Notes from Locarno, 2023
Another confession. When I first attended the Locarno Film Festival in 2017, I wrote 33 articles in ten days. During the festival, I reviewed 23 films, interviewed seven directors, summarised two press conferences and wrote one preview. I was paid nothing by my accredited outlet for this masochistic effort, although the festival, unprompted, covered the costs of my flights and accommodation. I was young, grateful and—probably quite importantly—in the first year of my doctoral studies, luxuriating in the bayou of a juicy stipend. I tell myself that I didn’t know any better.
Now—I’m older, otherwise employed and basically thankful that Locarno still invites me along. The website that commissioned me last time has ceased trading. This year, I’ve written a review of Radu Jude’s new film, and I’m writing this article. I’m £50 to the good, pending invoices. Workload is down; income is up. My hotel, while no longer by the lakeside, is still well-situated, close to the piazza. I hang out with friends not seen since the last edition, and I make fresh acquaintances with cineastes and filmmakers, all of whom know plenty more about movies than I do. The sun shines. I take a dip in the lake. I travel up the funicular. Success!
And yet jarring notes sound among all this jamboree talk and itinerary relay—what is going on here, exactly? So, you took annual leave? You’re a dilettante interloper with a vague network of connections? You pilfered an opened bottle of Bianco del Ticino from the press lunch? Your stomach hurts more days than you’d like to admit? The festival has forgotten to scrub you from the mailing list? You used to write a little, you make a poor effort of pitching, and you think that rationalising your diminishing output in a desultory, post-facto sad-voice will save you from a life of scorn or indifference?
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All those things! And yet—again, yet, that simpering conjunction—it’s hard not to wonder about what’s expected of the contemporary film critic and journalist. (It may be worth considering both the separation and conflation of these roles, as well as those of the critic and influencer. How I see it: when I work a lot, I’m a journalist; when I don’t, I’m a critic.) The overall tale is familiar: payment is generally low to non-existent; expenses are variable; collegiality is hard-won; editorial guidance often amounts to pot luck. It’s a pain for PRs, too: there’s less motivation to write about the films they represent if you’re writing for free.
Outlets should always pay, we all agree, for criticism to flourish, for films to be seen, dwelled upon, and written about. But even some of the established freelancers at Locarno assumed they’d be working at a loss. The SAG strikes had nixed their chances of offering lucrative interviews to the bigger, well-remunerated publications. Poor David Krumholtz, following a chunky role in Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer, was one of the few actors to attend, pottering about the press area, waiver in hand, a faint sadness imprinted in his moustache. Perhaps we shouldn’t overthink this part: go to Locarno, enjoy the films, and if you break even, fantastic. Easier to say (and believe) when it’s not your livelihood.
There are other ways to do a festival: the Locarno Critics Academy, educating 10 aspiring writers, appeared pleasant and productive, while a separate publication, Outskirts, launched at the festival, offering a lush second annual of criticism. (I had a great time doing an equivalent workshop in Ghent, which subsequently allowed me to join the editorial board for the online magazine, photogénie.) The Locarno “minions”—mockingly self-titled—formed an incipient coterie here, attending masterclasses by the likes of Lav Diaz and Albert Serra. I’m told that the director-pair implored the audience to forget about their finances and just get on with the business of making art, but not before outlining their habits of masturbation. The young critics, furnished with these learnings, published reviews and interviews, and their desire to develop knowledge and connections was genuine and affirming.
And yeeeet, remind me how this critical ecosystem is intended to be sustainable. These types of training and exposure may be invaluable, but they exist at a time when such a small price is being paid for the art—or more accurately, the labour—of criticism. Within this context, the learning and networking spiral of these emerging workshops furnishes a sort of young-critics-industrial-complex, a shambly footbridge looping off into nowhere, the planks of softwood hurtling into the chasm. Can these initiatives consistently exceed wide-eyed foundlingdom and foster sincere, satisfying and long-standing careers?
Which leads us to the following necessary question: How can writing on film be developed, transformed and radicalised without a transparent, rigorous and clearly-funded infrastructure? In lieu of this security, critics will always give admiring, adjacent glances towards editing, events, programming and industry sales. We take on other jobs. We rein in our output. We adapt our preferences. We give up entirely. We turn film festivals into a holiday. We feel guilty about it.
Wiser heads advocate for an informal or formal critics’ union, where we tell each other what we are paid, who we know, how we got started, and how we can afford it. There’s some evidence that the savvy, intelligent, hard-working and well-respected among us can carve out a career, even amid the dearth of paying publications. But mainly what’s left is a trail of minor disappointments and what-could-have-beens. In Locarno, one critic lamented the lack of reviews emerging for Eduardo Williams’s The Human Surge 3, even though the embargo had been lifted. For many, it’s a masterpiece that contains images of a type never rendered before on screen. In 2017, they’d have spied the write-up within the hour. In 2023, you’ll have to pay me.
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