Mulling

I enjoy being proven right. Usually, it happens with movies or television or occasionally a novel. Sometimes music. Someone sees something I’ve said is good, someone sees something I’ve said is bad, they agree with me, I feel that rush only a know-it-all can enjoy. It’s shallow, but rewarding. I’ll never forget when my best friend finally agreed with me on L.A. Confidential not being a good movie. I probably remind him of it every eighteen months, just because it gives me a nice memory of that rush. But this post isn’t about how shallow I am, because I’ve come to realize I prefer being proven wrong more than right. I made fun of “Game of Thrones” for years and I was wrong about it. Maybe not the first season, but definitely the rest of it. I grew up on eighties and nineties television. There was a lot of good stuff, the beginnings of serialized narratives, but there was always an understanding of the episodic nature of the show. Even something like “Homicide.” No, “Game of Thrones” isn’t “The Wire,” but it’s also an exceptionally complicated piece of serialized narrative. And I was wrong to wait so long on it. The first time I remember having to reconsider an opinion of a film was Wolf. I was fifteen or sixteen—so I still had my glorious future of defending The Phantom Menace for at least a year and a half—and I watched it, I mocked it, then I found myself going over its points with my mom (who had no interest in it, Mike Nichols or not). She said, “You said you didn’t like it, but you can’t stop talking about it.” I went into Wolf with a lot of preconceived notions. I was young, foolish. Wolf’s not as great as I thought it was in my late teens, but it’s pretty darn good. Mulling is important.

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