There are a few ways to wrap your head around watching a seven-and-a-half-hour movie. When I was a kid, 30 minutes equaled one episode of Roseanne. A junior hockey game stretched to two “Roseannes.” A drive to my uncle’s? Twelve. Sátántango, Béla Tarr’s 1994 epic, is 15 Roseannes, or roughly the length of a transatlantic flight in economy. It’s a significant commitment of time, a commodity increasingly fractured in our attention-deficit world. Yet, on a recent Saturday in Manhattan, over 250 people willingly surrendered their hours to it.
The screening, a centerpiece of Film at Lincoln Center’s Farewell to Béla Tarr program—a tribute following the director’s death in January at age 70—is something of a pilgrimage for dedicated cinephiles. Tarr’s film, a stark, black-and-white portrayal of a failing Hungarian farming collective, isn’t often shown, and even less often seen in its entirety. But the event felt less about the film itself, and more about a collective act of resistance against the prevailing currents of our digital age.
We are, by many accounts, in the midst of an “attention-span crisis.” Reports detail a shrinking capacity for sustained focus, fueled by the constant stimulation of social media and short-form video. A recent article in The Atlantic noted that college students are increasingly struggling to sit through even traditionally-length films. Parents are even taking legal action. The BBC reported that lawsuits against social media companies alleging addictive design are gaining traction, with some plaintiffs winning settlements. A viral trend, dubbed “brain rot,” has emerged online, ironically celebrating the perceived degradation of cognitive function. Even Netflix, according to reports, allegedly instructs filmmakers to repeat plot points to cater to viewers with fragmented attention.
The Allure of Slow Cinema
It’s a reality I recognize in my own life. I often find myself reaching for my phone during even a compelling episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, distracted by hockey scores, dubious online scams, or the endless scroll of social media. “We’ve weakened the muscle of sustained attention,” says Tyler Wilson, a programmer at Film at Lincoln Center. “Here’s an opportunity to be in a room, with the expectation that you’ll stay, not look at your phone, and not chit-chat. There’s a shared discipline.”
Sátántango isn’t merely long; it feels long. Across its 439 minutes, Tarr employs only 171 shots, averaging roughly 2.5 minutes per shot—approximately 60 times longer than the average shot length in a Hollywood film. This deliberate pacing places it firmly within the realm of “slow cinema,” a subgenre that prioritizes duration and contemplation. Wang Bing’s 2018 documentary, Dead Souls, about survivors of Mao-era re-education camps, pushes the boundaries even further, clocking in at over eight hours.
Lexi Turner, who teaches seminars on slow cinema at Marymount Manhattan College, explains that these films aren’t about denying the passage of time, but about experiencing it differently. “Slow cinema is really a cinema that makes you spend time,” she says. “There’s an aspect of contemplation, and a demand of patience.” These films often feature nonprofessional actors and unfamiliar settings, lending a sense of dignity to everyday moments. “By spending time watching someone trudge across a field or the sun set slowly across the horizon, these filmmakers are stressing that these experiences and images are worthy of capture and consideration.”
A Collective Act of Attention
The experience of watching Sátántango wasn’t simply about enduring its length. It was about participating in a shared ritual, a collective rejection of the fragmented attention demanded by modern life. The darkened theater became a sanctuary, a space where the external world—notifications, emails, anxieties—was temporarily suspended. There was a palpable sense of solidarity among the audience, a quiet understanding that we were all engaged in something unusual, something demanding, something… restorative.
The film itself is deliberately bleak, depicting a community spiraling into disillusionment and despair. But within that bleakness, there’s a strange beauty, a hypnotic quality that emerges from the film’s deliberate pacing and stark imagery. The long takes force you to observe, to truly see, to engage with the film on a deeper level than is typically possible in a world of rapid cuts and constant stimulation.
The choice to screen Sátántango now, in the wake of Tarr’s death and amidst growing concerns about our collective attention spans, feels particularly poignant. It’s a reminder that there are other ways to experience time, other ways to engage with art, other ways to be present in the world. It’s a challenge to resist the forces that seek to fragment our attention and to reclaim our capacity for sustained focus.
The success of the screening—the packed house, the hushed reverence—suggests that there’s a hunger for this kind of experience, a desire for something more than the fleeting pleasures of the digital world. Perhaps, in a time of increasing “brain rot,” the act of deliberately slowing down, of immersing ourselves in a long, demanding work of art, is a radical act of self-preservation.
Film at Lincoln Center will continue its retrospective of Béla Tarr’s work through April 19th, offering further opportunities to engage with his unique cinematic vision. Details on upcoming screenings and events can be found on their website. The conversation about attention, technology, and the future of cinema is ongoing, and these screenings offer a vital space for reflection and dialogue.
What do you think? Is there value in intentionally seeking out experiences that demand sustained attention? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
