Not being able to find people to accompany me to concerts, art launches, open mics, craft workshops, etc., did not stop me from trying to attend as many of these events as possible. Reading this may lead people to assume I am an outgoing, extroverted person; however, I consider myself to be quite solitary. I enjoy being by myself — it allows me to soak in what is happening around me better, whether it is live music, an art exhibition, spoken poetry or the atmosphere of a coffee shop. I am more than happy to wander into a random event, sit at the bar with my book, a glass of cider, and listen to the jazz band playing (which I have done on many occasions at Barbossa; I could not recommend their Monday jazz nights enough).

Before confessing this to my friends, I thought attending events alone was a common thing for people to do. Why would I stop myself from enjoying something I’m excited about simply because no one I know is interested in joining me? This, to me, seems more odd than choosing to go by myself — I even admit that, at first, it did not even occur to me that solo dates might be fear-inducing. I appreciate the anonymity that comes with being in a crowd of strangers, as well as the pleasant serendipity of bumping into a friendly face or connecting with someone spontaneously, even if this newly formed bond lasts only for the night. After an enlightening conversation with a close friend on our different environments growing up, I may have finally identified the small but critical nuance that influences our views on spending time alone: whether we perceive loneliness as externally inflicted or personally intentional. Growing up as an only child, I learned to bear solitude with pride. As an adult, it became a choice I made when I noticed my social batteries running low. It was a good compromise; I was still able to enjoy shows and artistic events without the added awareness or pressure of ensuring my friend was enjoying themselves as much as I was. Yet, for her, solitude seemed to signify a social shortcoming, and often rhymed with the fear of missing out (FOMO). Was it even worth attending an event if there was no one to bond with?

Reflecting on post-pandemic times when social restrictions were lifted, the sudden possibility of letting the outside world back in seemed daunting for many of us. Our efforts in learning to be comfortable in our own company now seem to have yielded the opposite problem. My tendency to overthink leads me to worry that my recurring desire for solitude might get in the way of my ability to form and maintain long-term friendships. Is our generation, with more options for remote work and solo living, increasingly struggling with building close social bonds? There may not be a solution to achieving a perfect balance between investing in our friendships and our alone time. Sometimes, what we need is simply to listen to our intuition — whether it’s to plan quality time with friends, attend an anticipated event alone or just be a homebody.

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The genre of slow cinema intentionally strays from a direct narrative art form, characterized by long takes and contemplative framing. The deliberate absence of background music grounds viewers in the film’s world, emphasizing slowness, stillness, and lived time. Rather than chasing plot, audiences sink into the moment, allowing the characters’ emotional states to permeate the viewing experience.
Storytelling relies on the tension built by the wait for a final culmination: our expectation for a message that makes our patience worth it.

I find beauty in these moments of tension, because life tests our patience in this way every day. This approach centers human connection through raw emotion and shared intimacy, building bridges not only between characters themselves but also between the characters and the audience. We all have it in common: this tragedy of indefinite waiting and the stubborn hope that keeps us going — the belief that all of our pain will have been for something, in the end.

To understand what draws filmmakers to slow cinema, it’s worth listening to how they talk about their own work. With intimate precision, directors Celine Song and Eva Victor have described their approach to filmmaking as prioritizing emotional truth over conventional pacing and finding meaning in the moments other filmmakers might cut away from.

Celine Song explained in an interview with Le Cinéma Club that “The shot had to feel inevitable, like it was the only right way to shoot it. The blocking had to be efficient and rooted in reality. The timing had to be philosophically sound. It was always an instinct.” This instinctual attitude is what I find makes her dialogues between characters and their environment seem so real. She depicts time as moving similarly to real life, without cutting awkward silences or long walks home, because these in-betweens are what make up a life; the solitary, quietly overlooked moments when we have the space to feel and process the bigger moments.

Similarly, Eva Victor says that her film is “much less about violence” and more so “about love and friendship and trying to heal.” This cinematic vision is anchored in long shots of the two main characters, Agnes and Lydie, who bond through their shared presence in the film’s landscape, forming their relationship without exchanging words. The setting is shaped by Agnes’s emotional state, navigating the aftermath of a sexual assault, exploring themes of trauma, vulnerability, and institutional support (or the lack thereof) in higher education. Relating this to personal experience, emotions can feel deeply isolating when navigating university life, as we’re still figuring out who we are, what we want, and where we belong. So when a film depicts this kind of genuine connection through the indelible act of sharing feelings and acknowledges the weight we usually carry alone, that portrayed bond leaves a mark.

Even if the filmmaker may not be conscious of their slow cinematic preferences, these choices are inextricable from their interpretation of the world and how such translates into their art. Such artists seek to express something deeper than what is plainly shown. Victor continues, “I have always been drawn to the Chekhov thing where a character looks out at the horizon for four minutes, sighs, and then says, ‘The sky is blue,’ but really, the subtext is, ‘I want to die.’ I think that feels very true to how people are.” It seems we’re all performing okayness while carrying something heavier underneath — going to work, making small talk, functioning in the world — all while our interior lives tell a different story entirely. In life’s repeating cycles, there is little space to put these stories down.

We should all be Slowmaxxing

The overall rise of slower media can be linked to the recent trend of “slowmaxxing” introduced by Twitter user @robyns_quill in 2022, which quickly spread across social media feeds. The post states: “You need to be slowmaxxing. You need to be reading long, fat books. You need to be making 48-hour chocolate chip cookies. You need to spend hours watching wildlife, you need to spend 15+ min making your coffee. You need to breathe in and breathe out. You need to be slowwwwwwwwww.”

There’s something both ironic and telling about discovering slowness through TikTok, an app designed to fragment your attention. But perhaps that’s exactly why slowmaxxing resonated — it named something people were already craving, the same escape slow cinema has always offered. Under capitalism’s demand for constant productivity — where every hobby becomes a side hustle and every moment must be optimized — guilt-free rest feels almost transgressive. Slowness becomes a quiet rebellion.

I’m particularly touched by depictions of relationships unfolding through time. By personal landscapes inhabited by yearning, heartbreak, hope, and so on. A house filled with memory. A silence held in a look. A long, quiet walk. Slow cinema creates space to carry such ephemera. The few big spectacular moments aren’t the ones that make our lives valuable. Rather, it’s the subtle ones that, if we don’t pay attention, could slip away unnoticed: angled sunlight through the golden autumn leaves creating shadows on the sidewalk, a quiet lull in a conversation with friends, the smell of morning coffee brewing in the kitchen … what are some of yours?

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