In art, like in life,
all the best things are subjective. And while eventually (as years roll on and
more art is accumulated) head takes over heart, there are things you would
never even dream of putting down. Those things that made a strong impression when
you were 13 years old. Things that would now make you a completely different
human being.
Some stand up (One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest), some
don’t (Forrest Gump, regardless of
the soundtrack), some you don’t even want to touch. Dead Poets Society, that old childhood favourite, is one of those.
You realise, at the back of your mind, that the youthful idealism grates and
there are scenes upon scenes upon scenes that would make you wince
uncontrollably. You imagine that, you
haven’t seen the film in years.
You don’t wish to watch it
again. Heavens forbid. Watching it now would be a fist in your mouth. A blow
below your waistline. You value it too much, the film or perhaps the memory of
it, to make the experience objective. And then later, sometime somewhere, you
suddenly mention it to a serene-eyed, ghost-chasing inspiration-seeking youth
singing to you a few memorable lines from Morrissey’s “Cemetery Gates”.
