Happy endings only happen in the movies: 143 Reasons to Love Film

I've always loved films, and where many people can define periods of their life by the sort of music they were listening to at the time, my life is broken into films. Watching Ghostbusters instantly transports me to around the age of five, whereas The Jungle Book and Tron will forever be linked in my mind because they were both taped off the telly on the same video, circa 1989. Gremlins fills me with the same sense of giddy, naughty joy that it did when I was seven. Later, The Matrix defined my adolescence, and as philosophically simplistic as that film may seem now, it was in many ways an instrumental part of my formative years. High Fidelity has become a great friend when loneliness and heartache have set in, and despite never having watched it with them, It's a Wonderful Life reminds me of my grandparents. It's my birthday at the end of this month, so dear reader, I hope you'll forgive me whilst I indulge myself with a lengthy, sentimental and rambling list of some the reasons that I love films, in a format that I have stolen wholesale from here. Enjoy:

I love films because it just popped in there.

Because I'm fuzzy on the whole good / bad thing.

Because after nineteen films, the shark still looks fake.

Because Back to the Future: Part III ends on the day that I was born.

Because it can shoot the fleas off a dog's back at three hundred yards, and it's pointed straight at your head.

Because the original title of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly was The Two Magnificent Tramps. 

Because you're the son of a thousand whores.

Because this coffee is good, like my mother used to make it. Hot, and strong, and good.

Because you can talk, but can you play?


Because of Rocky.

Because Rocky IV is the most successful sports film ever made.

Because the training montage in Rocky Balboa elicited spontaneous unanimous applause from the cinema audience when I saw it with a friend.

Because Rocky III is the one of the funniest films I've ever seen, and openly laughing at it once got me in loads of trouble with someone.


Because when I slap you you'll take it and like it.

Because it's the stuff dreams are made of.

Because even Raymond Chandler didn't know who the killer was.

Because every one of you listening to my voice, tell the world, tell this to everybody where ever they are: watch the skies! Keep looking! Keep watching the skies!

Because It's Alive!


Because I hate being right all the time.

Because it wasn't the planes that did it. It was beauty killed the beast.

Because it's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.

Because it's too bad she won't live. But then again, who does?

Because she was giving me a look I could feel in my hip pocket.

Because Harry Callahan doesn't break cases, he smashes them.

Because of Harry Callahan's silhouette on the bridge.

Because of Indiana Jones' silhouette in the doorway of Marianne's bar.

Because of Batman's silhouette anywhere.

Because I'm Batman.

Because I'm Spiderman.

Because I believe in Harvey Dent.

Because the Joker won.

Because some days you just can't get rid of a bomb.

Because of smiling at the camera.

Because of John Williams.


Because of silence.

Because of chiaroscuro.

Because of the cuckoo clock.

Because of technicolour.

Because of Alfred Hitchcock.

Because of dream sequences.

Because of the Coen Brothers

Because this isn't 'Nam dude, this is bowling. There are rules.

Because it's y'know, for kids.

Because of Frank Capra.

Because only people of a certain disposition worry about dying alone at the age of twenty six. We were of that disposition.

Because no man is a failure who has friends.


Because I believe in America.

Because America isn't a country: it's a business. Now fucking pay me.

Because of a closing door.

Because ever since I can remember I've wanted to be a gangster.

Because we ran everything. We paid off cops, we paid off lawyers, we paid off judges. Everybody had their hands out. Everything was for the taking. And now it's all over. And that's the hardest part. Today everything is different, there's no action; I have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even get decent food. Right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody; I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.


Because of Martin Scorsese.

Because of Steven Spielberg.

Because of Sergio Leone.

Because of John Carpenter.

Because of Richard Marquand.

Because Luke almost loses it.

Because of Irvin Kershner.

Because I know.

Because of George Lucas before he lost it.

Because of Howard Hawks.

Because of John Ford.

Because of David Lean.


Because they're coming to get you, Barbara.

Because of Hollywood in the 1970s.

