Friday, March 26, 2004

Drunks are funny. 

And this time I don't mean it in a patronizing sense.

Check out Jim Treacher ripping on critics at Salon and Slate for not talking about Dawn of the Dead.

He's right, ya know. It may be a (gasp) horror film, but it has more energy, innovation, and zeal for good-fun filmmaking that's lacking from, well, the latest Lars von Trier plate of inconsequence.

Critics: here's something. If a director releases movie after movie that is appreciated by no one but critics, it isn't an important piece of work. It can have all the subtext and meaningful pauses in dialogue under the fucking sun, but if no one's watching it, it is not important.

Somewhere down the line we forget that part of what makes art art is its place and evaluation among the masses. Art is not for an elitist club of wine-sippers and limp-wristed sissies. I know, I know; the idea is that the general masses just aren't smart enough for Wim Wenders' insufferably stupid End of Violence, right? As The Man says in regards to middle America's ability to grasp "important" film: People are not dumb unless you treat them as dumb.

IFC aficionados? Sundance Channel snobs? If you endlessly chase your obscurities into the sunset and leave everyone else behind, it's no longer art. It's niche. It becomes no more "superior" to the mainstream than building model trains.

We are allowed to enjoy ourselves at the theatre, you know.

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