a masterpiece for the ages.
Great topic, Jim! Absolutely criticism can succeed even when a film doesn't (and, as you said, not just criticism detailing why a film flopped). Last year, for example, I found most analyses of Synecdoche, New York to be far more fascinating than the film, regardless of whether people were praising or panning the movie. On top of that, criticism is itself an art form, so of course it can be more brilliant than the art that inspires it.
Your post also underlined why I like to avoid reviews before I see the film in question. Revolutionary Road became "the movie about the suburbs" last year, when I think it is much deeper than that. Part of the problem, in my opinion, is that folks kept repeating the rather simplistic reading of the film that framed their opinion of what they expected to see going in. (This works in the reverse to, obviously: If people expect a great and complex work, they'll often be more forgiving.)
To stick with the above example: at this point, if you see Away We Go, you might find that you disagree with Scott, but you'll be watching the film through the prism created by Scott's review. If you wind up enjoying Away We Go, it will likely be because you're surprised that it transcends Scott's analysis. Thus, what you'll be responding to isn't the film itself; you'll be responding to how the film isn't what you expected it to be, isn't what Scott said it is.
I realize that this is unavoidable to some degree. Few of us these days can really go into a movie blindly. Expectations are created by marketing or "buzz" or things we overhear at Starbucks, and our emotional or cerebral response to a film is based largely on how those expectations are met (or not). But if a talented critic writes a strong argument, it's especially difficult to unring that bell.
(Incidentally, since you mentioned Kael, we're going to be celebrating, analyzing and responding to some of her criticism next week, for anyone who is interested.)
There has been that rare case of a reviewer or critic's negative review backhandedly pointing out the greatness of a film. Specifically, I'm thinking of Rex Reed's seething condemnation of Sam Peckinpah's "The Wild Bunch" in 1969. Reed gets so worked up he begins condemning scenes that are not, and never were, in the picture (explicit gore like stomach guttings, although I don't have his review in front of me) that his vile reaction is a testament to the power of Peckinpsh's montage and images, as well as his tapping the imagination of the viewer. Also this review is so extreme, and 180 degrees off from its just reputation today (condemning even Lucien Ballard's photographic imagery), that Reed cries out more for his own socio-psychoanalysis than for the film's evaluation. Peckinpah proves himself such a great filmmaker by eliciting such an out-of-control response from a critic!
I might think of a better response later, but for now all I can think is how I wish I'd seen "The Da Vinci Code" and "Angels and Demons" that Roger Ebert reviewed, which were fun and trashy, and not the ones shown in theaters, which were dull and trashy. Then I realized I HAD seen those movies: they were called "National Treasure."
Roger Ebert's review of "Million Dollar Baby" is a great review. the opening paragraph makes you want to see the movie. His opening paragraph to his 1997 review of "The Empire Strikes Back," I think perfectly captures what this film is in the context of the first three Star Wars films. It shows the audience that there is a even deeper story then was hinted at in the first film. I also love this sentence from his review of kenneth Branagh's "Hamlet:" "Branagh's version moved me, entertained me and made me feel for the first time at home in that doomed royal court."
Owen Gleiberman's final sentence of his "Die Another Day" review, about how it was the first Bond movie in ages that wasn't fake fun is very accurate. Even though "GoldenEye" is the best of the Brosnan Bonds, "Die Another Day" is one of the most purely fun of the Bond franchise.
I've often thought about the influence a review can have over a film. Mainly via Mr. Ebert as his are the first reviews I visit on Friday, or Thursday now (my how things change). I can't recall every film from memory but Mr. Ebert has sent me on more wild goose chases then I can recall, which is something I enjoy in reading reviews. Sometimes I am sent to view a film of inimitable power only to be greeted by something surprisingly bland or otherwise cliched. Sometimes I am sent with little to no expectation other than the film will run for the alotted time and credits will be featured at the end, only to be surprised, even a bit vexed, at how something I found to be entertaining could elicit such vitrol. More often than not I find myself in agreement with Mr. Ebert on most matters, along with the wonderful House Next Door and the Always Outrageous Armond White (who I don't read as much as try to avoid brain damage from the haymakers he lays out). Which is why I now feel like I shall not read any reviews of films anymore. There seems no more point. I've found the whole enterprise unduly corrupts what should be my naked reaction to the work. I've had my opinion, it's true that all opinions are twins to a certain part of the human anatomy, twisted and provoked and influenced by as many critics as I can read in a given workday (which when you work in an office with little to do seems to be too many). I was happy to recently watch The Whole Shootin' Match, finally available on DVD. I was lead to it by Mr. Ebert's review and the teeming enthusiasm it seemed to provoke. I was overwhelmed by the film, it's beauty, it's scope, everything. A good friend described it as exactly the type of film he wants to make right now which, if you knew my friend, would be all it would take to watch the film. After viewing I went back to the review and found it to be thankfully hands off with details, though the film is episodic superficially and would recoil any attempts at surmising of plot. It was the lack of too much detail, of painting Eagle Pennell as a hopeless drunk arranging time on couches in between finding financing for projects, that painted a picture for me without compromising the actual viewing experience. As I will make films someday I can no longer have reviews or thoughts cloud my appreciation of the film going experience. Talking points are the latest necessity of the day and their is ample amount available on the interwebs. Its like people are no longer able to see a film anymore without first guarding against the dreaded 'it went over my head' phenomena. At least, that's what I feel it to be. I've noticed this recently when I went to see The Brothers Bloom and a friend of mine quoted from an unknown source that the film was as if Wes Anderson directed Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. The actual film, to me at least, seemed a desperate search for meaning in the meaningless. I left not really thinking of Wes Anderson at all as the characters seemed much to willing to let you know everything about them and despite the fact that they were sometimes rendered in whip pans and fancy dolly moves it bore little resemblance to Anderson (something Matt Zoller Seitz may cite as another example of imitators falling short). After the film my friend called his girlfriend and recited the exact talking point to her. It seemed to me the actual viewing of the film was not in question as the result of viewing was predetermined by the already launched assessment. This is the lurking spectre, this is the reason people, not just cinephiles, will know box office receipts for the weekend, which matters so little, unless you have invested finances in the film, that it boggles the mind at its uselessness. But we demand quantifiable integers, we demand metacritc to tell us the success of a film in easily understandable percentages, how it fares in comparison to other films released the same weekend in years prior, or how close to the damn comic book it is. When viewing a film after reading a particularly persuasive argument to the films qualities, for better or worse, its damned hard to have an honest reaction to the film. So I purpose, for myself at least, a bit of hard discipline. No more reviews until after having viewed a film and even then only to satisfy the curiosity in the ever lingering question "Did Ebert like it??" I find the comparison to poetry interesting, as if you're simply supplanting a sea scape or beautiful woman with the techniques employed in movie making, but it's also lacking. An appraisal of a films merits can function as art only as far as the critic is willing to step outside a comfort zone that is usually habitated for the purpose of review. Which is a very comfortable place indeed and not the deign of art.
