Habits as Film Fans We Need to Change
I came up with this article while I was still high on the Field of Dreams rant. As much as I enjoyed writing that article, and as much as I try to write about positive works that fill me with sunshine and rainbows, I slipped. I had forgotten the addictive nature of shitposting and the ego pumping righteousness of going out of your way to be extraordinarily petty about a thing you don’t like. With one article, I had grown a craving, and I needed to fling my feces at something bigger and stronger. The Field of Dreams article was about one movie. “What if,” I thought, “I wrote another angry screed about the entirety of film discourse!”
Film criticism, you see, is important to me. In some ways, it’s in better shape than it’s ever been. I love that the vast majority of my Youtube subscriptions are people who make some of the most insightful and poignant works of film analysis I’ve ever seen. People like Lindsay Ellis and Mikey and Kyle Kallgren and Grace Lee over at What’s So Great About That? and so many others. And on the writing end, we have people like Emily VanDerWerff and Emily Yoshida and Film Crit Hulk and so many others.
But for every insightful essay, there’s garbage. I read an incredible critique of a film, then I make the mistake of scrolling down to the comments. I watch a particularly astute video essay and for some reason the Youtube algorithm recommends that I watch another garbage Cinema Sins video. Hell, some of my favorite critics and essayists fall into some habits that really bum me out, and my own work is littered with the kind of critique I usually despise. So I wanted to write another shouty piece addressing all these specific habits that annoy me so.
With that same sense of sanctimoniousness, I outlined and I drafted. I expected to come out the other end feeling myself even more. Instead, I just felt tired and depressed. Field of Dreams is a movie that makes me angry. The points outlined in this article, however, are all aspects of film fandom and criticism that make me sad. I said in the Field of Dreams article that I rarely have the energy to write angry pieces. As the righteous fury I had gathered to write this article turned to despair, I was suddenly reminded of why that’s the case.
This article may sound like I’m shouting at film twitter, Youtube, and the void in general. But really, I’m writing this for myself. These are habits I hope to avoid in the future, and if anybody sees this and wants to join me, you’re more than welcome to do so.
Maintaining prolonged anger at the Star Wars prequels or the Game of Thrones finale or whatever piece of pop culture you find disappointing at the moment is a waste of your time.
Star Wars was the first movie I was ever a fan of. In fact, it was the first thing I was ever a fan of in general. I watched the VHS tapes over and over again and I made my parents spend god knows how much money on Stars Wars toys, Star Wars video games, a Star Wars themed cookbook that I wanted for the pictures (the chocolate chip cookie recipe from which I still use from time to time to this day), and who knows what else. I was a fan in the purest possible sense of the term, and all my friends were too. It may have been the healthiest fandom I’ve ever had.
So yes, I was invested, and I was over-the-moon for the prequels in the weeks leading up to its release. When I finally saw The Phantom Menace, I loved it. Of course I did. I was seven years old.
It wasn’t too long until I learned to loathe it and the rest of the prequels as much as everyone else. And just like the mobs of disillusioned Star Wars fans, I maintained that anger for many many years.
But then something happened. I watched more movies. Different movies. Movies that spoke to me on a greater emotional level than any film in the Star Wars franchise ever did. Of course, this also led to many years of embarrassing snobbery. But in the end, I had a better understanding of the role that Star Wars played in my life as a filmmaker and a fan of film.
Mainly, what became clear was that Star Wars was a stepping stone. A bridge to bigger and better things. It was like the person in your life who introduced you to all the cool shit. It said to me, “You know kid, you’ve been watching these movies with basic archetypes, cool looking characters, and a black and white morality that’s easy for a child to understand and appreciate. But let me tell you about this thing called moral complexity.” Or in simpler terms, “Here’s what this medium is capable of. Now go and find your own thing.”
And I did. Not only that, I also found that the more new movies I discovered, the lesser my rage burned for the prequels. Now when I think of them, I don’t feel anything. I don’t like them as films, but I feel no desire to talk about them or try to dissect them or get angry. I feel like I’ve moved on, and now my life is better. (And besides, as far as prequel shit talking is concerned, there’s only one video series that matters.)
There was a time when I felt a speck of melancholy for what Stars Wars could’ve been. Maybe it’s sad that these movies that were once so meaningful to me don’t have the same impact now. Maybe a fizzled passion is something to be mourned.
