It seems to be alive and well, though. Enough so that Newsweek columnist Brad Stone has coined a new term: Netflix Guilt. For him, the guilt first became uncomfortably heavy with City of God. The film was on his Netflix queue, showed up at his house, then sat there for 11 months while he waited for the urge to actually watch it. He finally sent it back, unwatched, costing him a calculated $66. As Stone describes the phenomena, a film is highly recommended and appeals to your "intellectual and aesthetic sensibilities," but after it arrives, "temperament, timing and ambiance are never quite right for the film's subject matter." Our guilt is compounded when we quickly watch and return movies that seem to have little artistic or intellectual merit, while the ones we feel we "should" watch just sit there.

OK, so I get it, and if I was a Netflix customer I can totally see myself caught up in the same cycle. (This is probably at the root of why I'm not a Netflix customer—I can never be sure what I'll be in the mood to watch at any given moment, so I'd rather make my decisions in the moment.) But isn't this sad? To feel guilty about which movies we watch or don't watch? Don't we have enough other things in life to feel pressured and guilty about? Can't we just watch the movies we feel like watching at the moment, and enjoy them in the moment? There are plenty of heavy and depressing films I want to watch at some point, but I've decided not to stress myself out over them. Somehow I have managed to watch many not-fun films over the years, and I feel confident that when the time and mood and company are right, I'll get to these other films I "need" to watch. (Hey, I just saw An Inconvenient Truth last night—not exactly a walk in the park.) In the meantime, this weekend I think I'm going to pick up Office Space and thoroughly enjoy it—guilt free.

Over the past several decades, the Middleton library has moved from basement to basement. Some of the films have succumbed to poor storage conditions, but a lot have survived. I was around for the most recent move, to a climate-controlled facility here in town. When I arrived to meet the man who has inherited the library, Ghirb Eevsting, the scene looked like the reunion of a high school audio/video club from 1976. Middle-aged men were telling stories of their lives in production and sharing old techie knowledge while shelving cans from shopping carts. A can with the words "Nazi War Propaganda" written in marker was elected to be screened first. Then we ate pizza and talked about the future of the library.

In short, there is no plan for the future. Right now it's a bunch of guys with a bug for treasure hunting who will eventually transfer the films to digital video. Our lunch conversation moved to less romantic talk about possible grants and in-fighting between non-profit media organizations. But even amidst the bureaucracy of non-profit fund raising, there's something about this collection that invigorates film geeks. In fact, a collector from San Francisco and one from New York each offered to pay for a semi-truck and movers to pick up the entire library if Ghirb would sign ownership over to them (Ghirb still doesn't know how these collectors found him).

As I ate pizza with them, I thought of my grandfather combing the beach with a metal detector. I would walk next to him as he hovered the donut shaped end of the wand over the sand and listened intently to sonar ping sounds in the headphones. I'd jabber about finding a hidden pirates' treasure and he'd eventually tell me to leave. I wanted a treasure and he wanted to hunt.

The middle-aged A/V club hopes there's a treasure in the basement. But I get the sense they're in this for the hunt more than the treasure. They believe they've got something precious. They believe there's tremendous value is saving these relics, even if nobody is willing to step up and fund their expedition. As for me, I don't know. Maybe they should scrap them. How much time will be spent sifting through half-rotted junk looking for something great? Who decides what's great? My grandpa hunted for gold on his vacations. These guys will be pouring more than vacation time into this collection.

I want them to follow their hearts, but I'm skeptical at the same time. Is it a fool's errand to archive this collection? I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's a nagging question for me. How many people actually find a Van Gogh in their attic?

You know what's going to happen, of course. You know the Wicked Witch of the West will blast up from the earth before the Munchkins finish singing "Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead." You know Dorothy and her walking buddies see the wizard and he sends them off to get the witch's broomstick. Heck, you know the Wizard isn't even a wizard at all. Everybody knows this.

So I'm wondering why ... why do I care? Why do I watch this movie again and again? Why am I re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire a third time before seeing the movie?

With DVDs and the Internet, there's no waiting, no checking TV Guide, no anticipation. I could watch a new film every night. That's 365 films a year. If I dedicated the next decade of my life to this, I'd have seen 3,650 films and just scratched the surface of what Netflix and Amazon offer.

Here's my problem: I'm confused.

I never know what to watch now. There are just too many options. My friends recommend films, but if I don't write them down, I can't remember them. I'm a busy woman. I don't make the time to watch films that aren't fun or thoughtful. Sometimes I fall asleep. Sometimes I get bored. When I do make it to a rental store, I wander around, picking up DVD cases, looking at the photos, reading the back. Will I regret this? Will I embarrass myself? Will I get scared? I hate being scared. So I go home, put in The Wizard of Oz, and spend time with what I love.

