A Personal Crisis on Pandora
Acquired Tastes' Conception Story.
“It’s preposterously egocentric to call anything we enjoy art — as if we could not be entertained by it if it were not; it’s just as preposterous to let prestigious, expensive advertising snow us into thinking we’re getting art for our money when we haven’t even had a good time.”
-Pauline Kael in “Trash, Art, and the Movies”
In retrospect, I may have had an itsy-bitsy existential crisis during Avatar: The Way of Water. Towards the end of the second act, as Jake Sully flew to save his errant children for the fifth time, I wondered, “what are we doing here?”
Why did I decide to see Avatar 2? What was I expecting? Am I satisfied, thrilled, or moved? Do I feel anything at all? What did I want out of this movie?
What do I want from a movie, generally speaking? Why do I go to the movies?
What. are. we. doing. here?
To some, Avatar: The Way of Water is the apotheosis of film’s potential as a visual medium. It’s easy to see why. Avatar 2 is a titan of spectacle, whisking viewers to a textured alien world, basking in the beauty of its environment, and reveling in the bombast of its militarized destruction. It demands to be seen in the most immersive way possible. I saw the film in IMAX 3D and thought it was, without a doubt, the most beautiful pre-rendered PS5 cutscene I’ve ever seen; impressive, but not particularly remarkable.
“The job of luring the big audience to the Friday opening - the linchpin of the commercial system - has destroyed action on the screen by making it carry the entire burden of the movie’s pleasure. You leave the theater vibrating, but, a day later, you don’t feel a thing; there’s no after-image, no deeper imprint, just the memory of having been excited.”
-David Denby in Do the Movies Have a Future? (p.35)
Rendered entirely in deep focus, every frame in Avatar 2 was brimming with colorful things vying for my attention. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but Avatar 2’s visuals didn’t seem to be saying anything except “Look at me!” A single shot, composed with artistic intention, can speak volumes. The absence of intentional framing thwarted my ability to ascertain meaning from the images on the screen. I tried to turn my “critic brain” off and let the spectacle wash over me. I was left unenthused. By hour three, I needed something more than eye candy to chew on. Knowing the amount of time and labor devoted to meticulously rendering every pixel of Pandora, is it outrageous to call the film lazy?
“We can do it; therefore we will do it, and our ability to do it is the meaning of it, and if you’re not impressed, it’s still going to roll over you.”
-David Denby in Do the Movies Have a Future? (p. 36)
I didn’t particularly enjoy Avatar: The Way of Water. And yet, I would generally recommend the movie. It’s not a bad film, it simply isn’t my cup of tea. Am I an elitist for saying, “I didn’t like Avatar 2 but you, the faceless masses, might?” That’s not for me to decide. I can only say that my tepid endorsement is entirely dependent on you, the reader, and your knowledge of your own tastes.
On the flip side, I generally hesitate to recommend some of my favorite films despite their deep personal resonance and stellar craftsmanship. Sharing films that I love is one of my greatest joys, but I do not dole out recommendations lightly. Films have immense power and I’m acutely aware of their ability to impact, and sometimes scar, viewers.
“...no longer enveloped by movies in the same comforting way; at times, [audiences] were affronted or even assaulted, both shocked and flattered by a greater aesthetic daring and moral realism. On the whole, this felt good. To be exposed to ugliness and horror, to be stunned rather than cosseted, overburdened rather than babied … it made many of us happy not to have everything prepared and cushioned for us.”
-David Denby in Do the Movies Have a Future? (p.42)
Gaspar Noé’s Enter the Void is an utterly singular sensory experience. It’s a lurid, psychedelic, and grimy cinematic rendering of death, too overwhelming to recommend casually. Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York is an incomprehensibly ambitious creative undertaking that is, at times, maddeningly obtuse. It really ought to be classified as a depressant, so steeped in existential despair that watching the film is like donning a leaden vest. I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’re in the mental space to grapple with pure pessimism. Yet with each subsequent viewing, I get more from the bleak, comical tragedy of existence.
My reticence to suggest such films is rooted entirely in questions of taste. I use the word “taste” stripped of any evaluative judgments. There is no “good” or “bad” taste. There is only your personal taste. I have impassioned opinions: Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers is art; The Last Jedi is the best film in the Star Wars franchise. You cannot dissuade me of these opinions any more than I can superimpose them onto you, though we are both welcome to try. Such are the joys of subjectivity and film discourse.
So we return to the initial question: what are we doing here?
Within our divergent sensibilities lie valuable insights into what makes each of us tick. Our tastes may not align. Nevertheless, I encourage you to consider consuming content you wouldn’t otherwise watch. Push the limits of your taste in ways that feel feasible. Most great films sit outside your comfort zone. Only by interrogating what lies at the root of our subjective reactions to a given film can a stable conception of personal taste begin to cohere. In doing so, we can find common ground, hash out our differences, and develop the relationship between critic and reader.
Welcome to Acquired Tastes, my fellow film freak.
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