Jim - I'd like to read through this, it seems very interesting but trying to read through the strikethroughs is giving me a headache. It even covers the sidebar. It's like one big massive piece of strikethrough performance art. In its own way, it's kind of interesting.
Film criticism is a lot like travel writing: it can tell you what to look at (and why) when you visit a place/watch a movie, and it can even "look for you" in a certain sense, but reading about a place or a movie is fundamentally different from experiencing it "live." A review can "ruin" or improve upon a movie to the same extent that a guidebook description can "ruin" or improve upon a city or a country.
The idea that "film criticism is kind of like an adaptation" is something I myself have argued for in the past, but I think you're missing an important caveat: film criticism can be (but isn't necessarily) like an adaptation, but only if the critic's goal is to recreate the movie(s) in question in addition to/instead of just evaluating it. A Variety review can never be like an adaptation.
So: yes, I think film criticism definitely can stand up even if a movie doesn't, just as I think a lot of travel writing can be read and enjoyed by someone who never intends to visit the place being written about. But this depends on both the writer and the reader, yeah? On their motivation for writing/reading?
I love The Fury and all, and I'm glad other people love it too, but I have no idea what movie Kael saw. I can't imagine someone being that excited about having seen The Fury.
I found this posting somehow deeply depressing. Kael's review of The Fury is by now widely viewed as one of the key moments when she jumped the shark. Manohla Dargis's review of There Will Be Blood is laugh-out-loud funny in retrospect. Both of these were minor films. The fact that these critics raved over them reveal said critics as incompetent. The pieces themselves are beautifully written, true - they're nearly symphonic in their rhythm and orchestration, and they very subtly conjure not the films themselves but the inner mental landscapes of their respective writers. I wish I were interested in those mental landscapes, but I'm not. And I'm not sure that anyone should be, as they seem obviously false, and perhaps even unhinged. Indeed, to worship this kind of writing is to fall into a kind of psychological trap, in which gratification of the individual ego replaces the higher purpose of art, which is, as ever, to ramify beyond the individual appetite, however educated and subtle it may be.
Very Interesting. I love the angle on There Will Be Blood. I still think that movie's a masterpiece, but it seems to be more of a Rorschach test for the audience, as to what Dainel Plainview and Eli REALLY represent.
There are times when a review can get me excited for a moment to come, i.e. "This movie contains one of the most ridiculous car crashes..." will make me anticipate the car crash. I saw a festival hosted by Edgar Wright (director of Hot Fuzz), where before each movie, he pointed out his top ten favorite things from the movie. These weren't spoilers; rather they got you excited, along the lines of:
1) Most over the top opening credits ever
2) The REACTION to the line "Give me the keys or I shoot the kid"
And while Ebert remains one of my favorite critics, I do have a strong reaction when I disagree with him. I walked out of Gladiator thinking it was one of the most powerful films I'd ever seen, only to read his review where he reduced it to "Rocky on downers."
Also, film classes and essays can enhance a film, though not necessarily change my opinion. David Lynch films are the best example. I've seen Lost Highway a few times and never liked it. Yes, I've read interpretations of it that explain the whole thing, but they don't change the fact that I remain uninvolved viewing it. Mullholland Drive is just as tricky to pick apart, but I get caught up in that one.
Jim, I wonder how many people between your age and mind have had that exact same experiences with The Fury. I could have written those grafs. And likewise I don't think I've ever come close to liking an A.O. Scott review more than that one.
Here's another unforgettable (that is, can't separate the movie from the review) piece on A.I.:
http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/03/27/ai.html
It's often difficult to maintain a firm grasp on your own personal opinion of a film (or expectations with regards to it), particularly given the often snarky nature of the Internet, where people can, without much effort or insight, offer up glib, reductive comments about just about any film in existence, dismissing something offhand with a few condescending words about its basic premise, familiar genre elements, or (supposed) position in the cultural zeitgeist.
For instance, I noticed a review or two condemning Away We Go as being "for the NPR set", thus placing the reviewer(s) in a sort of intellectually and/or culturally superior position to anyone who would dare follow NPR's radio or Internet broadcasts. Naturally, anyone who listens to NPR regularly is likely going to approach the film in a reactionary way (above and beyond their own personal interest in the story/subject matter), and anyone who doesn't might just co-opt that description as the party line about the film...without having actually seen it.
I've read many reviews that suggested an emotionally overpowering or insightful film that didn't materialize, for me, on the screen, once I got around to seeing it. But that can often come down to specific personal interests (in subject matter), social positions, and cultural backgrounds. Plus, you really need to determine whether the critic in question is more interested in visual technique or narrative and/or character development. For example, based on what I've read here in the past, I'd probably suggest that Jim Emerson is a 70% visual technique/30% character-narrative kind of viewer, whereas I'm more of the 60% character-narrative/40% visual technique variety. Thus I appreciate something like The Fall for its pretty visuals, but it doesn't engage me much beyond a surface level, as I don't feel its characters or narrative are particularly well-developed, and aren't informed in a meaningful way by the striking cinematography. And I can safely assume that many critics feel the same way, given the mixed reviews the film received, overall.
I also recognize that I most prefer films that effectively bridge the gap between art and entertainment. Fluffy, mindless entertainments that only offers surface-level thrills or laughs don't mean that much to me, and many art films that move like molasses, and deliberately try to draw attention to their (supposed) profundity with excessively long, slow camera movements, I often find to be tedious, and significantly less substantial, or emotionally engaging, than many critics give them credit for being.
