If you've read just about anything I've written on this site, then you know that I tend only to like the mustiest, fustiest of movies and that my opinions on film are more in line with critics than with the popular audience. But this isn't always true. Sometimes I disagree with the critics and the audience. As an example, let's take the 1981 movie Chariots of Fire. It's the true(ish) story of some British runners in the 1924 Olympic Games, it won a slew of awards (including the Oscar for Best Picture), and it's beloved by critics and moviegoers everywhere. Not by me, though. It's not a movie I'm prepared to come right out and say is bad. I think it's probably just as good as people say. But, for whatever reason, I can't get into it at all. I'm not sure exactly why I don't like it, but there are a few possible reasons. Most obviously, the movie's about running. In terms of physicality, my lifestyle is more akin to Jabba the Hutt's than Carl Lewis's, so a celebration of the runner's art isn't exactly up my alley. Yet I don't think this is the reason I don't care for Chariots of Fire; ...