Cinema is made of time — not just the time it takes to watch a movie, but the time that lives inside each frame. When we sit in the dark and watch a film unfold, we enter a rhythm where past, present, and future coexist. A flashback, a pause, a glance — all are movements of thought. The filmmaker sculpts time the way a poet shapes silence, and in doing so, cinema mirrors the way our minds work: in loops, memories, and anticipations.
Think of a nonlinear film — like Memento or The Tree of Life — where scenes don’t follow a simple chronological order. The experience of watching these films feels almost biological. Our brains jump, connect, and rearrange information to create coherence. This process is what philosopher Edgar Morin would call complex thought — a way of thinking that accepts contradiction, chaos, and simultaneity as part of reality. Cinema doesn’t just represent complexity; it is complexity in motion.
In this flow of images and sounds, meaning is never fixed. It emerges like an ecosystem, through constant interaction and transformation. Every cut is a small disturbance — what physicist Ilya Prigogine might call an entropy that generates new forms. And from this disturbance, new order arises: a sudden emotion, an unexpected insight, a moment of beauty. Like nature, cinema thrives on these small shocks, these micro-revolutions of sense that keep us alive and alert as we watch.
Perhaps that is why time in cinema feels so intimate. It doesn’t just move forward; it breathes with us. We remember scenes as if they were our own dreams. We carry them, and in return, they carry us. A good film doesn’t simply end — it continues unfolding in the viewer’s imagination, expanding through memory and interpretation. In this way, cinema becomes more than a story told in time; it becomes a living time that tells us who we are.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário