One of my favorite aspects of language is that it’s malleable, constantly evolving and changing. One of the beauties of language is that it shifts and modifies to the times by adopting new definitions, words, phrases and slang. Of course, with every pro, there is inevitably a con. Lewis Carroll first used the French term “portmanteau” to mean two words jammed together to make one word in his book Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871). And while this ultimately gave us such marvels as the “spork” and “beefalo,” it also managed to create some of our cultural lexicon’s more obnoxious terms.
Today’s biggest offender (behind the obvious Bennifers and Brangelinas) may be the “bromance,” which describes a non-sexual—yet very close—relationship between two heterosexual males, a word that I’m convinced has dropped our collective IQs a good 10 points. With the word’s sudden pop-culture popularity comes the first “bromantic comedy”: John Hamburg’s I Love You, Man.
The movie follows Peter Klaven (Paul Rudd, Role Models), a prudish, somewhat socially awkward, newly engaged real-estate agent who comes to the surprising realization that he has no close male pals to be the best man at his wedding. It seems that Peter has always just had female friends, so he decides to head out on a series of “man dates” in an attempt to find a best bud.
As we’re shown via the magic of montage, this doesn’t work according to plan. The guys Peter ends up with turn out to be insufferable or, in one case, gay. He’s about to call it quits when he runs into slacker Sydney Fife (Jason Segel, Forgetting Sarah Marshall), a man who turns out to be the complete antithesis of straitlaced Peter. The two hit it off immediately, all of which leads to inevitable complications in Peter’s life, namely with his fiancée Zooey (Rashida Jones, TV’s The Office).
Important lessons are then learned by all involved. Everything is resolved in the normal, unsurprising romantic-comedy fashion. What makes it almost work is the likable nature of the cast and the film’s amiable tone. But this isn’t enough to push the movie past its already limited romcom formula.
A lot of this is due to a strong sense of a lack of effort. A sound supporting cast—including Jon Favreau, the always reliable J.K. Simmons and a surprisingly (and thankfully) subdued Andy Samberg (Hot Rod)—is mostly wasted and horribly underused. At the same time, the jokes usually just involve Peter being socially awkward (and coming across as slightly off-putting in the bargain) and Sydney being a freewheeler and occasionally inappropriate, with little in the way of variation going on. There’s a distinct lack of diversity throughout, something that causes the film to feel like its simply going through the motions till it fills out the requirements of its genre and the remainder of its running time (though a good 15 minutes could have been chopped off).
What it all adds up to is a perfectly likable movie that’s nothing to get too jazzed up about. While this doesn’t completely sink the film, it does nothing to help it stand out. Rated R for pervasive language, including crude and sexual references.
Here’s what was awesome about this movie…..the first film appearence of RUSH!
Here’s what was awesome about this movie…..the first film appearence of RUSH!
We seem to be in the midst of some bizarre Rush fad in comedies these days. There was a good bit of Rush content in Fanboys and there appears to be the same (at least according to the trailer) in the upcoming Adventureland. A lot of this, I would assume, goes back a few years and ties into Freaks and Geeks and Jason Segel’s character’s obsession with Neil Peart on that show.
As someone who doesn’t call himself a Rush fan (actually, I’m not sure I have an opinion of them, really) I can’t say if this is a good or bad thing. But I’ve certainly seen worse things in movies, that’s for sure.
“A likable cast isn’t enough to save this mediocre movie from its own predictable, unfocused plotting and stale jokes.”
And yet it gets three stars?
As someone who doesn’t call himself a Rush fan (actually, I’m not sure I have an opinion of them, really) I can’t say if this is a good or bad thing.
I have an opinion of them. I’ll leave it at that.
And yet it gets three stars?
Well, the review itself concludes, “What it all adds up to is a perfectly likable movie that’s nothing to get too jazzed up about.” That sounds like three stars out of five to me, i.e. barely passable.
I think I see the 5 star system a little bit differently. If the average movie is 2.5 stars, that would make 3 stars better than average.
The way I see it, 0 stars means there is nothing redeeming. Half a star means terrible, but could be worse. One star means it is pretty bad, but there are some redeeming features. 2 stars means flawed, but not terrible. 2.5 means it’s OK. 3 means a little better than average. 3.5 means a very good, though not perfect picture. 4 stars means it is a truly excellent film. 4.5 means it is a near masterpiece. And 5 stars means it’s a masterpiece.
By that standard, the above review sounds more like 2 stars. I am guessing that is what Roger was suggesting as well.
Put it in another light — 2.5 is 50%. Did you ever pass a test with 50%?
That’s where I think we differ, Ken. I definitely don’t think the 5 star system should be conflated with the letter grade percentage grading system.The function of the 5 star system is actually quite different as I see it.
In fact, the equivalence that you suggest certainly doesn’t reflect many of your own reviews. For example, you often give two stars to films that you do not think are complete failures. If the star system was equivalent to the grading system, that would make a 2 star film an absolute disaster.
