I once knew a guy who hated Steven Spielberg. In his opinion, the Godfather of the Blockbuster was everything that’s wrong with contemporary cinema, the man that built the machine that each summer churns out reel after reel of empty, soulless images at 48 frames per second that the stinking masses will fork out obscene amounts of cash to view whilst mindlessly chewing popcorn like cattle, laughing at every fart joke and cheering as the body count climbs and their IQ falls.
Or something. He never really elaborated on why he didn’t like him. Maybe he just didn’t think his films were very good. But either way, Super 8 is exactly why he’s wrong.