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I rarely frequent movie theaters these days. Box office ticket prices are not the chief deterrent, nor the concession stand price of a barrel of popcorn or a box of Raisinets. Talkative members of audiences, and eardrum-splitting volumes of trailers are also deterrents, but they’re not why I avoid ticket windows. Rather it’s what’s showing in the theaters that stops me from sitting in the dark. I will make an exception, and pay for a ticket, if I think I ought to see a film. If I make the effort, it’s because I suspect there’s something odd about a film that I wouldn’t be able to identify unless I saw it instead of being misled or repelled by its trailers.
I happen to love movies. Good movies. Ones that uplift me, or instruct me in the art of storytelling, or enlighten me in some respect. But bad movies, or mediocre ones, have the same effect on me as does Andy Warhol’s poster of Campbell Soup cans. And there are far more of those films than there are of that anti-artist’s thirty-two soup cans.
I recently saw The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. I suspected that, like its predecessor, it was more than just a story about a girl good with a bow and arrow, coming from a circa 1930’s West Virginia-like coal town, and populated with characters whose names seem to have been the result of a Scrabble game with no rules. The setting wasn’t supposed to be a post-war or post-anarchy America governed by PanAm – excuse me, “Panem” – an oppressive government located in some high-tech run Imperial Rome-like city that’s full of evil men and a populace of perversely effete, gaudily dressed clowns entertained by a form of gladiatorial combat. The weird names — Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, etc., all vaguely Celtic – didn’t fool me one bit, either. It was all an allegory on America.
So I learned that both Hunger Games movies – I saw the first one, also, and there will be a third, to judge by the ending of Number Two – were political statements about the evils of technology and capitalism and civilization and how virtuous living the simple life at a subsistence level trumps technology and cities and badly dressed people every time. The “message” was as thoroughly embedded in it as it was in another fantasy, Avatar.
As the American consciousness has been progressively foreshortened, minimalized, and cramped over several generations – chiefly by a public education philosophy committed not so much to the acquisition of knowledge and the honing of one’s cognitive powers and rationality, as to what the Progressives and the government wish to have Americans focus on (anti-intellectualism, pragmatism, conformity) – so has the “I.Q.” of films diminished in terms of scope, scale and attention span. This has occurred, not overnight, but incrementally, in generational jerks and spasms, in syncopated tandem with the dumbing down and the engineered cognitive and cultural myopia.
Instead of adapting novels that require a modicum of literacy and an extended attention span to read and grasp – an attention span beyond what a text message or a tweet demands – we are getting movies more and more adapted from graphic novels. From comic books. And if not from comic books, then from juvenile or “young adult” novels, or computer games. And often a computer-game-inspired movie will loop back into an advanced version of the game.