It's often the worst way to watch a film: sitting next to someone who's staring at you and hoping that you'll enjoy their favorite movie as much as they did. One feels like Malcolm McDowell strapped down in A Clockwork Orange, but in a smaller theater. They watch every reaction, insist you pay extra attention to certain scenes, and in some instances might even shut off the film in disgust if you're not sufficiently matching their enthusiasm.
The other side of this is equally as tempestuous. One screens a prized movie for a loved one. And if that person doesn't enjoy the film the way only we can, our ego shatters, the relationship is questioned, and every other life choice is now in doubt.
Both the executioner and the sentenced in this scenario, I know it's often a mistake to show someone your favorite film or not flee before they do the same. It could be a wonderful bonding experience, but that's often not the case. A treasured film is more than just a warm bath we relish, it's the way we feel about the world or how it ought to be, a planned conversation that goes as exactly as hoped. These feelings exist in a vacuum. Any breach, any exposure to a contrary view has the potential to age us 30 years and set off a crisis.
If you're wrong about the film, maybe you're wrong about everything else: your music, clothes, wife, career choice, the way you make coffee in the morning. It's all suspect now, just because your friend Pete thinks The Thin Red Line sucks.
There's so many harmless reactions that become sensitively amplified when a favorite film is screened. A lack of a laugh, a laugh in the wrong place, a glance at the phone, or a trip to the bathroom without asking to pause—any such move is taken with offense by the person showing you the film as if they directed it. It's two hours of someone watching you open a present. Better to leave it unopened, before hope and taste collide with reality.
We can't all watch our favorite films in the dark, secluded against dissenting taste, can we? Society necessitates engagement and spirited debate, a town square where we place our favorite movies upon the altar of judgment while defending our opinions and emerging stronger because of it. That's the idea, anyway.
It has on occasion triumphantly gone well. I once showed a girlfriend Punch Drunk Love and she immediately wanted to make out afterwards. I told a friend Hanna was one of my favorite films, and he later informed me it was now one of his. Yet even if the shared viewing devolves into a college critique class, you learn to admit and forgive the flaws in the film, as you forgive the flaws in yourself. I can admit that The Assassination of Jesse James is slow in the middle, that the scenes with the uncle in Mean Streets don't work, that there are way too many movie star cameos in The Thin Red Line. Grave of the Fireflies is a beautiful, sad film, but it’d be a little better if there weren't a giant plot hole in the final act.
These realizations might come on their own, though they often emerge from hearing a friend's unflattering reaction or reading an enraging, well-written review. Your initial “Whaaaat!” softens somewhat into “Yeah that's a good point, but you're still an idiot.”
One simply needs to understand the risky learning that may come with sharing your favorite film. It can always get worse, like watching a movie you despise while the other person on the sofa likes it. Such sessions usually end with, “Please, just go.”