And you often have very good things to say about things to say about 3 star films, but in the percentage grading system, 60% is generally considered to be a complete failure as well.
In fact, by your analogy, a four star film would be the lowest B-, just one percent shy of a C+. You may think of it that way, but I certainly don’t think most us do. I am pretty confident that most people that I know feel that four stars is something that is reserved for a truly exceptional film; certainly not a mediocre one as suggested by your analogy.
Again, I think the key difference is that a star system sets 2.5 as the mean average because it works on a progressive continuum, but a letter grade percentage grading system does not put the average at 50%, which makes your analogy inaccurate.
As I see it, the only star of a five star grading system that directly corresponds to a letter grade percentage system is the fifth star, because 5 stars = 100%, which means that a five star film should be a virtually perfect masterpiece.
Well, as you probably know I would do away with the star ratings altoghether if it was up to me. In fact I don’t know a single critic who wouldn’t. For me, 3.5 is the lowest rating that indicates a film that’s worth your while. We used to run a chart that broke the rationale down. I suppose we could start running that again if this is such a troubling issue.
WTF! Who cares about a few stupid stars. It’s nothing more than a super quick reference for the reviewers subjective perspective. Anyone who really cares about the opinion of the reviewer, should base their own personal opinion on the actual review. Stars are ultimately meaningless as far as I’m concerned. If one were to decide whether or not to see a movie based on the number of stars associated with the review, then they would be making a huge mistake. If one were to actually read the review, then they may see that what the reviewer dislikes (or vice-versa) about the film, may if fact be the very thing(s) that the person interested actually enjoys. This whole star thing strikes me as a very minor and silly little quibble to put any effort into.
Personally, I’d prefer a rating system consisting of our faces in various phases of disgust.
Dread pirate Roberts… I do always find a certain amount of amusement in posts that take time and energy to decry an issue that they feel isn’t worth any time and energy.
Justin, Mick LaSalle’s little man system in the San Francisco Chronicle may be the closest thing to that.
Mick LaSalle’s little man system in the San Francisco Chronicle may be the closest thing to that.
And if you go back far enough into the print edition of the paper, we used to use the same system. I asked to get rid of it for a couple years before it happened. For all the arguing over how many stars we’ve awarded something, there were more questions over what the little man meant. Personally, I think there need to be icons of him puking and hanging himsself. Anyone who wants to come up with something like Justin suggested, I’m sure we’d consider it.
The problem with all this is that any system of “hey I don’t want to read the review, just tell me if it’s good” rankings is flawed and gives you no clue as to why a reviewer liked or didn’t like a film.
Ken, I agree that any such system is intrinsically flawed because the combinatorial explosion of subjective and contextual factors that comprise aesthetic appreciation make it an inherently imperfect endeavor. I could never get over the absurdity of assigning a letter grade to a painting, let alone a piece of performance art, and a star system would have been even worse.
That said, this has got me thinking that a letter grade system, though still flawed, would probably be a bit more universally understood. I never would have guessed that a 3.5 star film was just barely worth seeing in your opinion. By that reasoning, a 4 star film is just barely above acceptable. I see 4 stars very differently. Since 4 is closed to the highest ranking, I expect a 4 star film to be truly excellent, not barely passable as you suggest.
I think I may be far more stingy with my interpretation of the star system. Perhaps that partially stems from being a big foodie, because in many culinary reviews, any star is a good star.
Coincidentally, years ago I did some consulting for a European human-computer interface lab, which was trying to employ research from cognitive neuroscience to create interactive cartoons with a range of facial expressions to better communicate navigational options in interactive software. Essentially, they were making cartoons with various expressions that responded to particular variables in the interactive software. They were designed to humanize and therefore more effectively communicate navigating variables in order to make the process more comprehensible.
My work at the time was exploring the syntactical structures of visual verses lexical means of communication and aesthetic appreciation, and isolating syntactical disparities across intermodal analogies. One of the particular areas of interest was an exploration of the comparative pros and cons of representing conceptual information through depictive representations verses lexical descriptions. That work addressed many of the pitfalls arising from syntactical disparities that occur when conflating depictive symbolism such as the star rating system with lexical descriptions, such as a review, and vice versa.
While neither a star rating system or a review is equivalent to the actual aesthetic experience (despite the claims of some poststructuralists and textualists to the contrary) a review is more descriptive and therefore provides a greater degree of context, so it is generally going to be far more effective. In some respects a movie trailer is more effective than a review for the same reasons, because it communicates aesthetic qualities that can not be reduced to any lexical equivalent, but trailers are still far from perfect because they do not capture the emergent gestalt that arises from viewing a well executed film in its entirety.
