“I don't even know how you wrote about this movie, honestly. I've determined that, for my own sanity, it's better for me to decide if something is a movie that's for entertainment or a movie that's an experience (some can be both, some can be neither, but most, for me, are one or the other). This is a movie that's an experience. It's entertaining in parts, but it's mostly an artistic experience. And, as that, it excels.”
That’s part of the comment that my wife, Rae, left on my review for Annette. After showing her the trailer for Leos Carax’s bonkers rumination on love, fame, and betrayal, she (probably somewhat reluctantly) agreed to accompany me to the press screening I attended for the movie. (There is zero doubt in my mind – mostly because she said it – that her fascination with the hypnotic Adam Driver, that “fuckable redwood” whom the hilarious John Oliver wished would “shatter my knees” in his brilliantly bizarre Driver-thirsting running joke on Last Week Tonight, was the main draw for Rae to see Annette.)
It got me thinking. Is there a way to arrange movies on some sort of a scale that would measure what a movie is trying to do, in terms of entertainment value versus artistic expression? Would that scale be particularly useful?
I think the answer to the second question, at least for me, is yes, for a very specific reason.
I’ve mentioned, mostly in passing, throughout my years of writing reviews that Rae is the long-suffering target of my attempts to get her interested in watching, well, every movie that strikes my fancy. And that means pretty much any and all of them. A big part of the uphill climb of being a cinephile for me – and which should be for anyone cultivating an artistic appreciation of any kind – is seeing as much as possible, in order to place it within the wider context of film art and history.
Alex Proyas’s 1998 film Dark City blossoms with meaning when you understand the context of – and, more importantly, have seen – the German Expressionist films to which Proyas and Dark City is paying homage. (Not to mention his nods to 1940s and ‘50s American films noir.)
The sick thrill of watching Brian De Palma’s Dressed to Kill becomes richer when you understand De Palma’s movie as a riff on Hitchcock’s Psycho.
Even a cursory knowledge of the work of Jane Austen gives new meaning to the exploits of Bridget Jones.
I was delighted by my tumble down the rabbit hole of the Greek myth of Iphigenia – of which the playwright Euripides immortalized in his 405 B.C.E. work, Iphigenia in Aulis – after seeing Yorgos Lanthimos’s 2017 film The Killing of a Sacred Deer, which is an adaptation of the Euripides play.
Rae is always, understandably, at her wits end – Don’t feel too bad for her, she knew who she married! – after my umpteenth movie suggestion as my mind pinballs from one title to the next (ex.: as I typed this sentence, I immediately thought, “Pinball. Tommy! Great movie!”) after making one association or another.
The most recent example of what my poor wife puts up with: She wanted to check out the first reboot of the Jumanji series (Welcome to the Jungle), and I mentioned that I had never seen the 1995 original. So – Totally on her! I was willing to watch Welcome to the Jungle without screening the Robin Williams version first. – we watched it (it’s fine; the CGI is irredeemably dated). But I insisted on watching Zathura, the unofficial sequel to Jumanji, before we could move on to the newer entries.
Zathura is the follow-up children’s book from author Chris Van Allsburg, who wrote Jumanji. The sequel is only tangentially related to the events of the first story. The movie adaptation’s director, Jon Favreau, even discouraged people from thinking of his film as a sequel to Jumanji, since he wasn’t particularly a fan of that movie. But, when it comes to movies, I’m always “in for a penny, in for a pound,” as the cliché goes. So, I added a new hurdle for Rae to overcome before we could watch Welcome to the Jungle. (Don’t feel too bad, because of Rae, I had to endure the abysmal Bride Wars DURING OUR VACATION, when we both needed a break from the scorching sun and the beach one afternoon. In fairness, Rae hated it, too.)
(Side note: I’ve taken to wondering if the significant others of all film critics are subjected to as intense an experience as what I put Rae through, as far as what I recommend that we watch together. I genuinely enjoy spending time with my wife – which is, to my mind, a crucial requirement for a happy partnership – so I want to share my interest with her (OK, obsession is probably a more apt word). I’ve been dreaming of starting a series where I interview other film critics to see what makes them tick, and this question will definitely be at the top of my list, if I ever get around to approaching anyone for an interview.)
I think the entertainment vs. art scale that was the impetus for this essay will give Rae a better baseline for her expectations of a movie I recommend. It might also make her final decision on whether or not to embark on a screening with me easier for her. She appreciates art (both in general, and film art specifically) but she will never be as into as I am.
She gets a bewildered look on her face – probably equal parts revulsion and confusion – whenever I mention the seven-and-a-half hours I once spent in a movie theater to let Sátántangó wash over me. Sátántangó is Hungarian director Béla Tarr’s rumination on the end of communism, a black-and-white paean to slow cinema. (I think Rae experiences a flood of actual anger whenever I mention that the first eight minutes of the movie is a tracking shot of a herd of cows.)
The great debate of movies as either art or commerce ties into the scale that I envision. The term entertainment could well be a stand-in for commerce, as the idea of getting asses in seats to sell popcorn and soda is an inherently capitalistic endeavor, and the best way to achieve that goal is to entertain people.
As with human sexuality, this scale could never be a binary and hope to capture the subtle nuance of the situation. No movie is pure art or pure entertainment. There’s bound to be at least a fraction of artistic merit in even the dumbest summer blockbuster. The ultimate goal – one presumes – for even the most esoteric and solipsistic artistic exercise is to create something and push it out into the world for others to experience and wrestle with, if only because it increases the odds that said artist might find the funding for their next project.
Steven Spielberg inarguably made Jaws to thrill audiences with spectacle and suspense (and he did a damn find job of it, too). But Spielberg’s talent for crafting a tightly wound story with cinematic flourishes, centered around impeccable performances, makes Jaws much more than simply a good time at the movies. Perhaps what’s been called the first true blockbuster should serve as the movie that strikes an almost perfect balance between artistic intent and pure entertainment.
For ease of use, the scale would operate on a standard of 1 to 10; 1 represents a movie with the goal of entertaining as large of a mass audience as possible, and 10 represents a movie made for the sole purpose of the filmmaker(s) creating a personal artistic expression.
The scale might look something like this:
Jaws would sit right in the middle at five.
Michael Bay’s Transformers series would sit at a 1, while the aforementioned Sátántangó would be a ten. I don’t, however, want to leave the impression that this is a quality rating, where a 1 is poor and a 10 is excellent. The Bayformers franchise has a less-than-sterling reputation as far as quality, but they would reside at one far end of this scale with something like Animal House, a movie made for a mass (if admittedly white, male) audience that also happens to be damn funny.
This new scale, which doesn’t even have a name yet, will be a work in progress. (I welcome any and all thoughts and suggestions about it.) I’m not even sure yet if I’ll incorporate it into my reviews and website, as a sort of corollary measure to sit below my five-star rating system. If nothing else, I’ll use it to give Rae an idea of what she’s getting into. If she ever agrees to watch something like Sátántangó or Inland Empire**, she can’t say she didn’t give informed consent, if after it’s over she feels the need to shout about the movie for the duration of the car ride home (with me maniacally laughing my head off the whole time).
* Huge thanks and a big shout-out to my brother, Jordan Taylor, an incredibly talented artist and graphic designer, for putting the image of the scale together from scratch. I messaged him only a few days ago with a vague request, and he came up with the cool image you see above.
** Only kidding, I’ll never get her to watch Inland Empire. She HATES David Lynch, y’all.