Film Critic Eye for the Straight Guy

In the past, I've been known to be a little too harsh in my criticisms of various movies. I suppose it's because I have great respect for the art form. Now, more than ever, I rip apart plots and stamp on reputations, especially since I've graduated from the Tarentino school of film-making and started making films of my own. Recently however, I have less interest and even less time to enjoy the occasional film on a Friday night. School work plays a role in this, as Tolstoy's Madame Karenine keeps intruding into my cinematic wet dreams. I need to scream out, "I'm sick and tired and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Let us commence an analysis of my troubles. In this highly commodified age, films are here this week and gone the next. It proves difficult to keep up with current trends. Lowered Hollywood standards and the international release system haven't helped the situation.

People in Kreblachastan may have loved Batman Begins, but that doesn't help me understand its plot. The current system has turned the latest batch of new releases into formula-based films made by committees. Each Jennifer Love Hewitt movie must contain three bikini scenes and so on.

I realize that I'm ranting a little bit. The reason for this is that I'm frightened, terrified really, of what I've become. Yes, I admit it, I have become a Critic, and there's no turning back. The metamorphosis is complete.

Trust me, I take more stabs than Hitchcock in the 'Shower Scene.' There I am, slashing away with my mental machete, dismantling films like I belong in I Heart Huckabees. Except this is no solution in my case, it's part of the problem.

As I sit in a darkened movie theatre, undetectable and odorless, hormones and chemical levels recalibrate. It's as subtle as a twitch of the eye. My other half takes over. A sparrow couldn't catch Tyler Durden at work, that's because Tyler's in my brain. At this rate I'm going to have to start charging Brad Pitt rent. How many are others out there are like me? I can't sleep, I can't eat, I've got insomnia and did I mention I'm too critical?

Don't get the wrong impression. I have tried desperately to suppress my critical side. Nothing works. Even if a film's plot and dialogue are good, I inevitably search out a problem with art direction, or locations or lighting. My brain simultaneously reconstructs a suitable scenario.

And then there's the time I said I loved Alien vs. Predator on TMN. I wasn't high as a kite, no sir, it's just better in my head then it is on the screen. Do you understand?

Pattern recognition, Marshall McLuhan called it. Genre films can be lumped into single categories because they all follow age-old patterns and traditions. Certain genres have been exhausted while others have recently been reclaimed. Bruce Lee is spinning in his grave, because Quentin Tarentino is robbing it.

After Marshall McLuhan's stroke, he saw movies once or twice a week but always left in the middle. Is this man haunting me or what? Are his grave predictions about culture, the source of my mystery ailment? Were those his intense eyes staring at me through a rear-view window as I crossed the street the other day? In A Clockwork Orange, the infamous shock treatment scene is the perfect symbol for our society, our eyes are wide shut, paralyzed and transfixed, we have become unwilling voyeurs of our own lives.

I must stick to the assignment I was given - an article or review. I apologize to the editor; I thank the reader for your patience. This is the real subject of my article. Watching films with a Critic's eye. Imagine if you could actually get university credits for this mumbo jumbo. However, I can't even carry on a conversation with other critics.

That's what makes my position so desperate. I'm either condemned to be hypocrite, thinking like a critic while at the same time deploring criticism or I'm really just a critic in denial. Which is worse? Welcome to Critics Anonymous. My name is Jacob and I have a problem.