By: Samuel G.
Imagine if you were to wake up and for some reason, on your music streaming app, you have access to only a single music genre: stadium pop—relentlessly upbeat, engineered for maximum energy, designed to dominate every playlist. You’d never again be able to sit with a melancholic folk song or jazz improvisations, listen to that one love song you once dedicated to a special someone, or let Lofi wash over you while you study. Instead, you’d have only upbeat, “epic” music. I’m sure you’ll quickly feel exhausted. And not only that, but most importantly, you’d miss out on the entire dimensions of human emotions.
Yet, that’s how we often treat movies today. Since the rise of the Hollywood blockbuster in the 1970s (Jaws, Star Wars, etc.), we’ve come to expect every film to be packed with action, twists, emotional crescendos and tidy resolutions. If a movie doesn’t keep us “on the edge of our seat,” we call it boring, slow or pointless. But what if keeping us on the edge of our seat is not the point at all?
Like books, music or even clothing, movies should be chosen for how they fit the moment—not judged by a single standard of excitement. We don’t wear tuxedos to the gym or flip-flops for a job interview. We don’t read thrillers when we need comfort or self-help books when we need poetry. So why do we act as if every film must be a cinematic fireworks display?
Cinema is as varied as life itself. Some movies are, indeed, rollercoasters—and that’s great. I gasped along with everyone else in a packed theater six years ago when Captain America lifted Thor’s hammer in “Endgame.” That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a slow film, though.
Some films can feel like late-night conversations or long walks in the park. Films like “Perfect Days,” “In the Mood for Love” or “Taste of Cherry” don’t rely on mind-blowing plot twists or chases; they create spaces for reflection, atmosphere and emotional honesty. They ask different things of us—not “What happens next?” but rather “How does this make you feel?” or “Have you ever noticed this before?”
There’s a quiet stigma around enjoying “slow” or “plotless” movies; some may think these viewers were bored but too stubborn to say so. But to call a film “boring” often says more about our expectations than about the film itself. Maybe it wasn’t boring but was just asking for a different kind of attention—one that we’ve forgotten how to give.
As an avid movie watcher and someone who enjoys learning narrative structure, character arcs and visual language, I’ve realized that not every story needs to shout to be meaningful. Some of the most powerful moments in cinema are the quietest: a character staring out a window, the sound of wind in an empty field, a silence that speaks louder than dialogue ever could.
You don’t need to love every film that you see—and you don’t need to give up blockbusters. But give yourself permission to explore the full range of what movies can be. Next time you choose one, I encourage you not to just ask, “Will this thrill me?” Maybe think about the moment, and ask: “What do I need right now?” Is it wonder? Is it grief? Could it be stillness? Cinema is vast enough for all of it.
