When we speak about films, just as we do about any other creation that appeals to the sense of sight, we must make a few clarifications from the outset, as elementary as they are essential. Following Plato’s teaching in the dialogue Timaeus (69e), we must pay due attention to the way in which the human being is created by God. Thus, Plato draws our attention to the hierarchy of the constituent parts of the body: the head, the noblest part, generally regarded as the seat of the intellect (of thought), is hierarchically separated from the rest of the body by an “isthmus”—the neck—intended to suggest the excellence of the former. Following, therefore, this teaching of Plato, we shall note the hierarchy of the senses that make knowledge possible for fallen man.
Associated with the eyes, sight is the “highest” and, of course, the most highly valued of the senses. The loss of this sense is regarded as a terrible catastrophe, one that led the Argentine writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986) to declare, bitterly, that more than once he had wished for death over a life without the apple of his eye. Second in the hierarchy of the senses, as indicated by the position of the organs that make it possible—the ears—hearing is intended for the auditory perception of the world, but also for the contemplation of the sonic harmonies of music worthy of the name. Next comes smell, corresponding to the olfactory organ, the nose, followed by taste, corresponding to the gustatory organ, the tongue. All these senses are situated at the level of the head. The fifth sense, touch, can be considered inferior only in a restricted sense—when we think of the hands, which most often exercise it. In reality, however, we experience touch with the whole body. Although it is the “lowest” sense in relation to the others, Saint Thomas says that it is the most important at the strictly physical, bodily level of our interaction with the surrounding world.
By the statements above, I wished to draw attention to the hierarchical superiority of sight in relation to all the other senses. Our experience readily confirms this. None of the senses offers a broader horizon of knowledge. Although limited, the depths to which it gives us access—from the faces of those immediately around us to the celestial beauties of the Sun, Moon, and stars—make it, unquestionably, our “highest” sense. As is said of a single image, the knowledge it offers us is worth more than a thousand words. We now arrive at a point of crucial importance, set forth by the Angelic Doctor, Saint Thomas, in the Summa Theologica:
Beauty relates to the cognitive faculty; for beautiful things are those which please when seen (“Pulchrum autem respicit vim cognoscitivam: pulchra enim dicuntur quae visa placent” – Summa Theologica, Prima Pars, q. 5, a. 4, ad 1).
The “cognitive faculty” of which St. Thomas speaks refers to everything that provides us with knowledge, beginning with the senses and ultimately emphasizing the one who knows through them—the intellect (i.e., the “eye of the soul”). We say that something we behold is “beautiful” when we perceive that charm, that discrete diaphanous halo of light that delights our eyes. And nothing exerts a greater power over man than that which is beautiful. Living proof of this is found not only in artistic creations intended for the eye—paintings, sculptures, architecture, drama, comedy, film, animation, and so forth—but also in the unprecedented development of tourism in all its forms: people who, sometimes traveling thousands of miles from their homes, wish to look at, see, and admire everything that offers pleasure to the eye—churches, monuments, places, landscapes, works of art, and so on.
Precisely for this reason, given the universal spread of the “discreet charm of voyeurism,” before beginning a discussion about discerning films, we must be perfectly aware of the serious danger that these creations—as well as all those that address the eye—entail. We must therefore be fully aware of the deepest stake in our discussions: avoiding becoming “consumers” of films rather than contemplators of the beauty that such creations can offer. But in order to become contemplative spectators, we need a serious purification of our senses and, likewise, of our hearts, drawn as they are into the vortex of superficial and, often, even sinful pleasures.
In order to become aware of the enormous danger posed by the gaze, let us remember that a single indecent glance was enough for King David to commit the sin of adultery, and subsequently to become guilty of the murder of Uriah:
It happened that David arose from his bed after noon, and walked upon the roof of the king’s house: and he saw from the roof of his house a woman washing herself, over against him: and the woman was very beautiful (2 Kings/2 Samuel 11:2).
That alone was enough for one of the most famous kings in history to commit the vilest of deeds. This is the reason for the uncompromising position of the prince among the masters of moral theology, Saint Alphonsus Maria de Liguori. With regard to reading books containing indecent material, he admitted that they could involve only venial sins so long as the provocative passages had not been sought out or read intentionally for the sordid delectation of the imagination. But when it came to accidentally seeing a painting containing nudity, he could hardly regard the matter as remaining within the territory of venial sin—except on the condition that one immediately turned away one’s gaze.
