It is a truth universally acknowledged that a student in possession of an art school degree must have pretended to be deeply familiar with at least one avant-garde film or art movement before their first studio critique. The real skill isn’t comprehending and consuming these films—it’s knowing how to drop the director’s name into conversation like intellectual grenades. Mastering this art of pretending is the secret handshake of art school, and below are the five films I bluffed my way through to survive.

The Doom Generation (1995, dir. Gregg Araki)

This cult classic is the gateway to edgy, ‘90s nihilism, and while I couldn’t tell you what happens in The Doom Generation, I’m sure it was something profound. After all, it’s a Gregg Araki film—the second of the Teenage Apocalypse Trilogy—part of the New Queer Cinema movement, which I’m fairly certain I understand because I read a Marxist analysis on Waluigi from Mario Tennis and that’s basically the same thing. In a social context, I’ve found that describing the film as a “raw, visceral experience” shuts down any follow-up questions. I’ve also learned that throwing around phrases like “neon-soaked hedonism” can save you from ever having to explain why, exactly, you couldn’t get past the 20-minute mark.

The Color of Pomegranates (1968, dir. Sergei Parajanov)

Imagine you’ve just enrolled in your first art theory class, and someone asks your opinion on Parajanov’s visual poetry in The Color of Pomegranates. Naturally, you haven’t watched it. But fear not—just say, “It transcends conventional narrative structure.” I’ve found that adding, “It’s an ethereal meditation on Armenian culture but without the colonial gaze” is guaranteed to score you some serious credibility. I will admit that I’ve only pretended to have watched the whole film because I did try watching it after Lady Gaga’s “911” music video (alas, I fell asleep), but the stills I’ve reblogged from Tumblr have convinced me that if I did, it would definitely be life-changing, or at the very least, insightful Letterboxd content.

All About Lily Chou-Chou (2001, dir. Shunji Iwai)

It’s not enough to love All About Lily Chou-Chou—you must also connect it to your own fragile existence as a disillusioned and fragmented creative psyche. This is a film about teenage alienation, the internet, and the sad, haunting whispers of Japanese shoegaze music. Or at least, that’s what I tell people. In reality, my experience with this movie was limited to a single piece from its melancholic soundtrack that I looped during finals week and that one GIF of the yassified headphone-donned emoji that I now abuse as a reaction meme on Twitter. When pressed for details, I’ll nod gravely and say, “The emotional texture is almost unbearable, isn’t it?” And suddenly the conversation shifts to existentialism, which is a relief because I don’t actually know anything about the plot.

2046 (2004, dir. Wong Kar-Wai)

Watching a Wong Kar-Wai film isn’t just about watching a film—it’s about letting it happen to you. This, of course, I learned by osmosis, since I’ve never actually made it through 2046. But I can always rely on lines like, “His exploration of the banality of memory is unparalleled,” and “Isn’t Faye Wong’s performance just transcendental?” The fact that 2046 is set in an unspecified future gives me endless opportunities to wax poetic about the fragility of human desire and the fluidity of reality. It’s a foolproof way to dodge the truth, and I can only handle so many Tony Leung appearances in the context of Wong Kar-Wai's cinematography.

Mulholland Drive (2001, dir. David Lynch)

If you go to art school and admit you’ve never seen a David Lynch film, you might as well announce you’ve never heard of Andy Warhol. Mulholland Drive is peak Lynchian mystery, and as far as I can tell from the YouTube video essays I’ve watched, it’s about… something deep. Duality? The Hollywood dream? Honestly, it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned that any conversation about Mulholland Drive can be elegantly sidestepped with a cryptic, “It’s all about identity, but in a very non-linear way, you know?” To this day, I’m still not sure I know, but everyone else nods sagely, and that’s good enough.

So, to all my film Twitter mutuals, this is my confession: I lied. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen these films in their entirety—or at all, in some cases—but pretending has gotten me this far, and I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. Honestly, if I've learned anything in art school, it’s the art of utilizing a philosophical sentiment to describe something so vague that the listening party cannot help but nod along in agreement with you. After all, cinema is subjective, right? Who’s to say I didn’t experience these films in my own way… through vibes, Tumblr reblogs, and an occasional IMDb search?

Five Films I Pretended to Have Watched Before Going to Art School

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