I often wonder if there's such a thing as true objectivity when it comes to our opinions on art. I find myself, frequently, defending books and films that I appreciate not only because I happen to admire them but, crucially, because I've indulged myself by perhaps reading too much into the maker's intent. No-doubt-boring-example-follows:
A few years back there was a mainstream hit, an historical novel that very fleetingly featured a woman's room. This bedroom captivated me because of what I assumed to be the author's intention: by 'showing' the reader the various items in the room (maps, shells, models of ships, souvenirs from abroad etc), I thought the writer was highlighting the fact that while this woman was fated to merely having a stay-at-home existence of mundane domestic activities, her explorer brother was free to travel the wide world and experience thrilling things first-hand. I assumed the writer was making a point about what one might call the sexism of the time. And yet, when I chatted to the writer on Twitter, she plainly thought I'd made far too much of this.
Similarly, I've bored everyone here to death by raving about Heart of Darkness, despite my being very aware of the book's controversial nature when it comes to racism. And despite my abhorrence of racism.
That's only one of numerous examples whereby the love of something led to a kind of obsession, and to special pleading for a work's meaning and excellence. In essence, I feel that we look for, and find, ourselves in the art we love. How then, can we hope to be unbiased?