When I see the Spout website taking shape here, I get excited for me, not just because Paul will introduce me to Wong Kar-Wai. You see, I like a good solid happy endings. I like to know characters may be a little messed up, but they're on the right track. I like things that are cute and funny. Basically, I like movies that most people are talking about when they say, I just want to see a movie tonight. I just need a helping hand in finding that movie.

I'm at the point in my life when two whole hours back to back is far more rare than it used to be. My baby girl has created a bottle neck in my film watching queue. I have so many films passing through my life from friends, Netflix and the impressive collection at the local library, I have been forced to learn discretion. 20 to 30 minutes into a film, if it does nothing for me, I shut it down. Done. Over. Send it back. Sorry Mr. Kubrick. Sorry Mr. Bergman. Sorry Return of the Secaucus Seven. Sorry Women in Love.

The films I send back unfinished (Dogville, anyone?) I used to feel obligated to finish because a certain group of people thought they were great.  Looking back, I made the choice to finish them because I wanted to fit in with those people. But maybe I'm not ready for those people and maybe I'm not ready for those films. Because, although The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie may be a "modern masterpiece" this guy is just not ready for it.

Which brings up the central question of Kristin's post, when is a movie bad? Certain movies simply do suck, but I'm willing to bet there are a lot less out there than we think.

It's no secret that I love Cassavetes. Let's take Faces as a case in point. There's nothing easy about that film. If I'd watched that film as a freshman in college I would've hated it. Ever listen to junior high boys talk about their favorite movies? Those are the guys that made Alien Vs. Predator profitable. My little sister watched Clueless in junior high and started talking like a bimbo because she thought Alicia Silverstone was cool.

Loving a film is like a relationship with another person. It's organic. Different films speak to us at different times for different reasons. The point is to watch what we love, but be open to something new. You never know when something totally new will grab you. But when you've gotten a mouthful of green eggs and ham and it isn't working, have the sense to say, "Sorry. I don't want this right now." Shut it off and recognize the beautiful thing about movies: They change as we change. They pass in and out of our lives and mean different things depending on when and where we cross paths. It certainly isn't close minded to shut one off every now and again.

I think a lot of us are confused when it comes to being open minded. Being open minded means being tolerant of ideas we disagree with at a given point in time. It doesn't mean we adopt those ideas as our own. Someday, we may adopt this idea or that idea, but we may not be ready now. So don't do it. Give the idea a shot. If it doesn't work out, drop that idea in the mail and send it back to Netflix.

One of the most common complaints people have when films "don't quite work" is "It wasn't believable." Sometimes the character is too bizarre. Other times the dialogue seems too contrived or poetic (look at the love/hate thing with Hal Hartley), or the situation just seems too impossible.

Just an hour ago I tangentially had an experience that made me think:
1)    My life feels like a scene from a movie; and
2)    If this was a movie no one would believe it.

Here's what happened: I agreed a few days ago, as a favor to a friend, to meet with someone he knows who is new in town and needs some professional networking opportunities (ie: he's looking for a job). This guy, I'll call him Tom, and I exchanged some emails, agreed on a time to meet at a certain cafe, and then I described myself to him so he could identify me: Dark, shoulder-length hair, dark-framed glasses, working on a 12-inch Powerbook. I told him I'd be looking out for someone who seemed to be looking for someone.

So Tom enters the cafe through a doorway out of my vision, gets a coffee, and then approaches the first person he sees-a 30-something year old woman with dark hair, dark-framed glasses and a Powerbook. He asks "Are you Kristin?" She says "yes," so he sits down, saying something like "It's good to meet you. I don't even know exactly what kind of writing you do." And she, looking confused but not wanting to be rude, says something like "I'm a PhD student, so I'm just writing my dissertation, but I hope to turn it into a book." They chat a bit, but it's incredibly awkward, and she soon makes up an excuse, packs her stuff and leaves. Tom's left thinking "That was strange." Shortly after that I notice him and wonder if he's the guy. I think it's odd he hasn't approached me, but I decide to approach him, and ask "Are you Tom? I'm Kristin. I was beginning to think you weren't coming." He turns pale and says, "The strangest thing just happened to me," proceeding to tell me about the other Kristin.

The whole set of circumstances leaves me amazed at how bizarre life is. Somehow I quite regularly find myself in situations that seem too coincidental to be real, or with people who come across as too caricatured to be taken seriously, or in conversations where the people involved are so "on"-so witty, insightful, and quick-that you think "there has to be a script somewhere." So why, if films and fiction are meant to mirror and enunciate life-often the very strangeness of life- are we so suspicious of such moments on film?

