As I walked toward the venue, memories of old aspirations filled my mind. There was a time when I dreamed of becoming a filmmaker, much like Michelangelo Antonioni, who so masterfully exposed the alienation of modern society. Antonioni’s films captured the sickness of eros and desire in the face of industrialized societies, where human connection is commodified and diluted, much like Sartre’s observations on bad faith or Nietzsche’s critique of modern morality. The existential void that Antonioni’s characters face reflects the broader disillusionment of the modern individual.
Cinema hadn’t captivated me during my childhood in the small village I grew up in. No one I knew worked in the industry or even cared about cinema. Except for the few summer nights when films played for free in the school playground, cinema was absent from my life. Those screenings were a village affair, where my friends and I would ride our bicycles, using makeshift microphones made of glass jars to announce the films to the community. Looking back, I realize that even then, I felt a certain distance from the cinematic world.
It wasn’t until my time in Utrecht, the Netherlands, that my perspective shifted. I stumbled upon Michelangelo Antonioni’s masterpiece, The Passenger. The haunting imagery lingered with me long after the film ended, evoking a deep sense of existential dread. The film explores a man’s fate as he attempts to erase his identity, only to find that the result is not just physical death, but existential death — what Nietzsche referred to as the death of the self, a consequence of denying one’s true nature. In today’s world, I see this same erasure of identity through the digital masks people wear on social media platforms like Instagram. People craft curated lives, living for the sake of a plastic identity, which is ultimately hollow. The quest for validation through these platforms reflects the existential death that Antonioni so poignantly depicted — the loss of one’s authentic self.
As I delved deeper into Antonioni’s body of work, I found a recurring theme of alienation in the modern world. People strive to live longer, accumulate wealth, and achieve success, but they often lose sight of why these goals matter. It echoes Camus’ philosophy of the absurd — the notion that life, devoid of inherent meaning, can only be endured through rebellion, embracing the very absurdity of existence. In films like L’Avventura and Blow-Up, Antonioni reveals this existential malaise. The characters’ lives appear meaningless, a reflection of the human condition when stripped of purpose and connection. This is especially pertinent today, as artificial intelligence reshapes our world, bringing into question the erosion of essential human qualities like love, empathy, and shame. Surveillance technologies further exacerbate this alienation, as our lives are reduced to data points and our identities obscured by digital avatars.
I couldn’t help but reflect on how Antonioni’s world is eerily similar to the one we live in today. When I see cam models online, my initial reaction was one of pity — thinking that, like the women who turned to prostitution out of desperation, they too were victims of circumstance. But as I learned more, I realized that many of them own cars and iPhones, symbols of success in modern society. It’s cheap money, but it comes at the cost of something far greater — morality, dignity, and the erosion of human connection. What, I wonder, are we sacrificing in this age of artificial identity? What new codes of morality are being written as we become more isolated, more estranged from each other, and from ourselves? Nietzsche would likely say that we are witnessing the death of God — the moral foundation that once guided human behavior — and with it, the death of meaningful human relationships.
My cinematic journey expanded beyond Antonioni to include the works of Fellini and various French auteurs. However, my exposure to Indian cinema remained limited, save for the brilliance of Satyajit Ray. Ray’s films, rooted in the realities of poverty and power dynamics, contrasted with my preference for narratives that explored the human condition through the lens of eros and alienation, reflecting the complexities of contemporary society. As Foucault noted, human relationships are inextricably linked to the socio-political realities of their time. The commitment to a social contract is not static but shaped by the economic and political realities we inhabit. In a world increasingly driven by consumerism and individualism, the fabric of human relationships is being rewritten.
Hearing Shekhar Kapur speak that evening brought me back to the question of art’s purpose. I was reminded of Tarkovsky’s profound insight that art strives to create perfection, not through mere representation, but by imbuing life with meaning and purpose. For Tarkovsky, art is the only medium that can elevate human existence, a sentiment that profoundly resonated with me. It deepened my admiration for artists, who, unlike scientists, create not to solve problems, but to capture the ineffable — those aspects of life that defy rational explanation. Sartre’s existentialism, too, argues that life is inherently meaningless, and it is up to the individual to give it meaning through acts of creation and rebellion.
As I reflected on my life choices, I wondered how things might have unfolded had I pursued filmmaking instead of research in social science. The isolation I observed in cinema seemed to have been replaced by the rational self-interest that dominates my field, where people are isolated not by existential crises but by the pursuit of individual gain. In this pursuit, human connection becomes a casualty. It’s ironic, really — whether through cinema or social science, I found myself wrestling with the same questions: What does it mean to be human? How do we find meaning in a world that often feels devoid of it?
When Kapur spoke, he emphasized that creativity is born not from knowledge, but from longing and passion. It thrives on uncertainty, much like Nietzsche’s concept of the will to power — the drive to overcome obstacles and transcend one’s limitations. If we already possess all the knowledge, there’s little incentive to explore further. Creativity, Kapur argued, flourishes in the face of conflict, uncertainty, and the unknown.
He also touched on dating apps like Tinder, which sparked an interesting dialogue about modern relationships. Kapur pointed out that, on these platforms, there’s little cost to liking someone, and as a result, the level of commitment is negligible. There’s a profound difference between the fleeting desires these apps cater to and the genuine love that requires sacrifice, knowledge, and endurance. His words reminded me of Camus’ The Fall, where the protagonist reflects on the superficial connections people make, hiding behind facades to avoid vulnerability.
Kapur’s reflections on power dynamics in his films, like Bandit Queen and Elizabeth, also resonated with me. In Bandit Queen, he explored rape not merely as a sexual act, but as a political one, a means of asserting dominance, particularly in a caste-based society. It’s a chilling reminder of how power corrupts and how societal structures perpetuate cycles of violence. In Elizabeth, he delved into the pressures women face to adopt masculine traits when navigating political realms, an observation that speaks to the rigid gender norms that continue to shape our world.
Finally, Kapur mused on existential questions regarding purpose and identity, particularly in the age of artificial intelligence. While AI relies on patterns, creativity is, as he put it, irrational — it’s about chasing the unknown. His words reminded me of Escher’s famous drawing of hands drawing each other, a metaphor for the recursive nature of human thought and creativity. With AI, we risk echoing our own thoughts, creating a feedback loop devoid of true innovation. What, then, becomes of human creativity in a world dominated by machines? Perhaps, as Kapur suggested, it is in art — irrational, passionate, and driven by the mysterious — that we will find our salvation.
