Film Criticism is, when thought about, one of the most pointless of all professions. The public at large pays little attention to the musings and opinions of local and national film critics, choosing instead to visit the overpriced megaplex to see the latest over-hyped, under-developed, opening weekend-concerned blockbuster. They ignore the advice and miss the subtle homage and witty illusions of those individuals who have dedicated their lives to the appreciation of film, choosing instead to fall victim to the whims and wills of corporate marketing executives hoping to retire at 35 on their foolishly spent dollars. As the average moviegoer (the adolescent to young adult male) pours out his allowance/wages to see the latest special effects-littered slasher flick megahit, devoid of character, but always with the promise of exposed cleavage, the critic can only sit back in disgust and dismay.
While the art house and black and white foreign films of the critic’s fancy appeal to fewer and fewer filmgoers by the year, it becomes painfully obvious that he serves only the function of personifying the aspirations of his dying faithful as they salivate over found Metropolis footage and desperately anticipate unauthorized midnight screenings of Cocksucker Blues. Yet have no pity for the critic, for as much as he may claim to wish that his suggestions were heeded by movie-going millions, it is in his distance from them, and thus his distain for them, that he finds his true pleasure and passion in life. The critic exists as the absolute middle between the artist and the public, a position he often relishes as his own true talent is but the dissemination and interpretation of the work of true artists.
Therefore, that intrinsic and universal desire to be loved, which exists in all artists and is juxtaposed by that other ironic artistic desire, to not be appreciated in their own time, is magnified in the humble critic. Thus he relies on the emotional high provided by the near worship of a few filmic faithful who blog and write letters in the frantic hope of response, and hence their own recognition. Indeed, the film critic functions solely to perpetuate the slim hopes of these desperate dweebs that their own useless opinions and musings will one day be respected by others of their oft-dateless ilk. But as I said, have no sympathy for the critic, for he has risen to a position of public semi-respect by doing little more than watching countless movies. Though this can not be considered true sloth, as many of these films take great intelligence and a strong will to sit through, it can not also, by any conventional means of the word, be considered “work.”
The critic is the proprietor of the half-art; creative only in it description and dissection of the art of others. Reaching this pinnacle of mediocrity he can take solace in knowing that he has garnered enough credibility to fall just short of incredible. No one can take away his realized aspiration, except say a supervising editor to whom he must feign his respect, as journalism is but another world in which he is only a fringe citizen. Do not forget that the critic is not totally without respect from the general population, as his opinions, while not always respected, are regarded as informed. He would also rank highly on a list of anyone attempting to compose a winning team for a local junior high-sponsored trivia night.
It is in these respects that he has socially surpassed the likes of the true artist, or say… the average stock broker. The critic has found a niche through which he has filled the two highest aspirations man can aspire to when seeking employment. These aspirations of course present themselves in the form of the most often asked questions of the job seeker. First, and most important to the common man: “Does this position provide me with the means to support those who depend on me financially?” Second, and most important to the artist: “Does this work fulfill my inner needs of expression and self-worth?” While the first question/aspiration may be difficult to fulfill for the struggling Catholic critic of impeccable potency, it should suffice for the protestant critic with at least minimal sense. Now consider the artist who enters his profession with the aspiration of wealth. He would be considered by many men to be a complete idiot. Conversely, the stock broker who finds a sense of expression and self-worth in his position would be considered by many men to be a complete ass hole. Thus, the Critic could do worse.
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