A Few Notes on the Relationship Between Film Critics and Filmmakers | A Sunday in the Country, New Horizons 2024

2 August, 2024

I recently returned from Wrocław, the 2015 European Capital of Culture, which hosts the Nowe Horyzonty (New Horizons) festival – perhaps the most important film festival in Poland next to Warsaw – where I was one of the seven lucky participants in a program for young film critics unlike any other workshop of its kind: A Sunday in the Country, organised by the European Film Academy.

Initially designed for filmmakers when it was launched in 1995, the program was expanded to include young critics in 2012 with the support of New Horizons. For several days, participants from all over Europe retreat to a house on the shores of Bystrzyckie Lake (not far from the impressive dam where Skolimowski shot his 2022 film starring donkey EO) to watch films from the festival selection and discuss them among themselves, as well as with their filmmakers, who join them for lunch or dinner. The lunches and dinners are also designed as a wonderful means of cultural exchange: everyone is encouraged to bring local drinks (our menu includes homemade wine, some sort of Swiss pear brandy, blueberry pálinka, an herb liqueur/vodka from Lithuania, and a sweet liqueur from Spain) and cook traditional dishes. (My pick, among pierogi, tortilla española, ratatouille, rösti, and spaghetti alla puttanesca, was of course to make them a big pot of polenta with cheese and sour cream.)

The program and being far from the city, the movie theatres and all that offered us a space where we could deeply reflect on what it means to be a film critic today and all the problems we face, from economic ones (precarity, exploitation, the need for most to have multiple jobs) to ecosystemic ones (various types of pressure from PR/Sales agents, directors, etc., internal competition, issues within certain festival formats). What mattered most was the lack of pressure inherent in the workshop format (a lot of running around, many “assignments”, a lot of hustling), which was replaced by a chance to get to know each other, shyly at first, while setting the table or loading/unloading the dishwasher, and then saying goodbye to each other with teary eyes. Indeed, when there isn’t that concrete finality provided by the pitch or other such frameworks, the discussion about cinema suddenly gains much more freedom and ease – this is the space where we can also share more personal views, where disagreements can be explored with absolute mutual respect, where we can easily intertwine memories and direct experiences and embrace them without diverting the conversation (as often happens, for instance, in the sought-after personal writing).

One evening, as we were getting ready to go for a swim, I told Pascal Edelmann – the founder and coordinator of the program, whose warmth, sense of humour, and innate diplomacy guided us through the three nights spent by the lake – that I was overwhelmed by their generosity,  rhetorically adding, “What did I do to deserve this?” Iewa, a film critic from Lithuania, stepped in at once: “What you did was work your ass off and get paid too little for it, so enjoy!” Hard to argue with such an argument, given all the guilt you often carry (especially as a woman) in a profession that often has its privileges – which often make you grit your teeth and pretend for their sake that the adversities don’t exist or are insignificant.

But let’s move on to the discussions with the filmmakers, which usually started (moderated by Pascal) from their relationship with critics and the institution of criticism itself. The four films we watched over the two days of the workshop were chosen based on the filmmakers’ presence at the festival, and they were very diverse in their aesthetic and thematic approaches: two documentaries with experimental nuances and two fiction features that play with conventions, exploring various forms and narratives.

The first one, Zinzindurrunkarratz by Oskar Alegria, was perhaps the group’s favourite – an experimental film shot with the director’s grandfather’s Super8 camera, which he uses to retrace the path once trodden by shepherds in the Basque Country, structured around the absence of sound on modern 8mm films and the gradual disappearance of transhumance. There is something extremely poignant in the way Alegria plays with the idea of ​​presence and absence, liminal memory, and histories (both cinematic, labour-related, and linguistic) in danger of being erased, as he points his camera at the ears of the donkey accompanying him, Paolo, or when trying to capture the most ephemeral of scenes (wildflowers, the night sky). Although the lack of sound and the abundance of text-over narration can often be demanding, there is a sense of bliss that permeates the entire endeavour, which was also evident in our group’s discussion. Alegria, who also spoke about his experience as a festival programmer and its impact on his filmmaking style, approached the discussion with the same wonder and openness that pervade his work: touching upon how he feels every time he finds an interpretation he hadn’t thought of before, as if it’s all a process of continuous discovery, self-discovery, and curiosity. (He mentioned a screening in China, where a student in the audience told him that his film is characterised by the moments when the screen goes black – as if it were a continuous restart.)