The severity of such judgments always derives from the lesson we learn by reading the tragic history of King David: sight is the most valuable sense and, at the same time, the one most exposed to sin. This is why the virtue of prudence—“custody of the eyes”—in its use can never be recommended strongly enough. With regard to films, this virtue must be practiced, first and foremost, by establishing a reasonable number of films to watch: an experienced Benedictine monk recommended to me, as a layman, no more than one film per week. Of course, there are no precise recipes or numbers for anyone; each person, however, must establish a rhythm that allows him or her to remain within the realm of contemplation rather than consumption. So, quality, not quantity.
Seeking to explain the mysteries of contemplation, the highest form of Christian life, the Dominican Father Antonio Royo Marín states that no human experience is better suited to such a comparison than art. Art therefore invites us to an act—the contemplation of beauty—that is comparable to the contemplation of God, the exceedingly rare gift attained by saints such as Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross. With regard to film, as I noted in another article devoted to the same subject, we are truly dealing with something that recalls the ancient meaning of the notion of contemplation:
Perhaps somewhat vaguely, the film as a phenomenon reminds one of what the Romans called a templum: a space circumscribed and separated by priests from the rest of the land. Imagine, for example, the frame of a painting without content—just the frame—through which you would gaze into the sky. That space would be the templum once consecrated by priests. However, in the case of film, the templum is not a sacred space, but a delineation that allows the focus of attention of those who look towards the content that is shown.[1]
What the templum was for the Romans, the surface on which we watch a film is today—the screen, monitor, wall, etc.—where the projection takes place. Nowadays, for many people, a smartphone is enough for this purpose. Be that as it may, we are therefore dealing with a circumscribed space similar to the Roman templum. But what is truly important is the content offered to us within that space of moving images.
I will set aside the endless disputes concerning the origins of cinema (An extension of theatre? Magic? Science?). What interests us here are films as the visual extension corresponding to the demands of the new form of dramatic art. Let us admit it: there is no content better represented in the films of yesterday and today than the two major “inventions” of ancient Greece: drama and comedy. But if we speak of dramas and comedies, we are, of course, speaking of actors and their performances. Even though we are often fascinated by the beauty of the images presented to our eyes, we recognize that the essence of a film has to do with the performance of the actors, guided by the vision of the invisible “conductor”: the director.
Yet however gifted the director may be, without the right actors no film can capture the public’s attention. But what does it mean to be a good actor? First and foremost, it means being someone who performs powerfully—with “conviction” —the role entrusted to him. In the Poetics, Aristotle says of the authors who write tragedies that they cannot bring convincing characters to life unless they participate, in their souls and imaginations, in the psychological state of their own characters: they must weep wholeheartedly with those who weep and laugh with those who laugh. They must love with those who love and hate with those who hate. Only in this way can they create memorable characters. The same applies to actors: they must participate in the lives of their characters, internalizing them in an appropriate way so that they can then bring the character to life in all its complexity.
Obviously, characters have no meaning or purpose outside the narrative—the “story”—being represented. And here the coherence of the whole, the sequence of episodes, the ultimate resolution, the twists and turns, in a word, everything contributes to the quality—positive or negative—of a film. Professional critics, who watch and analyze films and rate them, take all these aspects into consideration. But everything depends on the formation of taste and the cultivation of certain aesthetic preferences. If we wish to speak of quality cinema, we must take into account the major problem confronting artistic creations, past and present: their enormous power of manipulation.
Eager for success, and often attracted by the fabulous profits that the “dream factory” makes possible for actors, directors, and film executives alike, producers often take the easy path of superficial sensualism, practiced with the intention of securing the audience’s allegiance—at any cost. This manifests itself through a disproportionate emotional bombardment directed at viewers. Unable to create something beautiful, they prefer to create something scandalous, terrifying, or shocking.
For example, the horror genre keeps us on edge through the abominations it depicts and the fear it arouses in viewers. Or, in the case of violent films, everything is played on the card of adrenaline, whose pace accelerates in the whirlwind of action. Sci-fi directors want to show us, as Spielberg does, extraterrestrials and persuade us to turn their mediocre creations—full of special effects but lacking in art—into something that goes purely and globally viral. There are, therefore, entire cinematic genres—just as in “mass-market” literature—that aim at emotionally manipulating viewers in an overwhelming, visceral manner that completely obscures the capacity for contemplation. In most such cases, there can no longer even be any talk of beauty, but only of special effects and plots full of absurdities. Superhero and extraterrestrial films belong to this category.
