The following is an open letter to (un)said filmmaker, and hopefully all like him:
Dear Filmmaker,
A couple of weeks back, I got an email from a filmmaker
whose movie screened alongside your own at a particular festival, asking me—like
you have—for a review of his movie. I'd already seen his (having paid to do
so), and had to honestly tell him that I hadn't liked it and maybe, since I
hadn't been assigned to cover it, I might be doing him more of a favour if I
just didn't write anything at all. Very graciously, he said he was disappointed
to hear that but thanked me for having seen the film anyway. There's a man who
appreciates the symbiotic nature of film making and film criticism, who
recognised that I'd given my time to his movie not for personal gain (had I
reviewed it, it would have been for my own site), but in the hope that I'd
discover something I thought worth touting.
Your movie, as it happens, was the film I most wanted to see
at that festival, the one I'd singled out as most likely to be something
special, but other commitments sadly kept me from doing so. I was happy to have
an email from you then, though I'm sorry to say it came at rather a bad time. I
was in the midst of hectic revision for university exams, you see, necessarily
hectic due to the sheer volume of lectures I'd missed in travelling to various film
festivals and reviewing dozens of movies, again not for personal gain but for
the love of it. For as much as I might manage to earn the odd paycheque, as a
lover of cinema and writing about it, I’m more often doing it just for myself.
Would that we lived in a world where I could write and be
paid for anything I liked. That’s why I could only smile when you suggested I
cover your film—undistributed, unscreened this one small festival aside, ergo
of no real reader interest (no offence, only honesty)—for one of the more
auspicious publications for which I freelance. Would that I could! Where I
stopped smiling was at the mention of “or your other site”: that publication I
call my own, host to the passionate writing unfortunately unmarketable for one
reason or another, that you couldn’t even deign to refer to by name. That you
want more exposure is understandable, of course; to so dismissively sigh “I
guess that would do too” is rather a rude way to ask for a favour.
But that’s not nearly as egregious as what followed: “I
don't want to waste our time with a critic who may be cynical or bitter about
it.” Filmmaker, I don’t want to waste my time, particularly at a point when I
can so scarcely spare it, with a movie that may be rubbish enough to give me
cause to be cynical or bitter. But hundreds upon hundreds of times a year I do,
for nothing but the love of it, in the hope that I can help spread the word
about a movie that may be a masterpiece. Which, your irritating attitude aside,
might yet have been the case with your movie. I’m a firm believer in separating
art from artist, and I hoped I might still give it a chance when I could afford
the time.
“Hey man hurry up and get back to me please!” you emailed
not twelve hours later. Polite, I guess, but proof positive that you deemed
nothing I could possibly have had to do as more important than watching your movie.
Critics, it’s clear, you view as nothing more than marketing tools for you; it’s
a common view, but that doesn’t excuse its ignorance. I’m not some
basement-dwelling creature flattered by the chance of a free movie; I’m a
movie-loving man who wants to combine my passions for the written word and the
moving image to steer my readers toward experiences they might otherwise miss.
Still in the midst of exams with a book chapter deadline fast approaching on
top, taking time out of my life to review your film would be a personal favour
I didn’t really feel like extending to someone who seemed to value my time and
work so little.
How kind of you to prove me right, spouting the failed
filmmaker line that could only conceivably be believed by an idiot or an
infant. That knee-jerk nonsense does nothing more than to confirm your
ludicrous conceptions of criticism, one you share with all too many filmmakers.
Forgetting the logical labyrinth that is your claim that my not wanting to
watch your film somehow betrays my lack of commitment to making movies myself (seriously,
what?), let me be exceptionally clear
about something: I have never wanted to make films, never wanted anything more—nor
less—than to implement the unique persuasive qualities of the written
word to point people kind enough to read my work toward cinematic experiences I
think important. That is my job, as I see it, and it’s the one I’ve opted to
pursue despite its myriad financial frailties, and the misconceptions and
downright dreadfulness from people like you it exposes me to on all too regular
a basis. I don’t work to serve you, even if I do to serve the art form of
which, I suppose, you must be considered a part. I do it—all together now—for
the love, and I’d love you to recognise that rather than resorting to facile
name-calling. I mean really, come on. It just makes you sound like a failed
critic.
Yours in weariness, and a non-negated hope for your film’s
quality,
Ronan Doyle
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