Anyways, once you're able to determine the particular biases/prejudices/interests/obsessions of an individual critic (over multiple reviews) and figure out how they align (or don't) with your own, you can establish whether a review of a film says more about the movie, or the critic themself, and consider their future opinion(s) accordingly. And critics who seem more interested in drawing attention to themselves (through loud, snarky contrarianism) than honestly, evenhandedly assessing the work in question, are best disregarded, unless the reader's looking for some cheap laughs...usually at the expense of the critic.
Expectations can often get in the way of one's enjoyment (or lack thereof) of a film, but if one is so inclined to indulge various media assessments of a particular work (before or after having seen it), a filtering process is usually in order, and a second viewing sometimes crucial to cut through all the hype or overcooked commentary.
I've read some incredibly enthusiastic reviews of movies that simply didn't make the cut (sadly, some of them were by Roger Ebert who's normally quite good at sniffing out the bad eggs). Sometimes a movie will arrive at the right time and light up all the little blinkers in a person's mind, which means it's less about the movie than it is about the combination of events and perceptions that cause the reaction. That's not something you can predict or even reduce to a formula, I think.
It's all personal, and in more ways than one. I lost a lot of respect for Dargis when she gave a thoroughly dismissive review to "Oldboy" -- for my money one of the few movies of the past ten years that we will come back to for decades to come. She shrugged it off as cheap exploitation, the kind of movie that should have had wobbly cardboard sets. I had to wonder if she was just ruined on the hype, which had preceded the film by a good year or more before it came out domestically. My own reaction to HER reaction was also personal: how dare she slight such an obvious masterpiece! But, really, critics are human and fallible and just as susceptible to any failing as the rest of us, so for me to get wound up about it is silly.
I don't know if movies ruin good reviews- I'd have to go do some research before answering that question- but I do know that good movies can be made great movies because reviews encourage me to look at them differently, think aboutt hem deeper, and occasionally, sort through a somewhat confusing narrative to determine what I just saw.
Ebert's reviews of Mulholland Drive and Synecdoche, New York are two such examples. I loved both films on first viewing, but then I read Ebert's reviews and revisited the films, and they devastated me. Two of my current favorite films of the decade- one a brilliant examination of a man's life that mirrors everyone else's, and one a hallucinatory trip into the mind of a filmmaker who has never disappointed me.
...and yes, Sam Mendes is a horribly ham-fisted director with no sense of subtlety or insight into the material he claims to be addressing. I watched "American Beauty" after reading god knows how many rave reviews and was absolutely stupefied at how facile and shallow the film itself was. Just the TRAILER for "Away We Go" made me wince; it's so obviously been cobbled together from pieces of other movies about similar things, not a life actually lived in that vein. For god's sake, how many times are we going to get the same smarmy, dyspeptic skewering of suburbia as opposed to some vague concept of "authentic living"?
Japanese novelist Satō Haruo once wrote a novel called "The Sick Rose: A Pastoral Elegy," in which he took that whole dichotomy and held its feet to the fire. The hero lights out for the country to live "authentically" and inspire his creative side, only to find that authenticity in this context consists of insects in the bedding, lousy food, and no more inspiration than he had when he was in decadent, arc-lit Tokyo. Haruo handled all of this with a subtle touch. Mendes and Eggers seem to think nothing less than a karate chop between the eyebrows will do.
Kael would be the first to admit that The Fury was a piece of trash. Yes, the steamiest, most rancid pile of filth that anyone would love to wallow in. She knew good trash, and she could instantly see that The Fury was GREAT trash. In fact, if Fresh Kills could masturbate, The Fury would be what it thinks about. That's what made it so good. It was fun and funny throughout, with, up to that point, the best villian's death scene ever. Since then, the title has moved to Ricardo Montalban's death in, no, not The Wrath of Khan (although it was pretty good) but in The Naked Gun (falling from a parking garage, then run over by a bus, flattened by a slow-moving steamroller, and finally being trampled by an amateur high school marching band playing a dirge-paced version of Louie Louie). And Arthur Kennedy crying, "My father went the same way!"
But I digress.
Part of the problem with most reviews these days is the snark factor. Movies that aren't all that bad, or have at least a few enjoyable bits, can be completely ruined by reviewers vying to see who can be the cleverest in their put-downs. Although Ebert has sworn off snark, he certainly was guilty of it in the past.
I never went to see The Edge in the theater because of the lukewarm critical reception it received (Ebert was apoplectic that Bart the Bear was given special recognition in the credits). When I discovered it on cable, it immediately became one of my favorites. Anthony Hopkins' performance was one of his best...his character was the flip side of the same coin as his Nixon portrayal. This was the powerful, paranoid, genius of Nixon AS IF he had been loved. Brilliant.
The problems of overly positive reviews is much less common, since there are so many fewer movies that approach greatness. And it's difficult to separate positive reviews from the PR flackery that goes on at or near the same time a film opens. It all kind of blends together.
I happen to remember reading a review of Branaugh's Dead Again when it opened here. The reviewer stated that a very few people in each audience would find the climax to be absolutely hilarious. Some time later, my partner and I were in Paris, where we caught up with it. When the killer was revealed, I howled with laughter, only to realize that I was indeed the only person in the packed cinema who found the scene humorous in the least. I'm sure there were many who left thinking, "That was one tres stupide Americain!" Yet there I was, the only person who got the joke.
Then there is the famous case of Crimes of Passion. Both Ebert and Siskel hated this one with a vehemence rarely seen. I went to see it anyway. Ebert and Siskel later recanted, rather wisely, I think.
The one I absolutely never "got" was the critical reception for The English Patient. All the critics loved it, and it was crowned, of course, by Oscar. It looked absolutely dreadful to me...boring, boring, boring. I maintain my steadfast avoidance of it to this day. I admit I could be wrong, but I have no desire to find out.
"I found this posting somehow deeply depressing. Kael's review of The Fury is by now widely viewed as one of the key moments when she jumped the shark. Manohla Dargis's review of There Will Be Blood is laugh-out-loud funny in retrospect. Both of these were minor films. The fact that these critics raved over them reveal said critics as incompetent."
This response by Thomas Garvey, likewise, is immediately viewed as the moment when he jumped the shark. There Will Be Blood can be criticized in various ways, but to slight it by yawning in its general direction and calling it a minor film - as if there is some critical consensus about it, as if it's obvious, as if it's accepted truth and not itself a radical dismissal of a recent classic - outs you as, IMO, a snob.
