A Moving Wind in Stagnant Heat

A Reflection of the Individual Experience of Cinema

J. Y. Gao

THE EXPERIENCE OF CINEMA is perhaps one of the only experiences in life where an individual can detach themselves from the consistent drone of our hyper-consciousness and be present in a physical place, for a moment in time. Hence, though it resembles an experience that some may describe as ‘immersive’, there is something more to film than its escapist, fantastical worlds. Cinema is both an exploration of what might be possible – an exercise of the imagination – but also a return to the most fundamental elements of human psychology.

I’ve recently asked myself why, exactly, do I like film?  And further, why I am not as invested in creating films as I might have liked to be? And I urge you to consider the same questions about your own passions. Here are my reflections of film:

Film is first and foremost a type of antidote. There is a medicinal quality to film that is able to counter a number of internal battles. Most pressing of these, as touched on above, is the noise our mind consistently produces at every action taken, every word spoken, and every thought. Though we experience it at different intensities to one another, these voices of self-doubt, these pretentious words of encouragement, these complaints of restriction, these hyper-active mental mechanisms, these voices of panic and overthinking, have all barricaded us. 

One of the most difficult things for a human to do is to not think. Picture a shaking wooden rope bridge that stretches across two mountain tops and tentative ropes that hang off each side. The chasm is that downward spiral you experience when you find yourself trapped in a cycle of overthinking. ‘Stop thinking’, you say to yourself. Eventually, a series of deep breaths might allow you to hold onto a dangling rope with which you can pull yourself back onto the wooden bridge. And yet the smallest gust of wind – a sudden awareness of your position and your attempts to climb back to rationality, and a thought will send you tumbling down the ‘chasm of consciousness’ yet again.

A film is like a strong current that pushes parallel to the bridge in the direction of the future. Another current flows vertically upwards towards the level of the bridge. Thus, as the story on screen unfolds, and your eyes and ears are constantly fed with new information – like a form of energy – you discover that no matter how often you fall, the current of the wind continuously pushes in a net direction upwards and forwards. Despite the gusts of wind that attack your flank and cause you to lose grip of the dangling ropes, the wind carries you onwards. Until inevitably, and quite effortlessly, you are back on the bridge, and it pushes you along. Once again, your entire existence in that moment of time exists in tandem with that exact moment on screen. You’re not overthinking, you’re not thinking about how you are feeling, you’re not thinking about how you should be feeling – you just experience. In this way, film is one of the most visceral, authentic experiences of your body and your mind. There are no facades and doubtful voices – at least none that will push you from your sturdy footbridge – and you feel as though you can run with all of your might along the footbridge with the wind on your back and an assurance that the shaky bridge won’t break. ‘Why am I crying’, you ask yourself suddenly, and you feel as though you might tumble down a spiral of self-awareness and thinking-not-thinking, and yet you find yourself with a supporting hand of music and a beautiful warm, glowing sunset on screen, so you run faster still alongside the story, having long forgotten the awareness of your own crying. 

To be able to create such a force that outlasts and outmaneuveres the vulnerability of your consciousness requires the skill of a filmmaker. And filmmakers want to acquire those skills in order to create these moments to move other people as they themselves have been moved. It is an experience that is honest and true, one that requires no intellectual interference, nor background knowledge about context, nor pressure to conform, like so much abstract art does today, but one that allows the most shallow, sheep-like people, to feel genuine emotion. 

But, as promised, here is perhaps why creating films is more difficult than I had thought. The process of creating these moments is extremely technical and precise, and this I honestly enjoy. Also part of this process though, is administration, finance and execution. To find and coordinate people is hard enough, but as a filmmaker you are expected to describe and share the most visceral and internal thoughts and ideas with judgemental strangers. Then, also, is the restriction of finance. Finally, executing plans, constructing shot-lists, adhering to time restrictions, location restrictions, are also barriers to the creative process. These processes are extremely mechanical and require on-the-spot problem solving. And though the business of these moments may be enjoyable at times, it does take a little ‘magic’ out of your film. 

Through writing this piece and qualifying the ‘yes’s’ and ‘no’s’ of this interest, I have come to realise the best filmmakers are ones that are able to retain the emotional, visceral, authentic, artistic visions of their films through the laborious processes of filmmaking. Only then can they create a current strong enough to push us along our emotional wave and allow us to experience truly, what it means to be human.