Why Modern Arthouse Cinema Kinda Sucks Dick

First off, I chose to say “sucks dick,” because I’m a straight male who is still of the belief that sucking a penis, or many ‘peni’ would be a fate worse than death. I of course, reserve the right to say this, as future historians that find this kind of cavalier homophobia off-putting will recall us primitive Earthlings of 2016 still operate on a tiny monkey-brain that governs most thoughts, and has yet to catch up to pan-sexualism. I assume if you’re reading this in the future, you have solved this biological conundrum through technology. First off, congratulations. Secondly, check yourself: you were given a better opportunity, which I assume means flying cars as well. So don’t go getting all “Icarus” on me because we all know how that ended.

Arthouse films, or “foreign films” (or just "films" in societies that have evolved to appreciate refined cinema created for purposes other than to make your brain bleed dopamine) has been around for almost as long as the first recorded movie. I believe this was somewhere post American Civil War. I’m going to take a stab in the dark, and say 1885. I’m not researching any of this, so save your wikipedia-searched comments. I wrote a term paper for my undergrad that involved these dates but it was on pornogrpahy. To be honest, I should have cut and pasted that paper on here.

ANYWAY, film used to be more than an arduous and zig-zaggy way into fame, and tax evasion (wink wink Ingrid Bergman). It stood for a complex perspective of an artist, bringing to life what they saw as a story that needed telling.

Films vary from novels, in ways that if I were to list, it would cause undue anger in you, dear reader, as we ALL know the differences. But because you’re probably reading this from the year 2084 from your fusion-powered sea-do, I’ll forgo the criticism of contemporary readers. Really you guys, I’m writing this for three people know to be alive who would appreciate it. So then:

1. Sight
2. Sound
3. That’s pretty much it

But within sight and sound are countless microcosms awaiting the synthesis from a conscious observer (you, dummy). While a book allowed us to pick up exactly where we left off, a film did not have that advantage. You couldn’t exactly take your giant projector, with a flammable nitrogen-glazed film that was once encased in an unmeltable cage in the theater, for fear of burning down the entire building (true story!). Could you IMAGINE that? Being an a horse and buggy and saying, “gee, I think I’ll pull over here and fancy a few minutes of Dr. Calligari." That would be crazy. And to think that they wouldn't be watching some really hilarious silent film stag film is even more unimaginable.

Anyway, no you can’t, because no they didn’t. It was impossible. Movies couldn’t be used at whim like a cheap punching bag and/or hooker. But I feel that’s the case nowadays. There is no accountability for a filmmaker, and as attention spans grow fainter, they need more to keep us interested. I don’t blame our generation, I simply blame technology and you pricks in your flying cars.

Yes, cinema was darling 100-60 years ago. It knew that you were watching this fucking thing from beginning to end, no matter what. Nowadays, cinema can be downloaded for pennies, if not pretend-pennies that I SWEAR i will one day pay back when I become wealthy from one of my screenplays. But this is the problem, isn't it? The Long Take is something that went the way of the doe-doe (spelling? I’m honestly not checking any of this shit), and it’s utterly criminal that experimental techniques are an obfuscation of something Quinten Tarrintino (Spelling? Fuck it, you KNOW i'm legit not checking any of this) had created in his latest movie. We get a facsimile of the latest techniques in cinematography, borrowed from a filmmaker separated not by culture, or perspective, or even a generation.

I can't say cinema isn't what it used to be without offering, "thank God," at the end. Cinema has changed, and is an ever-morphing technology, with an infinite mode of presentation. It is amazing, and will continue to amaze. But I fear dear reader, probably having a blast doing ALL the cool future drugs, that we have forgone an important aspect of what the image has become. These new techniques are great, and perhaps it is the wasted hours watching Tarkovsky following disparate characters across a Siberian plane, that feel a necessary pull-back to that torture; a literal Stockholm Syndrome from Norse Cinema. And I find myself being critical of the filmmaker. Why do I feel like this film is too short? Why do I feel like I'm watching a movie, and not simply staring at a vacationing family walking across a beach for 12 minutes, only to shake myself out of hypnotic boredom to realize the genius of Neo-Realism, having consumed me whole? I hope I don't end up sounding like one of those people that PROMISES you their beatles reprint on vinyl is unquestionably a different experience than hearing it on (TUH!) MP3. I simply want some boring shit that costs a ton of money, that I can brag about seeing like a freed hostage from a non-terrorist related situation.

So yes, for those reasons, art house films are inferior and suck le cock. La cock?