The Quiet Power of Approving: When Cinema Lets You In
Isn't it wonderful when a film doesn’t demand your attention, but gently invites you in? When it offers a space for quiet contemplation rather than relentless action? That feeling – that sense of being subtly, warmly approved of as an audience member – is what I want to explore today. It’s not about films being “easy” or lacking substance; quite the opposite. It's about how certain filmmakers create a connection with us through empathy and understanding, letting us feel seen in our own vulnerabilities.
Think about Suze. The premise itself—a woman unexpectedly hosting her ex-boyfriend—could easily be played for sitcom laughs. But the film’s strength lies in its gentle observation of two people navigating awkwardness and unexpected connection. It doesn't shout at you with dramatic twists; it lets moments unfold, allowing you to feel the quiet shifts in their relationship. You approve of Suze’s willingness to open her home, even when she clashes with this young man. You approve of his vulnerability, despite his initial defensiveness. The film isn’t judging anyone; it's simply presenting them as complex human beings trying to figure things out.
This kind of “approving” filmmaking is a deliberate choice, often contrasting sharply with the bombastic narratives that dominate modern cinema. Consider The Division, for example. While undeniably gripping and showcasing a fascinating glimpse into 90s Rio de Janeiro, its intensity can be overwhelming. It’s a film that demands your focus, pushing you to confront uncomfortable truths about corruption and violence. There's little room for quiet reflection; it's a relentless ride. And while I appreciate the visceral impact, sometimes what we need is something softer.
That softness doesn't equate to weakness. Look at Hard Paint. The concept – a man performing hypnotic dances online as "NeonBoy" – is inherently intriguing and visually striking. But beyond the spectacle, it’s about vulnerability and connection in the digital age. The film allows you to feel Pedro’s anxieties, his desire for recognition, and ultimately, his search for genuine human contact. It's a film that approves of your willingness to look beneath the surface, to consider the complexities of identity and performance.
Even something as seemingly straightforward as The Flight of the Phoenix, with its survival-against-the-odds scenario, offers this quiet approval. The focus isn’t just on the technical ingenuity of building a plane from wreckage (though that's undeniably compelling!), but on the shared humanity of these men facing impossible circumstances. You approve of their resilience, their willingness to cooperate despite personal differences.
Ultimately, films that offer this sense of “approval” are those that trust us as viewers. They don’t spoon-feed us answers or manipulate our emotions; they invite us into a world and allow us to draw our own conclusions. It's a rare and precious quality in cinema – one that leaves you feeling not just entertained, but genuinely understood.
What films have you experienced recently that made you feel this way? I’d love to hear about them!
