The Unenthusiasts

Editor's note: This author has a fascinating thought process while critiquing critique-able media. He knows Avatar (the movie) and Dante's Inferno (the game) have problems — but does that ultimately matter? The answer to that may seem obvious, but trust me — it's worth reading Brendon's story to see his point of view on how we all "review" movies, games…just about everything. -Shoe

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It’s become a running gag.

After a solid five minutes on the phone extolling the virtues of Avatar to my indulgent friend, I can hear her knowing smile: “So, is it The Best Film Ever?”

I pause. I want to say yes, because to me, in the hour since I returned from Pandora, Avatar has set up camp in my heart. I am invaded, overcome. I close my eyes and see the welcoming arms of a thousand blue cat people calling me home.

I compromise: “Yeah. For now.”

We both laugh. We’ve been friends for 10 years. She knows me well enough to know that, in the moment, I am completely honest; through her, I know myself well enough to know that I’ve been here before. I get caught up. My fancy is a tramp.

It is something my friends have come to appreciate over time. When something grabs me, not even years of carefully cultivated discernment can shake it. Avatar is the second 3D film I have ever seen, but it feels like the first. This isn’t watching — this is being there. While the little critic in my head kept making cynical ticks on his clipboard, my inner enthusiast was hooting at the top of his lungs and banging on the walls of my brainroom.

I came out of the screening stunned. I wanted to line up again right away, but the queue was already snaking out the front doors and around the building. People in line tried to read our faces as we left, to get a glimpse of their immediate futures. I wanted to give them the thumbs up.

A couple walked briskly out the doors ahead of me. Their shared expression was cloudy. As they passed the people waiting the man said, “That was lame.”

I could have punched him in the face.

They trotted off into the parking lot, unaware that behind them, in line, a gaggle of nerds heard him — their bright eyes dimmed a bit. They regarded each other with sudden doubt. As my father and I walked past, I was already babbling “Wow!” over and over, but I made a point of saying it louder. I didn’t look back to see if it had worked. The momentary shock passed, and I was back in my flabbergast — but since, I’ve thought about those guys and wondered if the seed of lame strangled the roots of wow before they could take hold.

***

Three things the Internet taught me:

1. Cats are hilariously illiterate but surprisingly technical.

2. Some things you can’t unsee.

3. The quality of your opinion is directly proportional to your ability to hate.

Dante’s Inferno is awesome. Technically polished and thematically focused, it is a thoughtful and satisfyingly violent jaunt through nine circles of Hell. It survives its obnoxious advertising campaign to be a worthy hack-and-slash that stands up to multiple runs. After my first playthrough I started a second almost immediately. This isn’t like me. I generally need another game between return trips to cleanse the palette. But Dante’s Inferno gets me for some reason. Perhaps because it is a bracing tour through a place I’ve been told I’m going.

There are few pools of sympathy for my feelings on it.

It is derivative. It rapes a literary classic. It has too many tits to take seriously. It smacks of cynical bandwagoning, except it’s three years too late and one month too soon. It’s lame, and more importantly, anyone who likes it is retarded.

Of all the haters I’ve met with my enthusiasm for it, one did not instantly write me off as a mouth-breathing proto-man. I asked him why he thought it was "rape." He said the developers took an easy way out of a complicated piece. We discussed the nature of translation and adaptation. Several posts later, neither of us had changed our position, but we understood where the other was coming from — and we knew better why we thought what we did. It was all going well until he signed off by saying, “I’m surprised you’re interested in it — you seem like a smart guy.”

I don’t know if I am a smart guy. I may be clever with a chance of charming, but "good enough" only counts for government work. I don’t think my appreciation of a game makes a definitive statement about my character. It says a lot about what I like and where I come from, how I view things and what I expect, but it doesn’t sum me up. I am large; I contain multitudes.

Some excuse the behavior of people on the Internet as the result of a perfect storm — anonymity allows personalities to go off unrestrained, without the social checks of real life, like seeing someone’s face when you call them retarded. It doesn’t always mean your opinion will change, but it’s likely that what you express online would be measured out more evenly in person.

Everyone has, at some point, liked something that other people didn’t. All of us have multitudes and none absolutes. This is awesome. Argument is good for the soul and the culture. The trouble with geekdom is that enthusiasm equates to stupidity, and criticism is a sign of refinement. The more flaws you can see, the better your vision. Visit any video game forum and every expression of love for a game is met with several assertions of hate; also, you’re a faggot. Excitement is a dubious position. Distrust is solid, dependable and above all easy to defend.

Perfection doesn't exist. No one has made something that cannot be improved in some way. Dante’s Inferno could have been a different game — it could have come up with its own control scheme or used its binary system to affect different outcomes or taken a more literal approach to its source material — and it may have been better for it. But it is what it is, and I like it. Does this mean I have appalling low standards? Have I failed as a critical mind because I can accept its flaws?

It’s a chore to tell people why I like it. Liking something is subjective. Disliking something is somehow not — because nothing is perfect. Recognizing and assaulting imperfection stands as a testament to a quality mind. To enjoy anything less than the platonic ideal is to debase the self with gross, unclean emotion. It feeds the beast and starves the intellect. The game space is filled with unenthusiasts, each proving their worth with the volume of their hate.

***

The third time I see Avatar, I go alone. It is a matinee, but the theatre is packed. Lots of old farts, who are generally good people to see movies with. They will sometimes yell when the hearing-endowed would whisper, but it’s not that bad.

It has been three weeks since my second screening. I’ve read the reports from better minds. Dances with Thundersmurfs. People have fallen into depression after watching it, because our world is nothing compared to the imagined paradise of Pandora. One man died from what appeared to be overexcitement. China renamed some mountains. It is a hair's breadth away from being the most financially successful film of all time, which is a testament to the stupidity of the masses. It has destroyed narrative. It is unoriginal garbage. Sure, it’s nice to look at but so are breast implants. It does not say. It does not mean. It is the empty caloric load of a bourgeois culture on the brink of total irrelevance.

With some dismay, I find myself restless at the midway point. It’s stupid when Sully calls the hammerhead rhino a bitch. Why didn’t they just unplug Jake when he got lost? “Unobtainium” is dumb, even if it is a real term. Why can’t aliens be alien and not, you know, First Peoples?

Sully is stalking his space dragon. Netyri urges him on. There is a struggle, but soon, Sully is soaring through the air. The sense of depth is breathtaking.

The old farts beside me gasp. The man has grabbed the woman’s hand, and they exchange a look of wonder.

As my inner critic underlines points he had written down before, my enthusiast looks over his shoulder at the clipboard. There is a lot of red ink. They look at each other knowingly. They have been here before. The enthusiast offers his hand, and the critic takes it.

The critic does not abandon his notes. They are valid…but do not mean more than the smile of his friend.