Let’s Be Honest.
Nobody knows what a film festival is anymore.
A place to premiere? A vibe to consume? A soft launch for an Oscar campaign in designer loafers?
Doc Edge just wrapped. NZIFF is rolling like a noir dolly shot.
Meanwhile, international festivals are dropping trailers like weaponised gossip.
It used to be simple.
You made a film. You wore your best suit. If you were lucky, your name got whispered at Cannes and your ego grew a second head.
Now?
Now the red carpet is a highlight reel on Instagram.
The standing ovation is a 4-second clip posted with.
You watched Saltburn in your flat in Otara with a burnt croissant.
And it still felt like Venice.
Press Passes and Panic Attacks
A filmmaker (young, tortured, probably hungover) once whispered to me behind a sponsored espresso machine:
“I spent more time formatting the DCP than writing the film.”
Another, far older, far glossier, told me:
“These days, a world premiere just means you’re first to get pirated.”
We laugh. But no one’s joking.
Festivals now feel like audition tapes for algorithms. Your poster must hit.
Your trailer must trend. Your director must wear leather in the rain.
So Why Do We Still Go?
Because the screen is still bigger than your phone.
Because watching a movie with 70 strangers in the dark still counts as church.
Because someone will always clap too early.
And someone will cry over a goat.
Because The Delinquents made you rethink capitalism.
Because Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus made you hold your breath for 93 minutes.
Because the best films don’t explain themselves. They haunt.
Five Hot Takes We Overheard, Stole, Or Made Up Entirely
- Saltburn needed Venice.
Without the gowns and the gasps, it would’ve landed like a wet cravat. - The best films are still the weird ones no one talks about.
You know the ones. The ones with subtitles, bad lighting, and transcendent heartbreak. The ones that never make a top 10 list unless it’s curated by someone who’s emotionally unstable (in the best way).
Like You Won’t Be Alone, a Macedonian witch movie that feels more like Terrence Malick smoked herbs and whispered poetry into a goat’s ear. Or Lucía by Humberto Solás, Cuban, grainy, gorgeously stitched together in three acts, and absolutely brutal. Or The Tribe, the Ukrainian film told entirely in sign language, with no subtitles. A masterclass in cinematic discomfort.
These aren’t “content.” They’re trials. They’re ghosts. They’re why we keep watching.
- Critics have been replaced by Letterboxd teens.
They are terrifying. And often correct.
Gone are the days of the neatly coiffed reviewer behind a paywall, handing out four stars to Merchant Ivory films and war dramas with sweeping scores. Now, a 19-year-old with anxiety and eyeliner will annihilate your entire film with a single sentence:
“This movie feels like getting ghosted by someone who works at a record store.”
And guess what? That review will go viral. And probably make people watch the film.
Some of them are brilliant. Some are deranged. Most are both. And all of them understand that cinema is, first and foremost, emotional translation. Which is more than can be said for most studio execs.
- You don’t need to premiere. You need to connect.
Forget the red carpet. Forget the distribution deal that requires three lawyers and a decade of waiting. Forget the fifteen film friends who say, “You really should submit to Rotterdam.”
Sometimes the connection happens at The Capitol Cinema on a Wednesday night. Six people in the room. One of them sobbing into their scarf. Another one sitting completely still, because something in your film cracked open a door they didn’t even know was locked.
Films don’t become meaningful when they hit 100,000 views. They become meaningful the moment someone feels seen. That can happen in a basement. Or a broken cinema. Or your ex’s lounge on a dodgy projector.
- Festivals will always matter. But they no longer crown kings.
Sundance used to be where Miramax anointed its indie darlings. Cannes gave you clout, a shot at Palme d’Or, and a 30-minute standing ovation even if your film was mediocre but had French suffering. But now?
Now the weirdest film in the sidebar gets the biggest standing ovation. The audience award goes to the one that makes people laugh through trauma. (Marcel the Shell with Shoes On, we’re looking at you.) And the juries don’t always get it right but the meme pages sure do.
Festivals aren’t about arrival anymore. They’re about amplification. A place where jesters with handheld cameras and maxed-out credit cards get to drop their truth bombs and watch the room tilt.
What’s Coming Next at Capitol
So don’t go quiet.
Don’t wait for awards season.
Because here’s what’s on the reel next:
- The African Film Festival — September
• The British & Irish Film Festival — accents, angst, and Judi Dench in something grey
• Terror-Fi — late October. Blood. Screams. Possibly a themed cocktail.
• The Asia Pacific Film Festival — November. More cinema. Less noise.
Cinema isn’t dying.
It’s just taking a cigarette break.
— Roger Wyllie, View Mag
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