The Good. The Bad. The Asinine.

Laugh, Cry, Blow Shit Up

Ok folks – tis the season.

The season for big movie premiers, that is.

This has caused me to reflect that, when it comes to movies, I’m a man of simple tastes. Not for me is your elitist art-house crap, with its eight minute shots of some moody chick staring at a rain-spattered window. Nor am I enough of a poseur to sit through international ‘think’ pieces. Sure, it might impress the girls to be the sort of guy who spends his hard-earned on watching tribal people scratching around in grinding poverty for one hundred and forty five minutes, but you’ve got to ask yourself: what kind of girls?

No, for me, cinema is panto. I watch movies for the same reason most people drink soft drink – it’s cheap and sweet and it gets you high. A movie should be about the noise and the fury, full of attractive people doing spectacular things. You should laugh, you should cry and, if you’re me, you should get endless, simple-minded pleasure from watching shit get blown up. And it should be clever. The main objection I have to art-house is that it’s clever in exactly the wrong way. It’s all about feelings, when it should be about wit. It’s chock full of aesthetics when it should instead be brimming with spectacle.

I don’t want to see a compelling walk through someone’s psychic landscape. I’d rather watch a full-pelt run through an alien landscape. With rayguns. I’m not interested in breathtaking stills of stark, natural beauty, and long, abstract shots where nothing happens in a beautiful way for minutes at a time – ‘movies’ is short for ‘moving pictures’. Which means stuff should move.

And yes, there is a place for exploring the startling strangeness and complexity of the internal workings of the human psyche. For the stark discomfort of emotional compromise, the dirty surrender of individuality that is socialisation and the totally meaningless insanity of pain. There is definitely a place for all that stuff, and for me that place has a name.

It’s called a book.

So, this summer break, do yourselves a favour. When you’re choosing a movie, don’t try to look sophisticated or clever. And ignore your children, too. You’ll regret all the hours you spent pretending to enjoy saccharine morality tales about talking animals in your grey-haired years.

Instead, spend your eighteen dollars going to see something that you’ll actually enjoy, even – in fact, especially – if it has a stupid name and an explosion on the poster.

Category: Good

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