As most people do, I frequently shoot the shit with friends about favourite movies. It quickly becomes apparent that my friends and I have different opinions on what constitutes a favourite movie.

I’m of the opinion that a favourite movie is likely to be one that you can watch repeatedly, ad nauseum, and still enjoy each and every time. It might not be the best movie you’ve seen, but it’s the one you enjoy most. Hence my favourite movie list is often filled with flicks like Ghostbusters, Back To The Future, Star Wars and Groundhog Day.

James is of the opposite opinion – his favourite movie is the movie that he thinks is the best movie he’s seen (though the exactly criteria on which that choice is made is undefined). Consequently, he plumps for flicks like Taxi Driver, and movies of that ilk.

I’ll readily admit that whilst Ghostbusters is one of my favourite movies of all time, it’s certainly not the best movie I’ve seen. Possibly not even in the top ten. I know Lord Of The Rings is a more impressive set of movies. I know Casablanca is class, and Godfather is genius. But these are movies that should be used sparingly. They don’t allow repeated viewings like, say, Shaun Of The Dead. And besides, I don’t even like Taxi Driver.

So does this dichotomy apply to other media? What about a favourite book? I’m not sure. I don’t think I can choose what my favourite book is. My favourite movie metric doesn’t apply here. Whilst I chomped through the Dan Brown novels for the second or third time, barely coming up for air, I knew, whilst I was enjoying them, that they were terrible pieces of literature.

But what’s the equivalent of Citizen Kane in the literature world? I dunno. I’m not into books as much as I’m into movies. Whilst I can spot a good director or a good screenplay or even, to a lesser extent, whether a scene is lit particularly well, I have no real idea what makes a good book. Is it a highly descriptive text, spelling out scenes in great detail, or is it a book that only delivers the bare minimum of description, allowing the reader to construct the world themselves? Does a good book have plenty of dialogue to forward the plot, or is the story pushed forward by by a first- or third-person narration? I have no idea.

I don’t know the literature rules. But I do know what makes a bad book. Dan Brown can’t really write for shit, and I realise that when I’m reading him, fortunately, so I know not to apply my Ghostbusters logic to books. I can’t choose a favourite book, especially given that I can pick out subtexts from books with even less efficacy than I can in movies, which is close to zero, anyway. I fear I’m missing out on vast swathes of awesomeness in literature due to not being quite in the zone enough to peel back the layers and decipher the allegory. Fortunately, Dan Brown doesn’t do allegories.

So, to summarise, Ghostbusters is one of my favourite movies and I could watch it all day. Irreversible, on the other hand, is a very, very good movie that I don’t think I ever want to see again. Ever. Sorry, Gaspar.

I have an analytical mind.

I say that as neither a boast nor an admission of something embarrassing. It’s merely a statement. It’s an inevitable result of three things: firstly, my Dad’s an engineer, and always taught me that a logical approach is the correct approach. Secondly, my education as an engineer. An engineering degree, in whatever sub-discipline, is so much more than just being trained as an engineer – it’s about instilling an analytical methodology. The analytical methodology transcends the discipline. An electrical engineer can apply an analytical methodology to a problem in exactly the same way as a civil engineer could. The details aren’t important; the process is. Thirdly, my occupation as a software engineer. Day in, day out, I’m forced to solve problems, some of my own creation, others the product of people scattered far and wide across the world. Each problem I encounter forces a logical, analytical, approach to solving – wild shots in the dark may (very) occasionally yield immediate results, but it’s not something to base a career on. Only by rigorous analysis of a situation and its empirical data can a theory be deduced and a solution established. Testing that theory and improving it in an iterative process is often required. Usually, this is the only effective manner to solve any given problem.

So what has this got to do with anything? Well, I have a sneaking suspicion that the above is the main reason why I don’t seem to be able to understand subtexts. No, that’s not quite phrased correctly. It’s not that I notice that a particular movie seems to be allegorical, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it’s alluding to; no, it’s that I don’t notice the subtext at all. Blind to it, I am. OK, so I’m not totally blind – I occasionally see the odd glimmer of light: I realise that ‘Animal Farm’ isn’t a simple tale of farmyard animals and their daily travails. But I didn’t get that it was a political allegory, and consequently I had no idea the person or ideal each character represented. Nope, nothing. Consequently, this classic tome was somewhat wasted on me, annoyingly.

Some examples are more obvious, others more subtle. I read Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy without fully comprehending its religious subtext. Sure, I got the whole Magisterium malarkey, but seeing it as a coming-of-age story, with Will and Lyra as Adam and Eve, and Mary Malone as the serpent that encourages their fall from grace? Nope, missed that. Thanks, Wikipedia, for filling me in ex post facto. I missed the alleged Christian imagery in ‘Superman Returns’. Homo-erotic subtext in ‘Top Gun’? Nope, although I was probably too young to spot that first time through.

I have no chance with still-life art. Kath repeatedly tells me what this or that signifies. Bread is Jesus, apples are probably temptation, wine is blood, I get that. But what about birds or violins or melons? It’s just birds and violins and melons to me. No amount of educating me will convince me that a melon actually signifies chastity (or whatever); it’s just a fucking melon, for god’s sake. I can see a melon with my eyes. It’s a melon. A bloody melon, no more, no less.

