The
art of attending a film festival as a film critic is a strange endeavor. We march from room to room every single day, spending hours in the darkness watching light dance off a screen. We watch stories of old, and of new, depicted for us in glimmering majesty, hand-crafted (and digitally crafted as well) by artisans of magic and plot. We bicker and argue and discuss what matters and what doesn't, wondering whether
any of it matters. What is it that draws us these stories? What stories make us speak loudly? Does this ceremonial procession through the grand halls of cinema have a meaning beyond our own selfish desires to be
the one to witness each story, to experience the sensation of emotions together yet still before the rest of the world has a chance to join in on these celebrations. We spend weeks living in rented apartments and hotel rooms dedicated to our craft - of sitting quietly, patiently, participating in the glory of cinema and the art of debate and the fascination of storytelling. These stories matter but does our place within these stories matter? Only if we have something to add to them, only if we can join the conversation with a worthwhile opinion or two. //
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