For a while now, I've found myself weirdly sentimental for the existence of niche-oriented television networks, and more specifically, ones pertaining to showcasing film (or at least did at one point). With the shocking and imminently planned return of G4 next year, a channel whose video game and geek centric content I so lovingly adored as a kid before the rise of YouTube and streaming platforms, I found it appropriate to finally put these long developed thoughts to prose and go ahead and personally lament on the special novelty of such a medium.
Growing up in the 2000s prior to the diseased spread of channel drift, television networks dedicated to their own brand of content were like little, virtual homes for me to take comfort and shelter in. Most of that time was appropriately spent on kid centric stations like Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network and their off shoots Nicktoons and Boomerang, but given my fortune of having a premium cable box and limited parental supervision during the day, channel surfing through the some odd thousand channel listings was regular practice for me. And it was here where I feel like the roots of my later cinephilia would truly sprout. While I did grow up with many different mediums for accessing films including watching the collection of VHS tapes my family had at home or seeing films regularly with my aunt, grandma, or mother at the local Century or Regal cinemas (which you'd think would be the most influential mode of presentation), it was actually watching and discovering movies on television that took on the greatest impact for me in retrospect. Looking back on it, my current tastes and sensibilities in film find themselves rooted in what I was regularly exposed to (and not all of it exactly suitable age-wise either).
Early on, when most of my household was out working and before school activities completely consumed me, much of my time was spent in the care of my grandmother who would always be busy knitting on her bed while Turner Classic Movies played nearly all day before switching to Sci-Fi (now SyFy) at night to indulge in ghastly and gruesome works of science fiction and horror. The former normalized classic film amongst the sea of modernity and the latter simply traumatized and induced a sense that the world was not so innocent as I once might've thought. I have precise memory of Cronenberg's The Fly (1986) and its infamous "larva" scene disturbing me at too young of an age. Or the Graboid falling off the cliff at the end of Tremors (1990) and exploding its orange gelatinous contents all over the chalky, sun baked Nevadan desert (of which is where I live). I remember being cautious of my steps in the backyard after that film. It was good times, really.
Later past that point and having aged a little, as I was amidst a strong appreciation for the Universal blockbusters of the 70s, 80s, and 90s helmed by the likes of Spielberg, Cameron, and Zemeckis, my own conscious agency would bring me to explore more film centric programming available on cable. Three channels in particular would begin to change the tide as to how I envisioned what cinema could truly be. They were Encore, Sundance Channel, and the formerly affiliated Independent Film Channel (IFC). Encore and its many sub stations dedicated to specific genres is what I feel properly introduced me to the recent(ish) back catalog of American studio filmmaking from the past 30 years. In fact, the first time I ever remembered taking in Psycho was through Encore and it wasn't even Hitchcock's but the Gus Van Sant remake! This strange encounter with the remake first has since aligned the famous shower scene in an obtuse manner for myself as whenever it's brought up, my mind goes to Anne Heche first before Janet Leigh (probably making infamous a more proper descriptor). For some reason, I actually take weirdly great pride in that personal idiosyncrasy. I also find both films much closer together in quality than they are apart.
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| The water damaged ceiling in Dark Water (2002) |
And now onto Sundance and IFC. Of all the film channels I have memories of viewing, these two I honestly possess the least amount of recollection for, but, it was my brief encounters with each's programming that created the most indelible impact on both my film watching brain and for the first time, my aspiration to want to make them. For those unfamiliar, Sundance and IFC were the premiere television destinations dedicated to the curation of indie, foreign, and documentary film. I never spent significant time on them due to the content being way above my comprehension at my age, but I do remember being attracted enough to at least constantly check out what each had playing. The films airing encompassed elevated characteristics that were completely separate from the Hollywood features I was accustomed to and that alone snagged my interest. Really, this must've been my premature realization of auteurism on display before I even understood what that was and meant. The only two films I distinctly recall from these networks were Hideo Nakata's Dark Water (2002) and Andrea Arnold's Wasp (2003). Given my "dip in and dip out" approach, all I recollected of Nakata's film was the scene of the mother and daughter wandering the drab apartment complex while a significantly large stain of water damage in the corner of one of the rooms noticeably took relevance to the film's ongoing narrative. The extreme gloominess of the film set within the urban sprawl of Tokyo combined with the curious eye of the camera to that mysterious stain on the ceiling seared itself onto my prefrontal cortex. It was a sensory experience stronger than any film had given me. And for Arnold's short, it was the first time I recall witnessing realism in film and took conscious note of the importance of the camera's kineticism in regards to narrative. It really perplexed me. How could a film resemble non-fiction so closely while clearly exhibiting deliberate directorial craft? This is where I began to ground filmmaking as something doable and not just an unattainable process of alchemy. Both films remained lean in their production value, but the technique was unflinchingly present. Up until high school, where I began studying film formally, my vague memories of Sundance and IFC's programming were what kept me driven on just how viscerally and uniquely expressive movies could be when enacted upon.
In the current streaming landscape, there are no doubts to be had in preferring the advent of choice and convenience, but there is something to be cherished about the open allure of turning on the TV, flipping to a channel, and entering a feed of specifically curated interests. Something I feel has mostly been lost since with the exception of TCM. Sure, word of mouth and social media buzz about a film has its own singular qualities, but nothing for me beats the chance encounter. In a time where I feel like I as a cinephile have been overexposed to every exterior minutiae of a film, long before actually watching it, smothering my judgments by merely tuning in to a film mid-movie or just as it starts/ends gives me no choice but to take what is in front of me and indulge for what it is. For me, this is still the rawest form of discovery. Some of my very favorite films were brought to my attention this way. Sometimes I didn't know who made them, where they came from, or when they were made, but all that mattered was the cinema un-tampered by pretense. That kind of relationship is all but lost with streaming. Now from what I understand, few platforms like MUBI and Shudder have 24/7 streaming options available that simulate the television broadcast, but the lack of on-air brand bumpers, interstitials, and overall personality that a dedicated channel possesses renders the experience flat. Aside from the movies being aired, the ambience a network creates for itself is also part of the charm. When watching TCM, the pre-film host introductions, short subject docs on classic film culture, and promos for coming attractions create a special solace that cannot be replicated. Like mentioned earlier, it's like a place of comfort to be treated by.
I don't exactly know what I'm reaching for here but other than to reflect on how preciously close I hold this antiquated mode of presentation. When picking what to watch has grown tediously overwhelming, it makes me miss niche television and its simplified pleasures. I kind of hate the effect of mostly knowing what I'm getting into when streaming at home. Less and less things feel like discoveries and more like obligations. I HAVE to watch this movie opposed to HOLY SHIT what is this? Anyone else feel similarly?