But then I remember that we’ve been listening to Star Wars fans rant about Star Wars for twenty years, and in doing so, we’ve given them an extraordinary amount of cultural capital. They then used that capital to bully Kelly Marie Tran off the internet.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying anger can’t be a valid response, if channelled in a healthy manner. And I’m fully aware that the only reason the Kelly Marie Tran incident really happened was because she’s a woman.
I am saying that maintaining and sustaining a years long rage over a franchise, be it one you loved as a child or one you discovered later in your life, isn’t worth it. I’m saying that some of the behavior of these longtime “fans” is, to say the least, off-putting and alienating and why I don’t really consider myself a Star Wars fan anymore. I’m saying that after the Kelly Marie Tran incident, there’s a part of me that hopes The Rise of Skywalker sucks because I think it’s what the most toxic Star Wars “fans” deserve. The ones who complain about The Last Jedi’s portrayal of Luke, but fail to see what they have in common with a man who almost committed a terrible act in order to protect what he supposedly loves.
And I’m also saying that because of Star Wars fans and the looming specter of their influence, I hit the limit on my patience with other annoying fans much quicker. Though I (mostly) agree with disappointed Game of Thrones fans, I was sick to death of hearing them complain about the finale within only forty eight hours of its airing.
But most of all, I’m saying that I believe that moving on will make you happier. That the weight you take off yourself when you give up that rage is intoxicating. That you’ll never feel let down again, unless you want to. That saying, “Oh well” and moving on is easier than you can possibly imagine, and once you’re on the other side, there’s a whole world of films out there for you to enjoy. Have you ever seen Attack the Block? You should watch Attack the Block.
Pointing out plot and/or logic holes is boring and shallow as criticism.
This is Patrick (H) Willems’s video about plot holes. It’s a video that went viral in the Youtube film analysis world and sparked a lot of debate and response videos.
In the video, Patrick makes a number of points about our habit of combing through the mechanics of the plot to look for leaps in logic and contrivance. Specifically, he says that a lot of people incorrectly identify plot holes because they weren’t paying attention to the film or they have a genuine misunderstanding of what a plot hole is, as well as other basic filmmaking concepts such as montage and theme. Moreover, he says that even though plot holes are ever present, they shouldn’t matter as much as thematic resonance and emotional payoff.
On the whole, I agree with the sentiment. Of course, as Patrick implies, we don’t have a clear definition of what a plot hole actually is and as MovieBob points out in his own fantastic video, that definition has less objectivity than you’d think.
Generally speaking, plot holes only bother me when they go far out of their way to do so. One that drives me insane, for example, is in Prometheus when Shaw has an alien surgically removed from her stomach via robot, then in the next scene, stumbles into the aged Weyland and completely forgets what just happened to her and fails to inform anyone that there is now an alien on the ship. However, this example only stands out to me in how aggressively it shatters any sense of verisimilitude. You don’t need some asshole Youtuber to point out for you that there’s an extreme logical and tonal juxtaposition going on between these two scenes because it’s on the surface.
All that said, to me, the question isn’t whether or not plot hole nitpicking is or can be legitimate criticism. I think you’d have to take that question on a case-by-case basis and even then, the precise definition of “plot hole” is still a problem. The issue I have is why people bother making these arguments in the first place.
If you wanted to, you could nitpick the logical foundation of any movie ever made. Remove empathy and human emotion from the equation and boil everything down to simple plot mechanics and “logic”, and a lot of dilemmas in films become easier to solve. In Baby Driver, if Baby wanted to leave Atlanta with Debora with no strings, why didn’t he just shoot the other robbers? What if Andy Dufresne waited until nobody was around, then figured out some way of murdering Norton in a manner that wouldn’t lead back to him in The Shawshank Redemption? Surely, that would’ve solved the corruption problem. Right?
Or inject a little humanity back into the picture. Is a grand romantic gesture the actual best way of winning someone you love back, or is it respectful conversation and empathy? We’re afraid of the monster chasing the football captain through the woods and we relate to his fear. But unlike his apparently omniscient observers in the theater, he doesn’t have the hyperintelligence that would allow him to survive an attack from a supernatural force.
