![]() ![]() A great film was never far from grasp at local art-house movie houses so, too, was a bad one inevitably playing in the mainstream chains, where it stood a better chance of rising to notoriety, unintentional or otherwise. But all the same we showed up, watched, and responded with our constant passion as moviegoers. Some promising newcomers like David Robert Mitchell, meanwhile, diversified their portfolio between solid entertainments (“It Follows”) and disastrous aberrations (“Under the Silver Lake”). Established filmmakers plodded along in a career trajectory that allowed for new and exciting ventures. It was the age of billion-dollar blockbusters, and tiresome trends yielding colossal flops. ![]() ![]() It was the time of new and exciting voices like Yorgos Lanthimos and Christian Petzold, and of lazy underachievers like Uwe Boll. The decade supplied ammunition for both arguments. Whatever emotion I experienced sitting in a theater, be it involved in something celebratory or a feeling of total despair, the movies never abandoned me they persisted like stubborn reminders of what is important about the art form, whether it was in a literal sense or in some twisted ironic way, even as some might have represented everything wrong about this strange little industry. I began the 2010s uncertain of my place in the slipstream of film criticism, and closed it out firmly lodged somewhere between enthusiastic and mystified. ![]()
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