We've always been distrustful of the notion that "art film" must always mean "depressing slog". For that matter, we've always been distrustful of the notion that "depressing slog" must always mean "unenjoyable film". As Chicago author Amy Krause Rosenthal once wrote, defending her decision to avoid feel-good Hollywood fare, when she sees a movie with a bunch of rich, beautiful people who end up getting whatever they want the most, her own life seems like a failure by comparison, and she ends up being depressed -- but when she sees a movie with a bunch of miserable, unhappy people who just can't get their shit together, her own life seems pretty good by comparison, and she ends up being happy.
That said, we can't really dispute the Guardian's Catherine Shoard, who writes -- inspired by the British opening of the mercilessly grim Austrian arthouse flick Import/Export -- that sitting through some such 'masterpieces' is the cinematic equivalent of an endurance marathon. Will the movie be more or less depressing than 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days? Will it be more or less ugly than Rosetta? Will it have a greater or lesser number of extremely unattractive naked people than Japon? Shoard then sets forth a checklist of required unpleasantries for any readers contemplating their own arthouse masterpieces, including "kinky yet joyless sex", inclement weather, feral children, beat-up mopeds, and humor that isn't funny ("a clarinet on the soundtrack tends to signal when it's time to smile").
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