We Filmwell writers are aficionados of the kind of films most people never hear about: foreign movies, realism, character-driven stories – the little, the obscure, the transcendent. Sure, we like our blockbusters, but sometimes it’s the little films that really sit in your soul.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about today. My husband works in film and we love these moderately obscure movies, too. After all, we spent New Year’s Eve at the Che roadshow at IFC, we purposely sought out an all-region DVD player, and we’ve trekked into Manhattan for 9am screenings of films like Silent Light. But a few years ago – after a marathon Kieslowsi film festival at Lincoln Center which involved seventeen Kieslowski films inside of a week – we instituted a tradition we gleefully call Bad Movie Night.
On Sunday nights, we settle into the couch with a few good beers, a bowl of popcorn, and a bar of good chocolate and watch a double feature of “bad movies.” That doesn’t mean truly bad movies (although we have seen a couple of those, notably Smart People and Towelhead), but often it’s a couple of mediocre Hollywood flicks that we weren’t willing to pay $12 per ticket to see, or decent comedies from the 90’s. They’re usually movies that can be summed up in a few phrases, such as “it was funny” or “stuff blows up.” Think Men in Black. Think Baby Mama. Think RocknRolla.
We watch two films at a time because, as we found out one fated night that included Get Rich or Die Tryin’, if one of the films turns out to be truly horrible, the second one often seems magnificent by comparison (in this case, it was that Keanu Reeves classic for the ages, Constantine).
I’m thinking about these movies today because, due to a variety of reasons, we haven’t seen any new movies for a while. But we’ve managed to keep Bad Movie Night intact. Now that Netflix streams over our MacBooks, the possibilities are nearly endless. It’s difficult to sit through a The Wind Will Carry Us or Climates on a late night at the end of a busy week. Sundays are the perfect evening for mindless double features, as we approach a new and busy week.
One unexpected result of Bad Movie Night is I’ve been reconsidering my views of bad movies. My movie-watching experience has been mostly shaped by the past decade, in which the romantic comedies that I think will actually endure are not Confessions of a Shopaholic, but Judd Apatow’s flicks. It’s a decade in which American indie cinema became a genre, not a description of a way of funding movies. It’s a time in which things like mumblecore came and went.
So when I approach some of the movies from the 90’s that I missed on the first go-round – like Men in Black or When Harry Met Sally – I bring some of my expectations to the table. I expect it to be melodramatic, poorly written, one-dimensional, like a lot of what is made in those genres today. I’m always surprised when I genuinely enjoy these films, and not just because they’re entertaining, but because they’re pretty good. (Sometimes.)
I also find that my appreciation for truly great film increases when I’m not spending all my time watching it. That’s not to say that the only great films are all quiet, slow, and subtitled – after all, two of my very favorite films are Waiting for Guffman and Stranger Than Fiction – but sometimes a steady diet of serious means we lose our sense of humor. I love a fancy french toast stuffed with creme fraiche and sprinkled with freshly-picked blackberries, but I’d probably love it less if I didn’t also eat bagels with cream cheese pretty often.
Find yourself getting burnt out on great film? I recommend a Bad Movie Night.