As I sit here, sharing a Sunday evening snack of hot sugared popcorn with Lovely Man, my thoughts naturally drift to movies. I’ve seen a few at the cinema recently, trying hard to get back into my LA habits of at least one new release a fortnight.
We all have our own criteria for selecting films; some of us choose by genre, some follow particular actors in everything they do, some are lured by the promise of special effects or ground-breaking cinematography. For me, I prefer foreign or art-house films. They usually get my vote over a mainstream blockbuster (you know how I feel about all things indie!)
But every so often, a blockbuster hits the screens that I just have to see. ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ was one such title. For those who haven’t read the book or seem the film, I promise I’ll try to avoid spoilers. Although the John Green smash hit paperback is actually billed as teen fiction, my mum bought me a copy as a gift, having read an interview with the author which she found inspiring.
I devoured the book in two sittings. Tackling the sensitive issue of teenage cancer and all that goes with it, to describe it as an easy read would be wrong. It is painful and heartbreaking with the turn of every page; I’ve never cried from a book before this one. It reads so honestly and sensitively that I can’t help but question Green’s adamant preface about the fictitious nature of the story.
Having been diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease at the age of three, I know what it is to grow up with hospital appointments, experimental drugs, treatments which fail, parental guilt, parental worry beyond the norm and not wanting to be defined by the label of ‘illness’. It isn’t the same, I know. But it certainly made the book, and the words of its feisty teenage protagonist, resonate with me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
When I read the book, I knew nothing about the forthcoming movie. I’m usually wary of films of books, as I often find that the Hollywood interpretation somewhat destroys the magic of great penmanship.
However, on Tuesday night last week, Lovely Man and I decided a visit to our local independent Picture House was on the cards. Listings offered ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ or something about Mrs Brown and her boys. We picked the former. Lovely Man knew how much the book had affected me, but I was careful not to say much else as I didn’t want to hype it up and risk spoiling it.
Needless to say, we were the oldest in the cinema. We took our seats and chatted in whispers throughout the trailers. When the feature started, I crossed my fingers and hoped the next hundred and twenty five minutes wasn’t going to spoil one of the most beautiful books I’d read in a long time.
Six minutes in I shed my first tear. From then until the closing credits, I alternated between extremes of emotions. I laughed out loud at some of the black humour and ascerbic wit of the youngsters and their cancer-clouded view of the world. I sobbed at some of the cruel hands fate dealt them. By the end of the movie, both Lovely Man and I felt like we’d lost a fight with Mike Tyson or been trampled by an elephant herd. Sniffling and red-eyed, we left the cinema. Climbing onto the motorbike, we heard some of the teenagers from that same audience chatting. “Oh my g-d! Why would you make a film about that?” “I think I used a whole box of tissues!” “Have I got mascara down my face?”
We came home and reflected for a while. We talked about the beauty of the characters, their likability and courage. We talked about the love story which spoke louder than the story of disease. We considered the bravery of producers to tackle such a story. We talked about the quirky style and the echoes of films such as ‘Juno’ and ‘Everything is Illuminated’. We picked out the bits which rang so true for me, then cried a bit more. I wrote a FaceAche status saying how moved I had just been. And then we read some reviews.
Some critics called the film “schmaltzy” while one said it was “manipulative” and another called it “disingenuous”. As an Actor, I am well versed in the game of ‘ignore the critics’ – in this profession, it’s a must. Yet suddenly I worried that my status update was invalid because it differed so greatly from the critics’ views.
Why do we give the critics such power? In fact, everyone’s response to what they see at the cinema, at the theatre, in an art gallery or a sculpture park is subjective. We are all individuals and our reactions reflect that. That’s the subjective beauty of the Arts. Everyone’s response is personalised and will reflect his or her own set of circumstances. And that’s ok.
Yes, ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ is a Hollywood smash hit, with a thousand endorsements for Apple products and a cast of beautiful people. But at the heart of it is John Green’s heartfelt story. The fact that the producers managed to bring to life the characters he wrote so truthfully, in a way that makes viewers feel like we know them, is masterful. And isn’t all clever film making manipulative in some respects? It shows what it wants to show, shares only what it chooses and plays with emotions as and when it feels like. By accepting cinema as an Art form, we accept that.
So I challenge the critics. On this, and everything else. And I say they are every bit as manipulative as the film makers. With their headlines to reviews cleverly penned to incite a response, and make audiences question their own instinctive reactions, what is the difference? When it comes to the Arts, everyone is a critic, and everyone’s opinion is valid!
