In the next couple of years, part of every film's process is

Hear now, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Robert Zemeckis, who in foresight spoke: “In the next couple of years, part of every film's process is going to be to adjust the images. And it'll be to change the color of an actor's tie or change the little smirky thing he's doing with his mouth. Or you can put in more clouds or move the tree a little bit.” These are not idle musings but prophecy, cast upon the fertile soil of creation. He beheld a world where the image itself is no longer fixed, where the frame is malleable, and where the truth of art becomes as clay, shaped by unseen hands long after the actor has departed the stage.

From the earliest days of humankind, men and women have sought to preserve images—on stone, on parchment, on canvas, and upon the silver screen. But every tool of vision, though wondrous, carried also a burden: the temptation to alter what is seen. Just as the sculptor of Athens once broke and remade the nose of marble statues to better flatter the gods, so too does the filmmaker of the modern age move a cloud, adjust a tie, or bend the very mouth of a performer to better please the vision within his mind. Thus, the world of cinema becomes like the shifting sands—unchained from permanence.

And yet, O listener, there is both wonder and peril in this power. Consider the tale of the emperor Augustus, who sought not merely to rule with sword and decree but also to rule with image. Statues of his youth, his perfect brow, and his unwrinkled visage were spread across the empire. Though he aged, the empire never saw him old, for the image was corrected again and again. This gave him authority in the eyes of men, but it also chained truth beneath a veil of illusion. What Zemeckis foretold is of this same nature: the bending of the moving picture to serve desire over reality.

And yet, do not despair, for such transformation can bring beauty. The painter may change the hues of dawn, the storyteller may shape the wind that sweeps across the battlefield, the director may deepen the sorrow in an actor’s eye with a mere flicker of digital craft. Just as Homer himself embroidered his verses with glory beyond the dust and sweat of real war, so too may future creators amplify the soul of a story by shaping even the smallest of details. Thus, the power is not evil in itself—it is the wielder’s intention that determines its virtue.

But guard thyself, traveler of the modern world! For what begins as the soft correction of a smirk may grow into the rewriting of history itself. Already there are those who change the faces of men in old footage, making them smile where once they wept, or stand in places where once they never trod. This is the power to move the tree, to summon clouds, to sculpt memory itself. And if memory is rewritten, then truth becomes but a whisper, fragile and fading in the tempest of invention.

Thus, the lesson is clear: wield the power of alteration with reverence. Let it not be used to deceive, but to illuminate. As a farmer prunes a tree to bear richer fruit, so too should the artist prune the image to reveal greater meaning, not to conceal reality. When you create, ask yourself: Does this change serve truth, or does it bury it? In this question lies the path of wisdom.

Therefore, O seeker, carry this teaching into your own life. In your daily words and actions, do not hide behind endless corrections of your own image, as though you were a painting always unfinished. Speak honestly, live boldly, let your face be true. Use refinement only to sharpen virtue, not to mask your flaws. For it is better to stand in truth with rough edges than to be polished into falsehood.

So remember: the clouds may be moved, the trees shifted, the smirk reshaped—but let your heart remain steadfast. Embrace the tools of creation, yet anchor yourself in the eternal stone of truth. Then shall your art, your words, and your deeds endure, not as fleeting illusions, but as lasting beacons for those who come after you.