There's nothing at all minor about There Will Be Blood, or indeed about any PT Anderson movie - even a MINOR one such as Punch-Drunk Love.
That really is a pet peeve of mine, when someone states what is a radical opinion (and not in the sense that saying "Forrest Gump sucks" is stating a radical opinion - being dismissive towards There Will Be Blood, in any company, is stating a radical opinion) as if it's simple fact, and fails to even attempt to explain the radical opinion.
Thomas Garvey is a minor poster on Jim Emerson's blog.
I actually feel this way about your own review of "Natural Born Killers". I had actually read your review before I saw the film, because honestly the level of hypocrisy you described made me realize that Stone's movie was going to be, at the very least, a fascinating case study in bad filmmaking. I was surprised at how much I ended up loving the movie. I think it's a genuine satire which deliberately overloads the senses of the audience to attack the mass media of the 1990s. Stone never depicts violence as a joke, but rather presents scenes that are so grotesque, so over-the-top and so utterly vicious that they serve to depict the concept of "violence as a joke" as a joke in itself. Just because Stone has been incoherent regarding the movie doesn't mean he didn't make a brilliant, clever satire that, despite its flaws, manages to deliver a potent assault on media and audience sensibilities. If NBK were the gaudy, morally reprehensible splatter of violence and gore for its own sake (with a hypocritical message about violence being bad shoved in) you wrote about, I would hate the movie, too! But there's so much more in the movie itself than the shallow, humorless garbage slasher/snuff/torture porn film your review brilliantly savages.
I was actually just talking about this a while back, how I think I've managed to come to the point when I read a review to separate my feelings from the movie. You're a personal favorite Jim, but there's plenty I disagree with you on--- Speed Racer, Apocalypse Now, My Blueberry Nights (Wong in general), Judd Apatow, World Trade Center... and that's just off the top of my head! It's not the opinion itself--- it's the way the journey that the movie sends you on is articulated that keeps me reading my favorite critics.
And yeah, Kael's great and all that, but I think the De Palma thing is a bit disingenuous, especially because she rejected his strongest 70s work, Obsession, because it didn't meet her requirements of trash and kitsch. I feel like she just used him as a symbol for her anti-intellectualism that she wore like a badge of honor.
JE: I don't think "anti-intellectual" is quite the proper term for Kael. She celebrated what she called a "pop sensibility" (including "trash" and "kitsch") and had little patience for what she considered pretentious solemnity. She loved Godard, hated Antonioni; loved Peckinpah, hated Oliver Stone. Many critics rejected "Obsession" because of its obvious parallels to "Vertigo," the great Hitchcock movie that had been unavailable for many years at the time of the release of "Obsession." To some it seemed like a cheap way to cash in on "Vertigo." Whatever you think of the movie, the Bernard Herrmann score is terrific! (It probably didn't help that "Carrie," one of De Palma's best movies, came out the same year: 1976.)
I never read a review of a movie I'm looking forward to see until after I've seen it and slept on it, just because I want to have my own impression set in memory. The exception is if a movie is getting zero star ratings. I think Roger once said that a great movie will get a strong reaction: either very loving or very adverse. If a lot of people are really hating a movie, I don't want to miss it.
And of course, the next question to ask is, "Can a comment to a critic's entry on his or her blog be "better" than the entry itself?" Then, "Can some of the comments be so good, that you won't even have to read the entry at all?" When will it all end?!
Jim Emerson asked, "Has a movie ever spoiled a review for you? Does the criticism sometimes stand up, even if the movie doesn't?"
These questions presume that the criticism is read before the movie is watched, (the second half of your entry is about this, I realize). Which seems counterintuitive, considering the criticism is written after the movie is watched. It's like trying to have a discourse with someone on the other side of a wall.
JE: Interesting point, but in my first paragraph I also turn the question around so that it can apply to reviews read after you've seen the movie (my preferred mode): "Conversely, can a review actually improve upon a movie?" Criticism can change the way you see a movie -- at least temporarily -- even if you've already seen it. Good criticism is likely to be the stuff that sticks with you.
I'm pretty specific about what I look at before watching a movie.
I skim over Ebert's review before watching most movies, skipping over most of the plot details. I prefer less information about the story going in than he often divulges, but his reviews give me a good idea of what to look for as I'm watching it. I then go back and read his full review afterwards, and Pauline Kael's if she has one.
I confess I'll sometimes avoid reading a negative review of a movie I really enjoyed, especially by Kael (sorry) as it sometimes makes me unreasonable and defensive. Believe me, I'm not anti-intellectual or anything--just obessive-compulsive enough to get big headaches getting into a misguided argument with myself over whether I'm "justified" in liking a particular movie Kael thought was bad. (I'm sure I'll get over it eventually.) She seems to have disliked half of my favorite movies. I've rarely been disappointed with a movie she liked, though. She clearly had high standards.
Also, I don't like to read much about other people's excitement about a movie I want to see--I want to only be excited about it for myself. I avoid most the hype and ads. They pollute my image of the movie somehow.
JE: I'm deeply ambivalent about Kael's influence -- but I think it's pretty obvious that you don't read her (any critic, but especially her) for her "opinions." You read her for what she sees (or, in many cases, doesn't see) in the movie. You argue with her, you reject some of her perceptions outright, and you clarify your own ideas and understanding in the process. (There's that second-person again!) I don't see "The Fury" quite the way she does, but having just re-read her review I can't say she misrepresents the movie, either. As for trailers: there is no more effective way to suck the excitement out of a movie than by watching the trailer before you've seen it. Images get stuck in your head and you keep looking to see where they'll fit. Yes, I understand they are good marketing tools, offering a sample of the movie itself (and sometimes footage that eventually didn't make the final cut). But I would really rather not see them at all, and I've come to hate sitting through them -- even though, in fairness, most of them are invariably for movies I had no desire to see anyway. Rare is the trailer that makes me WANT to see something. Trailers now are basically just like fast-forwarding through the entire film, so I wind up feeling that I've already seen it. (Can't there be a rule that footage used in a trailer can only be from the first 15 minutes?)
Dissin' Mendes AGAIN? Get over yourself, man. Find some new targets. And no, the fact that he has a new movie out is not an excuse, because this has been an ongoing pattern for a very long time now.
