The algorithm has sent a precocious film critic to bug me. This critic is young, knows his stuff, and writes about classic movies on a range of cineaste-sounding websites. He’s too modest for a byline, let alone a profile photo, but I’ve read so much of his work that I can picture him in my head: an earnest, middle-class fanboy with a name like Sam, Josh or Zack. He writes verbose mini-essays on everything from Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine (2010) to All the President’s Men (1976), and seemingly posts three or four times every day. His voluminous workrate puts my shabby trickle to shame. It has now reached the point where I’m actively hating the guy. Or rather, this pastiche, whoever or whatever he is.
Everybody hates critics, that goes with the territory, but there are specific live-button reasons to detest Josh-or-Zack. I hate him not because he’s wrongheaded or mean-spirited – the usual character flaws of the critic – but because he’s just the opposite: meekly consensual and minded not to give offence. I hate his blandly plausible posts, which always begin on a note of glib authority before sinking to a tone of hushed, vapid reverence. “This is not just a great American thriller,” he will write about pretty much any well-regarded American thriller. “It is one of the all-time great films about America, period.” Most of all, I hate him because I briefly believed he was real, and then felt cheated and creeped out. So in hating Josh-or-Zack, I’m probably hating myself a bit, too.