I always take star reviews with a huge grain of salt. I am also cautious of both written reviews and trailers because they don’t always reflect the film from my viewpoint, and also because they both frequently give away too much of the plot. Surprise is an essential part of the whole for me. I will never forgive the reviewer in the City Paper in Philadelphia (lived there in grad school) who basically gave away that that the woman in the crying game was really a man.
It is not uncommon for me to see a film that I was luke-warm or even negative about years before with fresh eyes, and find that I like it very much and can’t imagine why I didn’t like it the first time around. Because of that I don’t even completely trust my own opinion of a given film at any particular moment in time. I think the two main reasons for that happening are the dynamic interplay between my own life’s concerns and the film, as well as anticipatory priming (reviews and trailers).
If my mood that day was not right, or my interests were otherwise directed, I may not fully appreciate a film. If my expectations for a film are off from what I see (reviews and trailers can be very misleading) that can often lead to me not fully appreciating the film. I compare that to a good veggie burger. A good veggie burger can be divine, but if you were expecting a hamburger it may be the worst hamburger ever if judging it on the same criteria that one judges a good hamburger.
For what it’s worth, personally, I don’t even think colleges should award grades because written evaluations are far superior for the many of the same reasons listed above.
I do always find a certain amount of amusement in posts that take time and energy to decry an issue that they feel isn’t worth any time and energy.
I apologize for the misunderstanding presented forth in my quasi-ranting. I agree with your point about the irony in your interpretation of what I said. However, I’m not saying that I think that a healthy, nerdy debate is not worth the time and energy. If I felt that way, then I would most certainly not bother. A discussion over psychology (if you will) of a ratings system IS enjoyable to discus. My point is that – in regards to this issue – I think you are putting too much attention on the ‘stars’, rather than the actual review. I agree that I could have worded things a little better to begin with. I think I was merely flabbergasted and slightly befuddled by the excessive detail of your original post. I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with ‘detail’ though. I appreciate and respect ‘detail’ in most cases.
Ken, I agree that any such system is intrinsically flawed because the combinatorial explosion of subjective and contextual factors that comprise aesthetic appreciation make it an inherently imperfect endeavor. I could never get over the absurdity of assigning a letter grade to a painting, let alone a piece of performance art, and a star system would have been even worse.
That said, this has got me thinking that a letter grade system, though still flawed, would probably be a bit more universally understood. I never would have guessed that a 3.5 star film was just barely worth seeing in your opinion. By that reasoning, a 4 star film is just barely above acceptable. I see 4 stars very differently. Since 4 is closed to the highest ranking, I expect a 4 star film to be truly excellent, not barely passable as you suggest.
I think I may be far more stingy with my interpretation of the star system. Perhaps that partially stems from being a big foodie, because in many culinary reviews, any star is a good star.
Coincidentally, years ago I did some consulting for a European human-computer interface lab, which was trying to employ research from cognitive neuroscience to create interactive cartoons with a range of facial expressions to better communicate navigational options in interactive software. Essentially, they were making cartoons with various expressions that responded to particular variables in the interactive software. They were designed to humanize and therefore more effectively communicate navigating variables in order to make the process more comprehensible.
My work at the time was exploring the syntactical structures of visual verses lexical means of communication and aesthetic appreciation, and isolating syntactical disparities across intermodal analogies. One of the particular areas of interest was an exploration of the comparative pros and cons of representing conceptual information through depictive representations verses lexical descriptions. That work addressed many of the pitfalls arising from syntactical disparities that occur when conflating depictive symbolism such as the star rating system with lexical descriptions, such as a review, and vice versa.
While neither a star rating system or a review is equivalent to the actual aesthetic experience (despite the claims of some poststructuralists and textualists to the contrary) a review is more descriptive and therefore provides a greater degree of context, so it is generally going to be far more effective. In some respects a movie trailer is more effective than a review for the same reasons, because it communicates aesthetic qualities that can not be reduced to any lexical equivalent, but trailers are still far from perfect because they do not capture the emergent gestalt that arises from viewing a well executed film in its entirety.
I always take star reviews with a huge grain of salt. I am also cautious of both written reviews and trailers because they don’t always reflect the film from my viewpoint, and also because they both frequently give away too much of the plot. Surprise is an essential part of the whole for me. I will never forgive the reviewer in the City Paper in Philadelphia (lived there in grad school) who basically gave away that that the woman in the crying game was really a man.
It is not uncommon for me to see a film that I was luke-warm or even negative about years before with fresh eyes, and find that I like it very much and can’t imagine why I didn’t like it the first time around. Because of that I don’t even completely trust my own opinion of a given film at any particular moment in time. I think the two main reasons for that happening are the dynamic interplay between my own life’s concerns and the film, as well as anticipatory priming (reviews and trailers).
If my mood that day was not right, or my interests were otherwise directed, I may not fully appreciate a film. If my expectations for a film are off from what I see (reviews and trailers can be very misleading) that can often lead to me not fully appreciating the film. I compare that to a good veggie burger. A good veggie burger can be divine, but if you were expecting a hamburger it may be the worst hamburger ever if judging it on the same criteria that one judges a good hamburger.
