It's rather a strenuous life doing this stuff, I'll tell you, but every now and then you get acknowledgment. Like, say, a grotesque animated parody in the form of French critic Anton Ego. All summer long, I've had his little speech quoted at me: you know, the one about the natural sadism of people in the critic game? So lo and behold, how does Disney promote Ratatouille? "The Best Reviewed Film of the Year!" Despite what Ego says, nothing takes it out of you faster than writing a series of slams and pans.
The kind of film that really makes you want to stay up late writing about it, is the work with the fascinating tensions in it: between optimism and despair, between lust and disgust, and between the marketplace and the artist. Yet whenever I teach a class, the students always ask "What's the worst movie you've ever seen..." hoping that they'll hear some serious, foaming invective.
Just as the robin marks the arrival of April so does the turkey herald November. And I'll put it plain: I've seen some real damned bad 'uns in my time,, some real wattled, strutting, wobbling gobblers. Perhaps November is the time to memorialize just a few of these cinematic freezer-eagles. Say, for instance, The Vulture, a bonbon about strange black-feathered curse striking one of the most tedious rural towns in the British Isles.