It annoys me greatly. I see a movie that I think is only OK, but I’m constantly told that this bit alluded to something, and that bit signified another thing, and those two things together were the key point of the movie, and was what made it great. Am I destined to go through life not appreciating complex, layered movies? Am I going to have to stick with one-dimensional Michael Bay blow-up-the-aliens/White House/robots kind of movie, that barely work on one level, never mind more?

I hope not. To me, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that a logical approach to life, something that’s been inculcated in me for many years, and which is an approach that I use everyday in a job I love, is restricting my enjoyment of complex art, of one form or another. This is unfortunate.

On the bright side, though, I’m great at fixing computers.

or: How I Learnt To Stop Worrying And Enjoy The Shit I Like

Like a lot of people, I’m sure, there came a time in my early-to-mid twenties when I discovered stuff. I don’t mean the stuff that you find in the middle of Oreos (although I did also discover that at around this time, too), nor the stuff that, seemingly lost, ends up cowering in a heap under one’s bed; I mean the stuff of untold riches, endless education, limitless learning: I discovered art and culture. I was turned on by friends and contemporaries to artistic and cultural gems, taking myriad forms, from art to music, literature to film. My mind was blown by books more learned and enlightening than I’d ever imagined; painting so exquisitely executed and conceptually multi-layered that it it hurt my noggin; sophisticated (and foreign) film-making that put the tawdry Hollywood churn to shame; and music, so much fresh, original music, with lyrics so meant and felt about topics I was new to, and tunes and melodies so intense and perfect.

I devoured it all. Whatever my contemporaries poured into my lap and, to a lesser extent, whatever I sought out of my own volition, I absorbed, yummed up, revelled in. I envied Bukowksi for his Bacchanalian excesses and his perfect way with words. I admired Boy Sets Fire and Propagandhi for fighting the cause, in the face of almost universally apathetic adversary. I mentally saluted Chomsky for doing his part in setting the record straight and holding people to account. I doffed my hat to Dali for capturing the stuff of dreams with only paints and a canvas. I loved it all.

A common story for a lot of people.

As the years went on, I consumed more and more. I felt I was becoming smarter with every politically-charged CD, every liberal/left tract, every French or German art house flick. I started to see a socio-political-intellectual hierarchy into which I fit – not anywhere near the top, for sure, but certainly not at the bottom. Oh no, there were those tawdry Daily Mail-reading, Oasis-listening heathens at the bottom of the pecking order. I was better than them, surely.

But what of those ahead of me in this hierarchy? What did I have to do to move up a level, to be able to look down on me at my current level as I looked down on the Daily Mail denizens and Oasis neanderthals. Maybe I just had to slog through a couple more Pilger and Monbiot books. A couple more painful abstract art exhibitions might be enough. That new, barely listenable, anarcho-vegan-hardcore CD? Yeah, that should suffice. A promotion up the ladder should be on the cards for me. And on it went, for year after painful, tortured year.

And then it hit me, like a wrecking ball to the chest. Holy shit, what the fuck am I doing? I was subjecting myself to all this supposedly highbrow, eye-opening art and culture, force-feeding myself seemingly against my will, all for the privilege of being able to say “Yes, I have read Baudrillard, actually. Have you?”, or “No, Kurosawa always struck me as a little mainstream, actually.”

What. A. Dick.

I instantly hated myself. Hated all the media I had devoured over the previous half-decade. I didn’t want to read another book. I didn’t want to listen to another CD. I didn’t want watch anything but the dumbest, stupidest, big budget, popcorn-chomping Hollywood movie. I gave up on art and culture in almost all of its media.

Time passed. Gradually, I started to read again. The odd novel here. The odd humour book there. I enjoyed them. I gradually started to check out foreign flicks again – nothing that didn’t appeal, though – Guillermo del Toro’s movies, or the odd Takeshi Kitano. Movies that were good because they were good, not good because they were foreign and little known to the masses. I watched and read and listened to what I though I might like, not what I thought might better me, or impress others. I learnt to stop worrying about ticking off items from the list of Things You Should Have Read/Seen/Listened To Before You Die, and I started to enjoy shit that I liked. I didn’t feel guilty about putting on Nirvana instead of a spoken word album, nor did hesitate in slipping the Die Hard DVD in, rather than subjecting myself to something with subtitles and no soundtrack. I didn’t feel in the least bit strange when Taxi Driver did nothing for me, nor when I had to stop reading Catch-22 about a third of the way in for fear of dying of boredom. Such is life.

It doesn’t matter that there’s shit art out there. You don’t have to consume it. The shit stuff merely makes everything else seem more enjoyable (“It could be worse. I could be watching Marley & Me.”). But if you do have a strange affection for Dan Brown or Friends, it really doesn’t matter. You lap it up, champ, if it floats your boat.

Likewise it doesn’t matter that there’s smart, high-fallutin’ art out there that the cool kids dig – if the very notion of it makes you feel slightly queasy, then it’s not for you. You don’t have to dig it. But, again, if that shit does rock your world, then fill your boots.

Consequently, I’m perfectly happen to be reading The Complete Jack The Ripper at the moment, whilst a pristine, unread copy of Norwegian Wood sits on the shelf. Likewise, I watched Grumpy Old Men the other night, whilst an unopened copy of Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance sits gathering dust on the media unit. Sure, I’ll come to these fine pieces of art at some point, but only when I want to.


Life’s too short to worry about this shit. Don’t be afraid to like what you like. Be proud of it*.


* Unless you’re a Daily Mail reader, in which case you should be thoroughly ashamed.