However, despite the level of logic nitpicking on the internet, most of the time we don’t want this level of scrutiny. Baby and Andy aren’t coldblooded murderers, and were they to solve their problems this way, it would betray what we find meaningful about these movies in the first place. Communication is, in fact, the best way of winning your sweetheart back. But that isn’t as fun to watch. And besides, we like big romantic gestures because we want to buy into the fantastical nature of love and romance and the reason we want to watch the demise of the football captain in the first place is because we want to partake of that fear and chaos. Order would ruin the moment.
There is, however, another reason I think people don’t take plot nitpicking to its logical end. Because logic isn’t really the problem in the first place. It’s a symptom.
The real problem is that for whatever reason, the movie didn’t earn an emotional response from you. It has failed, through its storytelling, to have the intended impact on you, be it an emotional response or an intellectual spark, and thus you are not inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt or overlook the things you’d have no problem overlooking in a film that actually spoke to you.
But if that is the response you had, I want to know why you felt that way. That, to me, is more interesting than poking logic holes.
Any dipshit can point out that the eagles could’ve flown Frodo to Mount Doom the whole time in Lord of the Rings. But does that actually get in the way of your enjoyment of the franchise? And even if it does, is that the real reason? What to you is a bigger problem? Is it that they didn’t take the eagles or properly explain why they couldn’t? Or maybe you don’t find the giant eagles aesthetically pleasing or you prefer movies where characters take an active role in solving their own problems rather than eagle ex machina or it’s an element that should’ve been dropped from the adaptation of the books?
Even if these questions don’t interest you, at the very least, they’re more engaging than, “Why didn’t they just take the eagles? PLOT HOLE!!!”
I want to know who you are and how you think. I want to know how a work of art made you feel. To me, plot hole nitpicking is copping out. They’re a deflection made because you don’t actually want to discuss the merits of the movie, and you’re just mining for LOLs or you don’t know how to express the issues you had or you’re not smart or insightful enough to dig deeper. When all you have are nitpicks, you’re removing your removing yourself from the equation Why sell yourself short?
A lot of what is traditionally called “bad acting” is actually bad directing or bad filmmaking technique.
Filmmaking is a collaborative effort. It’s a medium that can involve dozens, if not hundreds, of artists working together to make the best movie possible. It’s also a very fickle art form, and if someone doesn’t bring their best to the table, the whole enterprise can fall apart.
All of this is to say that yes, there is such a thing as bad acting, and what that means and what qualifies as “bad” will vary from person to person.
However, I point you to this scene in Captain Marvel where Carol Danvers, played by the great Brie Larson, fights a group of Kree in a hallway while her hands, the source of her superpowers, are encased in metal contraptions. (Don’t worry about it if you don’t know who the Kree are. Also, this is unfortunately the best quality video I could find of the fight that doesn’t cut around the dialogue or end in an abrupt manner.)
I point this scene out because I’ve watched a few videos and read a few articles that use this scene as an example of Larson’s supposedly bad performance. Specifically, it’s her delivery of “You guys wouldn’t happen to know how these things these come off, would you? No? Fine.” I’ve read that some find her delivery of these lines stilted and oddly rushed, undermining the tension and the general badass-ery before she beats up her pursuers.
But I don’t think this clip is an example of bad acting. I think it’s an example of bad editing.
Carol cannot use her superpowers and she’s being approached by armed enemies from both of her available exits. I, as an audience member, would’ve liked a moment to assess. To let the threat fully sink in and maybe question how Carol will get out of this situation.
Instead, the decision to corner her and have her say “You guys wouldn’t happen to know how to these things these come off, would you?” in one shot, then quickly cut to a second shot just to have her say “No? Fine.” before cutting back to the other angle for the fight makes the scene feel rushed. It doesn’t actually feel like she’s cornered. It feels like we’re trying to get to the fight as quickly as possible because, hey, this is a Marvel movie and you need to give the people what they want.
That leaves the question of Larson’s performance itself. For my money, I think she did a great job. However, I’ll never really be able to tell because I think the editing of this scene stomps all over her delivery.
What we have to remember is that we’re not just watching a performance. We’re watching a film. A film made of scenes that have been cobbled together from footage from many different angles that include many different takes and potential avenues of approach. There are lots of factors in how a scene operates, including pace, that are beyond the actor’s control. Don’t assume it’s the actor’s fault if a scene feels rushed.
In fact, an actor’s not necessarily to blame for the elements that are in their control. A director’s job is to make the most effective film possible, and that means doing everything they can to make sure the story resonates, which includes managing actors. Setting aside questions of how much of a say the director gets in casting, if an actor is doing a bad job, it’s the director’s job to communicate that to the actor and have them adjust. Or maybe an actor wanted to give a more naturalistic performance, and the director told them to be goofy or over-the-top.