By the way, FWIW, the "chorus line" of men in gray suits evoked, for me, the beginning and ending of "Bicycle Thieves" (emerging from and later disappearing into the crowd).
JE: Let's dispense with the ad hominem "Get over yourself" as some kind of critical observation, OK? It's just as substantial as "You suck." When Sam Mendes shows some evidence of growing as a filmmaker, of learning from his mistakes, then we can discuss that, too. Go back and look at how the crowds in "Bicycle Thieves" and "Revolutionary Road" are staged and photographed. It's the difference between neo-realism and hyper-artificial theatricality. Not that one TYPE of sensibility is superior to the other (Vincente Minnelli comes to mind), but the styles could not be further apart.
To "Paul" - Uh, I'm not just "yawning" at There Will Be Blood - I actually dozed off during it! So I could be wrong about it, I suppose - perhaps those lost twenty minutes were pure genius! And btw, did you know that in her last hours Pauline Kael was heard to murmur, "Anyone who likes Paul Thomas Anderson must be a Bolshevik"? I really thought you should know.
I also want to point out that the argument of this article is a bit like saying, "Isn't it great when your doctor's diagnoses are so beautifully written that you don't mind that they're wrong?"
JE: Your analogy is faulty in so many ways I don't know where to begin. Do doctors write for an audience about works of art that are displayed before a paying public? Is writing an interpretation/evaluation of a film the same as diagnosing a disease? Yes, a review can be wrong if it's not based on what's actually there in the film, as a diagnosis can be wrong if the doctor ignored the actual symptoms. Your characterization of this post is wrong, for example, because you're not paying attention to what's actually there on your computer screen.
I agree with Andy and Eric took the words right out of my mouth.
And are you sure you really mean "Can a movie review actually improve upon a movie?". How is that even possible? They are completely different forms. Or do you just mean "Can a movie review show you something about a movie you didn't see the first time you watched it". It sounds like you are saying that critics are adding something to movies the filmmakers didn't intend themselves.
JE: I am absolutely saying that critics -- any viewer -- are capable of adding something to movies beyond what the filmmakers intended. That's the second paragraph of the post:
You know the saying: "Trust the art, not the artist." All human behavior -- including art -- has unintended consequences. I've recently written about Ramin Bahrani's attitude toward watching a movie with an audience and discussing it with them (he enjoys learning how it plays, and learns things about his own movie he didn't necessarily know were there), and quoted publicist Reid Rosefelt on the subject just last week:
As I keep saying (because there are always those who need to hear it): If it's on the screen it's on the screen, and the effect is up for discussion. Just because a filmmaker says he/she intends something doesn't mean it actually plays that way to all, or even most, viewers.
I couldn't even finish "Inland Empire" (sorry, Jimmerz), but Manohla's review of the film - which I read before watching it - is one of my favorite reviews of recent years.
Ditto her "There Will Be Blood" piece, a soaring piece of writing about a movie that doesn't quite soar.
I wonder if sometimes it's easier to write a negative review than it is to write a positive one. I know that I often have an easier time talking about movies I don't like. If don't like a movie it's usually for a very specific reason. With a movie I like or even love, it can often be because of some emotional meaning that might not be very specific, so it's more difficult to talk about.
With regards to Sam Mendes, his movies often get great reviews. I wish I'd seen the American Beauty that most critics gushed about in 1999; the movie I saw was only pretty good. And Revolutionary Road the movie? Two hours of miserable douchebags without much insight. Which is not at all the feeling I got from the book. Granted I did read the book first so I was biased before I saw the movie.
One other thing: trailers are one of many things that can ruin the theater going experience for me. The last couple of times I've seen a movie in the theater, there have been 7 or 8 trailers before the main attraction. At least with dvds I can usually skip the trailers and go right to the menu.
JE: I'm with you. I can only speak for myself, but I frequently DO find it harder to write a positive review, because 1) the experience of seeing something extraordinary (as in "better than ordinary") is so much more rare than seeing something mediocre or undistinguished; 2) it's often easier to notice and pinpoint specifically what's NOT working in a movie than it is to see what is working, for the simple reason that if it's working you get swept up in the movie and aren't necessarily as inclined to notice (kind of like the way you notice when your car is making a strange sound, or isn't running, but you don't think about it when it does what it's supposed to do); and 3) the stakes are higher, the pressure is greater, when you're trying to do justice to an overwhelming achievement. Enthusiasm is a great motivator, but I also find myself working much harder to dig down deep and precisely articulate specifically what I think is great about a movie than to explain why I find something simplistic, overdone, or inept (probably my three most common complaints about contemporary movies).
For me, the most recent example of a bad movie ruining a good review--or rather, a plethora of good reviews--is "Slumdog Millionaire". After nearly every critic raved about its status as the feel-good movie of the millennium, I was surprised to find myself sitting through a two hours of repugnant, reprehensible tripe. I am still amazed that so many people, particularly critics, love it as much as they do. For me, it is still nothing more than a v very, very bad movie, a movie that has ruined a lot of good reviews.
But some positive reviews, particularly those by Mr. Ebert, have prompted me to go back to movies I dismissed the first time around. On repeat viewings, I've discovered movies of unexpected depth that I would have missed out on entirely if not for the reviews. The movies that come to mind are "Adaptation," "Synecdoche, New York," and "Borat". (With "Borat", by the way, it was your review that made me give it a second chance. Thanks.)
JE: You are most welcome. I was talking about "Slumdog" the other day with a friend who was equally bewildered by its success as a "feel-good" movie. I have no objection to feeling good. I have no blanket objection to the portrayal of suffering -- even child-torture -- in movies. My problem with "Slumdog" is not that it wants to make you feel good, or that it shows child-torture and cruelty. It's with the glossy cinematic techniques it uses to try to make you feel so good about the experience of watching child-torture and cruelty. And what is the movie's "answer" -- "D) it is written" -- supposed to signify, anyway? To me it feels like it means nothing more than, "We scripted a happy ending from the very start, even though we're showing you all this prettified horror and misery so don't you worry your little head about it."
Trailers now are basically just like fast-forwarding through the entire film, so I wind up feeling that I've already seen it. (Can't there be a rule that footage used in a trailer can only be from the first 15 minutes?)
I do feel like I've seen most movies I've seen the trailer for and nine times out of ten, for the summer fare, when I finally see the movie it turns out the trailer was much more satisfying.