Because of Warner Brothers studios in the 1930s and 40s.

Because of the Universal Horror cycle in the 1930s and 40s.

Because of James Whale.

Because of Boris Karloff.

Because of Bela Lugosi.

Because I never drink wine.

Because of Hammer studios.

Because Dracula is Dead and Well and Living in London.

Because I'm twelve, more or less.

Because of Sean Connery.

Because of George Lazenby.

Because Nobody Does it Better.

Because of Matt Damon.

Because of Paul Greengrass.

Because of Daniel Craig.

Because of Michael Fassbender.


Because of Bill Murray's smirk.

Because of Paul Newman's eyes.

Because of Lauren Bacall's voice.

Because of James Stewart's voice.

Because of Al Pacino's loud voice.

Because Robert De Niro doesn't need a loud voice.

Because of Jack Nicholson's mischief.

Because of James Cagney's delivery.

Because of Anne Bancroft's smoulder.

Because of Bruce Lee's discipline.

Because of Humphrey Bogart.


Because of Disney.

Because of the Disney renaissance.

Because of Ghibli.

Because of Pixar.

Because authority should derive from the consent of the governed, not from the threat of force.

Because of holding hands with no dialogue.


Because of 28 Weeks Later.

Because of Let the Right One In.

Because of The Secrets in their Eyes.

Because of The Artist.

Because of Changeling.


Because of Dumbo.

Because of pink elephants.

Because of Tron.

Because Tron still looks amazing.

Because of The Jungle Book.

Because of the bare necessities.

Because of Pete's Dragon.

Because of Raggedy Ann and Andy.

Because of The Land Before Time.

Because of trying never to hate a movie, even Paul WS Anderson ones.

Because I still hate Lord of the Rings out of all reasonable proportion.

Because if you don't like Back to The Future, you probably don't like films.

Because of the Bechdel Test.

Because of the Hays Code.

Because of Great American Cinema.

Because of British films.

Because of forgetting that you're reading subtitles.

Because it's worth paying to see re-releases even though I've got the DVD at home.



Because of a beautiful friendship.

Because of stuff that she likes.

Because I agree with the second part.

Because I'm on top of the world, ma!

Because the world is yours.

Because James Bond will return.

Because Optimus Prime will return.

Because of The End...?

Because life moves pretty fast.

Because of smuggling in Pick and Mix.

Because of Pearl & Dean.

Because of turning my phone off.

Because of the trailers.

Because of the BBFC certificate.

Because of the lights going down.

Because of the curtains going back.

Because of feeling weird when it's still daylight outside.


Because of going when I'm on holiday.

Because of going with people.

Because of going by myself.

Because being a Ghostbuster still seems like the coolest job in the world.

I could probably go on, but you get the idea.

"Along come these left-wing militants who blast everything within a three-mile radius with their lasers": Why the concept of over-analysis is a stupid myth and doesn't exist.

This fortnight's / month's post is on a subject dear to my heart, and one which surrounds a popular myth that has bugged me for years: the position that certain films, books, music and popular entertainment weren't meant to an analysed in any serious way, and any attempt to do so is a futile and pretentious enterprise, practised by only the most self-indulgent of navel-gazers. I put to you that this viewpoint is not merely misguided and narrow-minded, but that it is self-contradictory and demonstrably false. Yes, dear readers, tonight I defend that most unpopular and derided of creatures: the film critic. Incidentally, this one is a bit of a rant.

Spongebob Squarepants: Disproving the myth of stuffy academics

Firstly, let me begin my blasting the popular conception of art criticism. Since this is a blog about films I'll limit myself to that medium. The image of the critic distanced from both popular opinion and reality, jollying himself to the meta-academic pleasures of Federico Fellini's 8 1/2, sat in his ivory tower while he misses the more earthy, blue-collar pleasures of Joe Dante's Gremlins, looking down his nose at anything that resembles a blockbuster, is as old as the hills and is still extremely pervasive. Whilst I'd agree there is an element of snobbery amongst some schools of criticism (Halliwell's Film Guide, I'm looking at you), the vast majority of popular critics that I read are as open to American blockbusters as they are to Scandinavian social realism and Italian arthouse cinema. Even amongst so-called bonafide academics, there is an extraordinary rejection of snobbery: one of my university supervisors, who has got a PhD and academic publications and everything loves Spongebob Squarepants and Batman: The Animated Series. The notion that 'high' critics don't engage with 'low' art in any positive way is nonsense and needs to stop.

