An Essay About Time

For the better part of the 2010s, American cinema has had a fixation on time. The easy arbiter to blame for this trend could be Christopher Nolan, who kicked off the decade with the “dream within a dream” logic of Inception (2010), where each level produced greater constraints around time. It was easy to get caught up in theory charts, breaking down the logic of his interiority in an attempt to make sense of a truth that may or may not have been there. Was it some greater statement, or just the umpteenth sci-fi film to also serve as an allegory for filmmaking as a profession? No matter what the reading, it embodied a decade’s obsession with one crucial topic, which has only become more malleable as a construct in the six years since.

As an individual who went through the decade at what many consider “peak years” of my life, it was hard not to notice these narratives using time in every possible way. By the following year, In Time (2011) would turn the old adage “time is money” into a literal concept. Even further down the line, there was Arrival (2016), which jumbled the timeline in order to create a more poetic commentary on humanity’s need for connection. No matter where one looked, it was easy to see the tens as a period pondering its own existence, possibly beyond the point of rational post-modernism and entering something new. 

But this essay is not about the “genre” cinema, or at least in the sense of stylized modes that welcome the act of tampering with structure. No, the greater opinions are meant to explore the strange but all too celebrated fact that a handful of personal works would earn Academy Awards. Maybe it was Birdman (2014) using the long take structure to explore the perception of time free of conventional editing. It could be Moonlight (2016) following a three-act structure of one man’s life, making the viewer way too self-aware of his changing beliefs. It’s an impressive feat if for no other reason than brilliant casting and storytelling coming together to present something vulnerable and raw, alluding to a future of cinema that was more inclusive than it had been in the century prior.

And yet, to be entirely honest, that’s still not getting to the heart of what this essay seeks to frame a conversation around. In back-to-back years, there were two widely different films that used the construct of their protagonists' aging over 12 years to convey the act of change. 

It is true that a decade is a more conventional marker for retrospectives for any film, but my heart was disappointed to learn that 12 Years A Slave (2013) did not receive attention in 2025. Once considered a groundbreaking reconsideration of how history was filmed, it remains a powerful study of survival amid harsh conditions, where your very being is neglected, and there is no sense of ever escaping the turmoil. The discomfort builds alongside the epithets and near-fatal assaults on the central characters. For viewers able to deconstruct the title (or that it’s based on a memoir), they know there’s some relief on the horizon, though it will come after a burdensome road. 

From an awards perspective, this may be unfairly looked at as another example of prestigious bodies only awarding cinema about minority suffering, but that gets too far into the weeds of discourse here. For those who want a historical drama that’s even more sprawling and ends on a note more reminiscent of Americana classics like Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), then Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013) offers an equally exceptional reimagining of what stories deserve to be told. Despite covering the strife of the era, it ends on a more hopeful, optimistic note that the world has changed for the better, especially in the near half-century of the titular butler working at The White House. There’s tragedy, but there’s also heart and humor that could never be afforded to an honest version of 12 Years A Slave. Still, it shows a man who is more aware of progress in the external, whereas director Steve McQueen was always more engaged with internal willpower.

Because of 12 Years A Slave and the following year’s Boyhood (2014), I hypothesized why that time frame seemed to be so popular. Whereas the former could simply be a response to historical documentation, director Richard Linklater was designing his everyday epic in that manner on purpose. Sure, it can be argued that it helps to capture the boyhood in a fuller picture, but why not start filming the boy at eight years old? A decade is a noticeable time frame for change. It’s also, by marketing standards, a heck of a lot cleaner. Was there really going to be that much difference if the first two years were at a barely discernible later prepubescent stage?

Then again, Linklater has always been obsessed with the concept of time. More than Nolan, he seems intent on making the audience reconceptualize their relationship with real time, how we exist in the moment, and how things change. His most noteworthy achievement comes from the Before trilogy, whose entries are nine years apart and follow the same couple at different stages of their lives. It doesn’t seem impressive until considering how it has kept the same core group for 18 years, telling a love story that is widely regarded as one of the best in indie cinema history. What’s even more impressive is how Linklater uses those films to explore a single 24-hour period in their lives, allowing the audience to fill in the gaps of what’s been missed. Miraculously, the writing is so good that these characters feel more realized than stories that take longer time frames to unravel. His obsession with the minutiae becomes enough to create empathy, ultimately landing on Before Midnight (2013), where the spring chickens are now an old married couple. When watched in close proximity, it’s hard not to notice (in a good way) the passage of time and how their love has endured a lot more than what’ll ever be known.

The gamble of Boyhood is obvious, and one that he’s attempting to replicate with the musical adaptation of Merrily We Roll Along, which began production in 2019 and is currently scheduled for a 2040 release window. Despite proven success in the field, it’s hard not to find skepticism in his vision holding together for that long, whether from personal ambition or potential waning health crises. Is it exciting? Yes. However, it all comes back to the idea of time and what is done to enrich it. Even more so, what does one do with the anticipation of a film that is still over a decade away? 

It seems complicated until realizing the mysterious nature of time. Everyone is more aware of it to the point that most of the 2020s have been described as amorphous. So why was the 2010s such a special case, where everything insisted on breaking down the fabric of being into something more abstract, more in conversation with subconscious drive? There was a need to recreate the feeling of being alive, and whether it’s grandeur from Nolan or realism from Linklater, there was the notion that everyone needed to learn how to value their lives better.