Paul Auster, who I think has mastered the ability to capture everyday moments and characters in the context of crazy-bizarre situations, points to this as he answers the question "Why Write?"  in his slim yet amazing book by the same name. The answer he gives is simply demonstrated through five anecdotes, each in the spirit of the one I just told. Why write? Why create? Why capture it on film? Because life itself is so often too bizarre and wonderful to be dismissed.

Growing up in a more stage-focused than film-focused family, I saw The Sound of Music on stage for the first time at age five. By all accounts, it made me crazy. I went around singing and dancing, thinking that at some point the orchestra would join in and we'd escape from suburban Atlanta to freedom on the other side of the mountain. That's not exactly what happened, but for years afterward it transported me into another realm, each time I joined the millions who tuned in to watch The Sound of Music on TV. At the time I was simply captivated; now I'm reflective, and aware of how much the movie (and others I watched over and over again) shaped my understanding of the world. Today marks the 40th anniversary of the film, and in its honor, I present this list of what The Sound of Music taught (and in some cases continues to teach) me.

1. Solfege (what the "Do-Re-Mi" song is about-the major scale)

2. When you're 16 going on 17, it's okay to have a secret boyfriend.

3. Clothes made from curtains can be both stylish and resourceful. A lesson reinforced by Gone With the Wind.

4. It's also okay to change your mind when you're trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up.

5. Sometimes nuns can be gossipy.

6. Sometimes nuns can give great advice.

7. Singing "I Have Confidence" may help you in a new job.

8. The definitions of "goatheard," "champagne" and "edelweiss."

9. Rainy days are good because it means you can jump on the bed without getting in trouble.

10. Life takes unexpected turns and people who sing together stay together.

There's a subtle but palpable difference between being inside and being on the front porch. The front porch experience is about me hanging out at my place, but making myself available for spontaneous interactions to happen. I'm likely to see people I know, but also likely to see people I don't.  It's a lovely sort of limbo between private safety and being in the public eye. Many times I've quickly grabbed the mail in my underwear because of that very sense safety. The things I see while I read a book or take my lunch on the porch, I would have missed if I were inside. I'm watching the world go by and participating in it at the same time.

What I'm getting at here are the little nuanced ways of interacting in a community. We're building an online community here at Spout and so we spend time thinking about how the real world and the digital world interact. At an online community, like MySpace, I get frustrated because I can only do a few things. I can keep track of what people are leaving on my page-kind of like calling up a friend and catching up-and I can do a search, which is like leaving my house to go across the street and ring on a neighbor's doorbell. I can also check out recent activity, which is kind of like watching strangers walk by in the mall. But I can't have the Front Porch experience.

Maybe there is no paradigm for the Front Porch in an online setting. It's something I've wrestled with and can't seem to come up with a clear alternative. It seems like all of my online experience jumps between being either totally private, or frighteningly public. But the Front Porch has become a valued part of my real world life. I don't think I'll ever buy a house without a front porch again. It's a stretch, but what we're pushing for at Spout is an experience like living in a neighborhood with a bunch of people who love film, walking up and down the sidewalk while I sit on my front porch with a sandwich and say "Hi."

I saw every single one of the Star Wars prequels.

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

I saw, and enjoyed, Ocean's 12 because European locations look amazing on film. And yes, you can mock me.

I enjoy text messaging my friends during important dinners to find out what happened on my favorite TV shows.

I love the fact that thousands of other people each year go to the Big House in my lovely home state of Michigan to cheer on U of M and consume large amounts of alcohol.

The experience when massive numbers of people come around and enjoy giant events is great for a huge host of reasons.

But I also have loved going to AYSO soccer games with the dads holding the tupperware containers of sliced oranges during the quarter breaks.

I loved playing a  concert in a barn with my highschool rock band and stealing glances at the girl I had a crush on hovering off to the side with her girlfriends.

I loved cramming into a theater in a college basement and watching all the film projects from a semester. I remember getting a tingly feeling when the last frame ends on a particular film because it was just so true and I felt I could make something true too.

Maybe what I'm talking about here is the difference between a big sort of "rah! rah!" event and a smaller, intimate event. At the big event I feed off the collective enthusiasm of thousands of people. At the small events I get moments that are personal to me. It's a cliche because it's true, but I get the "little things" that make my life sweet. Sometimes I want to feel a part of something huge. Other times I want to feel something very small but very personal for me.

