Comfortable classics
With Hollywood abuzz over the Coen brothers’ upcoming “True Grit” adaptation (“Jeff Bridges in a legendary John Wayne role?! This is blasphemy!”), I got to thinking about the fallibility of “classics.” Whether you watch movies for entertainment or art, there’s an unavoidable laundry list of greats considered must-sees. These films are landmark achievements in technology and storytelling, so are you allowed to just…not like them?
Ever since the Impressionists made a splash in the visual art world back in the 19th century, people with tastes have been terrified of admitting there’s a work of art that they just don’t get. Whether the message is over your head or you find the content boring, there are probably more than a few works that you simply don’t enjoy. And is that so wrong?
When I finally got around to watching “Vertigo” last year, I was extremely underwhelmed. My friend, singing the praises of Hitchcock’s “genius” work, was frustrated with my ambivalent attitude.
“It’s probably the greatest film ever made,” he flatly argued.
“I guess I just didn’t like it.” My inability to provide concrete evidence for this hesitant disposition was inflammatory. But why should I? Hitchcock or not, I didn’t glean much of anything from the movie.
There is an air of expectation attached to so many films considered “classic”: if you don’t enjoy one, you’re wrong. I want to settle once and for all the distinction between the thrill of entertainment and the respect of art. There are movies you enjoy for amusement, and there are movies you revere for their craft. Sometimes those elements intersect, but not always — and not for everyone.
Every time I write a column, I tell people what I think is good or bad. Most recently, I gave a rave review to “The White Ribbon.” Does this mean I’d recommend it to just anyone? Hell no. It’s not a matter of intelligence or credibility, simply a mater of taste.
So although some great works of film might be nominal landmarks in craft, they could be real snoozes in practice. Knowledge of these so-called classics is necessary to discuss cinema as an art, but enjoying these works for a Friday movie night is far from mandatory.
The opposite is true for “guilty pleasures.” Although shitty movies are, as works of art, totally irrelevant and often embarrassingly bad, they are sometimes the greatest way to entertain you and your friends on a late weekend night. This is precisely why I’m not comfortable with the term “guilty pleasure.” I feel no shame for being thoroughly and consistently entertained by dopey high school flicks, namely “10 Things I Hate About You” and “Cruel Intentions.” These movies are not important. They are dispensable, schlocky reels of mindless entertainment. And that is why I love them.
The idea of “classics” is misleading. It alludes to an infallible consensus of an art form that defies such simple consent. The only true greats we can rely on are our own — that one DVD scratched from over viewing, the first movie that made you cry, the TCM flick you begrudgingly watched with your dad — these are the movies that are really important, and the ones that will forever be classic to you.
