Why It’s OK to Love Bad Movies

Recent years have seen a proliferation of philosophical texts which, without loss of scholarly rigor, are written in prose that is accessible, colloquial, and even humorous. Matthew Strohl’s Why It’s OK to Love Bad Movies represents the apogee of this trend. Strohl’s academic bona-fides are on display during his analyses of topics ranging from artists’ intentions to taste, imagination, and the good life; yet philosophy is the MacGuffin in a study that could more aptly be described as a piece of film criticism, or even a manifesto. The book’s appeal lies ultimately in Strohl’s masterful descriptive writing, which draws the reader through evocative, at times gleeful retellings of scenes from various disreputable movies. These animate the text, which in the end seems less a series of careful arguments than an irresistibly visceral defense of the joys afforded by the medium of film. The central philosophical claims are laid out most clearly in Chapters 1 and 6. In Chapter 1, we encounter the concept of “Bad Movie Love,” defined on page 21 as a sincere rather than sneering appreciation of the ways a film transgresses conventional norms (an account developed primarily through engagement with Susan Sontag’s influential writings on camp). There may be some limited sense in which a film is deemed “bad,” Strohl argues, yet recognition of this badness often occasions a more thoroughgoing enjoyment of the film in question, which indeed may be judged valuable in part because it is bad in this limited sense. Strohl’s discussion initially seems at risk of question-begging. Even if most films can, with sufficient critical effort, become sources of aesthetic pleasure, it is not immediately clear why we should allocate time to bad movies rather than to masterworks whose virtues need no defense. Clarification comes in two forms throughout the book. The problem finds explicit resolution in Chapter 6 when Strohl argues that the types of enjoyment a film affords depend largely on the context in which it is experienced. Even if great artworks might, in some absolute sense, occupy an aesthetic peak to which the cinematically abject cannot aspire (a possibility never ruled out), many demand considerable attention on the part of viewers. As a result, such artworks can only be appreciated in particular circumstances, and with some effort. By contrast, a bad movie can be enjoyed in a far wider range of circumstances; and for this reason, Bad Movie Love not only complements Great Movie Love but indeed may be the more significant of the two in its potential to contribute value to most people’s lives. The implicit portion of the book’s agenda is revealed over the course of the intervening chapters, in the series of vivid exegeses that amount to what is essentially a model of the pleasures a practiced viewer can derive from individual films or the work of individual artists. Particularly dazzling in this respect is Chapter 5, which attempts a critical overview of Nicolas Cage’s career. In this chapter, Strohl discusses some 40 Cage films, arguing that the actor commonly associated with a blend of misplaced earnestness and over-the-top freakouts is, in fact, one of the greatest and most thoughtful artists in cinematic history. This appraisal rests partly on the basic claim that detractors misunderstand the nature of Cage’s craft, usually by failing to consider the artistry, preparation, and consummate skill such intense performances demand. Strohl also highlights more elusive aspects of Cage’s output: for instance, the many layers of irony that emerge when Cage treats even inane roles with such unwavering commitment, as well as Cage’s many deft references to earlier theatrical styles, most notably those associated with Expressionism. (For instance, Cage’s performance as an opera-loving one-handed baker in Moonstruck draws from Rudolf Klein-Rogge’s role in Fritz Lang’s 1927 Metropolis.) Although these observations occur within the book’s critical passages, they allow Strohl to pursue his philosophical argument in another direction. In many cases, he claims, in addition to being sources of significant aesthetic interest, “bad” movies are of instrumental importance for the film industry as a whole. Strohl argues that Cage’s films should be understood as aesthetic laboratories in which artists are free to experiment without concern for the commercial viability of their products. Cage’s unbridled willingness to look ridiculous onscreen, in this view, is simply one instance of a merit Strohl ascribes to many of the films he discusses, whose comparatively small budgets and niche markets embolden their creators to test new styles and techniques. Nor is this instrumental value rooted only in the films themselves, but associated equally with the small but committed fan-bases such artworks attract. Strohl repeatedly points out that lovers of “bad” films have a high tolerance for the unusual or avant-garde. As a result, their tastes are among the engines that fuel aesthetic innovations that, with time and luck, might be absorbed into the cinematic mainstream. At this point, I have begun to enclose “bad” in quotation marks, because the reader of this book quickly finds that the “bad” movies Strohl describes are not so bad after all, even in the limited sense of the term introduced early on. Strohl’s descriptions of scenes from these films are, in any case, so compelling that it is difficult to read the book without coming