As of this publication, yesterday was the premiere of Boyhood at The Sundance Film Festival in 2014. In that time, the founder Robert Redford passed away, and the venue has moved to a new location. It has dredged through so many conflicts, including a virtual presentation during the pandemic lockdown. So much of what made the festival essential has changed, and yet that’s as much a part of change as anything else. Other noteworthy filmmakers from that year – Damien Chazelle, Mona Fastvold, Robert Eggers, etc. – have gone on to substantial careers since. As someone who was there, I’d argue the directorial debuts came from a powerhouse of talent that hasn’t gone away just yet. If anything, they’ve only gotten bigger and better.

It’s easy to get caught up in the nostalgia of wandering the snowy paths and living off of grocery store sandwiches for a few days, but it’s also a reminder of how I’ve changed in that time. I would’ve felt this way at a decade, but there’s something equally bittersweet at a period beyond it, where it’s gone from feeling contemporary to something that’s at best nostalgic, reflective of a period that’s unknown to certain generational divides. At best, it’s something to hold onto in an attempt to make the memories endure, passing onto somebody else in the hopes that they will think to watch Fastvold’s The Sleepwalker (2014) after falling in love with The Testament of Ann Lee (2025). I’m not sure if that’s on par with discovering Quentin Tarantino in the early 90s, but for me, she’s one of those names I took a chance on and saw grow, even writing a personal favorite with The Brutalist (2024).

Returning to 12 Years A Slave, a major reason that it works stems from the fact that there’s optimism at the end of the journey. Even so, the vicarious thought experiment of assessing the passage of time in your own life becomes intriguing. For context, I have never experienced anything as horrendous as what Solomon Northup went through. I’m not wishing to trivialize his experiences for this essay. Instead, I want to argue that there’s something profound about experiencing 12 years and what that can do to one’s psychology.

Northup is not aware of how long his slave days will be. For all that he knows, he’s been wrongfully captured and forced to work in harsh conditions for the remainder of his life. There is a logical internment that drives the narrative, making his life at times seem meaningless save for the fact that he befriends those around him, finding any excuse to overlook the aching pains of his body. He survives in hopes that tomorrow will be better while still knowing it’s likely not going to change. Through small interims, he evolves and changes, eventually landing on the greatest of happenstances of his life. There is a kind man who will help free him. It took 12 years of not giving up, but he found a saving grace.

Along with Boyhood, I choose to think of this in a less consequential scenario. What has changed in my life since 2014? There’s been something to account for, and yet am I dutifully paying attention, or am I stumbling moment to moment and assuming the big reveal will happen eventually? It’s true that we have big and small goals, but it’s not every day that the bigger ones are put into effect. The average life isn’t that eventful, and at best, the epiphanies arrive from the most boring of places. Sometimes it’s not the triumphant action of a Nolan film, but more pushing through everything to find answers. There may be pain and setbacks, but could there possibly be something more waiting just on the other side?

I guess, to get personal, my 12 years have been defined by obvious signifiers that differentiate a 24-year-old from a 36-year-old. My friend group has radically changed with many having children who are now almost three-quarters through their own version of Boyhood. I’ve written three novels with plans for more. I went from being a college dropout to graduating from my dream school. I’m more mature, thoughtful, and experiencing a world now designed for a younger generation. My youth is a period piece awaiting the right storytellers. When measuring a life, it’s easy to feel like nothing major has happened, and yet you look at that much time and realize that maybe you’ve been distracted by something else.

I’m not sure I answered the question of why the 2010s felt preoccupied with time. The one thing I will note is that this isn’t technically unique to those years, but it felt especially highlighted given the prominent placement of Inception, 12 Years A Slave, Boyhood, Arrival, and Moonlight in the zeitgeist. Here were films asking to reflect the nuances of change and how everyone can endure hardships that eventually lead to greater answers. Today is finite. Everything will change. Nothing lasts forever. It’s best to keep moving forward, hoping for the best.

That may be a corny sentiment to end this essay on that started as an excuse to psychoanalyze Boyhood on its anniversary, but it’s true. I think of it now as Sundance starts its annual journey of discovering who will be the hot new indies of the year. I’m not above thinking that we’re about to get a surprise drop from Linklater with Boyhood 2, though who knows how excited Ellar Coltrane is to spend years depicting a man working retail and dealing with angry customers. Like every year, I’m excited to see if something sticks and, more often than not, I have to believe that’s true.

Another reason Boyhood likely stands out is because of how it captures, like The Butler, a time ending during the feel-good years of Barack Obama. It stopped just shy of the 2016 election, a time frame when “everything changed” and a certain American innocence was lost forever. It may be difficult to make Boyhood 2 and have it feel as subdued as it used to, just because everything feels heated now. Still, it works as a period piece of youthful ideals and thinking that the future was ahead of you, that you were going to change the world. 

And, if not that… there will have been 12 years between the current president’s first inauguration and the perceived end of his second term. Hopefully, this era will end, and something greater will emerge. We currently sit in the middle of that 12-year window, possibly experiencing the worst of everything. Even so, you look to the past and notice that people have suffered at far worse hands and went on to have normal lives. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe it’s hard for the 2020s to have the same obsession with time because it’s so used to feeling insignificant, that this will last forever. I promise that it only feels that way. One day, possibly 12 years from now, you’ll wake up and not even realize how much time has passed, how much the world has moved on to something else. Even if Merrily We Roll Along is still years away from completion, there will be something to look forward to. Isn’t that enough sometimes?