Where are all the good men dead…


You’ve heard it a million times, before, a term that eats away at me from the inside, like a treacherous termite, of the idiocies and inaccuracies, who never fail to define us, as a species. A pest, squirming inside of my mind, demanding that something be said, whether its allowed to be said, or not. Ready for it?

Oh well. Here it is, anyhow:

“Instant classic”. For those of you (I presume there are many, since this flies, typically, under the radar and slides through, to poison the next generation with its inherent stupidity), who don’t understand why this seemingly innocuous term should anger me, I’ll elaborate, with the actual definition of the word ‘classic’.

clas·sic/ˈklasik/ Adjective: Judged over a period of time to be of the highest quality and outstanding of its kind.

   Noun: A work of art of recognized and established value.

From this definition, we can only conclude that a classic, truly called, can never be, of all things, “instant”. It insults the word, to precede it with a negation of its very essence. Art is another widely misused word, but that opinion, is for another day. Right now, I’m referring, in particular, to the advent of this catchphrase in modern cinema, as an enticement for the mobs, who flock to see a summer blockbuster. There are few directors, lately, standing up to the atrocity that is the so-called “instant classic”. What I can’t figure, is why? They went to film school, they fell in love with a form of storytelling that somehow evokes nearly every form of art; pictures, music, writing, people portraying those fundamental things; and yet, they bowed and cow-towed, sacrificing all that was beautiful about movie-making, in the quest for the almighty dollar. It leaves me a little deadened, inside.

Honestly, how many different ways can Hollywood chop up the same old shit, to spoon-feed the masses; too ignorant to realize what their hard-earned money is propagating? I know that this word generally refers to an organism, but they do seem parasitic, these new directors, so I found it fitting. It’s as though they all think that, if they keep regurgitating the same tired, old story, with different, fresh faces (you hear that a lot…it just means sixteen, to twenty-one-year-olds), they’ll get the whole shebang. They’ll find a movie everyone will watch; young, old, stupid, smart, male, female. The whole point of Hollywood, overall, is not to make art, but to make money, by appealing to every possible demographic. They don’t really count people like me. I’m such a rare breed, anyhow. One who screams, as they pull the wool down. Easier, then, for them, to just let me go.

If art imitates life, why, then, is it so false? The guy always gets the girl, because (even though he’s a hopeless screw-up), he’s just lovable, enough. No one who’s a main character ever dies, unless you expect them to, because they’re bald from chemo at the beginning of the movie, or it’s a thriller. The dialogue is rarely terribly witty. The plot goes from one place to another, just as it should, and the world of movies sets us up, again, for failure at a life that never has a happy ending, hardly ever a joyous middle, and a mostly frightening, but wonderful, beginning.

None of the current “summer blockbusters” are classics; instant, or otherwise; and I seriously doubt that they will stand long enough upon the legs of commerce, to ever gain the title, legitimately. I blame the romantic comedy genre for the rapidly increasing divorce rate in this country (along with reality shows spun around the same ridiculous concept). I blame fairy tales for broken-hearted adults. False expectations, built upon the fairy-land that generates the green, lining the pockets of professional liars, account for much of our apathy, ignorance, and disappointment. We, however, are not off the hook. Far from it. We condone this slop, by paying for it. I would challenge you to stop, but we have become obsessed with a mob mentality. Anything original is out of the ordinary, and so we flush all that ever made us wonderful creations, in the first place, down the tubes, as our last word.