For and against The Film Canon

Against the Film Canon

Everyone knows a film bro—someone who chain smokes with a mullet, asking you to follow his Letterboxd, whining how something wasn’t as good as Goddard’s 13th film, and brags about his Reservoir Dogs (Quentin Tarantino, 1992) poster (“I’m not like everyone else, it’s not a Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1992) poster”).

These people—whether acquaintances or professional critics—embody the very worst tendencies of the film canon: its echoes. Everyone becomes accustomed to regurgitating each other’s opinions forming a consensus. To speak against a critical consensus is dismissed as ill-informed or as reflexive contrarianism. By only following the critical consensus—watching only the canon—lines become drawn in the sand: this film deserves to be watched, treasured, and preserved.

But this position is unfortunate because it is uncurious. It means somebody does not trust their own judgements enough to watch something new, form their own opinions, they have to be told it’s great. And beyond that, sometimes really God-awful trashy movies, bring out the best emotions in the viewers.

One summer, I made my way through the Friday the 13th series with friends. There was one character—a star high school athlete who, following an accident, was forced into a wheelchair. Throughout the movie, he flirted with a girl, explaining how he refuses to give up on his dreams of becoming a professional football player. Everything is drawn into providing some attempt at sympathy to his character: then he dies. But he doesn’t just die. He is slashed in the face with a machete then rolls for a full ten-seconds down beach stairs that were never seen before or after in the movie. There is no moment that has brought me closer to my friends than as we shouted “Not Wheels!”

The film—even for a slasher film—is disposable, the characters are unmemorable except for the ways they go out—yet there is nothing more entertaining than watching something mindless with your friends.

If we only ever had the high and mighty canon to decide what to watch—then we’d cry out for something mindlessly stupid. The importance of the canon is to understand the criteria: what makes something good? How is it decided? Can you recognize it? And once someone can make these decisions for themselves—cast it out of mind forever. Don’t let someone else tell you what’s good—but if you think something is good, it’s best to explain why.

For the Film Canon

The canon of films has become an easy target for all: from fans of super hero films criticizing out of touch filmmakers to audiences wanting films (and filmmakers) that represent different and diverse walks of life. It’s clear that everyone, no matter their stripes of preference, find that the Film Canon—perhaps best exemplified by the Sight and Sound’s 100 Best list—is out of touch. The list, revised every decade, is made by cultural elites: storied filmmakers, critics, the sort. It’s an institutional approach—but this is perhaps the strongest reason to endorse the film canon.

The film canon—we’ll say films widely regarded as classics—seems imposing. It seems like these movies must be perfect, they must tackle important themes of life, and if something does not do so, then it cannot be a serious film. But I believe that’s a limiting view: instead, the canon should be treated as a series of guideposts.

Instead, the film canon should be treated as a museum—not everything is for everyone’s liking, but peruse through it, and there will inevitably be objects that stick out. This could be editing, stories, acting, or the way certain films will sit with you long after the credits roll.

When the canon is treated like this, it functions as a common language for fans of films. It can be treated beyond just quality, but for the roots of many other films. These lofty classics become touchstones. When someone watches their favourite director—they see homages, references to the moment when that director was growing up, staring with their jaw on the floor, at some other picture. Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain (1952) —which can be dismissed as just some musical— has its fingerprints everywhere from Truffaut’s Day for Night (1973) to Damien Chazelle’s Babylon (2022). John Ford, who could be dismissed as a simple cowboy director, pioneered tracking shots that Akira Kurosawa and Orson Welles borrowed. By recognizing these filmmakers, their pictures, and preserving it within the loftysounding canon—we can provide a singular language to aspiring filmmakers and critics alike.

For people, the canon shouldn’t be the only marker of quality. Just because a movie isn’t ancient and widely revered doesn’t mean it’s not good. But instead, it’s a building block: this movie is relevant for these reasons, watch it, gather your thoughts, and see how its influence has spread further.