For what it’s worth, personally, I don’t even think colleges should award grades because written evaluations are far superior for the many of the same reasons listed above.
No problem Dread pirate Roberts. I appreciate the thoughtful response. Perhaps my last post will explain my interest in the subject a bit better. Of course, it is even more detailed though…
Sorry for the repeat posting. I am a moderated poster, and that post hadn’t shown up for a couple of hrs so I reposted it in case it hadn’t gone through. Perhaps one of the copies can be deleted.
One more pet peeve about the star rating system… Rogert Ebert is one of the people who wrongly claims that 3 stars is the median point in a five star rating system because there are two stars above and two below, but that is actually not the case. Since there can be 0 stars awarded, 2.5 is actually the median point in a 5 star rating system.
Entopticon said, “In some respects a movie trailer is more effective than a review for the same reasons, because it communicates aesthetic qualities that can not be reduced to any lexical equivalent, but trailers are still far from perfect because they do not capture the emergent gestalt that arises from viewing a well executed film in its entirety.”
Surely movie trailers have further flaws as barometers of whether or not one will like a movie – hence the review industry. Gestalt notwithstanding, trailers have the fatal flaw of being put together by marketing professionals into what is almost a tiny film of its own, with its own pacing, cuts, style, etc. For an action movie the trailer can often be better than the film; for a comedy it can pull all the best jokes and leave nothing for the remaining hour and a half; for a really good movie, especially one with a slow pace that does not lend itself to ten-second sound bites, it can fail to convey much at all.
One more pet peeve about the star rating system… Rogert Ebert is one of the people who wrongly claims that 3 stars is the median point in a five star rating system because there are two stars above and two below, but that is actually not the case. Since there can be 0 stars awarded, 2.5 is actually the median point in a 5 star rating system.
Actually, I do mean to comment on your longer post, but haven’t time this morning. Still, I wanted to note that I’m pretty sure Ebert uses a 4 star system. Regardless, the idea that there can be zero stars is sound enough assuming that’s true in practice. We do not have that option — that half-star is the bottom.
Ebert probably subscribes to the same basic concept I do that was laid down in the 50s or early 60s by Steven Scheuer (I think). From memory, it broke down with this:
One star = Poor
Two stars = Fair
Three stars = Good
Four stars = Excellent
The half-star increments merely indicated that the movie was between the classifications, e.g., three and a half was very good, but not quite excellent.
Yep, I would say that trailers often have plenty of the flaws that you listed, and plenty more. The raw material they have to work with is almost always the film itself, so we usually get the general idea, but as you said, they can certainly be misleading, as can reviews.
For me, the most annoying thing about a trailer is that at least half of them show some clip from a point that is past some suspense element, ruining the surprise. For example, you know the character isn’t going to fall off a cliff that he is dangling from if you have already seen him doing something else in a clip from the trailer. Even the blurbs on the dvd jacket are sometimes guilty of that. Often they will give something away in their plot summation that spoils the suspense of early plot developments.
There are also things that a trailer can convey that a review can’t. The look and feel of the film normally has no precise lexical equivalent. Intermodal analogies depend on experience, and are always inherently flawed. For example, you could use words to describe the color green to a blind person, and you could even use synesthetic intermodal analogies like, “green is like the sound of a horn,” but because of fundamental syntactical disparities, that person would not really know more about the color green, since the fundamental perceptual qualia of experiencing green are phenomenologically irreducible and have no lexical equivalent.
Ideally, I like to enter into a good film as as much of a blank slate as possible, so I would prefer not to have seen the trailer or read a plot summation in a review. I actually like to read the reviews afterwards to compare thoughts on the film. That is the one nice thing about some kind of grading system. I love to discuss and debate the merits of the film after the fact. I’ve been fortunate over the years to have had a host of friends and acquaintances that are screen writers, film critics, film critical theorists, directors, actors, and film buffs that have provided endless hours of fun and stimulating engagement.
It is certainly not uncommon for the discussion of a film to be every bit as rewarding as the film itself, and sometimes much more so. That said, I definitely take issue with the critical theorists who claim that the true aesthetic value of the object of appreciation is in in the discourse it creates rather than the phenomenological experience itself. I strongly disagree with that. I think the reason that so many aestheticians, particularly postructuralists and textualist, but others as well, assign primacy to the discourse over the experience is because as people who discuss aesthetic issues for a living, they are essentially placing their own focus above the actual experience.
Ken said: “Still, I wanted to note that I’m pretty sure Ebert uses a 4 star system.”
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the first time if memory failed me.
Just found an interesting link where Ebert defends giving more stars than average, and he talks about Mike LaSalle’s little man system. Ebert certainly isn’t my favorite, but LaSalle is one who I rarely agree with, so it is hared for me to be entirely objective.
