Have you ever watched a film that seemed perfectly crafted and technically flawless yet left you feeling emotionally flat? Or conversely, seen a movie that critics dismissed as silly or misguided but which moved you to tears? Most of us have experienced both.
Cinema is a curious and powerful art form.
As a scholar of film studies and a critic, I often find myself torn when deciding what makes a film truly great. My responses to movies are shaped by taste, background, current mood and the circumstances of each viewing. For that reason, I often rely on historical context and cinematic precedent to judge a film as fairly as possible. If a movie resembles earlier works in style or structure, I can better assess its successes and failures by comparing how it uses—or subverts—genre conventions, narrative devices and filmmaking techniques.
Cultural significance also matters. Films like Get Out and Annihilation benefited from arriving at a moment when audiences and critics were ready to engage with their themes. Yet cultural context is simply a larger-scale version of the same subjectivity every critic brings: personal and socially informed perspectives shape reception. Consider how critics’ political attitudes can influence which films they champion in awards seasons; such alignments are rarely absolute, but they do shape discourse.
Film is subjective. Full stop.
Even when I try to be objective in my criticism—evaluating art from the most detached perspective I can manage—I remain influenced by everything I’ve seen and felt before and during a screening. That’s why some films I rate highly don’t always give me the strongest visceral enjoyment, while others I love personally may receive more modest critical rankings.
For example, in my end-of-year list for 2017 I placed Wind River at number 10, despite finding it more emotionally satisfying on that particular viewing than several higher-ranked films such as Get Out, Manchester by the Sea, Moonlight and Dunkirk. The circumstances mattered: I saw Wind River in a cinema at a time when I needed immersive escape, and the experience stuck with me more than some technically superior films I’d watched on smaller screens. Conversely, I didn’t include Blade Runner 2049 in my top ten because I felt its story lacked the emotional resonance I expected, though a close friend named it his number one film of the year. Those differences of opinion among informed viewers underline how personal film evaluation can be.
Two knowledgeable viewers, similar in age and background, can arrive at opposite conclusions about the same movie. That’s not an argument against criticism—it’s a reminder that criticism is a conversation, not a verdict carved in stone.
Why emphasize subjectivity in film criticism?
There are two main reasons. First, the increased diversity among critics—enabled by the internet and social media—enriches the conversation. A wider range of voices means more sociopolitical viewpoints and cultural readings, producing a richer, more robust consensus about a film’s value. That diversity remains imperfect and uneven, but it’s a positive shift.
Second, we should stop feeling ashamed about what we enjoy. You can like films that are widely considered “bad” while still understanding what makes great cinema. Citizen Kane is often cited for its technical achievements and historical importance, yet it does not have to be everyone’s favorite. Personal taste is valid even when it diverges from scholarly or critical consensus.
My own journey illustrates this. As someone with a master’s degree in film theory, I can honestly say that the films that drew me into the field range from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory to The Thin Red Line. I enjoy big studio animated movies like Ice Age as much as classic genre touchstones like Alien. My lists and preferences shift with mood and understanding; what I cherish today might evolve tomorrow.
I’ve felt strong emotional connections to movies many would dismiss—films like Game Over, Man or romantic dramas that lean on problematic tropes. Even critics who “should know better” find themselves moved by films that fail certain critical tests. That doesn’t invalidate critical standards; it reminds us that art is fundamentally about individual experience and empathy.
Still, I believe the more films a critic watches and analyzes, the more valuable their perspective can be—because it comes from a broader base of knowledge. Recognizing references, seeing how contemporary directors reinterpret classic tropes, and understanding film history all enrich criticism and help educate audiences. Of course, this knowledge base has historically been dominated by western, male perspectives, and it should be continually challenged and expanded.
Nothing in film should be untouchable. Critics and fans alike project personal histories onto the movies they watch, and those perspectives are informed by cultural and institutional biases. When you read a review—especially one that seems out of step with your view—consider who wrote it and what experiences shaped that opinion. Seek out critics you relate to, let them challenge and refine your tastes, and use criticism as a tool to deepen your appreciation of cinema.
Cheers.
I’d love to hear about your “guilty pleasures”: the classic films you never cared for, or the supposedly bad movies you return to again and again. Share them loud and proud in the comments—I’ll try to reply to as many as possible.
Read Exploring the Great Empathy Machine: Blog 001 – An Introduction for more on how films open us up to other perspectives.