Again, my point isn’t to convince you that there’s no such thing as a bad performance. My goal is to convince you that when you have the impulse to blame an actor, question that impulse. Could it be bad directing? Or bad editing? Or bad writing? Maybe it’s all three or something in between?
I personally don’t think it’s an actor’s job to elevate the material, though they should always try. Rarely do they write said material, rarely are they directing, and rarely are they editing footage. It’s an actor’s job to collaborate. If the writing isn’t there or the director makes decisions that undermine the material, there’s only so much an actor can do.
“Lack of chemistry” is (usually) not an acting problem either. And more often than not, we’re really talking about your own personal bullshit.
We’ve covered the difference between chemistry and attraction before. But I think it’s a point worth hammering, so hammer it again I shall.
Attraction is surface level. It’s a simple acknowledgement that you think another person is pretty, “pretty” being whatever you need or want it to be. Attraction is also a one way street. It’s felt by one person and one person alone. Chemistry, on the other hand, is mutual. It’s two people understanding each other on a level that goes beyond, “Hey baby, you have a symmetrical face and I dig that.”
In film terms, chemistry, unlike attraction, must be earned. Thus chemistry, like so much of filmmaking, relies primarily on writing and directing in order to work. It’s not just a question of how two people communicate with each other, but what they say and when. So if you’re not feeling a certain relationship, again, don’t always assume it’s the fault of the actors.
A lot of what was said in the previous section can apply here as well. Though it is absolutely possible for acting to kill any sense of chemistry, it’s more likely that the actors are delivering the lines as written. Lines that the actor, most of the time, did not have any hand in writing. (There is, of course, the possibility that a line was a result of improve on the actor’s part. But that makes it a directing problem because the director should’ve told the actor to knock that shit off. Or it’s an editing problem in that the the editor and all concerned parties should’ve cut that line out of the final film.)
Beyond dialogue, there is also physicality. If the couple on screen don’t look interested in one another, it’s the director’s job to catch that problem and correct it. I mention this because I truly believe that nine times out of ten, when you hear somebody talking about “lack of chemistry,” what that person is really talking about is the physical appearance of the actors and whether or not that person wants to watch these people have sex.
If you’ve ever complained about chemistry and this is what you’re really talking about, then… whatever. If not, I have a proposal for you. Don’t say “X actor and Y actor have no chemistry.” Say “X character and Y character have no chemistry.” That way, there’s an implied understanding that you’re critiquing the writing and the filmmaking.
I don’t think Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele have chemistry. Grey is frequently an asshole to her, and Anastasia either has full awareness of his mistreatment or doesn’t depending on what scene we’re watching. They generally don’t communicate well, and when they do, what they say to each other is uninteresting and stupid.
Whether or not Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan have chemistry is beside the point.
Let’s use our “I” statements and let’s try something other than sarcasm.
This is the section I’m the most worried about. The point I want to make here is that the way you communicate online about film matters to people, and the way you say something is linked to the way people react. In other words, if you go out of your way to be shitty, expect a shitty response.
The problem with that line of thought is that it implies that you’re responsible for any negativity that befalls you on the internet if you say something critical about something someone loves. That’s not the case at all. Internet negativity is a bigger problem than film discourse. If enough people see a post or video, internet bullshit will show up no matter what, and it rarely moves on logical or rational grounds.
I’m not talking about someone who makes a reasonable point and gets chased down by a mob. I’m talking about the guy who runs the Fuck Your Stupid Ass Movie podcast and/or Youtube channel who’s somehow shocked at the negativity his work has inspired.
Anyways, why is so much of film discourse these days so awful?
There are many answers we can give, but the primary one is the most obvious: Most of said discourse happens on the internet, and most of the people on the internet are terrible. It doesn’t matter what you do or what you say. The internet is an ever expanding burrow of assholes.
However, I can’t help but feel that the way some of us communicate criticism incites the mob on some level. Sarcasm is easy. It takes less time, verbiage, and intimacy to communicate your disdain with well written or delivered snark than sincerity, and given the current state of the internet, it’s understandable why one wouldn’t want to show vulnerability. “Hey, we’re not real critics!” some say. “We’re just making jokes!” (Cinema Sins. I’m talking about Cinema Sins.)