One of the interesting things that Ebert talks about is the same problem that they run into with anthropomorphic representations in human-computer software interfaces: that the more pronounced emotions are easy to convey, but the ambiguous states in between can be very tricky to effectively communicate.
A side note: I wanted to make it clear, in case it wasn’t, that in my last post I wasn’t trying to belittle the discourse that aesthetic experiences inspire; I was just saying that I think the critical theorists who conflate the two are confusing the map with the territory so to speak. Or maybe the field guide with the territory.
Forgot to post the link that I mentioned:
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/09/you_give_out_too_many_stars.html
I think my last note may have been deleted, so I will try again. Thanks Ken, for noting that you can award a half star, but never no stars.
I am starting to better understand your perspective on the star grading system. I think the problem arises, and I know I am not alone in this, from the fact that many of us assume that as with the vast majority of proportional metrics, the average mean is the mid point, but from your perspective, the average is much higher than the middle, as with the letter grading system.
If I understand your approach correctly, you consider each half of a star to represent a 10% improvement, and the mean average is not 50% (2.5 stars) as many of us would assume, instead it is significantly higher, in accordance with a letter grading system. That’s why by your system, 3.5 stars, which is 70% on that scale, is the bare minimum for acceptability (a C-) rather than a full 20% above average, as many of us naturally assume. And that is why by your scale, 4 stars represents a modest B-, rather than being a whopping 40% above average, as many of us assume.
I do think that it is perfectly reasonable for most people to assume that the mid point is the baseline mean average (halfway point) as with most any other proportional metric, and that is what leads to confusion. Setting the average mean above the mid point, as with the letter grading system, is a bit arbitrary. For that reason, since we are all already familiar with the arbitrarily high average mean of a letter grading system, letter grades would probably be a lot more universally understood than stars as they are employed.
All in all, your approach is way more grounded in exact percentages than mine, because I can see no operative difference between 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and A, B, C, D, F with the half-stars being the equivalentt of a plus or a minus. The difference between a C and a 3 is essentially non-existent in my view, i.e., it’s a passing grade, but nothing you’d get excited about.
Think of it like this —
5 — An excellent film
4.5 — An extremely good film verging on excellent
4 — A very good film, but not a great one
3.5 — More good than not, but significantly flawed
3 — An average movie that won’t hurt you, but which I’m not recommending
2.5 — Definitely not recommended, but not a train wreck
2 — Pretty bad
1.5 — A lousy movie with perhaps a flicker of intelligence
1 — Just plain bad
.5 — Spurn this as you would spurn a rabid dog
Thanks Ken, I can definitely understand your use of stars better now knowing that you essentially equate the stars with grades. Now quite a few of your ratings make much more sense to me, and the next time a friend says, “Four stars? What could he have been thinking? It was good, but not that good,” I can explain to them that 4 stars doesn’t mean excellent by your system, it means very good. It all makes a lot more sense now.
Apparently that is exactly what confused Rogers as well, prompting him to ask why Justin awarded 3 stars to the film if he thought it was bad. Rogers seems to have assumed, like many of us had, that 3 stars was above average since it is above the average mean point in the rating system.
The only thing that doesn’t quite add up for me is that if the half stars were equivalent to a plus or a minus, it seems that there would have to be a 5 and a half star option in order for there to be an A+. Otherwise, that would put 4.5 at an A, 3.5 at a B, and the mean average 2.5 at a C.
I think the original confusion was aggravated by the lowdown portion of the review, which isn’t really a part of the body of the review (and which disappears once the review goes into its second week). That lowdown suggested a harsher take on the movie than the review contained.
Of course, none of this takes into account another fact that no grading system can ever fix — that four stars or whatever for an ambitious film isn’t really the same as four stars for a simple entertainment. The four stars I gave to Austin Powers in Goldmember and the four stars I gave to Atonment hardly convey that the two movies are equal.
I’m not sure if I would agree that Atonement was any deeper than Goldmember, but I definitely do understand the point you are making. Comparing films across different genres can be a case of apples and elevators.
Just thinking of the different friends I have been in touch with lately, it’s hard to imagine judging their work by the same criteria. A couple of days ago I was talking with a friend who is Matthew Barney’s (best known for his Cremaster series) Production Director (he’s on location in Greece at the moment), before that I was talking to a tv drama screenwriter who is working on a movie script, and before that a friend who was working on some kind of Hollywood blockbuster type thing. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Even trickier was when I was one of the judges for the MAP’s grant program that awarded Moon Europa grant money. We were judging a range of things from kinetic sculptures to films, all competing for the same grant money.
Arthur Danto’s theory of postmodern pluralism, which basically posits that there are myriad valid contemporary genres that all need to be judged in the context of their own particular historical discourse, seems to be the prevalent, and probably necessary approach in assigning aesthetic value to creative endeavors in the postmodern age. In essence, it says that you should judge a goofy comedy by goofy comedy criteria, and a melodrama by melodrama criteria, as circumscribed by the historical discourses surrounding those genres.
