“They always want us to tell stories with action and psychological drama but there are other very interesting directions we can take in time, space, and memory. Emotions, recollections, surprises.” – Agnes Varda
It is a really difficult time to be a filmmaker. It seems that all signs are pointing towards making a career change. I’ve tried to do this several times in my life and I always get pulled back in. It’s why the lyrics to The Lumineers song AM Radio resonant so strongly with me:
Long as you run
I couldn't give you up
Forever run
I couldn't give you up
Having to decide whether to keep on this path or abandon it altogether brings me to thinking about what is it that I love about cinema anyway? Why do I feel compelled to tell stories? Why in this medium?
Before I dive into why I want to be a filmmaker, I keep coming back to a challenge that’s always lingered in the back of my mind. There’s a certain pressure in the film world to have seen every “essential” movie, to casually drop references to obscure foreign films, or to know exactly when to bring up a classic title in conversation. That’s never really been my strength. For a long time, I felt self-conscious about it—it made me second-guess myself and even question if I belonged in this field at all. Could I really call myself a filmmaker if I couldn’t quote legendary scenes or back up my ideas with references to arthouse cinema?
Recently an article
wrote addressed this feeling and apparently I’m not alone in feeling this way:In emails and DMs, people confess similar types of guilt to me—the masterpieces they've pretended to have seen, the directors whose names they recognize but whose work remains unwatched. The confessional tone suggests they're admitting to tax fraud rather than simply not having seen The Seventh Seal.
There’s a real pressure in the film world—not just to have seen a long list of important movies, but to be able to recall them instantly and reference them effortlessly, especially when talking about your own work. It’s that dreaded moment when someone tries to sum up a film by saying something like, “It’s Mission Impossible meets Father of the Bride,” or “It’s Aliens crossed with The Joy Luck Club.” I’ve even been asked questions like that at film festivals: “What film would you compare yours to?” or “What film inspired this project?” I understand the reasons these types of questions are asked - to help place our work in a familiar context, and I know as filmmakers we all draw off our previous viewing experiences and influences in both our writing and filmmaking, but not all of us do it so directly or intentionally. For some of us it is more subtle and internalized.
I’ll admit it—I often struggle with a pretty intense fear of being unoriginal. I’m not even sure when or where this started, but somewhere along the way, someone must have made me feel like I wasn’t “creative” enough. Honestly, I’ve come to really dislike that word. When people say things like, “Oh, they’re so creative,” I can’t help but wonder—what does that even mean? But that’s a rant for another day.
Because of that fear, I tend to avoid watching anything too similar to what I’m working on. If I start comparing my ideas to existing films, I spiral into thinking I’m just rehashing what’s already been done. And when a movie comes out with themes that overlap with mine, I can’t help but think, “Well, great—now everyone’s going to think I copied it.” I know the old saying: “Every story’s been told, just not by you.” And while that’s a helpful reminder, it doesn’t always silence the doubt. These days, it feels harder than ever to feel truly original—but I keep trying anyway.
of Rough Cuts wrote a great article about this here:Listen to any filmmaker talk about their latest release, and one of the first things they’ll do is reel off a list of films with similar DNA.1
The dialogue between filmmakers across generations is one of cinema's great excitements. To see echoes of Hal Ashby in A Real Pain (2024) or David Lynch in The Beast (2024) is to collapse decades of history in a way that only art can.
But lately, something feels off. The line between inspiration and emulation is beginning to blur. We’ve seen a splurge of films that feel trapped by their ancestors, obsessed with what came before.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t operate that way, it's just not how my mind works. The films I truly love, the ones that stay with me, I remember for how they made me feel, not for their exact details. The specifics tend to fade over time, thanks to my less-than-great long-term memory, but the emotional impact lingers.
My long term memory seems to operate differently than many others. Instead of details it seems to operate through emotion. Even my memories exist in emotions. I marvel at those who can remember every detail of their childhood. They can tell you what toys they owned and how the furniture was set up in their room. When I look back on my childhood, what I have are not detailed renderings, it is more vague images that are packed with emotion. I am one of the fortunate ones that grew up in a relatively stable and loving home. I was born in Long Island New York. I moved to California when I was 8 years old. When I look back at my east coast childhood, I can’t close my eyes and picture all the details, but if I close my eyes I can feel it. I can feel the love in the home. I can feel the freedom we had as kids riding our bikes through a bike park that had ramps down the road. I can’t picture the play structure at the park or even how the bike course was set up, but I can feel the fear and excitement of riding my little rusted beater hand-me-down bike over the ramps. I know we had green colored furniture in one of the rooms of our house, I can’t see the exact pieces but I can remember the feeling of the one couch in the room. I remember one specific time when I was grounding from watching ‘The Brady Bunch’ and I had to sit quietly in that room on that green rough couch alone. Little did my dad know that my sisters were sneaking me toys to play with. What toys? I have no clue, but I remember the danger and excitement I felt keeping the secret from my dad and the love and camaraderie I felt from my sisters looking out for me.
