There are a number of approaches to truly grasp the concept of viewing a seven-and-a-half-hour film.
As a child, I used to gauge periods by “Roseannes,” with 30 minutes equating to one Roseanne—the sitcom’s duration. My youth hockey matches lasted two Roseannes. The journey to my uncle’s residence was 12. A seven-and-a-half-hour movie translates to 15 Roseannes, or a flight from New York City to Paris in a coach class seat devoid of a headrest. It represents a substantial commitment to sit and watch a film, or engage in any activity, in contemporary times. Yet, this did not deter more than 250 individuals from undertaking it on a recent early-spring Saturday in Manhattan.
Sátántango, the 1994 somber epic by Hungarian director Béla Tarr, which chronicles a defunct Hungarian agricultural collective, spans 439 minutes. Serving as the highlight of Film at Lincoln Center’s Farewell to Béla Tarr program this week (the filmmaker passed away in January at the age of 70), the movie is something akin to a sacred ritual for devoted cinephiles. It is seldom screened and infrequently viewed.
Remaining stationary and engrossed in a black-and-white film for 7.5 hours is an experience becoming increasingly scarce. Dismal reports caution about the “attention-span crisis.” Parents are pursuing legal action against social media behemoths—and prevailing—for allegedly eroding their children’s capacity for concentration with purportedly addictive brief video feeds. Film academics have lamented that, in the post-pandemic era, their students encounter difficulty enduring even standard-length movies. An entire category of memes has emerged, celebrating cognitive decline itself. Netflix, it is asserted, mandates that movies and TV shows reiterate narrative elements for the benefit of partially engaged audiences.
At times, I find it challenging to even endure an episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills without reaching for my phone to check hockey scores, search for “Amanda Frances scams,” or simply scroll aimlessly.
“We’ve diminished our capacity for prolonged focus,” remarks Tyler Wilson, a programmer at Film at Lincoln Center. “Here’s a chance to be in a room, with the understanding that I’ll stay, and not check my device, and not converse idly. There’s a collective commitment.”
Sátántango is remarkable not solely for its duration. Many productions are lengthy. Superhero blockbusters regularly exceed three hours. Devouring the newest online series phenomenon has become the prevalent way of watching. Tarr’s film is not merely long; it *feels* protracted. Throughout its 439-minute runtime, there are only 171 takes, with a mean shot duration of approximately 2.5 minutes, about 60 times the length of the average shot in a Hollywood film.
Sátántango provides a prolonged immersion in the passage of time itself. It stands as a seminal work in a category of independent films sometimes labeled “slow cinema.” (And it’s not even the most extended piece. I once devoted an entire day to viewing Chinese director Wang Bing’s 2018 documentary Dead Souls, concerning those who endured a Maoist “re-education facility,” which exceeds eight hours in length.) Where contemporary film cutting often seeks to accelerate the tempo of time—making it appear more rapid or dynamic—slow cinema extends the experience.
“Slow cinema is fundamentally an art form that compels extended engagement,” explains Lexi Turner, who conducts courses on slow cinema at Marymount Manhattan College. “There’s an element of deep reflection. And a requirement for endurance.” Often utilizing amateur performers and environments foreign to Western viewers, Turner states, these films possess a particular gravitas. By devoting moments to observing someone traverse a landscape or the gradual descent of the sun on the skyline, these filmmakers are emphasizing that these experiences and images are deserving of portrayal and reflection.
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