When you turn a political object into a collectible, you’re no longer confronting it – you’re displaying it. You’re posing with the thing that once asked you to change.
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There’s something sacred in it. Criterion discs are usually $59.99 – almost defiantly priced, as if the cost itself proves cultural value. But every July, Barnes & Noble slashes them in half, and that’s when the pilgrimage begins. Film X lights up. Reddit threads overflow with haul photos. Letterboxd bios become temporary inventories. I tell myself I’ll buy one. I leave with four. Or five. Or six. It feels like preservation. It’s consumption. And it feels good.
But the longer I’ve done it – the collecting, the curating, the stacking – the more I’ve realized how much of it is about self-preservation. The shelf becomes identity. These aren’t just movies. They’re signals. Of taste. Of seriousness. Of belonging. Criterion isn’t just a distributor – it’s a mirror, and a passport. To collect is to be seen not merely as a viewer but as a participant in something important.
There’s a strange comfort in that. The quiet pleasure of being aligned with the canon, with the archive, with the imaginary community of those who know what really matters. It’s romantic. It’s ritualistic. It feels like protecting culture. But in reality, I’ve started to wonder if I’m mostly protecting myself – from the fear that I’m falling behind, from the dread that maybe the films are passing me by while I arrange them by spine number.
Criterion built a brand on the idea of importance. Not just film preservation but cultural canonization. To be in the Collection isn’t just to be well-made – it’s to be worthy. Worthy of essay-length liner notes. Worthy of a restored negative. Worthy of being remembered.
Box sets on display: Kieslowski’s “Three Colors,” Pasolini’s “Trilogy of Life,” and Rohmer’s “Six Moral Tales” and “Four Seasons” – neatly packaged contradictions on the shelf
And to own these films? That’s not just consumption. It’s alignment. With taste, with intellect, with a particular kind of seriousness. It’s a performance of knowledge – subtle, maybe, but unmistakable. Look at my shelf, it says. I don’t just like movies – I like the right ones.
In that sense, Criterion has become less an archive and more a credential. A badge of curation. To own The Seventh Seal, The Royal Tenenbaums, and Mulholland Dr. isn’t just to like those films – it’s to participate in a kind of symbolic class, one that prizes thoughtful media consumption as a marker of moral or intellectual depth.
This is what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu called cultural capital: the invisible currency of taste, education, and distinction. We don’t collect these films because they’re scarce – we collect them because they say something about us. Criterion understands that. They don’t just sell discs. They sell aesthetic identity.
And that identity can feel strangely powerful. It whispers: You belong here. You know the codes. Even if I haven’t watched Citizen Kane yet, owning it lets me pretend I will – eventually. Probably. Or at least that I meant to. And in a world where meaning is slippery and taste is currency, that’s sometimes enough.
Here’s the contradiction: Many of the films Criterion champions – especially the ones I most admire – were never made to be collected. Do the Right Thing wasn’t shot to be curated. It was a warning. A provocation. A mirror to white liberalism that, decades later, still makes people squirm. The 400 Blows wasn’t made to be preserved in deluxe packaging – it was made in defiance of the French film establishment. Videodrome didn’t ask to be studied in film school. It asked to burn into your brain like a signal you couldn’t turn off.
The battle between love and hate. Now available in 4K (Screenshot from Do the Right Thing)
But put these films in a pristine slipcase, frame them with a soft gray border and a spine number, and they begin to shift. Their rough edges smooth out. Their urgency is filed down. They become objects – collected, admired, posted to Instagram with the caption “Finally added this to the shelf.”
Capitalism doesn’t just sell us entertainment; it sells us the illusion of engagement. The shrink-wrapped slipcover isn’t just packaging – it’s a promise. Aesthetic gravitas becomes a kind of credibility. We believe that a film must be serious if it’s dressed like a textbook and priced like a museum pass.
Do the Right Thing becomes a signifier of racial awareness, not a challenge to it. Videodrome becomes cool instead of corrosive. The 400 Blows becomes a rite of passage, not an act of rebellion.
Long live the new flesh
This isn’t the fault of the films. They haven’t changed. But the conditions of engagement have. Watching a radical film on your couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, framed by your bookshelf full of similar objects – it does something. It shifts the encounter from confrontation to comfort. The film no longer breaks through the screen. It fits in.
And that’s the quiet tragedy of collection: It can turn a provocation into a possession. It can take films made to unsettle and render them pleasant. We confuse the act of owning them with the act of answering them.
Godard once said – and I think about this nearly every day – “The problem is not to make political films, but to make films politically.” That line used to inspire me. Now it reads like an indictment – not of the films I watch but of the way I watch them. The revolution may be onscreen, but I’m half-scrolling while The Battle of Algiers plays in the background. I’m multitasking through anti-colonial struggle. I remember once putting on Come and See – a film that should feel like staring into hell – and 20 minutes in, I was checking my phone. Not even for anything urgent. Just scrolling, just escaping. The horrors of Belarusian villages burning, children screaming, lives undone – I minimized it like a tab on my desktop. I still logged it on Letterboxd. Gave it five stars. Wrote “devastating.” Then moved on. The confrontation was never meant to be streamed.
And when I shelve it afterward, between The Graduate and Pan’s Labyrinth, something happens. The film becomes equalized. It’s no longer urgent. It’s just part of the collection.
