What is it about certain films that not only helps them stand up to but invite obsessive repeated viewings?
The question has taken on fresh urgency for Epictetus since a recent family gathering at which a tipsy aunt confided something more than mere fondness for "Boogie Nights." "Every time it's on," she whispered from behind a just-topped glass of red wine, "I have to watch it. And. I. Mean. Every. Time."
Epictetus nodded in alarmed yet compassionate understanding: The Paul Thomas Anderson porn industry opus garners another close watching whenever it appears on one of the hundreds of cable stations he's been stuck with since signing up for high-speed modem service. And not just for the pornography, of which there's little. What's more, "Boogie Nights" is not the only movie that rates such attention. There's "Nashville." And "Glengarry, Glen Ross." And "GoodFellas." And "L.A. Confidential." And "The Shining." And "Serpico" and "Dazed and Confused" and "Donnie Brasco" and "Safe" and "Marathon Man" and "Smokey and the Bandit" and "All the President's Men" and "The Hustler" and "Singing in the Rain" and "Napolean Dynamite" and "Some Like It Hot" and "Vacation" and "The Apartment" and "The Third Man" and "The Border" and "Little Big Man" and "Paper Moon" ….
Lady Epictetus (sorry, girls) has a similar and oft-overlapping list, to which she would add "Mean Streets" and "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore." Even Epictetus the Younger ("Rent," "The Great Escape") and little Epicteta ("Babe," "Finding Nemo") are showing early disturbing signs of the same syndrome.
Maybe it's not the movie, then, but the viewer. Many of the titles mentioned above deliver on at least one of the critical counts of quality: acting, writing, directing. Few deliver all ("Some Like It Hot") while some deliver none ("Napolean Dynamite"). Epictetus has a friend who once watched 18 consecutive hours worth of a "Canonball Run" marathon–nine entire beginning-to-end viewings. A llama-feeding goofball, Jackie Gleason in expectorating pursuit of Burt Reynolds, and Sammy Davis Jr. draped in "rosary bleeds" [sic] should not inspire such devotion. And even if Paul Newman and Julianne Moore should, should they really, so much, all the time?
So maybe it's something else. Maybe it's a combination of habits, desires, and compulsions mixed with memories and topped by the unbidden, unanticipated arrival of something into your home of something that pleases, for whatever reason. Epictetus once held dear an idea about "the randomness of radio" (disregarding the reality of predetermined playlists in order to make his argument–hey, that's philosophy): You never knew exactly what was coming next, which made you keep listening for more.
Who would ever buy anything with Anthony Michael Hall in it? Who takes the time and energy to go out and rent anything with Anthony Michael Hall in it? Who even bothers to press "select" from the On Demand menu? But stumble across him at 2:40 pm on a Sunday afternoon in March on TBS, or on Jack Lemmon as Sheldon Levine, or Lorraine Bracco screaming at "that whore Janice Rossi!"–at any hour of the day or night on any channel–and you can't turn away. That's just how it happens. Every. Time.
April 4, 2006 at 2:30 am
that’s the argument for Satalite radio. With everyone owning and using pre-programmed iPods with playlist, always knowing what’s next, it’s a relief and a joy, and orgasmic to listen to something non expected. It’s so wonderful to stumble on something that you love so much. But if you put it on your playlist you have it righ thtere, and then you tire of the set up. And if I rented the movies you mentioned from netflix, they would sit on my shelf, and each day I would say, do you want ot watch it.. and we would say.. nah not tonight, but maybe tomorrow night.. but if we turned on the Teli, and there it was, we would sit and watch it. So right on my man, you nailed it!