More and more people are seeing the films on computers - lousy

"More and more people are seeing the films on computers - lousy sound, lousy picture - and they think they've seen the film, but they really haven't." – David Lynch

In the ever-changing landscape of human experience, where technology and art converge, there are moments when we, as a people, begin to lose sight of what truly matters. David Lynch’s words serve as a reminder that true experiences, particularly those of art and creation, cannot be fully understood or appreciated through mediocre means. He speaks of a deep truth that transcends the digital age: that while technology has brought us closer to the art we love, it has also, in some ways, distorted our ability to fully experience it. The sound and the image, when reduced to something inferior, become mere echoes of the original—mere shadows of the profound experience that the artist intended. Those who watch films through screens that fail to capture the depth of emotion and vision are deprived of the very essence of what makes the art so powerful.

In ancient times, the theater was the sacred space where stories came alive. The Greek amphitheaters, grand and open, were built with such precision that the voice of the actor could reach every ear, and the drama played upon the stage was felt in the hearts of all who watched. The experience of theater was not just about the words spoken or the gestures made; it was about the immersion—the connection between actor and audience, the shared emotions, the very energy that filled the space. When one entered the amphitheater, they were not just “seeing” a play—they were living it, feeling the pulse of it, becoming part of the narrative. Lynch speaks to this same idea: that film, like theater, must be experienced in its fullness, with all its intended sensory impact, not reduced to a distant echo of its true form.

In the age of film and cinema, there were moments when the power of the big screen brought entire audiences to their feet. Consider the historical premiere of “The Birth of a Nation”, a film that, despite its controversial nature, became a pioneering moment in cinematic history. The grand scale of the theater, the booming sound, and the immersive visuals drew people into the world of the film, allowing them to feel the emotions and ideas being communicated in a way that small screens could never replicate. It was in that shared experience, in the fullness of the art, that the true impact of the film was realized. In this sense, Lynch’s warning is not just about technological decay but about a loss of connection—the absence of the immersive experience that art is meant to deliver.

In modern times, the ability to watch a film on a computer screen, though convenient, cannot provide the same profound connection. Computers, with their tiny screens and often poor sound, strip the art of its grandeur, reducing it to a fragmented and diminished version of itself. This is not merely a technological issue, but a philosophical one: by reducing the experience of art to something small, we lose its power to transform us, to move us deeply. It is the difference between seeing a mountain in all its towering majesty and seeing a mere picture of it. Both may give us a glimpse, but only one allows us to truly understand its awe and immensity.

Consider the story of Michelangelo, whose masterpiece, the Sistine Chapel, has left an indelible mark on humanity. No one could fully appreciate the grandeur of the work until they stood beneath its vibrant colors and gazed upon its intricate detail, feeling the sheer magnitude of the artist’s vision. To experience it on a tiny photograph or through a digital reproduction would be to lose the very essence of the work. Michelangelo knew that true art requires immersion, requires the fullness of sensory experience to convey the depth of its message. Similarly, when we view a film through a diminished format, we lose the connection to the artist’s intent, and the story becomes a shadow of its true self.

The lesson in Lynch’s words is that art—whether it is film, music, or visual work—demands a level of engagement that goes beyond the convenience of consumption. In the same way that the ancients sought to honor the full experience of theater, we must honor the fullness of artistic expression. To truly experience a film is to be immersed in it, to feel its emotional depth, to be swept away by its sound and image, to be transported into its world. When we reduce art to a mere fragment of its potential, we deprive ourselves of the very thing that makes it transformative: its ability to touch our souls and change our perspectives.

As we move forward in this age of convenience, let us remember the power of full immersion—whether it is in the arts, in our relationships, or in our work. Just as Lynch urges us to experience films as they were meant to be experienced, so too must we approach life with the same intensity and engagement. Let us not settle for the shadow of the world, but seek to experience its fullness, embracing the richness of life and the depth of human connection. Only then can we truly appreciate the art of living.