Still from Zinzindurrunkarratz (2023), dir. Oskar Alegria.

By contrast, the creators of the second film, the somewhat-Rohmerian comedy Greice (a Portugal-Brazil co-production directed by Leonardo Mouramateus and co-written with actor Mauro Soares) were a bit more sceptical – but only because they seemed more interested in a manner of critique beyond value judgments, one that is more concerned with building discursive bridges and a certain kind of educational mission. Leonardo even emphasised how, for him, criticism was decisive in his early days of cinephilia – saying that his first contact with the writings of Rivette and Godard was a revelation, giving him access to films he had no way of seeing. Ultimately, this was the main point of the discussion: criticism as a way to broaden horizons, to build bridges, to be honest, and to refuse the conventions of a “mainstream” industry.

However, our talk with Polish director Michał Szcześniak about his documentary Do I Still Get On Your Nerves? (about the daily life of a strange, slightly artistic, more or less dysfunctional couple) was completely harmonious; being “on home turf” might have also been a factor. Although none of us had been convinced by his film (at least not completely), but were rather in various stages of vexation, the fact that he told us right off the bat that he was a critic as well (albeit a music critic) and that he is friends with many critics whose opinions he values and respects immediately lightened the discussion. The way he talked about these relationships exuded a sense of fair play and constant exchange of ideas, openness to dialogue – which I found very refreshing.

The fourth film was a Romanian title – and here, things took an unexpected turn: because the discussion with its filmmakers didn’t go very well. Perhaps if the situation had involved someone from another country, I wouldn’t have been as sensitive to what happened, but the conflictual nature of the discussion seemed telling for the Romanian culture (I don’t want to generalise, but unfortunately, it’s a prevalent attitude). I have absolutely no intention of “public shaming” anyone with what I’m about to say, so for this reason, I will choose not to name the people involved, nor the title of their film, or details about it. Not only do I not want it to seem like a vindictive gesture (nor do I claim that what I’m about to describe is 100% objective), but I also consider their attitude symptomatic of how too many Romanian filmmakers view the work of local critics. What I wish is for the discussion I’m opening here to be about this attitude, not about the people who adopt it.

That said, there were moments of tension during our talk with the filmmakers, who at moments addressed us in a rather offensive tone, if not even hostile. Perhaps they thought that meeting with a group of film critics was like entering “the lion’s den” and believed that starting out strong would give them a rhetorical advantage? One of them launched almost instantly into a rant about critics “misunderstanding” films and making (interpretive, factual, etc.) errors in their reviews, about them wanting to “rewrite films” or throwing away “any film that doesn’t resemble the work of their favourite filmmakers”. The other took a less harsh tone, mentioning that they have also received positive reviews or had honest discussions with some critics and that in general, they read works of critical analysis; but at some point, they felt the need – which I felt was strange – to mention me twice, in a singling-out manner, and I find it hard to understand why it was necessary to use me as an example in that discussion: first to say they didn’t know me personally, then to say they once read an article I wrote that they disagreed with. (On the latter, it’s absolutely fair, I’m not saying no, in fact, I’m glad to hear opposing opinions, but I didn’t understand the need for me to be the one named here, or the need to name anyone at all, especially considering the rest of the discussion.) My response was that I believe the existence of a distance between critics and filmmakers is healthy, but also that an argument like the one expressed by the first filmmaker simplifies and distorts the purpose and workings of criticism very much, as it is only designed to serve itself.

I backed off as soon as it was announced that it was lunch time because I didn’t want a confrontation. Perhaps it was a cowardly gesture, but I felt that the discussion I wanted to have about this moment was better suited for writing rather than verbally. To express myself having a certain distance, which I feel you can’t have when you’re trying so hard not to say something confrontational and to maintain a respectful atmosphere (even if the feeling isn’t necessarily mutual).

