This month our Guest Star is film presenter and bon vivant Jackie Stargrove. They write on killing the guilt in your pleasure and just loving what you love.

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“Even the worst picture is someone’s favorite film, and that someone is the fan I am always talking to.” — Legendary movie trailer voiceover artist Don LaFontaine

I turned 5 years old in the Summer of 1993. One of the most legendary movie years of all time, this season was punctuated by dazzling special effects, a true love for cinema, and all the thrills it can provide. The year’s award-winners were all-time classics, almost every genre delivered at least one or two films that I still watch regularly over 30 years later, and while I’m not nostalgic by nature, I recognize that never in my life will we see another movie year quite like that. For me, that year ended up being about one movie that translated one of the era’s greatest tales to the screen, a special-effects extravaganza that had a memorable musical score, a magnificent cast, and truly incredible dinosaur effects. That’s right, I was enamored with a little film called SUPER MARIO BROS. One of my favorite franchises had already conquered the world of gaming and cartoons, and now a big-screen adaptation with Eddie freaking Valiant? I was so in. And I loved it.

I was confused by the rest of the world though. Siskel and Ebert, who were on TV every week and seemed to be the public voices of film criticism, said it was bad! And not just them, it seemed like the public at large agreed! There I was, a five-year-old kid who loved Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, and Nintendo games, being told by seemingly everyone that I should feel bad for liking this movie, a feeling that carried through the year with movies like (the aforementioned) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 3, Surf Ninjas, and what seemed like the ultimate Arnold movie for a kid of the era, Last Action Hero. I guess Jurassic Park was pretty good too. While I may admit that some of these films may not be the all-time classics that they were to a kindergartener, it feels so weird to me that society harbored such an animosity towards the things that I liked. I learned that from time to time, society would declare a movie “bad” and then judge you for liking it, which in my youth it made me wary of what I loved and often involved me making excuses for the things I enjoyed, already being an awkward kid who had a tough time on the best days at school.

Last month I found myself returning to Houston, Texas, where I had spent several years as a pretty active member of the film community. My old mentor of sorts, Rob Saucedo, invited me to host a film screening at the recently re-opened River Oaks Theatre, a legendary establishment built in 1939 that hosted all sorts of cinema over the years, especially supporting foreign and independent films. They even had a legendary screening of Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom in the 80s that ended with the manager being arrested and tried (and thankfully acquitted) on obscenity charges! After finally seeing closure during the cinematic doldrums of 2021, things looked bleak until Star Cinema Grill-affiliated company called Culinary Khancepts bought out the theater to revitalize a local legend. The aforementioned Rob Saucedo, a guy who really knows his stuff, was brought on as Artistic Director, and as a film fan who champions the underdogs, he knew I was the perfect choice to introduce one of 1980’s most infamous features: The Olivia Newton-John flop Xanadu. Well-known for being so derided in its day that a double-feature with the Village People movie Can’t Stop the Music inspired the creation of the Golden Raspberry Awards, the ultimate cinema killjoys, I was overjoyed to find myself standing on a stage in front of a surprisingly full house, people of all ages here to appreciate a zany, sweet, wonderful little musical that, despite the odds, still sells tickets 45 years after it originally failed in its theatrical run. It warmed my heart and I knew that the best way to introduce this movie is to preach, if not to the converted, then to those who were clearly on the edge of seeing the world my way.

I spoke of my childhood, the first ten or so years of my life where my mother worked in the absolute ideal of a wonderful weirdo indie video store. Naturally, she had a strong collection of videotapes all of her own, and Xanadu was one of them. Somehow I knew it was considered “bad” and she made sure I knew that outward influences had nothing to do with what she was going to enjoy. Xanadu was a beloved part of our world, as were my movies like Super Mario Bros. and Last Action Hero, and over the years she delighted in sharing with me movies like Shock Treatment, Never Too Young to Die (my namesake, for those unfamilar), and all sorts of slasher movies and other insanity we saw on shows like USA Up All Night and Monstervision. Even the movies that we knew were “bad” were opportunities to have fun and enjoy ourselves. The first movie she and my dad ever watched together was The Toxic Avenger, so it makes perfect sense that I grew up to be a champion of the underloved and misunderstood in cinema.

I asked that crowd to open their hearts as I begin my campaign to kill the myth of the “guilty pleasure,” because if you enjoy yourself and the art itself isn’t inherently problematic, nobody should be able to take that joy away from you. Today, I’m asking the same of you. Flawed art isn’t inherently bad art, and oftentimes the most ambitious failures are still far more interesting and enjoyable than a stuffy piece of humorless Oscar bait, a line that thankfully has been blurring in recent years thanks to movies likEverything Everywhere All At Once, Poor Things, and, The Substance. While there may be a place for ironic appreciation here and there (The Room comes to mind), I prefer to see the forest for the trees. Edward D. Wood Jr. may not have been a gifted filmmaker, but he had a heart, he had a vision, and I’ll never mock him or any filmmaker of similar reputation. Even Uwe Boll has some interesting work if you know where to look. Making a movie, recording an album, writing a book, programming a game, all of these things are acts of creation that are incredibly difficult for even the most talented of artists, and it’s a wonder that any art sees the light of day. As a creative soul with a ton of unrealized ideas, I could never knock someone for managing to make the dream happen.

I do my best to be well-versed in cinema. I’ve seen about two-thirds of the AFI top 100. I’ve also seen every Fast/Furious movie and the entire Ernest oeuvre. I legitimately love Orson Welles, and not just Citizen Kane. But when someone asks who my favorite filmmakers are, I talk about filmmakers like John Carpenter, Lloyd Kaufman, John Waters, Joel Schumacher, and not just their classics. I’ll talk about Escape From L.A. a thousand times before engaging in more discourse about Halloween. Everyone knows Spielberg and Scorsese. I want people to look into the names they might know and see the work that nobody talks about. Find George Romero’s Knightriders for a drama like nothing else. Check out Sam Raimi’s Crimewave for some of the most visually creative slapstick insanity you’ll ever see. Hell, give that director’s cut of Heaven’s Gate a shot if you’re really feeling daring. When a new Nicolas Cage movie is out, go see it. Find the unloved art in the world with no preconceived notions and decide for yourself. In this day and age it seems like thinking for yourself is one of the most underappreciated ways of protesting the status quo, and if you’re here with me in the Gutter, you’ve probably already come to this conclusion well before I started typing.

That five-year-old kid who loved Mario needed to hear these words then, and maybe someone reading them now will appreciate them the same way. The 36-year-old writing these words is looking at that insane $100 special edition of Super Mario Bros., jealous of those who have that kind of cash to spare, but overjoyed that against the odds, a market exists for such a product. That means we’re winning, if not proof that we’ve already won.

Love what you love, don’t let anyone convince you that “bad” art lacks merit, don’t listen to anyone who uses the word “camp” as an insult, and trust the fungus.

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Jackie Stargrove is a living testament to the idea that maximalism brings true happiness. Listen to them and the Gutter’s own Carol Borden discuss Runaway (1984) on The Projection Booth Podcast here.