Movies are not finished. They are abandoned. A movie is never

When Louis Leterrier declared, “Movies are not finished. They are abandoned. A movie is never finished,” he spoke as one who has wrestled with creation and knows its endless hunger. These words reveal the truth known by all artists: that the work of art is never fully complete, for the creator will always see another angle to refine, another detail to adjust, another breath to give. To call a movie “finished” would be to deny the eternal striving of the artist’s eye. Instead, the work is simply abandoned, released into the world not because it is perfect, but because it must live outside the hands of its maker.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the very nature of art itself. Since the days of the ancients, the sculptor, the poet, the painter, the dramatist—all have known the torment of imperfection. Michelangelo once said he saw the angel within the marble and carved until he set him free. Yet even he left works unfinished, blocks of stone half-shaped, because the work resisted the illusion of finality. So too with film, where endless edits, cuts, and visions tempt the artist to labor forever. The truth Leterrier names is that the artist must, at last, surrender—not because the work is complete, but because time and circumstance demand release.

Consider the tale of Leonardo da Vinci and the Mona Lisa. He carried that painting with him for years, never truly satisfied, endlessly layering glazes, touching and retouching. Scholars believe he never delivered it to its original patron because, in his heart, it was never finished. And yet, abandoned though it was, the Mona Lisa became one of the most celebrated works of art in all of history. This is the paradox: imperfection does not rob art of greatness; sometimes, it is the very mark of its humanity.

The meaning of Leterrier’s words is also heroic: creation is not about perfection, but about courage. To make a film, to craft any work of art, is to wrestle with infinity. One could always change the light, shift the rhythm, alter the tone. Yet if the artist clings forever to control, the work will never breathe in the world. Thus, the act of “abandoning” is not failure—it is the moment of bravery when the artist lets the creation go, trusting it to live, to inspire, to stand apart from its maker.

The lesson here is timeless: in life, as in art, nothing is ever truly finished. Our projects, our relationships, even our own growth—they will always feel incomplete, always in need of one more stroke, one more word, one more effort. But there comes a moment when we must release them, not because they are flawless, but because they are ready enough to take on a life of their own. To cling to perfection is to chain ourselves; to let go is to allow our work, and ourselves, to move forward.

What, then, should you do? First, labor diligently, giving your best to the task, but do not be enslaved by the pursuit of perfection. Second, accept imperfection as the companion of all creation—whether you write, paint, speak, or build. Third, have the courage to release your work, even when doubt whispers that it is not yet worthy. For the truth is, it will never feel finished; it will only be abandoned into the hands of the world.

Thus, Leterrier’s words stand as a teaching for all who dare to create: “A movie is never finished.” Neither is a poem, nor a dream, nor a life. Perfection is a horizon we never reach, yet the journey toward it fills our work with meaning. So, abandon your art not in despair, but in trust—knowing that its incompleteness is what makes it human, and its humanity is what makes it eternal.