WRITINGS & NEWS
This is a long post that became a very long post, which in turn became a dissertation of a post, which in turn became a number of smaller but still sizeable posts. This is the introduction to the introduction of those posts, and so I'm sure you're tempted to stop right here rather than read further. But you can't. You can't stop.
I've been developing this theory for quite a while. I feel that it's finally time to unveil it.
This could change everything.
Or, I could make scathing remarks about famous people, too, if you'd give me half a chance.
There are a lot of film critics in America today. Every major newspaper and magazine has at least one or two, sometimes more than that in order to offset the huge amount of films released by Hollywood each week. These critics are very individualistic, but they have a huge number of similarities: They've seen a lot of movies, and a lot of "films." They know their François Truffaut from their Jean-Luc Godard, their Apocalypse Now from their Full Metal Jacket. They know why City Lights is the greatest of Chaplin's works. They make scathing remarks about the decline of Orson Welles. These people either really know their stuff or are desperately pretending that they do. These people have strong opinions.
But they also all have the same opinions, and I find this a little strange. When a movie comes out, virtually all critics will be united in their opinion of it, a seething mass of cynicism and revulsion, or an applauding crowd of laud, glory, and gold stars. You've probably seen this, and so you know: these people think alike. That's why people refer to "the critics" as a group that seems to combine the worst elements of 1984 and Communist Russia.
On one level, of course they do. These people are intelligent, thoughtful people who love movies, and naturally they will each, individually, appreciate good filmmaking and denounce poor workmanship. So there's a logic behind their solidarity. But each of these critics have a similar thread to their reviews that doesn't follow this pattern, that in fact completely belies this: the pattern of the Free Film.
Keep reading. I'll explain. It gets more fun as it goes. But first, we have to get technical.
Or, I guess maybe I just couldn't think up a better name for my theory, but now it's too late to change it. So I'm stuck with it. Shut up and deal.
The Free Film Theory goes like this: a writer's critique of a film is based not merely on the writer's impression of the movie, but on the writer's past critique of the director/writer/actors involved in the film in inverse relation to the general popularity of those films.
Let me explain.
Suppose that one of the summer's big blockbusters is a unexciting messy windbag clunker of a film (if your imaginations are that good). The critic who sees this movie loathes it on sight, and reviews the movie accordingly. But where they place the blame for this failure is based not on whether the direction was awkward, or if the acting choppy and wooden, or the special effects garish and unconvincing. The blame is placed on the person they most feel should bear a little more blame, shielding the people the critics find deserving. How do they decide which is which? Funny you should ask. These decisions are decided mostly by the box-office results of the movies that critics either panned or praised the last time these actors/directors/writers were around. Really.
I'm sure you're doubting me, but keep reading and I'll give you an idea of how all this works.
Or, how you know when it's time to stop picking on Academy Award winners.
The Da Vinci Code arrived this summer to absolutely no critical acclaim whatsoever, as critics across the nation grabbed pitchforks and lit torches with a ferocity no one had seen since, well, The Passion of the Christ. But when it came time to point the finger at someone for the troubling lack of excitement in the film, the critics instead spent the last half of their articles lauding director Ron Howard for his "good instincts." They called him a "maestro," applauding the way he "keeps the narrative taut," and mentioning how solid all filmmaking is when it's in his hands. The reviews that ripped Code the hardest didn't even mention Howard's involvement in the film, which seems a fairly large oversight considering he was the one who directed it.
Stars Tom Hanks and Audrey Tatou also faired reasonably well, as reviews generally referred to Hanks as "sympathetic," "funny," and "immensely watchable," and a good half of them reminded everyone that Hanks is our "most likeable actor." Tatou, the world's most marketable French actress, struggles with her English throughout the film and elicts not a scrap of chemistry with Hanks, an actor capable of having fantastic chemistry with virtually all actresses, most actors, and some dogs. Yet most reviews compliment her excellent screen presence in a "difficult role." In the end of it, about four out of five reviewers pan the movie without ever really placing blame anywhere except on the mediocrity of Dan Brown's writing style. Which really, when you think about it, shouldn't have that much effect on a screenplay.
What gives?
Follow me down the rabbit hole. In 2002, Ron Howard won the Best Director Oscar for his work on A Beautiful Mind, defeating Robert Altman, Peter Jackson, Ridley Scott, and David Lynch. Critics went ballistic, calling Howard a hack and poking fun at everything about him, from the fact that he used to be "Opie" to the fact that he's bald. They reminded readers that this was the same director who made How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and EDtv, and that it was an insult to the Academy to make Howard "Best Director." Years later, they would still bring it up in articles when they got the chance.
But then Howard disappeared for a few years, and when he appeared again with The Missing, no one went to see it, even though it got mediocre to decent reviews. And critics started to feel a little bad. That maybe they'd worked so hard to push him off his pedestal that he'd never get up again. A few years later, Cinderella Man came out. Critics lauded it to the heavens, mentioning what heart Howard had as a director, and reminding everyone that this was they guy who made Apollo 13. But still, hardly anyone went to see it.