to believe that these works, too, are masterpieces in disguise. Strohl’s focus on this possibility deepens as the text unfolds, and becomes clearest when he exhorts viewers to approach all films, even the baddest of bad movies, with open-mindedness. Strohl’s point is not that every artwork has something to offer: he concedes that some films are entirely without redeeming qualities. He wishes to show, however, that unless we muster a basic level of viewerly generosity, we’ll never know what pleasures we might have derived from an ostensibly bad film. If this claim seems uncontroversial, Strohl treats it in such a way that it, too, contributes to the relativization of the word “bad.” Consider this description of Strohl’s own dawning appreciation of the Twilight series: “initially I thought it was bad, then I thought it was good because it was bad, and then finally I realized that at least some aspects of it are just plain good” (p. 167, italics original). In this scheme, badness turns out not to be an attribute of the Twilight series at all; it is a passing feature, briefly perceived but swiftly repudiated on the path to discovering the film’s more enduring qualities. It is with this in mind that we should approach Strohl’s many delightful exegeses. Strohl does not merely describe sequences from films but narrates them in prose that itself accomplishes much of the work of criticism. His rundown of the opening sequence of Batman & Robin (Joel Schumacher, 1997), for instance, is punctuated with spirited interjections: “Batman and Robin are shown putting on their rubber suits in a rapid series of close-ups. BAM! Batman’s ass in tight rubber. BAM! Batman’s crotch in a codpiece. BAM! Robin’s ass in tight rubber. BAM! Robin’s crotch in a codpiece” (p. 69). The prose here does not attempt to render the actual content of the film, which is cut smoothly, without any equivalent to “BAM!” in the visuals or soundtrack. Rather, the interjections are superadded, revealing something of Strohl’s energetic and enthusiastic style of viewership. The same occurs elsewhere, especially during the extended discussion of Cage. As this chapter progresses, Strohl begins to run out of ways to describe the actor’s climactic freakouts and is left with no recourse but to abandon the decorum of scholarly prose. Thus, his description of what viewers encounter in Mandy: “title cards in a heavy metal font, a synth score, neon lighting, fantasy references aplenty, and Cage flipping the fuck out” (pp. 153–4). The vitality of these and other passages make the book a pleasure to read, but it also demonstrates Strohl’s philosophical convictions concerning generosity and criticism. The prose, by turns entertaining and instructive, models how a committed viewer may approach these films with a mindset focused on joy rather than ridicule. This idea is framed reasonably and carefully, yet it suggests something strange about the book’s trajectory. If it is true that many “bad” movies are not in fact bad, but are good—perhaps even great—movies in disguise, then the book’s philosophical arguments do not really amount to a defense of Bad Movie Love. Instead, they defend the love of medium-bad or even kinda-good movies. The artworks Strohl discusses are, in other words, still eminently worth our time. We may not be in the mood to ingest Vertigo or Citizen Kane, but in Strohl’s hands many films that seem superficially bad can still contribute much to a rich, aesthetic life. This means that the kind of defense such films need is critical rather than philosophical. Strohl’s purpose, it seems, is to show that these works (and others like them) are excellent, rather than that the category of “bad movies” (into which most viewers wrongly place these films) needs rehabilitation. From this perspective, some of the arguments laid out in Chapters 1 and 6 are largely moot. Strohl goes to great lengths to make a case for Bad Movie Love; yet what he defends instead is a sophisticated form of connoisseurship that eludes less thoughtful viewers. This also speaks to the only disappointing feature of the book’s trajectory, which lies in the tension between the joyful writing on the one hand and, on the other, the more modest aims for which Strohl ultimately stakes a claim. Amid the pleasures of reading Chapters 2–5, it is easy to forget that the study’s guiding premise is simply that it’s OK to love bad movies—not that we should love them, much less that it is incumbent upon us to love them, even when their merits are so beautifully enumerated. Arriving at the final pages and being reminded that Strohl hopes to have shown only that it is “not mandatory” to love these films, I felt a strong sense of anticlimax (p. 194). Spurred by my enjoyment of this book, I have since read three others in the Why It’s OK series. The authors of these other studies hedge exactly as Strohl does, emphasizing that their brief isn’t to show that readers “should” do certain things, simply that “it’s OK” to do them—and, at the end of all four, I felt the same pang of dissatisfaction. The pang is sharpest in the present case, where the official scope of the series seems too flimsy to support the marvelous critical work Strohl accomplishes in these pages. One question many readers will be tempted to consider is whether Strohl’s philosophical apparatus might apply beyond cinema, offering insights into other artistic media. In some cases, the answer is almost certainly yes. The idea that bad movies fuel