And hey, sometimes that method can work. The folks at RedLetterMedia can actually be pretty insightful when you think past the comedy and Maggie Mae Fish, a severely underrated Youtuber, deploys sarcasm all the time. There’s a way to do it right.
However, I think there’s an inherent combativeness to the more caustic styles of criticism, and I think too many shrug that off. When we talk about art, we talk about people’s emotional responses, and when we’re in the realm of emotional response, we’re in the realm of the irrational and the non-rational. Step over that line too violently and that’s when your comments section becomes a cesspool.
People can say whatever they want, and I’m merely some asshole who can’t practice what he preaches. (I literally just wrote an article called “Field of Dreams is Garbage.”) But I try to take people’s feelings seriously. You know… when I feel like it. But to me, there’s a huge difference between “I personally didn’t like Hobbs and Shaw because so and so” and “Oh my god, Hobbs and Shaw is a big flaming pile of miasmic shit and anyone who likes it is an asshole!” (Note: I have not seen Hobbs and Shaw. I just picked whatever was number one at the box office as of the time I’m writing this.)
I’m not saying we need to be nicer. I’m saying we need to be more honest. If we want to be antagonistic, let’s be antagonistic. But let’s not be surprised by how people respond. Say “It’s just jokes!” all you like. It’s not true.
Be open to the mainstream and be open to the arthouse.
As I mentioned in the previous article, my worst fan habit as a kid was that when I moved on to something new, everything that came before it had to be violently thrown out the window. I used to love Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network when I was very young, but the moment I discovered Comedy Central was the moment that both of these networks became kiddie stuff for “fucktards” (sadly one of my favorite childhood insults). Similarly, I threw out all my System of a Down CDs when I discovered Nirvana and my Nirvana albums started collecting dust when I discovered hip hop. These are all decisions I now regret, and unfortunately, I can draw similar examples from every medium I enjoyed, particularly film.
Nowadays, I want effective work, mainstream or not. But I didn’t learn to drop this habit until embarrassingly late into my life, and when it comes to movies, the defining example of this “out with the old, in with the new” attitude was my kneejerk distaste for mainstream Hollywood films that lasted until early college. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that I hated everything Hollywood put out. But it was more about what I thought Hollywood represented, which is another way of saying that if it wasn’t directed by David Lynch or if it wasn’t drowning in obvious shallow symbolism, I wasn’t interested. At the time, I thought films were about subtext and only subtext. They were an academic exercise. Not an emotional one.
There are, of course, a multitude of reasons to be skeptical of Hollywood films. They can be focus tested to the point of dullness and many Hollywood films are born from a sense of greed and cynicism. But in my case, avoiding Hollywood films out of pretentious spite was a decision that had a hugely negative impact on me. Nowadays, for example, I have to spend a lot of time playing cultural catch-up as I pursue a career as a screenwriter. The films I enjoyed in high school are still some of my favorites, but they’re not the films you turn to if you want to learn about traditional structure.
As a result of this attitude, I also spent a lot of time trying to convince myself that I liked movies that, deep down, I knew I didn’t. Movies like Lost Highway and Caché. Though there’s value in watching any movie, and though I still consider myself a fan of Lynch, in spending time trying to like movies I didn’t, I wasn’t spending time seeking out movies I did. (That said, I need to give Caché another shot. I think I’m more capable of appreciating it now than I was in high school. Also, here’s a cool essay about Lynch’s relationship with language because why not!)
Most importantly, however, I was denying myself experience and an opportunity to broaden my horizons. Nowadays, provided it isn’t pushing an agenda I found deplorable, I’m basically okay with watching any movie that’s put in front of me, whether it’s a big Hollywood blockbuster or a small indie darling. It’s because of this attitude that I feel like I have a healthier relationship with film than I ever had.
Though I could stomp my feet at the snobbier side of the film community all day long, I have more ire for those who’ve never questioned the pop culture canon. “Fanboys,” one might call them. I can’t tell you how many articles I’ve read or videos I’ve watched of people saying, “When I was in film school, everyone brought in examples of snobby art movies to class, but I brought in… Robocop!!!’”
If you have a genuine love for a culturally beloved movie, and you’re not harassing people because of it, then I’m happy for you. My issue here isn’t with your taste. My issue is here is a huge swath of people who never question whether or not these films hold up or like certain films because they’re expected to like them.
