"Catfish" Bait

I was absolutely enthralled by "Catfish." And I hate myself a little for it.

(I wasn't able to review the film. If you want a summary and "real" review, check out Christy Lemire's  here; )

I've heard complaints about it being exploitative or perhaps disingenuous. I definitely felt those moments and came really close to agreeing a few times. But just when I was about to proclaim the film entirely frivolous and in bad taste, that damn Nev Schulman would do something sweet, or say something adorably charming, or just smile that smile and, well, I was back in it like a pre-teen with an embarrassing crush.

See why I hate myself?


I'm 37. That's not really old (if it is, don't tell me). But in the eyes of an early 20s hipster kid, I'm just some irrelevant 40-year-old or, at best, a cougar (a term I loathe). But I am young enough to relate. To remember when life felt like just one clever joke: fresh out of college with some artsy degree, living in New York City with time to waste, and the absolute certainty that what you and your friends do is interesting enough to document on video at all times.


Just thinking of myself at this age makes the hate grow just a little more. Sort of that "If I knew then what I know now...." thing. But if I did actually know then what I know now, would I  have done something like what these guys did: produce and sell a buzzworthy documentary that's complex in tone, asks relevant questions of a modern lifestyle, and is more suspenseful and entertaining than most fictional films I've seen this year?

Of course, I was also living below the poverty level when I was wandering the streets of Manhattan--something I'm pretty sure this group of guys, with their expensive camera equipment, NYC office (in addition to apartments, I presume), can't claim for themselves. Hence the fruitlessness of regret.


But I hate myself the most because I walked out of that theater with a dizzy-headed crush on a 24-year-old "reality movie" pretty boy just because he showed admirable courage (especially while his filmmaker brother tried to wimp out), followed by an unfathomable amount of compassion in how he handled the fallout. 

Was I entirely duped into believing that Nev actually is all of those wonderful things? After all, a film--any film-- is just a carefully selected and edited set of scenes, usually staged in some way or another. Just because it's called a "documentary," doesn't mean any of the characters' I met were being real. (Uh, "I'm Still Here" anyone?) But it sure is a lot more fun to believe a fantasy than pick apart the lies.

I guess I'm a lot like Nev. After all, he was willing to believe that there really are sweet, sexy, artistic, property-owning, flexible young women living on rural Michigan horse farms, out of reach from any man even close to his league.


Guess we all have reasons to hate ourselves a little. But you should see "Catfish" anyway.