But one other thing to utterly and completely waste my breath on (assuming I'm speaking this as I type) because I know this won't change anything: After a couple of years of blogging now I have noticed the increasing number of bloggers/commenters with rigidly black and white and often condescending views of movies and other people's opinion of them. I've read a few here on this comment thread and it's tiring. You know, things like "anyone who likes [fill in movie title or director name here] doesn't know much about movies" or a critic feeling one way or another about a certain movie means they're incompetent. I can't think of a single critic I have ever agreed with 100 percent. Why can't people accept that others might have a different view of a movie than they do without that meaning that the other person is incompetent or an idiot? We're not flamethrowing political bloggers and commenters with agendas. We're people consumed with the cinema and a need to discuss it and understand it. Can we do that without all the bile?
JE: It gets tiring for all of us -- me, too. Insult is not a form of criticism. It's just insulting. But the insidious influence of talk radio and television "news" has persuaded people that the most damaging arguments are ad hominem ones. That's why I keep repeating that any legitimate comment about a film or a filmmaker has to begin with at least one, specific example from a movie or movies -- a shot, a line, a facial expression, a moment. Otherwise it's just some sort of free-floating pronouncement of "opinion" that no one else can tangibly address, and that doesn't have anything to do with the discipline of criticism. In order to discuss something coherently you must begin with something particular that all parties can observe, even if they hold different views of it.
I like what Chris says about Slumdog Millionaire being a movie that was ruined by good reviews. I think alot of times, I'll read great reviews for films and get super pumped, and then see them and be disappointed, only to discover that they linger in the memory. When I revisit them, outside of the hype and whatnot, I see them for the brilliance that the critics saw.
Slumdog Millionaire still is a pretty bad movie (and this is coming from a Boyle fanboy who put Sunshine in his top five of 07), but think about Titanic. After that movie went nuts, lots of critics and scholars and audiences ripped it to pieces, calling it shallow, stupid, and other adjectives. But read the original reviews of the film back upon its initial release, and go back and watch the film again. I don't think there's been a historical romance/drama/action movie that has ever topped it, and it's likely that none ever will. It's still a helluva movie.
"Just because a filmmaker says he/she intends something doesn't mean it actually plays that way to all, or even most, viewers."
Very true. This goes for any art form, really. I workshop / woodshed with other writers a great deal, and one of the things we have to remind each other is that what's in your head is not always what ends up on the page, nor does it translate into something that can enter someone else's head.
I like the idea of Bahrani sitting with audiences and talking about the reactions his films generate, although I'd think that's not for everyone. Some directors are just so brazen and headlong that for them to do something like that would smack of self-betrayal.
JE: Yes, it takes a certain kind of person -- and filmmaker -- to be able to do what Ramin Baharni can do. During the Cinema Interruptus with "Chop Shop" at the Conference on World Affairs in Boulder, he could easily say, "No that wasn't my intention, but that's your interpretation" -- as long as the interpretation was rooted in actual observation of the film. In other cases, he could cite another scene or line or image that would explain why somebody's interpretation was NOT supported by something in the film itself. And he could do this without getting defensive or openly exasperated!
As for "intentions": I've always liked this paragraph (though it may contain spoilers) from Roger Ebert's review of "The Life of David Gale," directed by Alan Parker, who I think has long been one of the most dishonestly manipulative filmmakers around. It's a good example of calling out a film for committing what I like to call "The Big Lie" -- embodying the very opposite of the values/principles it espouses on the surface. Ebert wrote:
Hello again Jim, thank you for replying to my earlier post.
When I said intend, I meant rather what the filmmakers wanted IN the movie (and by filmmakers I include the actors, crew, writer, director etc). And I agree with you that it's not for the director to insist what a movie means. But for a critic to "improve upon" a movie and not just alter the audiences perception they would have to write a new scene or go out and film something themselves, work within the form. Adding something to art, the way you define it, happens every single time a viewer or listener or reader encounters a piece of artwork.
I also disagree with film criticism being an adaptation of film. I don't think that holds any water. The two versions of Exorcist: The Beginning and two adaptations of the same story but I can't see how a piece of criticism can be seen as a different version of a film (or a piece of music or a painting). A poet can write a beautiful poem about a flower but you would hardly call the poem a version of the flower. Can you explain this a little more?
The "David Gale" review was in the back of my mind -- thank you for bringing it to the fore.
I'll expand on your description of Alan Parker based on some of the things I've seen of his. He's not just dishonestly manipulative; he seems totally unaware of just how dishonest and manipulative he is. He thinks he's playing fair and being straight, when he's simply not. At least Oliver Stone admits to being shamelessly manipulative, although that doesn't mean I automatically like the results either.
Another critic I admired, Lester Bangs, once took Emerson, Lake and Palmer to task for being such credulous, self-deluding dupes. Bangs hated them not because they were bad musicians per se (they were technically competent), but because in Lester's view they had no idea how condescending and insulting they were being to their audiences, and that made it all the worse. "The most insufferable snob, the most hateful patronization, is the one that's unaware -- the guileless shiv," he wrote.
Not to beat a dead horse, but I always smile when a writer says something like "Your analogy is wrong on so many levels that . . ." There's something about that "on so many levels" tag that tells you in a flash you're headed into some heavy mental masturbation on the part of the writer. So I wasn't surprised when your reply, JE, was so incoherent. You wrote, "Do doctors write for an audience about works of art that are displayed before a paying public? Is writing an interpretation/evaluation of a film the same as diagnosing a disease?" These are non sequiturs. You might as well have said "Do critics wear white lab clothes and carry stethoscopes? Do they write prescriptions for cholesterol-lowering drugs? HA! I thought NOT!" Nevertheless, my analogy is, indeed, valid - although it's also (like little of the writing in this thread) clear and blunt. Doctors, of course, can diagnose good health as well as disease, and in much the same mode, critics analyze the faults or virtues of films. That is if they take their duties seriously. If, like Kael, they've begun pretending that the satisfaction of their own personal needs is the be-all and end-all of the art form they're covering, then sooner or later they begin to write reviews like that one of The Fury. And they have become as useless as a doctor who has decided that your symptoms are really, in the end, all about his own frame of mind.