Maybe it’s because my memories are so tied to emotion that I believe all cinema should come from that same place, with emotion first. What I love most about film is the way it stirs something deep inside me, the way it makes me feel. That emotional connection is what keeps me drawn to filmmaking, even when the path feels uncertain or difficult.
I came across an old article from the FA magazine where I was editor, from Fall 2008. The article was a collection of responses from the FA membership on WHY they make films, here was my response:
You know those moments in life when you are overcome with an emotion, be it sadness, happiness, fear, excitement, disgust, wonder, pride, beauty... it may come through an event that happens to you or that you see happen, it could come by hearing a certain song, hearing a certain sound, or it can even by seeing a single image, like a mother who lost her son or daughter to a war seeing a battered and torn American flag blowing in the wind. I believe these moments of pure emotion are the single greatest reasons for living, and if I could bottle these moments and sell them on the corner like a drug I would. The closest thing I’ve found to doing this is filmmaking. It is my belief, that it is through emotion that we are able to connect people, inform people, enlighten people, entertain people and therefore change the world.
That’s why I make films.
This rings just as true for me today as it did 16 years ago. Sure, my delivery of it would probably be different, but the goal is still the same, I make films to elicit an emotional response from an audience. And the films I enjoy watching the most elicit a strong emotional response from me as well.
Sure, I can appreciate a good action film—they can be exciting and keep me on the edge of my seat. But once I leave the theater, that feeling doesn’t really stick with me. My husband has dragged me to plenty of Marvel movies, and while they’re entertaining and larger-than-life, they just don’t stay with me. They all end up blending together into one big, visually impressive but forgettable spectacle. Ask me to tell the difference between Infinity War and Endgame, and honestly, I couldn’t. People fought, there were plenty of jokes, tons of CGI, and maybe a seriously underdeveloped love story thrown in to keep those who prefer that sort of thing engaged when they’re dragged along. But after all that, it just doesn’t leave a lasting impression.
I hate to yuck other peoples yum. So no I’m not trying to hate on these films.I deeply appreciate cinema that aims for something more—and for me, that "more" is emotion. In many great films the emotion is the ‘story’, not the plot, which is what people most often refer to when they discuss ‘story’. They are wrong the story is not the plot, I wrote a post about that here.
To me, it's almost a responsibility of cinema, as one of the few art forms capable of being such a powerful machine for empathy.
I’m certainly not the only one who feels this way about cinema and emotion. Film has long been celebrated, not just as entertainment, but as an art form with a unique ability to evoke deep emotional responses. In fact, many early film theorists argued that this emotional impact was cinema’s primary purpose from the very beginning. So, if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I’m going to geek out a bit and dive into some theory.
I wrote about this in one of my older posts:
Emotion is central to cinema, a concept explored in early film theory, most notably by psychologist Hugo Münsterberg in his 1916 work The Photoplay: A Psychological Study.
Münsterberg argued that emotions are triggered by associations between visual cues and past experiences. Filmmakers use familiar visual elements—like color schemes or lighting—to evoke emotional responses. For example, warm hues can suggest nostalgia, while shadows signal danger or sadness. Münsterberg also highlighted the illusion of reality in film, where editing and framing create a sense of immediacy, making the audience feel as though they are experiencing the story firsthand. Additionally, the manipulation of time through editing—such as slow-motion or rapid cuts—intensifies emotional impact.
Münsterberg's central thesis was clear: “To picture emotions must be the central aim of the photoplay,” a notion I strongly agree with.
Another important film theorist who explored how movies affect us emotionally was Sergei Eisenstein. While Münsterberg focused more on how our minds process films, Eisenstein was all about the emotional impact of editing.
In his 1929 book Film Form, he argued that editing—especially the technique called montage—wasn’t just a way to piece a movie together. For him, it was a powerful tool to shape how viewers feel. He believed that when you put two contrasting images next to each other, they create a new, emotionally charged meaning. For instance, showing a soldier’s face right before a starving child could stir up feelings of anger or sadness about war.
Eisenstein called this idea the “montage of attractions.” He thought filmmakers should use bold, emotionally striking images that, when combined, create an even bigger emotional reaction. Mixing scenes that evoke different feelings—like happiness and fear—can have a really powerful effect on the audience. He also pointed out that the speed of editing matters. Quick cuts can create excitement or anxiety, while slower edits can make us feel more thoughtful or emotional.
Even though Münsterberg and Eisenstein looked at film from different angles, their ideas actually work really well together. They both show that a movie’s emotional power doesn’t just come from the story itself, it comes from how that story is told through visuals, editing, and structure. Their theories remind us that getting emotional during a movie isn’t accidental—it’s the result of careful choices that tap into how we think and feel.