Likewise, the emphasis placed by most directors on the charms of certain physically attractive actors and actresses belongs to the same category of manipulation, driven by the desire for success at any cost. When this is done with specially created screenplays, there is no problem: people with well-developed taste will always avoid such films. But when literary masterpieces such as The Odyssey, Don Quixote, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, War and Peace, or The Lord of the Rings are adapted for the screen, the discrepancies become glaring. This is what happened with the film adaptation of Tolkien’s novel, which was completely inappropriately adapted to the style of action films. This provoked the saddened reaction of Christopher Tolkien. But there are other examples as well (“Aesthetics of The Lord of the Rings Film Trilogy”).
Of all the screen adaptations of masterpieces of Victorian literature, such as Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, only one—the six-part miniseries released by the BBC in 1995—deserves our attention. Those who have seen them all, as I have, are outraged by the enormous differences in style and quality of directorial conception, which is lamentable in almost every case, as are the actors’ performances. In such cases, it becomes clear that adding scandalous erotic elements, as well as casting actors and actresses who have not made the slightest effort to understand the psychology of a world very different from the one in which they live today, leads to complete failures.
Of course, in order to make good choices, it is not enough to read articles explaining what makes a good film. We need recommendations that suggest cinematic works through which, by watching them, we can learn what quality films really are. To give this somewhat theoretical article a concrete dimension, I will perhaps make three recommendations. I do not wish to convince anyone that the films I prefer are necessarily masterpieces or that everyone must see them. I rather think, however, that everyone who has watched them has felt, at the end of the viewing, when the curtain fell, that their time had not been wasted.
Probably, in the world of lovers of that category known as “art film,” there is no name as resonant as that of the Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky (1932–1986). Whatever I might say about this absolutely unique and inimitable creator is surpassed by the enormous number of articles, biographies, analyses, and reviews devoted to him. As far as I am concerned, I recommend just one of his films: Stalker (1979). Here, from one of the finest science-fiction novellas ever written, Roadside Picnic (1972) by the Soviet authors Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Tarkovsky fashioned a truly peerless metaphysical film in which the search for happiness is the driving force behind the journeys of several characters—the Stalker, the Writer, and the Professor—portrayed with extraordinary skill. Everything in this movie is a lesson: from the mysterious beauty of deserted landscapes to the iconic faces that reflect the struggles, doubts, and inner turmoil of those portrayed. You can watch it and lose yourself in the world of its characters just as easily as you can search for the keys to its interpretation. In the presence of such a creation, every path is possible. One very important thing that anyone who watches Stalker can learn is, quite literally, how to step outside of time: its slow rhythm, interrupted by remarkably unusual situations, forces you—if you want to enjoy a masterpiece—to leave behind the agitation of contemporary life.
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Ever since I first saw it, many years ago, I have never tired of recommending the best film about the life of Saint Thomas More: A Man for All Seasons (1966). For lovers of historical films depicting the lives of saints or important historical figures, this work is not merely a film to delight the eyes and the mind, but a true milestone. A milestone when it comes to portraying holiness—one of the most difficult tests an actor can face. How can you put yourself in the shoes of a saint? Of a holy woman? Failures abound. And yet actors, too, have their moments of grace. Such was the case with Paul Scofield (1922–2008), who played Thomas More. He certainly felt, and intuitively understood, the exceptional stakes of such a role. This helped him enter that state in which actors are, as one might say, willing to “give everything.” The result is remarkable. Watch this film and meditate on the words of the saint as he goes to give his life for his faith:
“I die His Majesty’s good servant…
…but God’s first.”
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The same category, films about saints, also includes Monsieur Vincent (1947). Filmed in black and white, the story is that of Saint Vincent de Paul (1581–1660), who devoted his life to those whom fate had afflicted. He asks the wealthy women of Paris for help in founding missionary projects. Despite his incredible efforts, he is always left with the feeling that he has done too little. For Saint Vincent truly has a father’s heart, one that cannot accept the moral and physical misery in which many of his “children”—the poor—were living.
Portrayed in an absolutely extraordinary performance by Pierre Fresnay, Monsieur Vincent is one of the best films ever made about the life of a great saint. Its depiction of the historical context is faithful to a troubled period in the history of France. Another important aspect presented is Saint Vincent’s attitude when confronted with a truly terrible pandemic: the plague that devastated France from 1644 to 1657. With the courage characteristic of true saints, he worked tirelessly to save and care for the sick. Definitively, this is a film that must be seen by anyone who wants to gain a deeper understanding of the meaning of life. It is also a film that serves as a masterclass for those wishing to develop a taste for masterpieces and true cinematic art.
Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash
[1] “Eco’s Error; Or, Why Some People Like Casablanca:” https://europeanconservative.com/articles/essay/ecos-error-or-why-some-people-like-emcasablanca-em/ [Accessed: 26 August 2026].