It is of course impossible to create perfectly equivalent systems of judgement across genres. Since the judging, if done right, applies intrinsically different criteria across the genres, there can never be a truly symmetrical one-to-one comparison. It is also of course impossible to be completely objective across genres because some simply resonate with the individual more than others.
I don’t think I am telling you much of anything that you don’t know already; just sharing some thoughts. I’m definitely convinced that intelligent people can reasonably have very different opinions about films. I generally take any review as that reviewer’s perspective and accept that for what its worth. For example, I’ve noticed that both you and Justin frequently criticize films for excessive length, but I almost always feel the exact opposite. I can’t remember the last time I thought a good film was too long.
One of my biggest problems with Atonement for example, aside from the heavy-handedness, was a lack of sufficient character development because it was edited down too far in my opinion. Perhaps film reviewers are more sensitive to length because it’s not just an escape, it’s a job. On the the hand, I think my attention span may also be set at a different length than most people. I savor the slow pans in Tarkovsky’s Stalker and own the 279 minute version of Wim Wender’s Until the End of the World. My point being that although I don’t buy into more radical ideas of absolute relativism in aesthetic judgement, I do think there is lots of room for disagreement based on subjective factors.
In essence, it says that you should judge a goofy comedy by goofy comedy criteria, and a melodrama by melodrama criteria, as circumscribed by the historical discourses surrounding those genres.
Well, to some degree you have to, but there are breaking points. If a movie sets its goals low enough, chances are good it will attain them. That, however, doesn’t make it good.
I think my attention span may also be set at a different length than most people. I savor the slow pans in Tarkovsky’s Stalker and own the 279 minute version of Wim Wender’s Until the End of the World.
Oddly enough, I also own the 279 minute version of Until the End of the World, but this is all relative, since Tarkovsky bores me to tears. I really do tend to believe that you ought to be able to nail a movie in the 100 to 135 minute range and there are few exceptions for me — notably O Lucky Man! (179 minutes) and The Ruling Class (154 minutes) come to mind. I could add Tess and Reds. I’m probably forgetting something, too. I think most of my quibbles with length stem from the growing tendency over the years to make movies longer for length’s sake. You see it start to happen in the 1950s with the rush to offer something TV didn’t, and it’s kind of hung around — possibly on the notion that people don’t want to shell out $9 to see a 90 minute movie (Woody Allen to one side). Of course, there’s the old Andrew Sarris notion that the easiest way to make a long movie even longer (subjectively speaking) is to cut it to a point of incomprehensibility. (At the time he was making the point about the 109 minute US cut of the 137 minute UK version of The Boy Friend.) As much as the idea of a longer Atonement doesn’t appeal to me, it’s possible that it might actually seem shorter.
The Andrew Sarris notion definitely applies to my way of thinking. More often than not, I see the over-editing of movies as what ruins them because they fail to fully develop characters and provide a compelling context for character motivation.
If a good movie is between 100 and 135 minutes, that’s fine, but I don’t have any problem with a movie being 3 seconds or a week long, as long as it’s good. I’ve seen drawings that I like that could fit on a pinhead (as in Synecdoche NY, a film I am very fond of) and drawings that have to be seen from an airplane, which I like just as much. The same analogy holds true for books as well.
I can’t relate to the idea of there being one correct length for a movie, but I do see that there are realistic marketing concerns apart from the aesthetic value. I do think one of the worst things to ever happen to the industry was the immense pressure by the studios for 90 minute movies in the 1970’s and early 80’s.
I find shorter length films to be particularly problematic when adapting a film from a novel. For an average epic novel, several hours would be necessary just to begin to approach the essential elements of the book. It’s difficult even with a short book, but can still be done masterfully at times as with Bill Forsythe’s brilliant adaptation of Marilyn Robinson’s Housekeeping.
More often than not, what I call the Discovery Channel phenomenon happens; they cut the science down so far to explain to a general audience that it often doesn’t actually mean the same thing any longer. I see that in films where so many integral elements are left out that they may be a acceptable works in their own right, but they bear little resemblance to the book.
To a great degree, I see my failure to fully appreciate the aesthetic value of things that I am not fond of as my own shortcoming. I learned that approach back in college, and have known Europeans to be bigger on that way of looking at things. For example, there they often see the inability to appreciate classical music or haute cuisine as a shortcoming, but in America we tend to embrace such things. It isn’t uncommon for us to expect to not have to work the reward as part of the aesthetic bargain and many Americans embrace that fact.
