The Case for Cinema

Analog Year reflections

I went to the big screen again.
I was anticipating the new Park Chan-wook film and it finally made a stop near me.

I didn’t watch it on my couch.
Not while folding laundry.
Not with my phone face-up, buzzing beside me like a second heartbeat.

I sat in the dark with strangers, inside a building that still believes attention is sacred.

There’s something grounding about entering a place built for one purpose only—to sit still and receive. The Belcourt, in this case, doesn’t ask you to multitask. It doesn’t reward half-presence. The lights dim, the screen glows, and suddenly your only job is to stay.

No pausing.
No skipping ahead.
No checking what other people are thinking in real time.

Just the slow surrender of two hours.

I felt the initial twitch, of course—the reflex to reach, to check, to fill the quiet. But it passed. What replaced it was something older and steadier: immersion. The kind that doesn’t spike your nervous system but smooths it out. The kind that reminds you the mind can rest inside one thing without fracturing.

Watching a film this way feels increasingly rare. Almost ceremonial. Like stepping into a church where the liturgy is light and sound and silence shared with people you’ll never know.

When the credits rolled, no one clapped. No one rushed. We stood, quietly, as if waking from the same dream.

Outside, the night felt slower. The world hadn’t ended while we were gone. Nothing urgent had been missed.

This is what I mean when I say I’m trying to live more analog—not rejecting technology, but choosing places and experiences that protect my attention for me. Cultural institutions like this matter because they hold the line when we forget how.

They remind us that stillness is not empty.
That presence is not passive.
That giving something your full attention is a form of respect.

I hope places like this never disappear.
I hope we keep showing up.
I hope we keep practicing how to stay

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