But in broader terms, it’s with people who can only view films through the eyes of blockbusters and action movies. I don’t think this is the only reason I’ve sat through what feels like several trillion videos about the supposedly “secret” greatness of Robocop or why we put so much time into taking down the Ghostbusters remake or why there’s an endless number of “nerd” channels who talk about the same fucking movies over and over again. But I can’t help but feel like it’s related.
Snobs, be it actual critics or regular indie film fans, can be annoying. (I think there’s a massive gulf between that types of film critics people tend to call “snobs” and the ones who I actually think are snobs, but that’s for another day.) All fans can be annoying. But I’d rather be a “snob” than someone who’ll never give a film with a more indie sensibility a chance because they keep trying to compare it to Ghostbusters.
It’s one thing to not evolve. It’s another thing to choose not to evolve. There are some who wear the fact that they don’t like non-traditional Hollywood films as a badge of honor. It isn’t. It’s a badge of stupidity and ignorance. It isn’t an acknowledgement of taste so much as a literal lack of it. People with unique perspectives will have opinions that go against the grain, and I’m extremely skeptical of those who compare every movie to Ghostbusters because they don’t know how to compare to anything else.
Stop reading so much into trailers.
This is just a personal pet peeve of mine. And it may only be a problem in the particular internet circles I frequent.
You don’t need me to tell you that trailers aren’t always indicative of the quality of the movie it was made for. Some trailers involve the input of the people making the film itself. Some don’t. Some trailers are good in and of themselves. Some aren’t. Either way, they’re no substitute for actually watching the film or paying attention to the discourse around the film and you don’t get to designate a movie “bad” because you didn’t like the trailer.
True, sometimes a Sonic or a Cats drops and we all laugh for a bit. But good fucking god, I can’t listen to you guys pre-judge movies based on trailers anymore.
You’re allowed to change your mind.
The first time I ever saw Saving Private Ryan, I was in middle school, and I watched it on a cheap Toshiba laptop my stepfather bought me for Christmas at my dad’s house. This is, as is plainly obvious to anyone who’s ever seen it, not the ideal way to watch Saving Private Ryan. But it was still enough to blow my mind.
For years, I kept Saving Private Ryan in high regard. I raged at whoever would listen to me about how much of an outrage it was that it lost Best Picture to Shakespeare in Love, I regularly named it the best war movie ever made, and I praised every second of it.
A year or two ago, I watched it again and it didn’t do it for me.
Of course, the more you watch a movie, the less effect it will have on you. And though I hope it’s needless to say, it’s still a remarkable film on just about every level. The only thing’s that changed is me. I’ve watched different movies and I’ve been through more of life, and as a result, my tastes have changed. At this point, the Spielberg sentimentality that influences mostly every non-battle scene puts me off, and I don’t find most of the characters as compelling as I once did. Again, it’s still a great movie. But if you ask me about the best war movie ever made, I’d probably go Apocalypse Now, though I’d also want to tell you about Waltz with Bashir and a few others.
It may seem sad to change my mind about a movie I once loved so dearly. But tastes change. Think about that movie you liked as a child. What if you watched it again and you realized you don’t like it anymore? Is there any value in pretending otherwise?
Let’s also pretend that, I don’t know… you’re getting older and your perspective changes. What if there are new ideas that interest you, and the kinds of movies you used to love don’t hit the same note with you anymore? What’s the point in denying new opportunities for yourself?
You don’t need clairvoyance to see where this might be going. I’ve been hinting at it through most of this article. That’s right… another rant about nostalgia. But somehow, a different one than the one I’ve already written before.
But you don’t need to hear it again. And it isn’t the point. The only thing I ask of you is that you be honest with yourself. If you don’t love that movie you loved when you were twelve, there’s nothing wrong with that. If you love Marvel movies, but they no longer trigger those chemicals in your brain that make you like whatever it is that you like, that’s fine as well. You love Koyaanisqatsi, but you just watched The Lego Movie and it turns out you love that too. Hey, I’m with you on both of those! There’s no need for an existential crisis.
Maybe one day I’ll love Saving Private Ryan again. Maybe I won’t. But I’m fine either way because I accept the fact I’m going to change, and my tastes along with it. And inlike many fanboys, I refuse to make you live under the boot of my childhood. Whatever you like or dislike, I want you to be sincere about it. Whatever that means for you.
