Recently, I’ve noticed that some amateur critics online (particularly on Twitter, but elsewhere, as well) tend to evaluate films as though they are mere objects—trivial things that spontaneously materialize without any human intervention whatsoever, indistinguishable from a rock or a puddle of water. I frequently find myself arguing against this reductive mindset; in my opinion, a movie is synonymous with the creative process that produces it. Every frame contains a multitude of deliberate artistic choices—framing, composition, blocking, set dressing, performance, et cetera. Even the simplest story is the culmination of countless subtle decisions.
Consider, for example, Christopher Makoto Yogi’s a still place, a non-narrative feature that is, according to the Criterion Channel’s synopsis:
…a filmed meditation at Akiko Masuda’s zendo on Hawai’i Island that listens to the island awaken as the sun rises.
Indeed, the film appears to be elegantly straightforward in its cinematic ambitions at first glance. Its stylistic approach epitomizes minimalism. For the majority of its 65-minute running time, there are a grand total of two shots—a wide master and a closeup—between which the director cuts very sparingly. Both the camera and its subjects remain static. The lighting is entirely natural; initially, Masuda herself is almost completely invisible, enveloped by darkness until the sun gradually illuminates the room. The relative inertia of the imagery emphasizes the dynamic sonic landscape: birds sing, wind chimes ring, and raindrops patter on the windowpane—a rich symphony of ambient sounds.
It is, to phrase it bluntly, not a terribly exciting motion picture; in fact, there are those that would dismissively describe it as “boring.” The glacial pace and lack of visual flair, however, are not only obviously intentional, but also pregnant with deeper thematic significance. Meditation, after all, revolves around stillness and awareness; by observing Masuda’s quiet morning ritual without commentary or interruption, a still place immerses the audience in the sensory experience of meditation. The movie’s pervasively monotonous, tranquil atmosphere might cause an impatient or unadventurous viewer’s mind to wander—but isn’t noticing one’s own distraction a kind of mindfulness in and of itself?
In short: the perfect marriage of form and function.
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