Okay no more theory…..
It is the emotional impact of cinema that makes me want to be a filmmaker.
Sadly, I think this emotional impact is missing in many films today. Too often, filmmakers prioritize style and form without considering how it serves the narrative or emotion of the story. There are countless stunning shots, but they lack substance. This is especially true in short films, where the visuals might be impressive but fail to create a real connection with the audience or evoke any deep engagement with the material.
I am not saying that uniquely stylized films are bad. In fact, highly stylized films can work very well and be highly emotional. It is just that they work best when the form of the film fits the emotionality of the film.
Take Requiem for a Dream (2000) for example. I saw this film in college, I went alone to a San Francisco theater, and when the credits rolled, I was physically shaking, feeling all the despair and anxiety of the characters. I had to step outside for a cigarette (which I no longer smoke—and neither should you). The emotional weight was overwhelming, like I’d lived the film’s nightmare myself.
What makes Requiem for a Dream so emotionally powerful is its relentless tone and visual style. The rapid editing and Clint Mansell’s punishing score build mounting tension, mirroring the characters' spirals into addiction. One iconic sequence—where the camera zooms in on a needle being injected—creates an intimate, disturbing focus on drug use, making us feel as though we, too, are drawn into their addiction. The claustrophobic framing traps us in their descent.
Aronofsky uses techniques like split-screens and rapid montage to portray the characters' drug-induced states. During Harry and Marion’s euphoria, quick cuts between their actions—smoking, eating, and sex—heighten the frenzied emotions of addiction. This visual distortion of time and space mirrors their mental unraveling. Meanwhile, extreme close-ups of Sara Goldfarb’s face as she obsessively prepares for her TV appearance capture her desperation, with lingering shots emphasizing her isolation, all underscored by a throbbing, dissonant score that amplifies her descent into madness.
After Requiem for a Dream was released, many filmmakers tried to emulate its style. While their films might be visually striking, they often miss the most crucial element—the seamless blend of form, structure, and emotion. Without that balance, the style can actually detract from the narrative, pulling the audience out of the story instead of drawing them in.
Though as with most things in film, this can be a subjective experience and heavily debatable.
A good friend of mine, whose taste in cinema often aligns with my own, and I found ourselves at odds over our reactions to Nickel Boys (2024). He couldn’t stand the use of the first-person subjective camera, feeling it made it impossible for him to emotionally connect with the characters and pulled him out of the experience. I know many others shared this sentiment. For me, though, I felt it added to the emotional depth and reinforced the theme of trauma. The disconnection felt purposeful, it was as if it mirrored the characters’ own estrangement from themselves due to their traumatic experiences. When you go through something that traumatic, disconnecting from yourself can be a survival mechanism.
There’s also been talk about the confusion between the two characters, and I saw this as another layer of the trauma theme. After enduring such deep trauma, can you ever truly find your identity again? If trauma is shared, where do my identity and yours begin and end? Does it even matter? Can we ever separate ourselves from what defines us through trauma? These questions stirred a lot of emotions in me, and I found myself thinking and talking about them long after the credits rolled.
It’s this shared emotion and humanity in cinema that resonates with me the most, and it's something I worry about preserving in the future of filmmaking, especially with the rise of AI.
This issue is addressed beautifully by
in her article here, with her conclusion being that it exactly that shared emotion and humanity that AI will not be able to replace.There is hope in fullness. In the rich details only you would notice. People don't line up for perfect imitations. They brave traffic and crowds and hours of discomfort for the chance to stand before a Van Gogh, to feel the raw electricity of another human's hand trembling across canvas. We devour novels not for the pristine plot structures but for the glimpse of another consciousness, reaching out to us across time and space, saying I felt this too. The danger of art, the risk in creating it, that's what pulls us forward.
The algorithms will try to devour your dreams. Let them choke on them.
Write about the exquisite voltage of dawn light across your kitchen floor. Paint the catastrophic tenderness of someone you love calling your name from another room. Sing it. The gen-AI overlords will always be a step behind the fullness of your life. I promise that the tremor in your voice, that human vibration that comes from living in a body that knows it will someday die, will always matter more than the perfect pitch.
Let AI stand as a reminder to all of us filmmakers to prioritize emotion in our writing and filmmaking. Emotion is what connects us—it’s what makes our work truly human. After all, isn’t that connection and shared experience what drew most of us to filmmaking in the first place? I truly feel that sense of community within Filmstack and it gives me hope. So, thank you all for sharing your work and for continuing to inspire me.
It looks like I’ll be sticking with this perilous path of filmmaking for now. After all, how can I stop when there’s so much hope in the changes to come? Or when I just finished a script full of emotion that I am determined to make and be able to share with you all.
To anyone feeling the same way as I do these days - Keep Writing. Keep Creating. And do so with as much as emotion as possible!
