I just stumbled upon a review of Un Couple parfait that calls it the “quintessential Boring Art Film.” The same critic dismisses Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man because it “cares more about impressing the audience with profound ideas” than about giving them a compelling narrative. (I watched Dead Man for the first time Sunday night and am pretty sure that, after a few more viewings, it’ll work its way on to my short list of favorite films.) I have no qualms with this particular critic. In fact, he and I are often in agreement. All of which makes me wonder, Why do I love Boring Art Films?
Borrowing Girish’s bulleted list format, here are a few rough ideas. Maybe I’ll add more as they come.
- A compelling narrative (read: plot) too often privileges what a character does over what a character is. Granted, we’re all defined, to some extent, by the actions we take, and blah, blah, blah. But the best Boring Art Films develop characters not by thrusting them into a particular scenario and guiding them down a particular — and particularly exciting or extraordinary — path, but by watching them during the quiet, mundane, banal moments in which we all spend the majority of our lives. As a viewer, I find myself empathizing with the characters rather than simply sharing vicariously their thrills and chills.
- In the mad dash to build and resolve, build and resolve narrative tension, most movies use standard continuity editing to do the work for us. In the perfect genre film (Psycho, for example), we’re at the director’s mercy. We willingly surrender our freedom for two hours and go wherever the film leads. Boring Art Films, by contrast, are often elliptical. Instead of splicing together a perfectly coherent line of narrative development, they leave gaps. I like the words “parataxis” and “hypotaxis.” The former juxtaposes, the latter draws connections. “I left. She cried.” versus “When I left, she cried.” Boring Art Films typically use parataxis to force the viewer into a participatory role. We get to be creative when we watch. We get to fill the gaps.
- In Boring Art Films, form (how the story is being told) is as important as content. And I’m fascinated by form. I long ago stopped caring about “what happens” in novels. That Ahab is chasing a White Whale seems downright irrelevant compared to the brilliance of Melville’s writing. A family travels across town to bury their mother? Who cares, except that Faulkner explodes the story into a community of strange and competing narrative voices. Maybe I’m just nostalgic for Modernism, but I like Boring Art Films — the great ones, at least — because they reshape my understanding of what film can do.
- Boring Art Films have a distinct voice. The voice of an auteur (more or less). I usually decide ten or fifteen minutes in if I can trust that voice — if it’s a voice of authority or wit or insight. If so, I’m grateful for an opportunity to listen in.
Others?