JE: A movie has one indisputable "diagnosis"? For whom is that diagnosis written? I regret the playful tone intended in this exercise (turning inside-out the cliché about negative reviews ruining movies) didn't come across for you.
The more I think about it, film criticism seems to be a double-edged sword. And the same could be said for commercial success, word-of-mouth, hype, etc. I can't help but wonder what it would be like if I could live in a vacuum and watch movies without any idea of how much money they've made, how many awards they've won, or how many stars Ebert gave them.
I already mentioned "Slumdog Millionaire". As much as I hated the movie, would I have hated it so much if so many people didn't like it? Or take Wes's example of "Titanic", or "The Blair Witch Project". Both received glowing reviews and box office success, only to be berated and despised over time. Would the same have been true if the accompanying hype hadn't gotten the best of them? How much does a review really taint our view of a movie, making the decision for us as far as whether it's any good or not? So much of the time, I wonder if a review, whether it's good or bad, positive or negative, essentially MAKES the movie. For better or worse, we usually either see the movie that we've read about, or we feel let down by seeing a movie that fell so short of the the movie we read about.
The closest I've been able to do to seeing movies "cold" has been the Eclipse DVD series from Criterion Collection. Here are movies that have basically fallen off of the radar completely and, thanks to Criterion, are receiving their first releases on home video. While some of the movies obviously aren't as good as others, some of them (Raymond Bernard's "Wooden Crosses" and Larisa Shepitko's "The Ascent", to name two) seem to be near-masterpieces, and because so few other people have heard of them, I almost feel like I discovered them myself.
It's a great topic, and I love how you've dug into it (esp. the Yukon Cornelius reference). Of course the potential for ruination goes way beyond plot spoilers. Some reviews really are more entertaining or artistically self-possessed than the films they cover. It's counter-intuitive, but sometimes the discussed ideas can seem more alive just by being expressed through literature. (Provided that they're well expressed.)
I always think about this when reading David Thomson, who has said (and shown) that he prefers to be a critic you read AFTER seeing a given film. But then he went and wrote a book called "Have You Seen...? A Personal Introduction to 1,000 Films."
It's a challenging paradox: If we critics are honest with ourselves, we might admit a desire to write the unruinable review, an essay so great that not even cinema can top--or spoil--its profundity; yet don't we all always yearn for the moviegoing experience that unambiguously transcends written description?
How about adding Martin Scorsese's review of Antonioni's L'Avventura from The New York Times?
That's one of the most touching tributes (and I wonder, whether some of these positive film criticism pieces should be called "tributes" rather than "reviews") I've read. Is hard for me to watch the film and NOT think of what Scorsese wrote about it. And in fact, the way his article describes Antonioni's film makes me appreciate it more than I do by watching it. The way he breaks down Antonioni's filmmaking and the characters, and then, his own experiencing watching the film, it really is a great example of how a writer can make you look deeper into the film in discussion, whether you enjoyed it or not.
If I remember right, you actually made a post about Scorsese's piece in this blog.
Ah, that explains why Thomas thinks There Will Be Blood a minor film. He's seen its charts! How long does it have, doctor? Tell me straight, I can take it.
Not this is a piece of criticism per se, but I consider David Foster Wallace's essay on the pre-Lost Highway films of David Lynch to be a lot more interesting than David Lynch. He's a director I keep trying to work with, and apart from the really breathtaking beauty/ugliness of Eraserhead and some individual scenes in later films, I've never managed to get much out of him. DFW's essay didn't change that, but I loved reading it and I loved his insights.
I'd say the same for your own essays on Inland Empire, a film I hated nearly from beginning to end (save for the magnificent last 15 minutes or so.) I read and enjoyed them all, even if the movie leaves me unmoved.
One of my favorite online reviews ever was Walter Chaw's short response to Solondz's Palindromes, a film that prompted a lot of really really vicious criticisms. Film criticism often operates on a veneer of objectivity ("This film is...") rather than directly addressing viewer response ("This film seemed to me..."), so I love it when a critic discusses her personal relationship to what's on screen. See this remarkable line by Chaw:
All of that's unnecessary: Chaw could have cut directly to the last sentence and presented his review as a summation of his experience, but I think I gain more from understanding how he approached it, that it took multiple viewings, and he journeyed from dismissal to acceptance (especially the detail that the film left him "sleepless"). I might disagree with him on a few specific aspects of the review, but like him I'd consider Palindromes Solondz's most mature work, and I've never been able to shake those lines I quoted above.
"My problem with "Slumdog" is not that it wants to make you feel good, or that it shows child-torture and cruelty. It's with the glossy cinematic techniques it uses to try to make you feel so good about the experience of watching child-torture and cruelty."
I find this incomprehensible, and disingenuous. Nothing in Slumdog tries to make you feel good about torture or cruelty. By this logic, one might say, "I have no objection to Bambi depicting the mother deer dying, my problem is with the sunny animation techniques it uses to try to make you feel good about the mother deer dying." Hey, just think what a takedown Jim could do of Old Yeller!
I come back to this blog because I genuinely admire the writing and the ideas discussed. What I sometimes recoil from is the anger. It's one thing to dislike something, but is it really necessary to be *angry* at Juno, or Slumdog Millionaire? Or even Life is Beautiful. For the record, I agree that Life is Beautiful is not a very good movie. I found it misguided, and the entire concept rather bizarre. Where you lose me is the visceral anger. I don't actually think that the mere existence of Life is Beautiful does harm to the world. Apparently you disagree.
JE: I can't help but feel strongly about some movies because I tend to feel strongly about movies. I wouldn't bother to write about movies if there wasn't considerable passion involved. I don't take them lightly. Sometimes the most offensive to me are the ones that try their best to be inoffensive. In the case of Slumdog, though: the opening scenes intercut the torture and interrogation of a child with his appearance on a TV game show in ways I find slick and trivializing (the glossy lighting and fashion-layout colors prettify everything); a child jumps into a pit of excrement and it's played for laughs; a murder is shown through a floral-print cloth filter, for no other reason than because it's a groovy effect... None of these things is necessarily objectionable (I can imagine other movies doing something similar and bringing them off), but in the context of "Slumdog" I found them to be pretty galling. I understand that others don't see it that way, that to them it's "only a movie" and it doesn't bother them that much; I ask only that they extend me the same respect when I explain why I feel the way I do.
