A couple of movies I’ve seen for the first time recently (i.e. in the last few years) are Adaptation. and American Fiction. They have very different literal narratives, but they share several similarities on a metanarrative level.
Each film centers around an anxious, embittered writer who struggles to create a story which appeals to a mass audience. Should the writer remain committed to his convictions that storytelling is an art which should be approached with care and respect, but the majority of books and films are pure lowest common denominator? Or are their standards just set impossibly high, used as an excuse for their lack of success in finding an audience?
Both movies are full of irony, and feature a third act intermingling of the literal and meta narrative, where the movie becomes a commentary on its own existence.
I sort of see myself in either protagonist, or at least the dilemmas they face: the criticisms they raise regarding the compromise of artistic integrity when art is turned into a business, and the tension between having that integrity and avoiding becoming an envious, haughty cynic who just can’t lighten up. If a piece of art—which the artist poured their soul into, refusing to violate their conviction or compromise their integrity—is only enjoyed by a few, with most people unable to find anything about it to connect with, is that art really any good or worthwhile? And the inverse question, mass-appeal ‘slop’, etc.
Maybe they just don’t know how to connect to people.