Letterboxd? I hardly know her boxd
Why social media and art shouldn't always mix
This year, I have been logging each film I watch. No matter if it’s a 1956 Iranian gore-comedy, or the three-day, fragmented sampling of Will Smith’s King Richard - if I see it, it’s going on the list.
I was inspired by Ibra Ake, a writer for Atlanta and frequent Donald Glover collaborator, who posted his own lo-fi list towards the end of last year. His 2023 habits were fascinating, oscillating between auteur-driven passion projects with unpronounceable titles and, well, Bridesmaids.
Behind each entry was, I thought, a story, a different context or aim for each movie watched, random factors which saw one film chosen over every other at that given moment. A sports team losing, the death of a pet, a first date, a friend’s suggestion, anything can contribute to the art we all choose to consume.
Here was the yarn of someone’s year, neatly captured by the movies they’d watched. I want my own summary, and so beginning with a dozy afternoon re-watch of A Serious Man, I started my list.
Nearly two months in, I’ve noticed a slight change in my watching habits. Whilst cinema trips can involve emotionally wrought films, my domestic choices have always tended toward the more easily digested. Battling a temperamental Wi-Fi connection whilst contorted in my duvet, it’s far easier to decide not to watch Melancholia.
However, with my home-bound selections now documented, I’ve found myself hesitating as my cursor hovers over Crazy, Stupid Love, my ego tutting: “How is that going to look on the list?”
I’m ashamed to admit my pride is intertwined with the films I watch. Too much of my identity is based on my self-professed movie snobbery, my first date etiquette too reliant on clumsily mentioning my penchant for – grimace – “highbrow” cinema.
Previously, if I’d foregone my Mubi subscription for a 105 minutes with Paul Rudd, the evening would have simply evaporated from memory. However, now that each film is documented, there is proof of my slumming. I am providing evidence for my own prosecution in the Court of Naturalistic Lighting and Non-narrative Structure, leaving my self-worth teetering.
Not that Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy hasn’t popped up on my 2024 credits; but the act of recording has given me pause.
I have shown my list to a few friends who have invariably asked: “Why don’t you just get Letterboxd?”
A fair question, at which I always bristle.
I do have a Letterboxd account, and I occasionally visit the site to read reviews, both quippy and earnest. Many people have told me the platform has sparked or reinvigorated a passion for cinema, and there are certainly excellent critics and archivists who are active on it.
But Letterboxd leaves me conflicted.
When I first created my account, I was determined to give the site my all. I had aspirations of writing pithy reviews, generating a sizeable yet loyal following which would launch my career as an insightful, beloved and undeniably handsome cultural critic.
I logged four films, closed the app, and haven’t been back since.
It’s ridiculous, I know, but I found the experience overwhelming. In the same way a block-stricken writer stares at an empty page, the blank “Watched” tab sitting below my cloyingly ironic username left me paralysed.
After 24 years of film consumption, where should I start? Which films convey the “genius” of my taste? How could I show people that I am a perfect blend of Roger Ebert, Leonard Maltin, Spike Lee, Peter Bogdanovich and Jesus?
It was, I now realise, the transferral of my personal castigation to the public. My fragile pride, barely able to handle my own scrutiny, was now being laid bare for Ayo Edebiri and the rest of the world to see.
And whilst I recognise I am an especially hubristic case, I know we all share a desire for admiration. It is the base assumption on which most social media platforms function, and it is my fundamental issue with Letterboxd.
The aesthetic experience is, at its best, deeply personal. Whether or not there is such a thing as objectively great art, I believe art can become great through one’s interpretation. A film, book, song, meal, piece of furniture, anything filtered through our experiences and mood can result in a chasm of opinion between different people. It’s why I maintain Babylon is one of the cinematic marvels of the past decade, and it’s why art is so goddam interesting.
Yet, by publicising our viewing – or listening, Spotify Wrapped – history, some of this individual experience is lost.
A friend recently told me that, whilst watching Poor Things, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he was going to write in his Letterboxd review. This is exactly my issue. Instead of barrelling headfirst and alone into a piece of creativity, to see how it echoes in the halls of subjectivity, our interpretation is outsourced to friends, acquaintances, and strangers. The personal becomes the public, social media-fied.
It is no longer, “What do I think of these films?” but rather, “What do these films say about me?”
I’m aware this is a condescending and curmudgeonly argument to make. Most people just want to watch movies and discuss them online. But I do think, as social media bleeds into every aspect of our lives, some things should be kept sacred.
We should cherish our individual experiences, not seek to validate them online. To do so can only lead to prideful curation and self-censorship.
So, I will save my pretentious film recommendations and unoriginal takes for face-to-face interactions. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be on IMDb.