Cinema. It's not comics. It's not prose. It has similarities to both media, sure. It's visually dazzling, it's aurally pleasing, and it begs your full attention. And yet, it wouldn't be able to manage any of these feats if not for its one debilitating weakness and limitation: linear time.
 
When was the last time you bought a novel, and the words, "Reading time: 580 minutes," were printed on the back cover? And then you held your fist high and cried into the air, so the publisher might hear, "Who are you to decide how long it takes me to read your stupid book?" Not a likely situation. We're the ones who flip the pages, and scan over the words. We ultimately determine the pacing, not the books.
 
And yet we're perfectly willing to surrender our control of time and progression when sitting down to watch a cinematic feature. We're helpless; or rather, the films are helpless in their inability to share their contents with us in all ways but one (yeah yeah, there are exceptions). A cinematic experience is considered complete only if it takes place over the specified duration.
 
"Well, no shit," you scoff, wondering why I've taken such pains to conclude with the obvious.
 
To which I chide, "On the contrary, shit."
 
Whereas this time limitation used to be to the director what the palette was to the painter, directors are only recently finding ways to manipulate that limitation. It's as if a painter, unsatisfied with his palette, decided to incorporate holograms and scratch-n-sniff tectures to his canvas. Won't that make it a better painting? Or if a music composer decided to write some of the notes in his score in blue, some notes in green, put little frills on the stems and stylized borders along the stalves, encouraging the listeners of his work, "Well, my piece has to be good; it sure looks pretty, doesn't it?"

 

That's not how it works.

 

While that analogy might not clearly convey the latest cinematic trend, the trend persists nonetheless. It's no longer enough for directors to leave you restricted to how you watch the movie; they want to tell you how to feel about it.
 
When tears well up in the starlet's eyes, is it because the scene is sad and dramatic, or is it because the scene is supposed to be sad and dramatic? When the foolish character undergoes slapstick pain, is it legitimately funny, or is it only supposed to be funny? When the protagonist's grandfather dies, do you feel sad because the story of the movie compelled you to mourn his passing, or because the sweeping orchestral score tells you to? (hint: watch the film on mute)
 
Films are getting better and better at hiding their flaws and at persuading the audience to feel the way the film wants them to feel, to go through the motions. They want you to think less and feel more. The more involved you become, the less objectively you can look for the flaws. It's okay to excuse a few flaws if the movie works on the whole, right? 

 

But does it work? Does it really?

 

And no matter how well it does work, should we ignore those feelings that nag at us, that make us wonder, "Why didn't I fall in love with that scene/plot point/plot twist the way I did with the rest of the movie? Why did that resolution leave me empty, despite the spectacular climax?" It's not enough to dismiss those questions and those feelings. We have the responsibility to ask, "Why?" Ask it.

 

Because at the end of the day, no matter how good The Dark Knight actually is, it isn't and can never be nor surpass The Godfather, no matter what imdb.com statistics say.

 

Chew on that. And watch The Godfather while you're at it. Your inner critic will thank me.

 

Next week, I'll give you the lone dissenting review of The Dark Knight. Bring your shin pads.