No complaints from yours truly about annual year-end lists: for “best” films (though actually I’d call ’em “favorites”: like, what do I know about best?–no personalized access to “absolute” levels of excellence, whatever that implies, no internal database that even remotely approximates the many, many options available), books, the arts, whatever … even pop music, which I know next to nothing about: viva Monica, Jessica, Peter, Miles, et al. So it’s more a matter of sponging up what intrepid writers throw out there, comparing notes and following connotative leads, or sometimes just plain dissing (“Omigod no, he can’t be listing that!” … “Whatever was M. Wilmington thinking?”)–as a kind of Rorschach sampler, autobiography by implication. Which suggests it’s not about content so much as the spirit of selection, where individual quirks can flourish, perform a couple of narcissistic pirouettes. But something like true affection (scare quotes optional) has to be the motor–all things pure to the pure of heart–because if not why bother?
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
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