Cinema is not about format, and it's not about venue. Cinema is

Hear, O seekers of art and truth, the voice of Steven Soderbergh, who speaks as both craftsman and philosopher of the screen: “Cinema is not about format, and it’s not about venue. Cinema is an approach. Cinema is a state of mind on the part of the filmmaker. I’ve seen commercials that have cinema in them, and I’ve seen Oscar-winning movies that don’t. I’m fine with this.” These words strike at the heart of creation, reminding us that true greatness does not lie in outward appearances, but in the spirit that animates the work.

For many measure cinema by its trappings: the size of the screen, the fame of the awards, the grandeur of the production. They believe that if a film wins the golden statue, it is cinema; if it is projected in a theater, it is cinema; if it is lowly, fleeting, or made for commerce, it is not. But Soderbergh overturns this false hierarchy. He proclaims that cinema is an approach, a way of seeing, a discipline of the heart and eye. It can live in a humble thirty-second commercial, if made with honesty and vision, and it can be absent from a grand and lauded epic, if made without soul.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. Consider the Greek sculptors, who carved both statues of gods to stand in temples and small figurines for household shrines. Some of the grand works, though massive, were lifeless; while some of the smaller, humbler carvings burned with spirit, as if the very marble had been touched by divinity. It was never the scale or the location that mattered—it was the presence of truth within the work. Soderbergh’s teaching flows from this same eternal well: the vessel is not the essence; the essence is in the vision.

Think also of the haiku masters of Japan, who with but a handful of syllables captured the eternal spirit of the seasons. Could one say that a poem of three lines is lesser than a sprawling epic? No. For in their brevity, those poems contained entire worlds. Likewise, a thirty-second visual tale may carry more cinema than two hours of spectacle. It is the intention, the craft, and the state of mind that define it—not the length, not the platform, not the applause.

The deeper meaning is this: true art cannot be confined by rules of form. When the creator approaches their work with reverence, attention, and authenticity, then the ordinary is transfigured. The extraordinary does not always need trumpets or banners; sometimes it whispers in silence. A film shown on a handheld device may possess more majesty than a blockbuster screened in marble halls, if its maker infused it with vision.

The lesson, O listener, is to seek spirit over spectacle, authenticity over approval. If you create, do not ask, “Will this win prizes?” or “Will this be shown in grand halls?” Ask instead, “Is my approach true? Is my mind alive with vision?” For in that lies the eternal measure of art. And if you are one who watches, learn to see beyond the awards and the marketing. Train your eyes to discern the fire of true cinema wherever it hides, even in unlikely places.

Therefore, let Soderbergh’s words resound as a reminder: the essence of cinema—and indeed of all creation—is not in format or venue, but in approach, in the sacred state of mind of the one who dares to make. This teaching belongs not only to filmmakers, but to all who labor with their hands and hearts. Whatever you create, let it be made with sincerity, with vision, and with soul. Then, no matter how small the vessel, the flame will burn eternal.

So take this wisdom and carry it forward: do not be deceived by grandeur nor blinded by reward. True art is everywhere, if only we learn to see. For cinema, like all things eternal, is not in the trappings of the world—it is in the spirit that dares to speak truth through creation.