My Mother is watching a film

             Mothers with a Taste for Beauty and Critics Who Beat the Drum of Authority

by Abderrahim ECHCHAFII

The films and series we watch are the product of dozens of crafts, each one collaborating to produce something we spend hours watching. Every technician and artist involved is equally important to any given artistic work. Together, they form a cohesive and collaborative unit. Minor gaps among them can disrupt the entire structure and ruin the film or series as an artistic whole.

Cinema and television are not just about the producer, screenwriter, and director. These figures command, while the rest toil, sweat, and create. If you want proof of this, try removing the job of the script supervisor and see how well the directors perform! As for me, I realized the value of cinematic craftsmanship the moment my mother was watching a film.

My mother is watching a film!
What a silly thought, some would say...
But as long as critics and theorists make their living by watching and writing about films, nothing is silly anymore. Why? If my mother could read and write, she’d do the same thing. We should not assume that the vast audience, especially parents who spend much of their time in front of the television, are less significant than the critic who thinks his text has more authority than public taste. They say taste is not up for debate—but my mother’s taste deserves to be discussed, because film is essentially a popular medium and holds a prominent place in society. Christian Metz once wrote: “Cinema is hard to explain because it’s easy to understand.” We should aim to appreciate it more in a way that’s accessible and digestible.

Writers analyzing films usually end up either describing what they see or analyzing it—or both. In describing, we simply repeat in words what we see on screen. We can describe the film’s content (its main idea and purpose), or its form (the way it’s built), including camera movements, shot sequences, and pacing. Description is essential to writing about film. Everything the critic does is essentially a retelling of what the film shows.

And what does a critic usually scribble about? The screenplay, the directing, the actors’ performances—and if they try harder, they might mention the editing or the soundtrack. Yet these are just a small fraction of the many professions that bring a film to life.

Meanwhile, my mother watches films with an eye for furniture and décor: tables, chairs, lamps, ovens, curtains, rugs, kitchen sinks, chandeliers—and not only that, but also wall colors, patterns, buildings, carpets. Then she moves on to the flooring, identifies types of tiles, studies the clothing, tells you which fashion style it belongs to, comments on the makeup and what's expensive or not. Now imagine, dear critic, if my mother wrote in this direction?

Cinematic journalism would announce the arrival of a new wave of critics—though this instinct has always existed. So why not write about what already exists?

Artistic taste is instinctive in mothers.
Mothers play an enormous role in our lives. They are sources of support and inspiration. The beauty of our relationship with them lies in the small moments we share. Watching films with our mothers becomes a refuge from daily life, where excitement and entertainment meet the opportunity for conversation and exchanging opinions. In this setting, films become a way to connect, express creativity, and engage with art.

One of the most exciting aspects of watching films with my mother is learning from the décor, interior design, and clothing featured on screen. In fact, these visual elements play a major role in defining characters and shaping a unique artistic vision. We can draw inspiration from them to improve our own environments and fashion choices—as a form of aesthetic appreciation, or at least a way out of the cycle of cheering blindly for the producer, director, screenwriter, or actor.

My mother’s ability—and yours too—to join me in such discussions shows her capacity to understand the depth films can reach as a medium for cultural and artistic expression. Imagine your mother suddenly jumping into the world of film—a world full of enchanting stories, beautiful sets, and excellent performances. Would it be just a passing moment of entertainment? Or could it become a delightful cultural journey?

Perhaps she never learned to read or write. Perhaps she’s never read Dudley Andrew on Grand Film Theories, or books on the philosophy of cinema, or Gilles Deleuze, or Jacques Aumont, or Christian Metz, or the realist and formalist theories. Yet she possesses a refined artistic sensibility. When she watches a film, she doesn't just follow the plot—she enjoys the décor, notices the details, can distinguish between luxury and ordinary furniture, senses the impact of lighting and colors on the film's atmosphere. That, dear critic, is what philosophy calls “aesthetic taste.” And even if she can’t read actor names, my mother has a sharp sense of artistic performance. She can differentiate physical gestures, facial expressions, and tell good acting from bad.

Why did I tell you about my mother?
So that the critic who believes the written word gives him the authority to see what others cannot, and who thinks of himself as the exalted mastermind capable of building and destroying films at will—depending on how much chicken is served at a festival banquet—will realize that if ordinary people wrote down what they heard after watching a film or what their mother said about it, clarity would spread, opinions would multiply, and newspapers and magazines would overflow with perspectives. Then, carving up the chicken would become a real challenge—and the arrogance of genius would disappear from the scene.

Why is film criticism just an opinion?
Opinions, tastes, debates, watching films, and writing about them—these are all just expressions of personal views. A critic is neither a mind-reader nor a scholar of cinema. He is part of the public, just like the audience. The only difference is that they aren’t interested in writing, nor do they possess the cinematic vocabulary available to everyone. The critic turns to writing either because he failed to become a director—as someone once said: “Most who failed to become directors became critics.”—or because he seeks fame and the spotlight. But in truth, that spotlight is a kind of darkness—unlike the bright light of the new wave of creative youth at the end of the tunnel. In your case, it’s the light of a train. And because you chase chicken banquets with your eyes closed, that train is going to run you over.