In a world that is fast-paced — where humans are expected to do more, absorb more, hustle harder, and take in as much information as possible — there’s a small but growing group of us who’ve cottoned on to something: in the end, stillness and slowing down might actually be more productive. More grounding, more interesting, and better for us overall.
Living a slow life, even just enjoying a slow morning, feels like an act of rebellion. And damn, does it feel good.
I’m one of those people who feels off when my brain is in “all-tabs-open” mode, juggling so many tasks that I border on meltdown. That was my default for years. My M.O. was “busy” and it used to be my normal for what seemed like forever. Until I broke.
As I age, I’ve learnt that softness, and moving at a slower speed in everything I do, isn’t laziness. It's being present, which allows me to think clearly and appreciate the moment, rather than racing toward what’s next.
Rooney Mara eating pie in A Ghost Story (2017)
And when it comes to storytelling, filmmaking, and the films I choose to watch, I feel the same way.
Give me long, quiet shots of absolute “nothingness.” Characters sitting in silence, looking out over cliffs, quietly applying makeup, moving through their room looking for a favourite pair of shoes. Couples glancing at each other with nothing left to say. And my personal favourite – Rooney Mara eating pie on the floor for six uninterrupted minutes — no music, no camera movement, no sound design — just grief, just time, just presence.
This is slow cinema.
In his 2014 book Slow Movies: Countering the Cinema of Action, Ira Jaffe perfectly explains slow cinema:
“Slow movies differ from most commercial films in offering viewers time for extended attention and contemplation. They use long takes, often static, and may feature limited dialogue, subdued performance, and minimal narrative. These films emphasize duration, waiting, and a kind of stillness or emptiness rarely seen in mainstream cinema."
A huge majority of mainstream cinema right now is flooded with maximalism. Visually more is crammed into the frame, congesting the shot, shifting the viewer’s eye away from the main character, instead making the audience scramble to take in every detail presented.
During production the size of cast and crews are larger, budgets often more inflated, and of course the marketing is also colossal to justify the whole process.
With the rise of CGI-heavy blockbusters and studio-driven showcases, we’ve traded stillness for spectacle. Not only are these films packed with visual noise, but the stories themselves are predictable. They feel more like themes being played out rather than actual relatable human stories unfolding in real time.
A cacophony of action for action’s sake, shock, explosion, loads of quick takes, wordy dialogue, plot twist, repeat.
So when I watch a film that dares to pause, to breathe, it hits harder.
When discussing slow cinema, these films come to mind — either as true slow cinema or deeply influenced by the aesthetic of the movement — Melancholia, Phantom Thread, Priscilla, Paterson, The Outrun, A Ghost Story, Past Lives and Aftersun.
Each of these films lets you sit with the character’s discomfort. With deep feelings of loss or shame. With beauty. With time. With a character’s daily routine or ritual. With crippling feelings of isolation, alienation. These films don’t force meaning — they invite audiences to find it.
I write, produce and direct slow films. Budget and working within my artistic means aside, mostly I choose to create slow films because I like writing and bringing flawed, real and gritty characters to life on the screen.
For me it’s exciting and the process of working closely with my actors for months before getting to set interests me deeply. I live for it. It’s my passion and one of my creative outlets.
With that in mind, our recent feature film After the Act starts with a slow film vibe — and continues that way throughout.
After Ivan and I watched the edit, we noticed the first scene runs for around fifteen minutes. A simple opening showing a couple preparing breakfast and discussing what they’re going to do on their weekend. We turned to each other and said, smiling, “We’re going to bore the shit out of distributors with just the first scene!” I even joked that if this played at an actual cinema, for sure we would get walkouts early on.
Sam and Mia eat breakfast in After the Act (2025)
But only if we didn’t find our target audience, because this slow approach was deliberate from the concept stage right through to filming. Our vision was to have the audience become a fly on the wall as a real couple goes through the motions of a regular day, before a revelation changes their relationship.
While attending the European Film Market earlier this year, I had to be careful about how I talked about After the Act. When I first introduced it to a buyer as a “slow film,” it quickly became clear that using the word slow to sell a feature film was a deterrent. So I switched it up and started calling it a “slice of life film.”
The same person even said something along the lines of, ‘‘there are not many buyers here who are buying those films. They are a hard sell”.
Ouch!
Selling aside, After the Act has also been a tough film for festival analysts to place. The collective advice so far? The film likely won’t be selected for the larger, top-tier festivals, but instead for smaller festivals better suited to “true indie films.”
For me — as an empathic human, a writer of relatable stories, and a detail-focused director — I love holding off on calling cut right after a character has said their final line because I want what was said to sit and simmer. This choice feels like a quiet act of trust: trust in the story you’ve written, the concept you’ve put forward, and what your actor has brought to the moment you envisioned.
Slow film has other merits too, of course.
The visuals and character nuances are more deeply appreciated in slow cinema. The audience is subtly fed breadcrumbs of information, details and subtext that they may or may not notice, but their friend might. That creates space for conversation… maybe even a rewatch.
Sometimes, what isn’t said in words can speak volumes through the lens.
So I am going to continue to embrace, and make, slow cinema. One that invites patience, reflection, and a deeper connection to storytelling. There’s room for all kinds of films, of course, but in a world that often moves too fast, sometimes the most powerful thing a filmmaker can do is simply let a moment breathe.
Written by Sarah Jayne Portelli