Upon entering a darkened screening room and observing the humanoid shapes within, two questions immediately strike the intrepid amateur film critic as he nervously clutches his satchel of empty carrier bags and discounted pork pies: who are these people, and how should I act around them?
That the gathered patrons are film critics is obvious; these screenings are for press only, after all. But what manner of film critic are they? Is the person you’ve just noisily sat down next to a mere blogger with a readership measured in dozens, or are they the film editor of the Sunday Telegraph?! It’s true that the more famous critics have photos on their bylines or have appeared on The Culture Show, but I don’t read every paper and I barely watch TV, so I only know the faces of a handful of movie critics. And while it’s safe to say that Mark Kermode and Peter Bradshaw have been conspicuously absent from any of the screenings I’ve attended (at least I think so – you don’t want to spend too long staring directly at strangers in the murky confines of a cinema screen), there are many other critics of note whose view of the screen I could potentially be ruining. Most people dress smart/casual (smasual?) for these things, so dress code’s no giveaway. It’s like people’s press persona is their secret identity, since they all look and sound so normal. I mean, you’d think they’d immediately begin conducting a theoretical deconstruction of the film upon exiting the cinema (that’d be a dead giveaway), but maybe my perspective’s skewed.
Does it matter how famous they are? Probably not. But it’s interesting to think that I might be rubbing shoulders with people whose reviews will be read by thousands – possibly even millions – of people. And what if they’re looking at me and thinking the same thing…? More fool them!
How everybody acts is interesting, too. Reactions are often more muted than you’d find at a normal film screening, with the laughter somewhat muffled and the gasps a little quieter. Perhaps this is just because film critics have seen so many films that nothing really provokes a reaction anymore, but I’m not sure. I like to believe it’s because everyone in the room shares my pathological fear of making a scene or drawing unwanted attention to themselves. As such, everyone is covertly surveying each other as the film progresses, waiting to see whether it’s alright to betray any hint of emotion in response to cinematic stimuli. The hesitation this engenders means a muted response all round, as every critic strives to maintain a dignified detachment, stoically immune in their role as impartial, judicial observer. Should I laugh now, should I cry? The comforting authority of the herd asserts itself and wipes away all doubt.
I think that bit in Monsters University where I snorted may have rendered me a marked man.
Jim Taylor is currently cowering in the dark at the Edinburgh Film Festival, waiting to see if it’s alright to shout “POW!” when the bad guy gets kicked in the face.
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