After reading these posts by Sister Stephanie and my friend Suze last week, I started pondering about a couple of things:
And what about the thorny subject of remakes? Do you hate every film that is not the original* version you saw as a child/teen/college kid? Can you see past those tears of anger and give an objective opinion about the latest version of The Planet of the Apes or do you think anyone who dare step on Charlton Heston’s toes should be assaulted with a downpour of ripe tomatoes?
Turns out objectivity in fiction (and any other artform, for that matter) is an impossibility. It’s almost like deciding, without the shadow of a doubt, that cake is better than ice-cream. Sure, most of the time there is a consensus of whether a film/novel is good or bad, but the quality standards can be as variable as the pieces themselves. Not only do we have to consider the personal taste of the critic (be it a reader/viewer or a professional in the field) but also the fact that our overall appreciation of a creative endeavor changes from one generation to another.
Take silent films, for example. For most people, they seem boring or silly, but can you imagine how innovative and cool they were for viewers in the early 20th century? Just think about how much acting technique has evolved. Back then, both theater and film actors emphasized the use of body language and facial expressions into what we would consider now a melodramatic performance. Likewise, literature has evolved. To use an omniscient narrator is now considered a sign of an amateur and head-hopping is among the top commandments any novice novelist must learn—or use at his own risk.
So what is the best measure of quality: the opinion of professionals/critics, sales numbers, ratings, the number of remakes a film has? Perhaps it’s a combination of all these elements in addition to taste. I would add the elements of personal experience and nostalgia. Only these subjective variables can explain why an obscure film or piece of literature can find a loyal cult following. Try as you may to throw those low-sale numbers and bad reviews to their faithful fans and you still won’t be able to convince them that their beloved flick is less than brilliant.
But what about the cases where your perception does change? How many of us have experienced disappointment after rereading a childhood book or found a once-overlooked-flaw in our favorite movie? (Usually when an objective and over-analytical party points it out!)
As I’ve aged, my opinion of some of my favorite films and books has changed, but most of them still hold a special place in my heart. The fact that I’m a writer hasn’t helped me. Becoming a writer is like having a veil removed from your eyes. As you learn all the techniques of storytelling, you’re never able to watch a movie or read a book with the same abandon you once did (unless the writer is so brilliant he makes you forget it’s fiction). I suppose it’s comparable to learning a magic trick. You can never be awed by an illusionist’s performance anymore after you understand the mechanics. Likewise, if a writer is not skilled enough and you can see the seams of a story, you may lose the emotion factor. Sadly, this has happened to me with beloved novels or films from the past. (The good news is non-writers may be more forgiving!) But that’s when nostalgia kicks in. I forgive the transgression because I love this film. It’s like forgiving a friend for not calling you or saying something that bugs you. You don’t have to forgive a stranger, but you have to forgive a loved one.
Another factor that affects your perception of a story is your overexposure to a particular theme or plot. Surely you remember the first love story you read or saw in film, or at the very least, the one that impacted you the most. Subsequent films of this type are most likely not going to have the same effect on you as they did back when you were a pre-teen wondering if a French kiss meant you had to travel to Europe to experience one.
Personal experience, then, plays an important role on how you are going to receive a story.
With all this subjectivity, it’s amazing books get published! It also means a couple of things for writers. First, be cautious about the critique you take. Are the comments exclusively taste-based or there is some sort of objectivity to them? Has more than one person said the same thing about your work? Second, subjectivity can work to your advantage. Just like “there’s someone for everybody,” the novel you’re now writing or trying to sell might find love somewhere. We glaze over those rejection letters that claim “fiction is subjective and another agent may feel differently” but the fact is that this is true. What better proof that how variable your own taste is? If fiction was as objective as science, then only the novels which fit a specific and an invariable formula would get published. Fortunately, this is not the case. People are always on the look out for something new, something different, and you may be just the one to offer that.
* I use the term “original” loosely because very often films have had earlier versions that we may not even know about.
- Does our perception of a novel or film change throughout the years? (and if so, what are the variables that cause this phenomenon?)
- How much does sentimentality and nostalgia skew our vision of a piece?
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| How old were you when you watched these two fall in love? (Before Sunrise, 1995) |
Turns out objectivity in fiction (and any other artform, for that matter) is an impossibility. It’s almost like deciding, without the shadow of a doubt, that cake is better than ice-cream. Sure, most of the time there is a consensus of whether a film/novel is good or bad, but the quality standards can be as variable as the pieces themselves. Not only do we have to consider the personal taste of the critic (be it a reader/viewer or a professional in the field) but also the fact that our overall appreciation of a creative endeavor changes from one generation to another.
Take silent films, for example. For most people, they seem boring or silly, but can you imagine how innovative and cool they were for viewers in the early 20th century? Just think about how much acting technique has evolved. Back then, both theater and film actors emphasized the use of body language and facial expressions into what we would consider now a melodramatic performance. Likewise, literature has evolved. To use an omniscient narrator is now considered a sign of an amateur and head-hopping is among the top commandments any novice novelist must learn—or use at his own risk.
But what about the cases where your perception does change? How many of us have experienced disappointment after rereading a childhood book or found a once-overlooked-flaw in our favorite movie? (Usually when an objective and over-analytical party points it out!)
As I’ve aged, my opinion of some of my favorite films and books has changed, but most of them still hold a special place in my heart. The fact that I’m a writer hasn’t helped me. Becoming a writer is like having a veil removed from your eyes. As you learn all the techniques of storytelling, you’re never able to watch a movie or read a book with the same abandon you once did (unless the writer is so brilliant he makes you forget it’s fiction). I suppose it’s comparable to learning a magic trick. You can never be awed by an illusionist’s performance anymore after you understand the mechanics. Likewise, if a writer is not skilled enough and you can see the seams of a story, you may lose the emotion factor. Sadly, this has happened to me with beloved novels or films from the past. (The good news is non-writers may be more forgiving!) But that’s when nostalgia kicks in. I forgive the transgression because I love this film. It’s like forgiving a friend for not calling you or saying something that bugs you. You don’t have to forgive a stranger, but you have to forgive a loved one.
Another factor that affects your perception of a story is your overexposure to a particular theme or plot. Surely you remember the first love story you read or saw in film, or at the very least, the one that impacted you the most. Subsequent films of this type are most likely not going to have the same effect on you as they did back when you were a pre-teen wondering if a French kiss meant you had to travel to Europe to experience one.
Personal experience, then, plays an important role on how you are going to receive a story.
With all this subjectivity, it’s amazing books get published! It also means a couple of things for writers. First, be cautious about the critique you take. Are the comments exclusively taste-based or there is some sort of objectivity to them? Has more than one person said the same thing about your work? Second, subjectivity can work to your advantage. Just like “there’s someone for everybody,” the novel you’re now writing or trying to sell might find love somewhere. We glaze over those rejection letters that claim “fiction is subjective and another agent may feel differently” but the fact is that this is true. What better proof that how variable your own taste is? If fiction was as objective as science, then only the novels which fit a specific and an invariable formula would get published. Fortunately, this is not the case. People are always on the look out for something new, something different, and you may be just the one to offer that.
* I use the term “original” loosely because very often films have had earlier versions that we may not even know about.
