Illustration by Teresa Yan

There is a particular kind of guilt that lingers in the pit of my gut when someone recommends a film or TV show. It sits in my stomach; a low hum of cultural shame. People tell me I have to watch Breaking Bad or Everything, Everywhere, All At Once, but these titles simply wither away in my Letterboxd watchlist, packed down under a graveyard of flimsy excuses.

For emerging artists, these recommendations seem to function as a kind of social currency. In workshops, seminars, queues for an underground Shoreditch café, we trade titles like passwords: obscure nanogenres, under-the-radar miniseries, something “slow but so worth it.” Being caught out as a The Artist is Present novice – or worse, a Lord of the Rings virgin – feels like someone grabbed your underwear and paraded them down the CSM Street declaring “this person doesn’t know art like I do!”

Life in London can so often feel like you’ve woken up as a curator’s PA – screenings at independent cinemas today, pop-up exhibitions tomorrow, retrospectives (what even is a retrospective?) – that when you add in streaming platforms or algorithmic suggestions, suddenly finding an evening watch becomes a painful routine of choice paralysis. The question isn’t what should I watch? But rather, which version of myself am I supposed to be tonight? The disciplined cinephile? The comfort-watch realist? The student who has a 10am lecture and no business starting a six-hour documentary? Do I even want to watch a six-hour documentary? 

A recommendation comes with expectations: attention, emotional availability, analysis. Sometimes I simply don’t want to engage – I want to exist passively with the familiar drone of Seinfeld as the soundtrack to my evening. When, as most of us do, we know a bit about the world of art direction, writing, producing or costume making, films and TV can often feel like part of the job. You tell yourself you’ll watch it “properly,” with focus, maybe even a notebook. That intention alone can be paralysing. Pleasure becomes postponed in favour of an imagined future where you are calmer, smarter, more receptive.

A survey completed by Attest in 2025 showed that 70% of Brits aged 18-24 actually find their recommendations from social media. How curious; perhaps we feel like social media understands us better than our friends do. Maybe now we are more accustomed to being offered proof; a clip with trending audio in the background, perfectly curated so that the comments can tell you whether you’d really like this or not. A lack of evidence has made us overly sensitive to suggestions, but recommendations ask us to trust. 

What I’ve come to realise about recommendations is that they persist because they’re not actually about the content. They’re about connection. Saying “you should watch this” is often shorthand for “this moved me” or “this reminded me of you.” Maybe this is the starting point for our guilt; it’s the same feeling as not answering your Grandma’s text, or forgetting to wish a friend a happy birthday – a kind of moral panic that is only really felt when you’ve missed an opportunity to respond to affection. 

One of my New Year’s resolutions in 2026 is to treat recommendations as invitations, not assignments. To let some pass without guilt. And to remember that in a city and a university overflowing with culture, the most radical choice might be allowing myself to miss things, and trust that what’s meant to find me eventually will. After all, there will always be another recommendation.