"How about adding Martin Scorsese's review of Antonioni's L'Avventura from The New York Times?"
Scorsese is someone whose opinion on film I would never trust FOR ME, because, frankly, he watches films differently than I do. I think this goes for all filmmakers, some more than others. I don't think I'm able to watch a movie the way Scorsese watches it. I watch more like a critic, when I dislike a film, and more like a child, when I do like a film. But I remember Scorsese's top 10 he did with Ebert one year, and his list, and the way he discussed them - and I remember a brief comment (positive) he made on Hoop Dreams after Ebert gushed about it that seemed to praise it from a direction no one else was really praising it, but it was the first thing Scorsese thought of - and I just thought, I don't watch movies the way he does. So criticism from him would be interesting in its way, but (at least for me) it wouldn't serve the same function as a review.
Which is a long way of saying I don't like criticism written by artists who also make that same kind of art. And not because they're biased or agenda-driven (tho in literature that's been more common) so much as because they view the art differently than a non-filmmaker viewer would, and in a way that might do more spoiling than illuminating, or spoil WHILE illuminating. It's the difference between sitting in the audience of a magician as a mere spectator, and as another magician.
Not this is a piece of criticism per se, but I consider David Foster Wallace's essay on the pre-Lost Highway films of David Lynch to be a lot more interesting than David Lynch.
This is actually the case with most people DFW wrote about. For instance look at this Ziegler idiot in the news all the time these days defending Sarah Palin. He's about as boring and pathetic a public figure as there is right now, and I can't watch him or listen to him for more than a minute - but Wallace wrote a long article (ostensibly) about him (when he was a radio host), and it's one of the most brilliant pieces of journalism you'll ever read. Wallace was a freak.
Mr. Emerson: You, Jim, are actually one of the best writers I know when it comes to writing reviews better than the movie. Your review of "The Abyss," for instance (and most of the movies you love), is to me a greater work of art than the film itself. Your review of "Citizen Kane" displays a passion and intellectual interest in the film that compels the reader to take interest. I say this with admiration for your ability to write such a review (I wish you would write and publish reviews more often), and I think it can only stem from your deep respect and passion for film.
As for the conversation with Mr. Garvey above, I think what I found most wrong with the "movie diagnosis" answer, and the idea that critics are similar to doctors, is that doctors tend to have a rather absolute standard for good health (and that is a good thing, because I certainly wouldn't want my health to be considered "relatively"!). But is there an absolute standard for whether a film has "good health"? Different movies generate different responses, but that does not mean one is absolutely inferior or superior to another via that response.
Yes, there should be some absolutes applied --- like visual coherency, entertainment, involvement, intellectual stimulation --- but not to the extent that criticism becomes a matter of arithmetic.
JE: Thanks, Max. That is indeed the point I was trying to make. A critic examines and evaluates a movie according to his/her own values and standards. There is no objective, absolute, right-or-wrong "diagnosis." If somebody wants to argue that, say, "Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties" is a complex and profound work of art, then let 'em go ahead. (Nobody's going to die if they're wrong!) The reader can make his/her own judgment -- of the movie and of the criticism. Yes, doctors are experts and critics are (theoretically) experts, but one deals with science and the other with art/entertainment.
"I come back to this blog because I genuinely admire the writing and the ideas discussed. What I sometimes recoil from is the anger. It's one thing to dislike something, but is it really necessary to be *angry* at Juno, or Slumdog Millionaire? Or even Life is Beautiful. For the record, I agree that Life is Beautiful is not a very good movie. I found it misguided, and the entire concept rather bizarre. Where you lose me is the visceral anger. I don't actually think that the mere existence of Life is Beautiful does harm to the world. Apparently you disagree."
I do want to respond to what Pascoe said, and while I don't want to put words in Jim's mouth, I will throw in my two cents, particularly since (as far as I can tell) I brought "Slumdog Millionaire" into this conversation. I think, in the case of what's written here, it's easy to mistake passion for anger. I have doubts that Jim is truly angry about "Slumdog Millionaire", and I know that I'm not, but I am passionate about it.
I think I tend to be the most passionate about movies (a) that are relatively unknown and (b) that I view differently than a lot of people. That's why, even though I loved "The Dark Knight", it didn't make sense for me to crusade on its behalf, because so many other people already were. In the case of "Slumdog Millionaire", this is a movie that is, is all honesty, not particularly worse than a lot of bad movies that I've seen. What makes it different, in my book, is that so many people love it. This dichotomy between my opinion and that of the general populace make me hold on more dearly to my views, because, damn it, I'M RIGHT. I'm not angry. I just want to do my part to help other people see the error of their ways.
I think I hated "Slumdog Millionaire" for a lot of the same reasons that Jim did, but again, I'd like to throw my own hat into the ring. A lot of "Slumdog" reminded me of the brilliant "City of God". In "City", horrible things happened to children, often at the hands of other children, and the movie was, appropriately, bleak. As much as "City" was tough to watch, I feel like it played fair. It took its material seriously, and by doing so, it showed respect for its audience. The resulting film, while unquestionably disturbing, is a masterpiece. "Slumdog", on the other hand, does the exact opposite. It uses content not unlike that of "City of God" -- child-on-child violence, torture, etc. -- as the setting for a feel-good melodrama. Some might call this optimistic, but I call it cheating. In "Slumdog", a child is brutally blinded, a mother is murdered, a girl works as a sex slave, a boy is driven to kill, and to top it all off... a kid wins a game show and gets the girl. Really? As an audience member, I felt like the filmmakers, particularly the writer, hadn't played fair, and in turn, I felt insulted. I go the movies to be manipulated invisibly and skillfully, not with a jackhammer. "Slumdog" failed to respect me as its viewer, so I find it impossible to respect it as a film, and no matter how much they try, no amount of good reviews are likely to change that.
Chris:
A lot of "Slumdog" reminded me of the brilliant "City of God". In "City", horrible things happened to children, often at the hands of other children, and the movie was, appropriately, bleak. As much as "City" was tough to watch, I feel like it played fair. It took its material seriously, and by doing so, it showed respect for its audience. The resulting film, while unquestionably disturbing, is a masterpiece..
And I recently heard CoG described as "incredibly boring designer nonsense for self-congratulatory tourist-viewers," so let the cycle continue, I guess.
(I.e., who is showing whom the error of whose ways?)