What makes someone fall in love with cinema? Is it the first film that made them cry? The late-night rewatches that felt like therapy? Quoting lines from films with best friends? Or the quiet realization that stories on screen can shape who we are?
These moments don’t just stay in the past; they shape how we see cinema, and how we choose to engage with it. They become the roots of a lifelong obsession. And once that obsession takes hold, we start asking questions: What do I do with this passion? Where do I take it? Do I study it, shape it, share it, or just let it burn quietly? Is cinema a passion, or is it a profession? And in a world overflowing with voices, who gets to speak with authority?
The Love That Came First
Before we talk about craft or credentials, we need to talk about love. Because for any filmmaker or critic, passion always comes first. That love often starts in childhood: a memory, a moment, a film that made you feel something profound. Once that seed is planted, people pursue it differently. Some let passion drive them entirely. Others seek education to deepen their understanding. But the love always comes first.
What was the film that changed you? What did it awaken? And no, it doesn’t have to be Citizen Kane. Mine was a VHS copy of a movie I probably wasn’t old enough to watch.
Passion vs Study: Two Paths, One Goal
So once the love is there, what do we do with it? That’s where the fork in the road appears. We hear about filmmakers who never studied; Quentin Tarantino famously learned from watching thousands of films. Then there are those like Martin Scorsese, who studied cinema formally. So is cinema supposed to be academic or passionate? I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer.
Personally, I never had the chance to study officially, but I complement my passion with self-education: reading books, watching films with intention, scribbling notes like I’m prepping for a pop quiz no one asked me to take. That’s my path. It doesn’t have to be yours.
Ask yourself: are you feeding your passion with knowledge? Or protecting it from becoming too rigid?
The Rise of the Armchair Critic
Now let’s zoom out. Social media has changed everything. Facebook, YouTube, TikTok, X; everyone has a platform now. It’s easier than ever to share thoughts, reviews, even short films. That accessibility is phenomenal. I’m part of it. I use these platforms to talk about something I love deeply.
But I’ve noticed a shift: some voices move from passion to authority. They stop sharing and start preaching. And when someone speaks like their opinion is gospel, I have to ask: where does your authority come from? Did you study? Do you have experience? If not, why talk down to others?
Let’s pause here: when you speak about film, are you inviting others in, or pushing them away?
Also, if you’ve ever said “this film changed my life” and someone replied “it’s overrated”; congrats, you’ve met the internet.
Why I Write
So after all that noise—opinions flying, egos inflating, algorithms amplifying—where do I stand? I’m not a critic. I don’t have credentials. I’m just someone who fell in love with cinema and never recovered. I write to understand, not to dominate. I write because cinema cracked something open in me, and I want to share that feeling, not lecture anyone about it. Maybe my thoughts resonate with someone. Maybe they don’t. That’s okay.
What about you? What does cinema mean to you, really? Not as a genre, not as a career path, but as a feeling. What’s the film that cracked something open in your chest and never quite let you close it again? The one you still think about when the credits roll and the room goes quiet.
That’s why I write. Not to be louder than the noise, but to find others who feel that same quiet echo. To remind myself, and maybe someone else, that this love is worth sharing.
What We Can Do
If that love is worth sharing, then it’s worth protecting.
We can’t silence every voice that feels unearned, and maybe we shouldn’t. But we can choose where we place our attention. We can choose to listen to the ones who speak from love, not ego. We can choose to lift up the voices that remind us why we fell in love with cinema in the first place.
Here’s something simple: find someone whose passion for film radiates through their words, their edits, their quiet enthusiasm, and share their work. Let them know they’re seen. Let them know their love matters.
Let’s build a community that claps at the end of a small indie film, even if we’re the only ones in the theater. Let’s be the kind of audience that stays through the credits, not because we have to, but because we want to honor every name that helped tell the story.
Closing
This isn’t about choosing sides. It’s about choosing heart.
Let the passion lead. Let the knowledge deepen it. But don’t let either drown out the reason you started.
If you ever feel like knowledge is starting to feed your ego more than your curiosity, pause. This isn’t a race. There is no endline. It’s a lifetime of loving cinema and films.
If you ever feel lost in the noise—too many takes, too much ego, too little feeling—come back to the film that lit the spark. Rewatch it. Sit with it. Let it remind you what this all means.
Your voice doesn’t come from credentials. It comes from that moment when a story reached inside you and didn’t let go. That’s where it lives. That’s where it begins again.
