Revisiting Ratatouille as a Peliplater

Hello Peliplaters!

I've published nearly a hundred articles on Peliplat. Over the past year or so, I've consistently returned here to write. While my readership isn't large, I find Peliplat to be an excellent platform for expressing pure, unbiased opinions. When I mention to my friends that I blog on Peliplat, I often struggle to explain its uniqueness. It wasn't until I recently rewatched Ratatouille that I realized what keeps me writing here.

Peliplat isn't driven by ratings. Although it has a rating feature, I rarely see bloggers score movies in their articles. In my previous piece about Jackpot!, I discussed how rating systems influence film appreciation. When a movie's rating becomes public, our complex experiences with it are reduced to a pale number regardless of whether the rating is high or low. Every film is the result of countless creative souls coming together. For both fans and creators, it's painful to see their beloved films simplified to a crude digit.

On Peliplat, we often see the most straightforward opinions. In this era of streaming media dominance, it's a haven for those who prefer written expression. Writing is the most patience testing form of communication. When we express ourselves purely through text, our external characteristics—social identities, appearances, ages—become invisible. Written expressions allow us to convey only thoughts. Through continuous writing, we face our truest selves, as anything that doesn't belong to us isn't worth narrating this way.

I used to focus solely on highly rated movies, feeling saintly for appreciating them. Discussing these films made me feel as if I were walking the halls of humanity's highest pursuits. But when I stopped fixating on ratings and exposed myself to films of varying standards on Peliplat, I realized how one-sided and weak my past movie appreciation was.

It's actually quite simple. When creative friends sheepishly show us their debut works that brim with bashful amateurishness, we experience fresh joy. At film festivals, watching unreleased movies brings us a sense of novelty. We don't compare these to legendary masterpieces; instead, we form our own unique opinions. Our first reaction is always, "Wow, so this is how they see life."

Life has no score. Movies that distill emotions from life's fragments shouldn't have scores either.

Ratatouille offers only a glimpse into Anton Ego's background. Beyond the childhood flashback mentioned above, we know him solely as an authoritative food critic. This mirrors reality—critics aren't elected by the public. They seem to materialize out of thin air, and their entire background is condensed into a single title. These critics invariably champion "fairness" and "objectivity," claiming to purge all personal elements from their opinions.

I once was a dutiful student, revering this style of commentary as sacrosanct. However, witnessing authorities evade responsibility by distancing themselves from their opinions, I realized this approach masterfully legitimizes hypocrisy. If an opinion lacks personal investment, its source becomes irrelevant. While there may be an air of truth to the opinion, it raises a crucial question: if you claim your view has no subjectivity, why do you care about it?

Moreover, if you aren't concerned about the subject of your discussion, why bother voicing an opinion at all?

In the opening of Ratatouille, Anton's scathing critique indirectly contributes to Chef Auguste Gusteau's demise, yet he remains utterly detached from this outcome. His seemingly objective opinions unwittingly transform him into a merciless executioner—until Remy's cooking finally awakens his humanity.

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. [...] Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere," Anton critiques after experiencing Remy's cooking.

There's only a thin line between objectivity and indifference.

In long-form written narratives, I confront my complete self—a self that may be scarred or brilliantly radiant. The writing process exposes what obscures my self-perception. As I narrate, I simultaneously read myself. Clear self-understanding demands clarity in writing; ambiguity is not an option. Thus, sincerity becomes imperative.

In today's digital landscape, we often feel disconnected from our written words. The frenetic trend of bite-size culture has abruptly disrupted our lives. While I don't oppose its existence, I'm deeply troubled by the decline of thoughtful, written narratives. As Anton notes, people readily find pleasure in negative criticism. Yet, when we immerse ourselves in quick, caustic critiques, our joy evaporates completely.

If we're constantly grumbling about sand chafing our feet at the beach, we'll miss the hidden treasures buried beneath.

Our love for this world is suffocating under the weight of our complaints.

Now, I proudly identify as a cinephile. Every movie discussion incorporates aspects of my personal experience. I refuse to reduce films to mere scores. Instead, I seek connection with others through authentic life experiences. My words resonate in the present, breathing in sync with the world around me.

When we narrate with our authentic selves, we take control of our own destiny.