Many people – usually those beaten down by ill-considered academic theory – believe that if something is entertaining, it cannot be art.

That only in misery, in slogging through the 800 page book with no plot and vague characters, in watching that six-hour Italian movie of a static shot of a bridge, can true art be found. And in this case “art” means that no enjoyment is allowed to be had, because the very act of enjoying something means it is then by definition not art.

I reject this utterly. It is absurd, but it is the dominant paradigm in intellectual circles.

It’s interesting to consider works and styles often considered vile and low becomes high culture after a time – for instance, Shakespeare’s (and many other) plays, and novels themselves.

Luckily, academic thought has very little influence on public perception of art or its creation (though maybe if it prevented another Thomas Kinkade, more sway would be good). There must be standards for everything, I guess, but my standard simply must be more intellectually comprehensible than that of a hipster record store clerk snorting at the albums people bring to the counter to purchase simply because they like something other people like.