A month ago, a friend of mine had a baby. I'm happily included in a cluster of folk who bring meals and coo at the fresh human. The women in that circle compare birth narratives ("...well I was in labor for twenty hours...," "...like pushing a watermelon through a straw...," "...one kid right after another, like a Pez dispenser..." and so on). And many of them — seldom in the new mother's presence, mind you — say some variation of this: "Wow, she looks good; she's lost nearly all her baby weight."
It's clear that women (yes, even in this enlightened age) value certain standards of weight loss and ideals of figure. But they dare not encourage it. They can no longer ask each other "So, when did you think you might lose those last five or six pounds?" These women are not Philistines. Many are educated "crunchy moms" who read and share articles about home delivery, organic foods, and gender empowerment. They envision and work for a world free from privilege and discrimination.
Yet standing before the bedroom mirror, these wise and modern heirs of Mary Richards still hear a grandmother's whisper: "You're going to wear that? Out where people can see you?"
Once a binding communal force, such criticism has fallen out of favor. It is particularly suspect in relationships of unequal power. Men, heterosexuals, the religious majority, naturalized citizens, white persons, those without tattoos — a member of any privileged class who articulates normative expectations of behavior or appearance risks today's trump-card labels: Discriminator. Bully.
Paradoxically, many regard the current generation as the snarkiest. Look no further than a recent edition of Jimmy Kimmel's "Mean Tweets" in which celebrities read ad hominem attacks from their Twitter accounts.
Audience laughter suggests the impotence of social media's anonymous name-calling. It simply hasn't the same force of a known — or worse, respected — authority. Consider the disapproval of a church dowager who pulls you aside and murmurs "You really should do a better job of controlling your children, dear."
I reference other forms of (increasingly unacceptable) criticism to ask what effect society's flee from judgment might have on the professor of Media Production (or, indeed, any art). Mistrusting instincts that have well served us for years, we now wonder whether if we should reward creativity at all. We worry subjective assessment might cost us popularity points.
But I know — I mean I know — when a shot ought to be held another two seconds. I know it because my experienced, educated gut tells me so. Some days, I can even articulate why it should be held. But even when I can't that doesn't make my instinct any less trustworthy. The more I see, the more I make, the more certain I am that some films are just better than others.
Professor Blake turns up the lights after screening rough cuts in his Intermediate Cinematography class. Each of three groups has presented a working version of a short film. Kai, the transgendered director of one group, is waiting for feedback on a coming-of-age story about a sexually confused high school student. Blake thinks the narrative a train wreck. He's thought that at every stage, frankly. It was a train wreck as a script. It was a train wreck as a storyboard. It's still a train wreck. Despite opportunities to inject wisdom into the process, Blake was cowed by fear of offending precious customers. If he mentioned the story's structural problems or rampant cliches, he did so in tepid language likely to invite multiple interpretations ("It's rare to see such conviction in a student script.").
Now it's mid-April. Far too late in the semester for revisions or reshoots. Blake surveys the class and asks "Who has something they'd like to say about the film?" Discussion, after all, is the foundation of the Socratic method. Except this isn't good teaching. It's Blake's faint-hearted plea for reprieve. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand.
The dam breaks. To Blake's great relief, Billy finally says it: "But the Emperor isn't wearing any clothes."
"Let's explore what you mean by that, Billy," says Blake. Suddenly, the film's many and obvious faults are exposed. It's hunting season and Kai is fair game. But Blake hasn't offered criticism from his place of privilege and power. He hasn't bullied an apprentice with subjective opinion. He isn't the antagonist. He's merely the moderator. Blake needn't defend his informed gut reaction. He needn't say "In my experience, stories with stock characters don't fare well at regional festivals." Because Billy is saying it for him.
Kai listens. Disappointed. Frustrated. Defensive. Billy's critique expands. "The story seems weak at the climax."
Sydney chimes in. "I'm not sure what you mean by the symbolism of that turtle, but I'm not getting it."
Chris jumps on the bandwagon. "That hospital scene doesn't really work for me. Have you got any takes without the mom in the frame?"
Adele's remarks get a little too personal. Professor Blake gently applies the brakes. Because he's a good guy.
Kai's editor joins in justifying their narrative choices. But that's not really the way it works, is it? There's no point in a filmmaker explaining that a tale is actually better than it seems. It's not as if George Lucas can appear in every home theater and convince watchers of DVDs that Phantom Menace is a good movie.
Blake adds some comments to bring an end to the discussion. But these are matters of technique. "Your reds are bleeding a little. Check the waveform monitor to make sure they're broadcast legal. And your dialogue's peaking in the third scene, but you can probably ADR that with an alternative take." The professor has retreated to the safety of objective standards But he knows the film's real failing is aesthetic and rhetorical. "Now, let's move on to group two's story about the mind-reader's boyfriend..."
Kai is not thinking about the mind-reader. Kai is weighing Billy's opinion against a semester of the professor's milquetoast noncommittal. If Billy's criticism has merit, why does it not square with Blake's feedback on script and storyboard?
Yes, our standards of excellence are occasionally subjective. But that does not mean they are arbitrary. Rather, they are informed by an encyclopedia of experience and cinematic exemplars. I'd love to be wrong about this, but I'm not: everything we teach may be found online. Consequently, experienced opinions are the only things of unique value professors bring to the classroom. Even in a world allergic to meaningful criticism, we must beware timidity's silence.
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