film criticism holds that if
the reviewer were not able to channel the truth from the ether onto the page,
then the Gods of Celluloid (or mylar or whatever it is) would find some other worthy sycophant to perform the necessary prophetic and finger-pointing task.
While the Amurrican filmbakers saw the flickers as just a way to get AITS (asses in the seats, an old dead theater term) so they could sell popcorn, soda, cigarettes, bicycle tire patch kits and movie magazines, it were the Franch who had a bunch of bored writers who were tired of writing about art and photography and pronography and writing and absinthe and theatre and just how unbearlably cute the pissoirs in Paree were, and decided to approach the film as an art form and then rape the minds of their readers into submission..
to the point where some of the more awful of the authors ventured out to become auteurs and crank out a few feet of awfully unauthorized flattened wood byproducts of their own. The guitar pick industry never recovered.
It is a lieism that most flim refusers are failed screenscribblers themselves, just as it is that most book refusers are failed booktypists. It is also a lieism that most flim rewards activities are acts of self-stimulation by either refusers or members in good standing of the flim commisariat.
The mutual depreciation that flim exposers rain upon each other is sickening to watch and the end result of this collision of strange bedfellows is often a miscarriage of art and paul, not to mention peter and mary.