That’s the thing about the shelf – it doesn’t care. It makes no distinction between a film that wants to burn the world down and a film that wants to make you cry in a tasteful way. Dazed and Confused, Blue Velvet, Seven Samurai, 12 Angry Men – all spines, all numbered, all neatly in place. There’s no friction. No sense that one film might’ve been made in blood and the other in nostalgia. Alphabetization is democracy. The shelf flattens them into product.
This shelf isn’t alphabetized. It still flattens them into product.
And owning product feels good. It gives the illusion of engagement. But engagement isn’t possession. The act of placing Thelma & Louise on a shelf says nothing about whether I’ve wrestled with its ideas. Citizen Kane sitting above my TV doesn’t mean I’ve reckoned with media power – it just means I own the object that once did.
When that object becomes more valuable than the experience of watching it, we’re not cinephiles anymore. We’re archivists of aesthetics. We’re staging ourselves in front of our shelves like altars. We’re worshipping preservation instead of participation.
Some filmmakers fought this. Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet – radical Marxist formalists whose work is known mostly in academic circles – spent decades refusing the systems that tamed other artists. They turned down retrospectives. They resisted digital remastering. They demanded projectionists follow strict technical instructions, believing that how a film is presented is part of its politics. They weren’t trying to be difficult. They were trying to protect the encounter.
Screenshot from Too Early, Too Late (1981) dir. Jean-Marie Straub & Danièle Huillet. “Les paysans se révolteront.” The peasants will revolt.
They believed cinema wasn’t just about what you watch but how you watch it – how your body relates to the screen, to sound, to space, to duration. To them, passivity was a political failure. A beautifully packaged Blu-ray wasn’t a triumph of preservation – it was a betrayal of cinema’s immediacy.
I don’t think you need to be that severe to make a point. But I do think they were right to fear what happens when film is flattened into lifestyle. Because when you turn a political object into a collectible, you’re no longer confronting it – you’re displaying it. You’re posing with the thing that once asked you to change.
And that tension never fully resolves. I can admire Thelma & Louise for its feminist rage, then shelve it next to Dazed and Confused without thinking. I can watch 12 Angry Men and nod solemnly, then forget about its critique of bias the next time I swipe through X. The shelf offers no friction. The experience passes cleanly into ownership. No questions asked.
This isn’t a call to throw my shelf in the trash. I won’t. I still love these films. I still believe in what they can do. But I also know that belief isn’t immune to ideology. Owning Thelma & Louise doesn’t mean I’m confronting patriarchy. Sometimes it just means I liked the cover. Posting the cover of Thelma & Louise with a hollow caption isn’t about the film – it’s about me. Or the version of me I want you to see. It’s the same instinct that drives shelf arranging. Digital curation is just the shelf turned outward. A signal. A self-portrait.
Right now, there are 67 Criterion films sitting on my shelf. Some unopened. Some watched once. Some just… there. Spine numbers I’m proud to own, even if I can’t remember the last time I engaged with them. I used to think that number meant I was serious about cinema. Now I wonder if it just means I’ve confused preservation with participation.
I started writing this essay with 67. I’m finishing it with 72.
There’s something seductively passive about collecting, especially when the objects collected once demanded action. I can tell myself I’m preserving culture. I can tell myself I’m preparing for the class I’ll someday teach. I can say it’s for my students, for posterity, for curation. But most days, I’m just looking at a wall of beautiful things that make me feel like the kind of person who cares about beauty.
I’ll rewatch Before Sunset without thinking. But I’ll stare at the spine of Citizen Kane for months without pulling it down. I’ll justify a $59.99 Blu-ray because it “belongs in the collection,” even if I never get around to it. And when I do watch it, half the time it’s just to feel productive. Like I’ve done something meaningful by pressing play.
The contradiction is sharpest when I catch myself mid-rationalization – when I know I’m consuming an image of seriousness instead of doing the harder work of engaging with what that seriousness demands. It’s not always conscious. But it adds up.
I’ll post screenshots from La Haine to my story. I’ll buy Portrait of a Lady on Fire because I “should” own more queer cinema. I’ll cite The Battle of Algiers in a tweet about revolution – months after I fell asleep halfway through it. This is the shelf as simulation: an index of intent, not impact.
I don’t think collecting is the problem. But I’m beginning to suspect that the shelf is not a neutral space. It flatters me. It forgives me. It lets me feel like I’m participating in something political – without asking me to change anything at all.
We owe these films more than our five-star ratings. We owe them our attention. Our discomfort. Our willingness to look past the spine number and into the frame. The revolution is never on the box – it’s in the flicker of the projector, in the breath we hold when the image finally lands.
I won’t stop collecting. But I’m trying to watch differently. To sit with the discomfort. To notice when a film resists being consumed – and let it.
Watching Anora alone in a nearly empty theater at the Providence Place Mall on a Wednesday night meant more to me than any pristine 4K release ever could. Seeing The Lighthouse in a packed IMAX screening six years after its original release – just one night, one showing – nothing on my shelf replicates that feeling. There was no pause button. No multitasking. No slipcover to admire. Just the image, the room, the event.
Those moments remind me that cinema isn’t just about owning something. It’s about encountering it.
The next time I reach for a Criterion, I’ll ask myself: Am I watching this because it comforts me – or because it confronts me?
If you’ve got a shelf like mine, this isn’t a callout. It’s an invitation. To look at what you’ve collected and ask not just what it says about you but what it asks of you. The shelf can still be a beginning. But we have to keep watching – not to complete the collection but to confront it. That doesn’t resolve the contradiction. But maybe honoring it is the only honest thing left.
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Unless otherwise noted, all images by the author and used by permission.