It may not be for everybody, but the approach of considering my lack of appreciation for an aesthetic experience to be my own shortcoming has had a profoundly cathartic effect on me. If I don’t like a food, I keep trying it again once in a while. Some of my favorite foods used to be foods that I hated. Much experimental music that would be jarring to most folks is now riveting for me. The humility that goes into seeing my failure to fully appreciate the aesthetic value of aesthetic objects that others hold in high esteem as my own shortcoming has been an epistemic explosion of sorts for me because it vastly expanded my perspective. Not coincidentally, a number of prominent art critics have reported that they actually had very negative initial responses to the most important works they had ever seen.
I mention this because one of the side-effects of the process for me was a noticeably expanded patience in aesthetic appreciation. I started to slow down and enjoy things a bit more. Not everybody might experience that the same way, but it’s true for me.
There are still plenty of things that I know are held in high esteem by others, which I have yet to wrap my mind around. For example, I find most of the Dogme films excruciating to watch even though I know they are supposed to be good. I just accept the fact that maybe I still have yet to learn what is valuable there.
I can’t relate to the idea of there being one correct length for a movie, but I do see that there are realistic marketing concerns apart from the aesthetic value. I do think one of the worst things to ever happen to the industry was the immense pressure by the studios for 90 minute movies in the 1970’s and early 80’s.
While I was unaware of such pressure being brought to bear, there would be a certain logic to the idea of making movies under 100 minutes, since 100 minutes is the breaking point in the corporate theater world for dropping from five shows a day to four shows a day. I don’t know that this was the case in the 70s or early 80s, but something like it almost certainly was. It would seem reasonable that such a dictate would be even more in evidence today when a movie is judged a success or a failure based on its opening day’s receipts. And whether this judgment is ultimately borne out, our media-saturated age tends to play to it.
I find shorter length films to be particularly problematic when adapting a film from a novel. For an average epic novel, several hours would be necessary just to begin to approach the essential elements of the book.
I think this depends a great deal on what you want from a film of a novel — also how you define essential elements. The two forms aren’t exactly interchangeable. Novels tend to be designed to be read over a period of days or even longer. Movies for the most part are meant to be taken in one sitting. The novel, as a result, often restates themes more times than would be necessary to get the point across in a film. There are, of course, very specialized cases. I remember being surprised at all the material from the novel that was left out of James Whale’s film of John Galsworthy’s One More River (1934) — and then realizing that it’s the third book in a trilogy and that you’d have to film all three books in order to encompass the excised material.
It’s a personal call, but I have little interest in a film of a novel that tries to duplicate everything down to the last comma. If I want that, I’ll read the book. I’m far more interested in the film that offers its own take on the material — sometimes to the point of functioning as a critique or at least commentary on it.
For example, there they often see the inability to appreciate classical music or haute cuisine as a shortcoming, but in America we tend to embrace such things. It isn’t uncommon for us to expect to not have to work the reward as part of the aesthetic bargain and many Americans embrace that fact.
I’ve no doubt that there’s much truth in this, but it seems a fairly sweeping generalization to arrive at from the idea that films rarely justify being three hours long. I have no problem with classical music or haute cuisine. I certainly have no problem with films in which you have to “work for the reward.” If I did, I wouldn’t have Synecdoche, New York on my 10 best list for 2008. But I’ve rarely found that I had to work to appreciate classical music, come to think of it.
It may not be for everybody, but the approach of considering my lack of appreciation for an aesthetic experience to be my own shortcoming has had a profoundly cathartic effect on me. If I don’t like a food, I keep trying it again once in a while. Some of my favorite foods used to be foods that I hated.
Conceptually, this is reasonable. In practical application, maybe less so. I practice it myself to some degree, but I hardly feel compelled to apply it straight across the board. A recent occurence would be an appetizer served at the Florida Film Festival — it was popcorn with grated truffles on it. For the first time in my adult life, I was unable to say, “Well, I’ve had worse things in my mouth.” This is now the yardstick by which ghastliness in gastronomy can be judged. Similarly, I don’t think the subsequent viewings of Fast & Furious or C Me Dance are going to enhance my appreciation of them. At the same time, I will probably continue to try 2001 every so often to see if I finally “get it.” Generally speaking, I am likely to try things multiple times only if a significant number of people whose views I respect find merit in them. The probable exception to this is non-narrative film. It may be my fault that it almost invariably bores me to tears, but I’m insufficiently intersted to work at it.
Not coincidentally, a number of prominent art critics have reported that they actually had very negative initial responses to the most important works they had ever seen.
Undoubtedly true, though you’ll find very few film critics who say this — apart from Andrew Sarris — and I don’t know why. (I’ve seen Ebert do it by later recommending something he previously trashed, but I’ve never seen him admit to having rethought it.) There is, however, a revers side to this coin — seeing a thing again later and wondering what on earth you liked about it.
It sounds like I agree with you about adaptations. I am not necessarily against faithful adaptations and I do think that the story is often butchered when cut down too much, but at the same time, I am definitely not one of those purists that thinks that the film always has to be identical with the book. Using the book as nothing but a springboard to jump off of is just fine with me. It often drives me a bit nuts when critics criticize a perfectly good film because it is not identical to the book it was adapted from. That said, the marketers of the film often bear some of the blame for that because they never should have marketed it as if it was the book in a movie format in the first place. Nothing wrong with just saying that it was “inspired by” etc.
