Indie Killed the Hollywood Star

As a student and lover of film, I often find myself balking at the assembly-line products of Hollywood. Of course, I am not so nostalgic as to believe that Hollywood degenerated from being the origin of fine film—high art—to some sort of dealer in smut. I realize that in fact Hollywood produces significantly fewer films per annum than it did in yesteryear with a much greater cost-per-film average. I realize that in the heyday of old Hollywood stars were made and owned by studios in practically every way from their shoes to their lines.

And of course, I realize that griping about Hollywood cinema is about as ridiculous as griping about Wal-Mart. Most of us get a tad nauseated at the thought of the American consumerism and faster-than-instant gratification that Wal-Mart satisfies, but we’ll be darned if we don’t buy our Head ’n’ Shoulders and Cocoa Puffs at the same “rolled-back” price. The same goes for big studio cinema; in spite of my complaints, try to keep me away from the next Harry Potter movie, even though I've already read the book.

So, with this bizarre love-hate relationship, why do I feel a tinge of betrayal when my favorite independent auteur makes my local theatre and the average Joe is quoting lines from his latest movie? I suppose it’s like your favorite restaurant that no one else knows about. You love to spread the news and encourage folks to check it out, but you certainly don’t want a wait on a Saturday night. Was its obscurity its charm? Did it make you seem savvy and intellectual? Did it preserve some sort of hope for excellence done for excellence sake?

Your average Hollywood, Jerry Bruckheimer film is, above all else, a safe bet. Sure, the plot line may be a little stale; the acting may be a bit vapid; and the girl may show the same amount of skin as ever, but at least you know what it will be and sometimes that’s just what you’re looking for. Canned tuna is just that, canned tuna, and sometimes you’re in the mood for canned tuna. Yet almost every time I indulge that desire for a taste of sea chicken, I come away wondering what better thing I could have done for the past two hours. There is, very rarely, a lingering sense of appreciation or awe for the art or the message from the art. I know that is not what I was promised; it’s not even what I was expecting. But is it what I hoped for?

I have watched Wes Anderson’s Rushmore more times than I remember. The last time I popped it in for a little passive, background viewing, I couldn’t finish it. I didn’t turn it off because it distracted me from my work, although I was captivated before I even realized. I turned it off because the dialog, the acting, the angles, the framing were too much for me to handle. There was too much emotion, too much loneliness, too much sorrow for me to bear in that moment. I haven’t tried to watch it again since.

I could list several movies, most of which happen to be independent films, that have grabbed me in the chest like that. Of course, Hollywood’s products sometimes evoke a tear from my eye, and they certainly afford me delightful moments of laughter, but they are often too pretty and too polite to follow through. So when I see my beloved (non-Hollywood) sparring partners headlining the local cineplex, I worry. Not because I doubt the quality of the product or even the sincerity in its making. I just worry that these men and women are suddenly genteel. And what I need is a punch in the gut.