The huge events are easy targets for big business to hit. A studio is always going to gravitate toward a big blockbuster over a small, personal film. But I think there is room in the world for both to exist. Why don't we see more people creating their own small venues for films? Especially between the coasts where small film venues are all but obsolete?  In my opinion (sorry, no hard data to back it up right now) it comes down to huge costs of space and marketing.  Theater buildings here in the midwest are expensive to heat in the winter and cool in the summer.  It costs money to get people in the theater seats--something indy distributors don't usually have much of, and the theaters even less.  I've stated before that HD-DVD is great for the filmmaker because it allows work to get out there that much easier, and makes the film-watching experience even better from the home.  I fully believe that, but I also believe that the home viewing experience is augmented and enhanced by the community film-watching experience.

This last summer a guy here in Grand Rapids started showing films on a portable movie screen in parks and parking lots around the city. I don't think more than 100 people came to any of the showings, but that was the point. The experience was small and intimate. It was a safe place to watch smaller and more intimate movies, like Jarmusch's Mystery Train, while it played next to the railroad tracks.

I guess I'm puzzled as to why we can usually name half a dozen big multiplexes within driving range, but not name a few more intimate venues for watching a film. Like I said, this a larger problem in smaller cities, but I think it's a problem anybody can solve with a little organization and some get up and go in them.

One of the things we'll be working on in the future of Spout is a simple, effective way for people wanting that more unique and intimate film-watching experience to coordinate easily.  Kind of a DIY (do-it-yourself) distribution.

I thought about this question a lot on Friday, when I had someone bring back CRASH, and said (obviously) that she loved it, and wanted to find more movies like it that were good.

Well, I said, do you want another racial drama, like Do The Right Thing? Or did you like all the interconnecting stories, like Traffic and Short Cuts? Or do you just want something that's gonna make you cry, like Mystic River, or Million Dollar Baby?

In the end I decided that the problem with most recomendation systems is that they only cover WHAT people like, and don't ask WHY they like it.

It took a long time for me to pinpoint a trend in some movies. After watching about a dozen Ambient Films from Asia, I decided that I generally like Ambient Films set in remote locations (like Spring, Summer and 3-Iron), but generally dislike Asian Ambient films that take place in city environments (the works of Tsai Ming-liang, and Mysterious Object At Noon).

American films don't seem to follow the same path for me, I generally liked Gerry and disliked Lost In Translation, but I LOVED Elephant (and what is high-school but a mini-city).

In the end of course, I believe everyone has intangible things that make them like or dislike something. I've gotten really good at guessing what films I'm going to like or not, but certainly I get surprised often still.

I love that bit about High School is a mini-city. How true.

Saturday I rocked my baby girl to sleep while I watched a Korean film Nat recommended to me, Chi-hwa-seon (Painted Fire). There was something "intangible" that I connected with when watching that film. Like over the course of 2 hours I was taken above thinking about what I need to do tomorrow and got to catch a glimpse of my life in the a bigger picture. I got to reflect on the things in my life I consider to be so important but really are not, and I felt freed up to savor those things that are really important-like rocking my daughter to sleep. I need those moments every once in a while. Thank you Nat for watching hundreds of films a year and being an expert who helps deliver those moments to me.

So I can relate to Dumbo and the intense separation anxiety he must have gone through.  Last time I watched that movie I cried as Momma Jumbo cradled little Dumbo with her trunk from behind the bars of the "Mad Elephant" cage. But I do not like Alladin. Not that it's a bad movie, there just isn't a personal connection for me. This is where the whole computer generated recommendation starts to lose it. 

I'll tell you what, I'm not really a Bambi fan either. Dumbo is full of undertones about the Great Depression and our country's struggle through that time. Then at the end, Dumbo literally flies above all of that struggle. Gasp!  Maybe I'm a softie but that stuff gets to me. Bambi and Thumper do not.

It seems like every website that has anything to do with movies has some digital predictor guessing what I'll want to watch next. They are novel, but shallow. The whole idea seems like this giant train promising to take us into the future of how we discover films. So I give Dumbo five stars, what do I get? Bambi. Obviously.

In fact, it is so painfully obvious that only a computer could lack so much nuance. It reminds me of the robotics engineer guy in Errol Morris' documentary, Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. He describes how for years they've been developing a robot that, in the very near future, should be able walk-just walk mind you-like an ant. Who's paying for that?

You know how I want to find out about movies? Through a real human being with blood and a brain and everything. But not just any human, somebody who's opinion I actually care about. Somebody I consider to be an expert, if you will.  How novel? And wouldn't it be crazy if instead of building a website where a computer decides I like Bambi, somebody built a website where I can connect to people whose opinions on film I care about?

Oh wait. We're building that.