artistic experimentation, for instance, seems relevant to the full spectrum of artistic pursuits. Rigorous application of the concept would contribute much to our understanding of the performing arts in particular, and possibly to the literary and visual arts as well. In all of these media, innovations have historically been pioneered in low-stakes—which is often to say low-budget—situations before garnering more widespread appreciation and ultimately being taken up in conventional outlets; and for most of these media, a satisfying, comprehensive account of the interplay between creativity, innovation, and badness has yet to be written. Other topics Strohl discusses, meanwhile, including convention and transgression, have already featured in foundational accounts of many artistic practices. Elsewhere, Strohl’s arguments are tied more specifically to cinema. Consider his final defense of Bad Movie Love, articulated in Chapter 6. The discussion begins on page 185, with a summary of one common argument against spending time on bad movies: (1) some films are considered by broad consensus to be great; (2) people are busy and have limited time to watch movies; (3) bad movies are less worthwhile than great movies; (4) time spent watching bad movies could be spent watching great movies; therefore bad movies should be avoided. I have already mentioned that Strohl objects to (3) and (4)—the former because even movies that are bad in a limited sense might be valuable in a final sense, and the latter because not all time-slots afford the conditions for optimal viewing of great movies, so that some time is indeed better spent watching bad movies. In these cases, it is not only not-worse to watch a bad movie than a great movie; it may actually be better, since bad movies will spark a larger measure of experiential pleasure. This may be true in the case of movies; but what about Bad Music Love or Bad Novel Love? The case for Bad Music Love is tenuous at best. Central to Strohl’s counterargument is that not all aesthetic slots are suited to the consumption of great movies. But it is possible to go further, as he does on page 186 when he points out that not all slots are suited to the consumption of movies at all. It is difficult to view a film, for instance, while walking or cooking. Yet both slots, as well as many other non-movie slots, do offer the possibility of listening to music. This means that listening, including to bad music, can occur far more readily than watching movies. Consider, too, that music predates cinema, and that, because music requires comparatively few resources from its creators (most essentially, a pen and paper), there is far more music in existence than there are films. It takes little extrapolation to conclude that the number of bad movies in existence pales in comparison to the amount of bad music, and that the critical open-mindedness Strohl encourages would be less advisable in this other domain. Indeed, the relative ease of creating music is partly what distinguishes it from cinema, where significant error-correcting mechanisms are often built into the creative process, as manifested in the number of creative minds who work on any given film project and the many layers of editing and distribution that occur between conception and theatrical release. In this light, it seems that film is a special case: an artform for which production costs are unusually high, and in which true badness is therefore unlikely to survive, or perhaps even to emerge in the first place. This possibility is corroborated by Strohl’s study, which shows that so many disreputable films are actually rather good—and all of this suggests that non-movie artforms, particularly those which, like music, are easy to consume, require a different philosophical approach if we are to draw a useful distinction between that which is worth our time and that which is not. The question of bad novels plays differently against Strohl’s aesthetic slots. Like movies, novels require mental attention and, if read from the printed page, visual attention. In this sense, novels and movies occupy similar slots. Yet they diverge in the amount of time each demands from its consumers. A standard film lasts around 90–120 minutes; but reading a novel can require an investment of days, weeks, or even months. This means that the stakes involved in weeding out bad novels are higher than for cinema, since an inopportune choice can dominate a significantly larger portion of the reader’s aesthetic life. And, as with music, the sheer quantity of written texts produced before the invention of film, as well as the comparatively low production costs associated with the written word, means that it is difficult to sift bad literature from good. This returns us to the inevitable question of what it means for an artwork to be bad—a question which, when taken in this wider context, casts Strohl’s cinema-focused relativism in a somewhat less favorable light. Yet the challenges of applying Strohl’s arguments to other media make his book’s actual aims, and its many ringing successes, all the more apparent. If Strohl’s agenda is not ultimately geared towards the defense of truly-bad movies, or if he fails to sketch a satisfying philosophical rather than critical account of badness, these are minor flaws in a book whose value lies instead in its virtuosic analyses and in the perceptive, loving viewership it demonstrates.

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