Most people will tell you that taste is subjective, that there is no such thing as a “better” film - only personal preference. I don’t believe that’s quite true.
This project is inspired, in part, by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, and his essay Of the Standard of Taste. Hume wasn’t trying to argue that everyone should like the same things. Instead, he asked a more interesting question: If our tastes differ, how do we ever meaningfully judge art at all?
The problem with “it's all subjective”
Hume begins by acknowledging the obvious: people disagree wildly about art. What moves one person leaves another cold. From this, many conclude that taste is purely personal and beyond judgement or discussion.
But Hume noticed something important. Across time and cultures, some works endure. Some films, books, paintings and pieces of music continue to be admired long after fashions change, while others fade quickly. This suggests that while taste begins in personal feeling, it does not end there.
The “true judge”
Hume’s answer is not that taste is objective in the scientific sense, but that some judgements are better informed than others. He argues that the most reliable judgements come from what he calls a true judge - not someone with superior opinions, but someone with better conditions for judging.
Hume describes several qualities that distinguish such a judge:
Taste, in other words, is something that can be trained, refined, and exercised. Judgement improves with attention, exposure, and care.
Why disagreement still matters
Hume is careful to say that even with standards, disagreement never disappears. Nor should it.
Different temperaments will always respond differently. Some films will speak to you more than they speak to me. That’s part of what makes art worth engaging with. But disagreement becomes meaningful only when we are disagreeing about something - structure, intention, execution, coherence - not simply trading preferences.
From philosophy to practice
Moviepedia is my attempt to put this idea into practice. I don’t claim objectivity nor do I claim final authority - what I do claim is method.
Every film on this site has been assessed using the same consistent framework - a set of criteria designed to test not whether I enjoyed a film, but whether it holds together, whether it understands itself, and whether it rewards sustained attention. They are my way of translating Hume’s insight into practice: judgement shaped by experience, comparison, attentiveness, and care.
The Criteria: How I Apply a Standard of Taste
If judgement isn’t random, it has to be grounded in something tangible. For me, that grounding takes the form of seven criteria.
They aren’t rules, they aren’t weighted equally in every film, and they’re certainly not meant to drain the fun out of watching movies. They exist to answer one question: why does this film work? (even when it’s just pure fun).
1. Acting
Cinema is ultimately about watching human beings - their emotions, contradictions, and transformations. Acting matters because it’s the primary way we believe in a film’s inner life.
Great acting isn’t about showiness or volume. It’s about embodiment: performances so convincing that you stop thinking about the actor entirely. A perfect example for me is Gary Oldman. His characters are so fully realised, so physically and emotionally distinct, that I often forget who I’m watching. That disappearance of the actor is the highest compliment I can give a performance.
When this happens, the film earns emotional credibility, and when it doesn’t, no amount of technical brilliance can fully compensate.
2. Cinematography
Everything on screen matters.
Cinematography - or more accurately, mise-en-scène - is the total visual canvas: framing, movement, colour, light, and spatial relationships. A film with strong cinematography understands that nothing on screen is accidental.
Some films treat the camera as a passive observer; others understand that every visual choice colours how we feel and what we notice. In the strongest films, nothing feels random; every object, shadow, and movement earns its place.
I explore this idea in depth in my In The Cut essay, where seemingly incidental opening shots are quietly preparing us for what’s to come. The point is simple: when mise-en-scène is used deliberately, nothing on screen is accidental.
3. Direction
The director is the person responsible for making everything come together coherently.
When I judge direction, I’m not just looking for technical competence or unique style. I’m looking for what film studies calls auteurship. Think of it as a visual signature by the director; for example, when you think of slow motion and doves and you immediately think of John Woo - even without seeing the credits, you can feel his presence.
But beyond recognisable motifs, what really matters is integration - the sense that someone is steering the film toward a singular vision rather than letting it drift. This is where direction moves beyond the script itself: recognising not just what the story is, but what it could be. A film like The English Patient only works because Anthony Minghella visualised a world far richer than what was written on the page.
4. Editing
Editing is where a film truly becomes itself - it determines pace, emphasis, structure, and ultimately meaning. Editing decides what we see, when we see it, and how long we’re allowed to sit with it.
Some filmmakers use editing conventionally; others use it to actively reshape narrative. Think of how Kill Bill fractures chronology, how Memento reverses cause and effect, or how Irreversible weaponises structure itself.
If you want to explore how editing can be used to tell a story, I go into this in more detail in my The Dark Knight essay, where Nolan uses editing to both inform and deliberately misdirect.
5. Message / Meaning
Not every film sets out to deliver a message - some simply want to entertain, thrill, or unsettle. And yet, as meaning-making creatures, we can’t help but read films interpretively. Films always say something, even when they claim not to. The question is whether that meaning is thoughtful, coherent, and worth sitting with.
Sometimes meaning is explicit, other times it’s elusive and requires context. Films like The Banshees of Inisherin or the Coen brothers’ A Serious Man don’t hand you their meaning neatly - they ask you to meet them halfway, and I value films that trust the audience enough to do that work.
6. Music & Sound
Sound is cinema’s emotional undercurrent; and even before synchronised dialogue existed, films were accompanied by live music because we instinctively understand how deeply sound shapes feeling. Remove the music from a scene and its emotional temperature collapses.
Often, the best use of music is subtle - supporting mood without demanding attention. But sometimes it steps forward and becomes a structuring force. Baby Driver is an obvious example, where rhythm, movement, and soundtrack are inseparable. Ultimately, this criterion asks whether sound adds to or deepens the emotional truth of the film, rather than manipulating it cheaply.
7. Script / Story
Every film begins with a story - but stories are not judged by originality alone. What matters is how a story is realised:
A great script creates space: for performance, for imagery, for silence, for emotion. A weak one constrains everything built on top of it.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a perfect example. The story has been retold countless times, across different eras and sensibilities, yet it remains effective because its foundations are strong. The characters, themes, and moral logic are clear enough to support wildly different visual styles and performances without collapsing. Each version feels distinct, but the story holds - because it creates the space for reinvention. That’s the mark of a script with real weight.
A position, not a verdict
Moviepedia is not a definitive canon, it is not neutral, and it is not finished. It is a record of considered judgement - films that, in my view, meet a demanding standard and continue to reveal something durable about human experience.
You may agree or disagree with my conclusions. What matters to me is that you can see how they were evaluated.
Taste may begin in feeling - but it doesn’t have to end there.