So when The Da Vinci Code finally came out, critics pulled all their punches and looked for other targets. But they couldn't blame the actors, either, for the same reasons. Hanks was the man that they'd slagged years earlier when he was up for his third "Best Actor" prize at the 2001 Academy Awards. They'd called him "undeserving," and tried to sway the vote the other way, even though it was clear that his work on Cast Away qualified him for the award. The problem wasn't that he didn't deserve it, rather the critics were loathe to award him a third prize, since that make him the only actor ever to have acquired that many, and they "weren't ready to declare him the greatest actor of all time." And so Russell Crowe won instead. And the critics felt guilty. And Hanks has been given a free pass ever since.
In the same way, no critic was ready to ridicule Tatou since they'd already spent so much of their time trying to get people to go see her other movies (over 75% of reviews written mentioned that Tatou was excellent in Amélie). So every reviewer was left with the hating the collective whole while praising the sum of its parts. An unusual review, to be sure.
So let's break this down: Ron Howard won the Best Director Oscar, which put him in the doghouse with critics because that meant that the general public had a better opinion of him than the critics thought they should. But when he started releasing movies to no public acclaim, critics began to raise their voices in support of him, thinking he'd sunk too far (which is why Cinderella Man got much better reviews on DVD than in theatres - not that the film was any better, but rather that not enough people had gone to see it). And so when he released a movie that the critics hated, he got a free pass. The Da Vinci Code was his Free Film.
Where Howard goes from here is tricky, though. If he makes an excellent film as his next film, critics will swoon and mention how "revitalized" he is after the mess of Da Vinci. But if he makes another clunker - or, worse, a Da Vinci sequel - he'll be in trouble. Because he's already used his free film.
Next up: the flip side.
Or, Robin Williams plays a most dangerous game.
Robin Williams will likely never again be a critic's favorite, and here's why: they've never really forgiven him for Patch Adams. It's true. You can actually see critic's opinion of Williams tail off since Adams was released in 1998, though in some cases it wasn't that high to begin with. But Adams is the real dividing line. And as a result, he rarely gets a Free Film. Why? Because it was his Free Film.
Let's review the critical commentary on William's work since 1998. Pay attention to its gradual pattern:
So, here's the pattern - Williams makes a movie that the critics despise. This is a strike against him. But then he doesn't learn his lesson. The first movie's successful, and then he does another movie like it, and another movie like that again. The critics are enflamed, each time ridiculing him harder and harder for having the audacity to make family-friendly cheesy comedy-dramas. Why won't he learn?
But he comes around. He switches gears again, goes back to the sort of movies that critics really love, and they gradually welcome him back into the fold. Because he's playing on their turf again. But when he switches again - well... it doesn't take much for them to turn on him.
Now, to make this example a little clearer, let me show you the other pattern working around through these films: their box-office numbers.Patch Adams: $135 million (budget: $90 million)
5 of those 8 films made money, which is not a bad average in Hollywood: Patch Adams, One Hour Photo, Insomnia, Robots, and RV. Of those, lets take out the three movies out that the critics actually liked - people going to see movies that critics liked doesn't faze them, they naturally assume that if they say a movie is good, people will go see it. So solid returns on a film with solid reviews is unsurprising to them - it's just as they thought it should be.
Jakob the Liar: $5 million ($45 million)
Bicentennial Man: $58 million ($100 million)
One Hour Photo: $31 million ($12 million)
Death to Smoochy: $8 million ($50 million)
Insomnia: $67 million ($46 million)
Robots: $128 million ($75 million)
RV: 71 million ($50 million)
But when a movie that a reviewer has lambasted ends up making money, it ends up causing a stir. A critic takes it personally when a movie he or she has considered unworthy ends up winning over a large portion of the American viewing public. Clearly, the public needs to be taught a lesson or two.
Bring in Patch Adams and RV. The trouble with those films is not that critics hated them. It's that they made money even though critics hated them. That's a pretty cardinal rule for getting in on their bad side. And so their bitterness for this makes them dig deeper into Williams in Jakob the Liar and Bicentennial Man than they normally would've. Which bodes not well for Williams.
Next year Williams will voice a penguin in Happy Feet, try on being a Jon Stewart-type on Man of the Year, and play Teddy Roosevelt in Night at the Museum. And he has no idea how much trouble he's in.
Here's what the critics will say: On Happy Feet, they'll talk about how Williams hyperactivity makes them long for the solemness of March of the Penguins. When Man of the Year comes out, they'll talk about his less-than-slick comic stylings make them long for the slyness of Stewart and Colbert. And they'll snicker that his pure gonzo manic energy drains all enjoyment from Night at the Museum. They'll call him "tiresome," "aggravating," maybe even "washed-up" if they're feeling particularly vicious.
I guess that'll teach him. The lesson: never make something the whole family can enjoy.
