I devoured 20 of the films in a month-long frenzy. But I can’t quite shake off the guilt that comes with this guilty pleasure
I started England’s second lockdown last year with good intentions: I was broke and underemployed, and since it didn’t look like my economic circumstances would be improving anytime soon, I was determined to emerge from the pandemic rich in cultural capital. I decided to work my way through the British Film Institute’s directors’ poll of the 100 best films ever made and soon I was watching arthouse films like there was going to be an exam at the end of the pandemic. This wasn’t purely about self-improvement: many of these films I found straightforwardly entertaining or moving, while some were more challenging (ie boring) but rewarding in different ways. It felt like a good use of time. But then, one Friday evening, it all came crashing down: my younger brother suggested that we watch Captain America: The Winter Soldier, on the tantalising promise that it was “not as bad as you might expect”.
Prior to this, it wasn’t so much that I disliked Marvel films but that I’d staked a claim in being the kind of person who didn’t watch them. I opposed them as a symbol of cultural decline, a phenomenon that had destroyed cinema (I was at least partly correct on both counts – Hollywood’s seeming inability to think of anything new can be traced back in part to the franchise’s success). That night, I was sceptical but curious. In the end, the film wasn’t exactly a revelatory experience, but I enjoyed it well enough. Before I knew it, I had watched more than 20 of them in a month-long frenzy.
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