New York Film Festival Is Basically Just Rich People Arguing

Ah, the New York Film Festival. That magical time of year when Manhattan’s cultural elite put on their finest black turtlenecks and gather to pretend they’ve heard of the obscure Moldovan documentary about goat herding that’s “really about the human condition.” It’s like Comic-Con for people who own a Criterion Collection shelf and a crippling fear of casual conversation. This year’s NYFF lineup, as always, is a masterclass in cinematic FOMO. You’ve got your gala premieres for movies that will be in theaters for exactly eleven minutes before hitting a streaming service you forgot you subscribed to. You’ve got your avant-garde experimental films where the camera stares at a wall for 47 minutes, and if you don’t call it “a bold deconstruction of post-capitalist ennui,” you’re the philistine who ruined the after-party. Let’s be real. The real show at NYFF isn’t on the screen. It’s in the line outside Alice Tully Hall, where two film bros will nearly come to blows over whether the new Scorsese is a “return to form” or “a bloated self-parody.” Meanwhile, a woman in a $900 coat quietly updates her Letterboxd to log a film she hasn’t seen yet, just to establish dominance. And the Q&As. Oh, the Q&As. A brave soul in the back raises their hand to ask the director, “What was your process for the sound design in the third act?” The director, who has been awake for 36 hours and is contractually obligated to be there, gives a five-minute answer that translates to “I don’t know, man, the mixer did it.” The audience nods as if they’ve just received secret knowledge from a cinematic oracle. Then there’s the ticket situation. If you’re not a patron-level member who donates a kidney annually, you’re fighting for a 9:15 AM screening of a four-hour Hungarian film about generational trauma. You sit there, squinting at subtitles, trying not to think about the $19 you spent on a small popcorn. And when the lights come up, everyone agrees it was “transcendent” because admitting you were bored is a one-way ticket to social exile. But here’s the thing: underneath all the posturing and the performative appreciation, NYFF still matters. It’s one of the last places where a film can be a communal experience, not just content. Where you can’t pause, can’t scroll, can’t check your phone without a stranger’s death glare. It forces you to sit with a story, even the weird ones. And yeah, you might hate it. But at least you’re feeling something other than the dull hum of your own algorithm. So go ahead, mock the pretension. I certainly will. But if you get a chance to see something genuinely strange and beautiful on a big screen, with a crowd that gasps and laughs and argues on the sidewalk afterward, take it. Just don’t be the guy who asks the director about their “process” for the third time. Nobody likes that guy. **Closing opinion:** NYFF is a beautiful, insufferable circus for people who take movies too seriously and not seriously enough. It’s worth the eyerolls if you can stomach the elitism. Just sneak in your own snacks, because that popcorn is a war crime.