Ultimately, I wanted to distance myself from the strong emotions and reactions generated by that situation and ask myself why, in my professional life, I have encountered similar positions so many times, even experiencing situations where I was – let’s say – scolded by Romanian directors unhappy with what I had written, or even scolded for my colleagues’ reviews. Which for me always felt like an act of crossing boundaries. It’s easy to say it all comes down to the old issue of transforming the discourse in Romania into a PR exploit – which has become all the more complex now, when more and more people seem to voluntarily join a way of writing about cinema always in the superlative, always in compliments and endorsements; so easy that I hesitate to believe that all most filmmakers want to hear are just praises, which is (unfortunately!) also due to being accustomed to this kind of discourse.

So where does this ferocity against negative reviews and this seeming unwillingness to understand it, let alone those who practise it, come from? Is it truly a plea against precipitous and poorly argued criticism, or is it taking personally certain things that, at the end of the day, should be dissociated from oneself? Are Romanian filmmakers still too little accustomed to the idea that, once released, their film (on which they have often worked for years) is open to anyone’s interpretation – and that interpretation is not always one that is generous but rather at odds with the film itself?

So where does this ferocity against negative reviews and this seeming unwillingness to understand it, let alone those who practise it, come from? Is it truly a plea against precipitous and poorly argued criticism, or is it taking personally certain things that, at the end of the day, should be dissociated from oneself? Are Romanian filmmakers still too little accustomed to the idea that, once released, their film (on which they have often worked for years) is open to anyone’s interpretation – and that interpretation is not always one that is generous but rather at odds with the film itself, which can cause sadness and anger, especially after so many sleepless nights and so much work? It’s something that I find hard to understand because, as a critic, I believe you owe it primarily to your conscience. And from this duty derives your duty to the audience: why would readers want to read anything other than the truth from you – even if it is subjective, perhaps even flawed? Why do we expect the very institution of criticism to be temperate rather than intransigent? To draw a parallel, I find it hard to imagine that anyone (who is not in a position of power) would ever ask the same of journalists and press media – to leave out things that might “hurt” someone or to sugarcoat them.

I find hard to understand because, as a critic, I believe you owe it primarily to your conscience. And from this duty derives your duty to the audience: why would readers want to read anything other than the truth from you – even if it is subjective, perhaps even flawed? Why do we expect the very institution of criticism to be temperate rather than intransigent?

And that brings me to my final thought: better working conditions for critics, which are not (self-)exploiting, exhausting, or constantly giving a sense of hostility, suspicion, and rejection, help not only the critics themselves and, ultimately, the quality of their lives (both professional and in general), but the entire film ecosystem. It seems almost unbelievable that we have to say this out loud, but don’t you think that a critic who can eat and rest properly, who is treated with respect instead of hostility (which by no means implies that their work cannot be challenged – just as filmmakers’ work can be) will do their job better? That the way they will contribute to shaping contemporary discourse about cinema, from the micro level (one film) to the macro level (the status of cinema), might be more substantial? We are not talking about granting privileges here, but the mere existence of normal working conditions like in any other profession. (How many of us have talked to people outside the field of criticism and cinema about the conditions we deal with and been met with a mix of amazement and concern?)

I, therefore, conclude with an appeal to the filmmakers who might come across this article, but also to my colleagues (because, let’s be honest, there isn’t much dialogue among us either): criticism is not meant solely to antagonise you, nor does it exist to sing praises or to describe things “beating around the bush”. And I believe that dialogue can be restored and resumed, even if social media seems to have reduced everything to knee-jerk reactions and made any kind of questioning seem automatically suspicious and ill-intentioned; but also that this dialogue can be based on mutual respect and a certain necessary distance (let’s call it an ethical sanitary cordon), the only thing we need is the willingness to have it.

This article, as well as the author’s trip to Wrocław, were made possible with the support of the Romanian Cultural Institute in Warsaw and the support of Mrs. Sabra Daici. The “A Sunday in the Country”  workshop is organised by the European Film Academy in collaboration with the Nowe Horyzonty Association, Kino Polska, and the Polish Film Institute.

Film critic & journalist. Collaborates with local and international outlets, programs a short film festival - BIEFF, does occasional moderating gigs and is working on a PhD thesis about home movies. At Films in Frame, she writes the monthly editorial - The State of Cinema and is the magazine's main festival reporter.