After a way-too-long absence, it appears that film blogger Lisa Rosman is back on the case. Using Broken English as a jumping-off point, she takes stock of the Hollywood blockbuster vs. indie movie paradigm, and finds both lacking. Hollywood, of course, is Hollywood:
Anyone who’s read this blog over the last few years knows of my mounting frustration with the American independent film scene. Why I reserve my ire for this world rather than Hollywood is simple: I refuse to play frog to the scorpion of the major studio system. Complaining that a major motion picture is crap is pretty much like whining that Twinkies don’t yield nutritional value. The studio system is predicated on a business model in which the value of individual films is calculated on how much money they produce, plain and simple: if the studio doesn’t anticipate a film will make money, it shan’t be made. And if it anticipates that it will make money, made it shalt beeven if the script is riddled with holes, the stars radically miscast, and the editing as junky as the guys huddled on my corner. That the financial worth of these movies is predicated to some degree on people’s experienced (or anticipated) pleasure is the only place where aesthetic or social value enters this picture, ultimately, even if the individual cogs–the directors, the actors, cinematographers, editors, what have you–still care fiercely about the quality of the work they are producing for financially unrelated reasons.
Then again, indie dreck is still dreck:
To be fair, many filmmakers are trying. It’s just that their efforts show, and I resent being bombarded by the seams of a filmmaker’ intentions — no matter how earnest they are. Truly, most indie fare these days suffers from overearnestness of one ilk or another. There are the Sayles babies, who attempt to solve or at least tackle all the world’s problems in one swell foop. Even those ventures that are banging in theory still go down like medicine that could use a spoonful of sugar. Then there are the many indie filmmakers content to merely approach their own problems via the medium of film. Admittedly, this self-searching, however initially masturbatory, has served as the chief impetus of most art since the beginning of time. (As a certain someone has been known to say: “now you’re going to start knocking my hobbies?”) But there’s a difference between, say, Noah Baumbach, who dresses his 90-minute therapy session (The Squid and the Whale) in early 80s nostalgia rather than any greater relevance, and European film, which philosophizes about human emotion rather than wallows it. So much of American indie that doesn’t labor to wake us with dirty buckets of cold water–clunky ventures such as Fast Food Nation or, oy, The Situation–languishes instead inside the grime of a writer-director’s navel, albeit one charmingly or whimsically adorned.
Oh, there’s more, much more. And she even has the audacity to end her scorched-earth comeback on a note of hope. Go read it.