The major entries of the movement collected under the neologism "nicecore" have legions of supporters willing to dive in front of any ill word directed at their fave, and to do this in aggrieved, aggressive terms unbefitting the good vibes they so vocally defend (a now-deleted semi-viral tweet claimed anyone who didn't like Coda was "an empty, empty person". This niceness is ultimately used as a cudgel, proof that anyone resistant to it is a joyless misanthrope who'd rather curl up with Come and See. (Or, uh, Tarantino.) On the Community episode taking the piss out of Glee, one of the TV medium's great feats of auto-critique, a diehard asks of a non-believer, "How can you hate Glee? It literally means 'glee'!" Those unresponsive to salvos of positivism are cold-hearted snobs; those uninterested in watching at all are bad sports. There's a sour irony to watching as dozens of strangers championing the virtues of goodwill chew you out in language generally reserved for baseball game bleachers.
Again, it's hard to stand against something too ardently when it gives so many people so much, but partisans have made it a lot easier by turning preferences about art into a referendum on character. Were I inclined to meet them on these uncharitable grounds, the response would probably go something like this: the attachment to and fierce protection of niceness is a sign of weakness, of needing to be coddled as literally and directly as possible. This is to say that mandated kindness compels an equal and opposite reaction of meanness, which isn't how I prefer to live. Nice things are indeed nice, to quote a big-hearted show studied enough in its attitude to exclude itself from this trend. It's a matter of an oversized market share on the conversation for pop culture without the heft to sustain its what-we-need-right-now reputation. The online dictum about the importance of letting people like things cuts both ways, the right to dislike things every bit as sacred.