This leads me on to my main target - the (frankly, idiotic) mantra that some films were never meant to be 'over-analysed'. This is something that I have heard repeated over and again from intelligent, normally open-minded individuals, and it has to stop. Firstly, let me start with the word 'meant'. This is misleading because is presupposes that the mantra-chanter somehow had access to the inner-motivations of the film-makers when they wrote, directed, filmed and edited their work. You might well think that Michael Bay's Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen was never meant to be watched as anything other than entertainment, but, how exactly do you know this? Did Bay consult with you beforehand, wringing his hands over whether he is an artist, or entertainer (as if those things are mutually fucking exclusive to begin with)? No? Well then sit the fuck down. More to the point, the intent of the artist doesn't bloody matter. In scholarship / criticism / whatever, there's a rule called the Intentional Fallacy, which, in short, states that 1) We can't ever really know the intentions of an artist so there's little point in trying to decipher them, and 2) there will inevitably be meanings and subtexts in any piece of art not necessarily consciously inserted by the artist. Did Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster consciously invoke Christian iconography when they created Superman? Maybe, maybe not, but it's damn well there and you'd be a fool to deny it on the basis that the creators didn't intend it to be there.

Gremlins is only fit for entertainment, you say?
Fuck you.

So that's one word polished off. Let's move on to the next one, and the real meat of my argument: 'over-analysed'. Like it or not, we analyse things everyday. If you're not particularly bothered about the cultural significance of Roy William Neill's Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, or how Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo is really about the voyeuristic nature of cinema and the objectification of women, that's fine with me (though I really do think you're missing out if you don't care just a little bit), but don't call the discussion of these things something they're not. What, I think, people usually mean by 'over-analyse' is that whatever film review / article / opinion they're griping about, a review of the aforementioned Gremlins, for example, has exceeded the analytical limitations they would like to see set for that particular film. Let's say you disagree with my opinion that what makes Gremlins interesting is the way it constantly breaks the fourth wall in a way that reflects the delightful, dangerous and hilarious anarchy that the eponymous Gremlins embody. Perhaps you don't like my writing style, or you favour the opinion that the Gremlins represent something other than anarchy, which is all fine and dandy. But, and excuse me while my prose briefly devolves into splenetic fury, exactly who the fuck put you in charge of how far I'm allowed to analyse a film, or whether that's how I should derive pleasure from it? Do you like Gremlins? Well, bad luck chump-change, because you've just analysed a film. Yep, that's right, even deciding whether or not you like something constitutes analysis, since presumably you've come to your decision based on, you know, the component parts of the film and whether they add up to something that pleases your pink little brain. To return to my carefully considered question, who (the fuck) put you in charge of deciding when I should stop analysing Gremlins, or Superman, or my fucking Campbell's Tomato Soup if the mood should strike me?

There is no such thing as over-analysis. You can analyse something well, and you can analyse something badly. You can make your points in a measured articulate way, or you can ramble incoherently. You can make complex ideas clear and accessible, or you can obscure simple ideas with impenetrable prose and a contempt for your reader. You can look at every facet of one frame of a film, or you can discuss the movie's big themes. You can make a value judgement based on a historical or purely aesthetic basis. You can hate a film because it's pretentious and self-indulgent, or because it's violent and over-crammed with unnecessary CGI. You can take whatever opinion of a film that you like, but you can't accuse critics of over-analysis because it's nonsensical, and this silly, embarrassing fallacy of taking criticism 'too far', whether it's for The Three Colours Trilogy or Uncle Buck, has got to stop. It's just bloody stupid.