Perhaps you remember that we agreed to meet at the cinema? However, it didn't happen. No one showed up at the agreed-upon place and time. And it's not surprising that the meeting didn't happen because meetings don't always go according to schedule or plan. Moreover, what did we expect by planning a movie meeting without involving the cinema itself? In general, it was very presumptuous to assume that we could schedule cinema meetings.

Thank God we didn't attempt to schedule meetings for poetry or painting; otherwise, there would have been nowhere to gather at all.

Honestly, such audacity bordering on blasphemy should be atoned for by going on a pilgrimage to sacred places. That's what I did. And, believe it or not, I actually had a meeting! That's what I'll try to tell you about today.

Let's talk about "Babylon" by Damien Chazelle. Do you think I'm tricking you by choosing this film from the entire history of cinema? Why? In truth, it tells the story of cinema, or rather its brilliant endeavor. Believe me, my story is not a deception. What would I gain from deceiving you? I understand that sincerity and selflessness raise suspicion nowadays, but still, I would like to share the modest fruits of my encounter with cinema. So please, trust me.

By the way, trust is an essential condition for a meeting. It manifests itself as openness to something beyond ourselves—in our case, to the cinema. During a movie screening, we essentially trust the film with our eyes, opening ourselves to it through our gaze. We allow it to penetrate us, even without knowing precisely why, and we are ready to accept it completely.

In this manner, we create the conditions for a meeting. In other words, we seek it. Since a meeting is determined by the search for a meeting, by seeking a meeting, we open ourselves to something beyond ourselves, thus recognizing our limitations. By fixing our gaze upon the cinema, we blindly search. By chance, we come across something that is not us- resistance. This always entails a risk: the possibility of falling into emptiness and finding nothing.

Therefore, when seeking meetings, we attempt to sense what resists us, thereby revealing our boundaries. One could say that a meeting is an act of resistance.

Perhaps you remember how art was defined by a Frenchman whose name is too well-known to mention? Exactly—an acte de résistance! An incredible coincidence, but is it not accidental?

What does art resist? Death is the ultimate limitation. When resistance disappears, all that remains is a motionless, petrified surface. Death is inherent in what is inherently limited, meaning that it exists in the dimension of time—that is, reality. Without time, death does not exist. That which cannot be limited by time also excludes the possibility of death and belongs to the realm of the ideal. To resist death, one must simultaneously belong to the real—be able to be limited and, therefore, mortal—and to the ideal, to encompass what cannot be limited, making resistance to death possible. It turns out that a work of art must be both real and ideal. How is that even possible? The full explanation of the construction of art extends far beyond the scope of our conversation, so for now, let's accept that art is a reflection of the ideal in the real. It truly experiences limitations while transcending them, thus resisting death.

What happens when we open ourselves to art? In our case, cinema. As we mentioned before, we fix our gaze upon the film. However, that doesn't mean we remain passive. Otherwise, the cinema would engulf us, captivate us completely, leaving only itself, and we would sink into a barren illusion. The gaze in cinema is a boundary that the viewers must break through to free themselves from the grip of illusion and touch the true border that separates us from the cinema. This border is not perceived solely through the gaze but sensed by a completely different organ.

The work of cinema is similar to the work of the sea: it has its tides and ebbs. Just as waves crashing onto the shore smooth out all the irregularities on the surface, cinema surges onto the receptive gaze of the viewer, leaving behind ruptures and cracks as it recedes. It's no wonder that the first films provoked such a tumultuous reaction in people—they shocked and instilled panic. Viewers recoiled in horror from the train rushing towards them on the screen and engaged in shootouts with menacing film characters who seemed dangerous. The first cinema audiences were completely open to the cinematograph, and it wholly captivated them. When the illusion dissipated, the wave receded, and fractures in an out-of-time reality emerged on the smooth sand.

Cinema scorched the souls of first-time viewers, involuntarily raising questions about reality itself. It was an era when one could question the fundamental principles. It was the cinematographic Antiquity. Nowadays, such questions, along with the films themselves, will not only fail to resonate but will often elicit laughter. They will no longer penetrate the souls of viewers or what remains of their souls. The questions will go unasked. Instead of the elusive, ephemeral breath of a spring night yearning for eternity after screenings, the viewer now feels the heaviness in their stomach, filled with popcorn and soda. In their relationship with cinema, today's viewers have replaced the gaze with consumption through the mouth.

Chazelle does not deny those who seek a meeting or those who want to indulge their stomachs. To the former, "Babylon" offers questions; to the latter, it offers discomfort.

Discomfort plays an important role for Chazelle. It is a symptom of digestive system malfunction. Typically, infections or other irritants cause discomfort—things that have no place in the digestive system under normal circumstances. According to the director, cinema is also out of place in the digestive system; it is not meant to be consumed through the mouth but perceived through the gaze. Therefore, cinema, like an infection entering the digestive system, triggers discomfort—an act of resistance.

If you seek a meeting with "Babylon" through the gaze, you will encounter the question: "Why is death necessary?"

Essentially, Damien Chazelle bids farewell to cinema that refuses to let go, to meet again. He leads and guides us through each tunnel from beginning to end, peering into all the crevices, looking into the eyes of the sweetest preconceptions and the most terrifying nightmares. It is a very intimate film through which the director invites the viewer into his soul, not attempting to hide anything. He gives the viewer everything he has as gratitude for the gaze bestowed upon him.

I could try to recount all these intricacies, but I suggest exploring them independently. Besides, cinema is incredibly captivating.

In "Les Cahiers du cinéma," Chazelle was referred to as the "cannibal of Hollywood." Let's not argue with them. What can a debate between a distorted gaze and an insatiable mouth lead to? We will only note that the term "cannibalism" comes from the word "canniba," which referred to the inhabitants of the island of Haiti. Abraham Cogan Errera believes that "cannibal" meant "brave." And indeed, what Chazelle does requires considerable bravery—he is rediscovering cinema. But what does it mean to discover something? It means defining the boundaries of something and charting them in the unknown. This task itself is not the simplest, but Chazelle is in an even more complicated situation: he is trying to find the boundaries of cinema at a time when it is not yet complete. The exploration of territories on the surface of the Earth was a grand adventure. Imagine if it had taken place during the very formation of the surface! The era of the Great Geographical Discoveries occurred millions of years after the completion of active surface formation on the planet. Even then, exceptional courage was required to venture into the unknown and define its boundaries. In cinema, the movement of lithospheric plates is in full swing, and Chazelle is already attempting to establish its boundaries. He is diving into the chaos itself to demarcate cinema! And the most amazing thing is that he succeeds.

Chazelle seeks to sense the pulse of an era that no longer breathes—an era he is infatuated with. And with courage, he acknowledges death, as death is necessary. After all, without death, life would be impossible, and "life is a great thing".