B movies exemplify the sorts of cultural artifacts that are cherished not because they are good, but because they are not so good. There is a kind of reverse chic to things that aim low and hit their mark – saccharine songs, exploitation flicks, cheesy romance novels, and all of their bargain basement kin.
It’s easy to love the beautifully crafted A-list item – the Pixar animation, Bergman film, Mozart concerto. But the Salieris of the world also seem to attract their own fan clubs. There is a secret code involved here, a kind of loser pride.
I’m not sure it’s a question of quality at all, or lack thereof. I think it has more to do with peoples’ innate (and somewhat contradictory) need to clump themselves into groups that – somewhat ironically – promote a feeling of individuality and unique identity. There is nothing to be gained from being the only person to listen to some god-awful garage band out of Cleveland. But there is considerable glory in being one amongst a select few – those who recognize within this band some hidden quality undetected by the larger herd.
In some ways, the more challenging the original source material, the more powerful the pull. Ed Wood films are cherished precisely because they are so difficult to appreciate (it’s actually quite difficult to watch “Plan 9 from Outer Space” all the way through without nodding off).
Interestingly, in order to be successful, a deliberately ironic homage to a B movie needs to be excellent. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” – a loving A-list tribute to cheap action serials of long ago – was excellent, and it was a wild success. Its successor film “Temple of Doom” was a far lesser work, and was not embraced by audiences.
Similarly, Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction” was a masterpiece of inside exploitation genre references, and people still watch it in delighted awe fifteen years after its release. Contrast this with “Grindhouse/Death Proof”, his merely good parody of exploitation films, which never really found a following among audiences.
There’s a duality at work here. We may feel affection for our unironic losers, but woe betide the parodist of such material who produces less than excellent work. Anton Diabelli could write the cheesiest of C-major waltzes, and nobody complained. Whereas Ludwig van Beethoven, in writing his 33 variations on Diabelli’s little waltz, needed to aim far higher.
Needless to say, this was not a problem for Mr. B.