The craziest thing is when the studio buys the rights to a book, but the film bears little to no resemblance to it whatsoever. That seems to happen a lot with Stephen King and Philip K Dick short stories especially. For example, the story The Lawn Mower Man didn’t even have anything to do with virtual reality.
Wes Craven’s (who I sometimes enjoy) adaptation of the anthropologist Wade Davis’ The Serpent and the Rainbow was particularly bizarre in that the film had next to nothing to do with the book. Actually, looking back on it it kind of reminds me of the imaginary, tangential fabrications in Adaptation.
I think you are in the minority if you like classical music without having to learn to appreciate it. There have actually been some very interesting cognitive neuroscience studies that suggest that only somewhere around 5% of the population can automatically appreciate music that is not about 85% predictable (i.e., pop riffs in 4×4 time). The studies suggest that among people who appreciate classical music, most are drawn to the familiar, while the only the 5% minority can appreciate something more unpredictable like Schoenberg’s atonal experiments (when first released people were known to run out of the hall vomiting). You have probably heard about how they actually use classical music in malls and movie theater lobbies to keep teenagers from congregating.
Don’t get me wrong, there is definitely not enough time in the day to question everything that doesn’t resonate aesthetically. When I consider that it may be my own shortcoming, that generally applies to when there are others who hold the work in high esteem. I won’t put too much effort into learning to like Rob Schneider films or Thomas Kincaide paintings. That said, if enough people like something, it is probably an indication that there is some redeeming feature.
For example, it kind of blows my mind when people say they don’t like Indian food. If more than a billion people like it, it seems more than a bit closed-minded not to give it a chance. Heck, Western civilization itself was born out of how yummy the goods of the Indian spice market were, which served as the crux of colonialist expansion. At the other end of the spectrum, something like Scotch whiskey is undoubtedly a very challenging taste. People can obviously learn to love it, but at first sip it makes gasoline seem palatable by comparison.
I have certainly had films that I like both much more, and much less on a second viewing. I find that I am definitely in a more charitable mood sometimes than others. Also, I have noticed that depending on my state of mind, I am more likely to grant artistic license sometimes, while if my mind is racing I am more likely to dwell on every continuity faux pas or leap of faith that stretches artistic license beyond its viable elasticity.
I think it also relates to the aforementioned studies in some way. They suggest that the two main functions of aesthetic appreciation are affirmation and creativity. We watch the same story told a thousand different ways because of the affirmative value of universal narratives, as suggested by Joseph Campbell, but we tire of them if there is not a small, but necessary degree of creative unpredictability. According to the studies, that degree of necessary unpredictability is considerably higher for a small percentage of the overall population. When I am a bit tired and in need of “mind candy,” I am much more apt to enjoy a flick like I Love You Man, but when I hunger for substance and creativity, I have much less patience for such endeavors.
I would assume the people who appreciate dodecophony and Schoenberg don’t reach that point because their brains are wired to enjoy it more, but because they’ve become familiar with the logic and structure of the method. Much of it is incomprehensible unless you can understand what’s happening in the music, which is difficult to do if you haven’t taken a course or two in music theory.
Most of the music of the 19th Century, in contrast, which seems to be the era most popular with listeners today, self-consciously distanced itself from strict form and predictability.
That’s what many people would assume, but if the study is correct, your assumption is wrong. That’s one of the interesting things about the study; it was addressing the percentage of novelty that people are comfortable with, so it does in fact suggest hard-wiring because it wasn’t about conditioning. As you said, most people can learn to appreciate something challenging by familiarizing themselves with it, but the study was testing people on that which they were not already familiar.
As far as predictability in music goes, as I recall, the study suggested that 85% was the comfortable margin for most percipients. The remaining 15% of was needed to keep things interesting, as with an unfamiliar pop or classical song that you can generally hum along with the first time you hear it, though not perfectly. For the outlier group, which comprises approximately 5% of the overall population, a much higher percentage of novelty was tolerable.
As you stated, most people can familiarize themselves with unfamiliar music, through music theory classes or simply repeated exposure, which would explain why people might learn to like some classical music with a higher degree of novelty. That would also explain why adults can come to like it, but 19th century music is often literally used to drive teenagers away in shopping malls.
The study was presented at a neuroscience conference that I attended several years ago, so the details are not entirely fresh in my memory. For what it’s worth, I have no idea if I am in the outlier group, but I did enjoy Schoenberg’s experiments off the bat, even before studying music theory.
Another interesting study showed that Western minds cannot actually hear the metapatterns in Indian classical music because of the complexity, but with practice they can learn, so that does imply a clear case of conditioning rather than hard-wiring.