A few weeks ago, two girls were standing in line at Einstein’s and chatting. “I’d totally join Street,” one said, “but I feel like it’s just, like, a million people being obsessed with movies. I’m sorry, films.”
As college students, we’ve got enough on our plates — classes, clubs, struggling to snatch a job before Thanksgiving. It’s a lot to ask that we be well–versed in German cinema during the Weimar Republic, too.
Where did this notion come from that, in order to be considered a film lover or well–respected intellectual of any sort, one must be partial to the foreign and indie genres? Since when did this pretentious connotation of “film” arise?
I’m a firm believer that one can be both a film festival junkie and a lover of all things Apatow. So let me come out and say it — I can quote Old School nearly verbatim. I’ve seen Sex Drive five times. “Movies” are not something to be disregarded.
That isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate film — call me for a 10 a.m. double feature of Waltz with Bashir and Revanche any time. But on those days when I’ve just finished two midterms and can’t handle any more history, a good ‘ole shoot ‘em up movie is significantly more comforting.
There are those films that transcend traditional comedy borders — it’s perfectly acceptable to admit that you’ve got Bill Murray’s speech from Caddyshack memorized, or that Animal House is in your top three (wearing Bluto’s “College” shirt was even hip for a while). With time, each of those has achieved a cult–like following.
Is it just time that has bridged the gap between gross–out humor and hipster approval? Or is there something truly superior about the comedies of the 70s? These days, movies like Wedding Crashers and The Hangover have received plenty of critical acclaim. Some contend that they even reveal more about the human condition than a two and a half hour brooding period piece (we’re looking at you, Blue Valentine). Perhaps it comes down to the issue of art — indies are the impression oeuvres, Apatow is the comic book shop next door.
But what about action and shoot ‘em up films? Tarantino, for example, treads the line between mainstream and cult appreciation. Pulp Fiction posters plaster a good half of the walls of the quad, but cinephiles can cite Resevoir Dogs as a game–changing classic.
I can’t provide the answers. I’d just like to believe that I can have my Jason Statham fix and my Almodovar fix, too. In the end, it’s about balance. Next time you see a member of the Philomathean Society, casually namedrop Will Ferrel. I dare you.
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