The cultural condition today is that our critic s evaluations are so reactively out of date and detached from the works they are supposed to criticise and categorise, that everything remotely close to criticism, with even the slightest scent of evaluation, is always already an inexact falsitude. To view it from a different perspective, the standard of high-end quality is defined by the lower orders. The intelligentsia needs the peasants to justify their intelligence. And the peasants are artists too. Well, they were.
Life is a soundtrack.
Every mood, every situation, every dynamic sequence of events, from car chase to dinner setting has an appropriate rhythm texture and style. Jazz is for cool moments, Metal for violence, Trance for confused teenagers on ecstasy and Sylvia Plath, a Morose Dirge for budding scouts stropping up their leader, Corrosive Atonality for tooth extractions, and either Kenny G or Screamin Jay Hawkins for sex scenes. It s a code that movie soundtrackers plug into with their antenna-like sockets. And so you, as the viewer, can smell an oncoming cheesy soundtrack like a plague of locusts downwind. Baby gets undressed and makes the wanting a shower motions.