Look, I’ll admit it: I’m a Film Bro. Despite my best attempts to quell the pretension and the instinctual contrarianism, a constant “Well, but…” seems to always be perched on my lips when talking about movies. Even after a discussion of a film is over, sometimes even days later, I find myself continuing the debate internally; indeed, I am preparing even now for my next bout of defending The Batman (2022) as a comic book masterpiece to my friend. I love collecting the little bits of movie trivia, memorizing the names and the dates and the awards (but of course, the Oscars are bogus). I try not to take Letterboxd too seriously, but I do anyway: rearranging my ratings, editing old reviews, spending a lot of time writing said reviews. My love for film theory began with reading André Bazin and watching Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960)—pretty much the two patron saints of Film Bros. I have to resist name-dropping scholars, or even just the phrases “some have argued that…” or “I read someone who thought that…” And yes—I love Terrence Malick’s Tree of Life (2011)… though I must say that the memory-esque visual style, vague narrative and overall poetic affect that has come to define Malick’s approach since the return from his decades-long hiatus reaches an even more transcendent peak for me in 2015’s Knight of Cups… sorry, sorry. 

So there’s really no use denying my Film Bro status, even if I am still committed to resisting the worst of its effects, or at least containing them quietly within my own skull. And that wasn’t always the case; part of why the Film Bro has become a sort of Platonic form on the internet is because at their core the Film Bro needs to be seen as smart—they need to have a hotter take, a more obscure reference to quick-draw in order to dodge the argument at hand. This, more often than not, positions them in one of two camps: either an over-eager defender of a “not good” film—like myself and The Batman (except it is a great film)—or a fierce denier of the most popular movie or television show in the public milieu. I have often been an outspoken occupier of both of these positions, though most frequently the second.

Which is why I would cringe a little when I would hear people say that The Office or Friends is their favorite show, or see a Dunder Mifflin shirt out in the wild—to be honest, I still do. And it’s not because it’s bad, it’s just not… you know, Tree of Life or Knight of Cups or something. If everyone likes it, is it because it’s actually good (whatever that means) or because it’s so avoidant of anything meaningful or human or insightful while being humorous that anyone could like it? All this to say, when my sisters started watching Friends during the pandemic, I was often doing something else in the same room, biting my tongue and occasionally, guiltily chuckling while the Film Bro in me revolted.

So I am as shocked as anyone to report that I am closing out my first semester in graduate school (you know, so I can be a certified Film Bro) as I am also closing out my second season of Friends. This is not because someone I live with is watching it, nor is it for a research project or a class assignment; it is because, despite myself (or, perhaps, the way I imagine myself) I chose to. And I’ve chosen to watch Friends not because there has been a sudden reassessment of its merits in the scholarly literature, nor to figure out the mechanics of its style, the secrets to its long-lasting popularity. No, I chose it because the truth is that I have always loved it, and simply wasn’t able to overcome the Film Bro within to acknowledge it previously.

While I could spin out into a lengthy discussion of its virtues—the reconsideration of tropes as a central feature of its humor, the sympathy structure behind each of its characters, the 90’s fashion, Elliot Gould—I would really only be saying what has already been said, because I love it for exactly the same reasons everyone loves it. Full stop. So I’ll conclude with two lessons watching Friends—and letting myself love it—has taught me. First, it is perhaps essential that at some point, each of us investigates how the ways we imagine ourselves close us off to certain kinds of experiences; even simple ones of laughter and entertainment. And second—I want to be Chandler when I grow up.

Rest in peace, Matthew Perry.

1 Comment

  1. Jan VanKooten

    Could this post BE any more perfect? : )

    I watched “Friends” in real time, shaking my head at some of the contrived situations but smiling the entire time (especially at Phoebe’s “Smelly Cat) — and I continue to enjoy it in reruns.

    You are in good company.

    Reply

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