How Do You Think About Time? 7 Films That Might Help You Find an Answer

It can rush by or stretch into eternity. What is time, and how does it shape the way we think about the past, present, and future? This question has puzzled not only philosophers and physicists for centuries, but also filmmakers who try to capture time’s paradoxes and its impact on human life. Here are seven thought-provoking films for a summer watch that explore time from different angles and invite us to reflect on its passage and meaning.

In this almost poetic way, the creator of the cult classic Stalker offered, many years ago, a remarkably accurate explanation of one of cinema’s core functions – its plastic ability to shape reality through time. Unlike painting, sculpture, or photography, which work primarily with space and static images, film “breathes through time”. A director, by trimming minutes, stretching seconds, or rearranging the order of events, can expand, condense, or even freeze time. Time, which in everyday life often slips out of our control and is difficult to grasp due to its fleeting nature, can in cinema be halted, deepened, or extended – until it ceases to be mere background and becomes a true artistic medium. That’s why slow motion, uninterrupted long takes (master shots), and other editing techniques are so often used in film. They’re not just technical tricks to enhance the form and content – they are attempts to capture moments that would otherwise pass unnoticed. Because cinema can do what life rarely allows: to hold on to fleeting instants that seem too small or insignificant to be remembered.

Yet time, much like in our everyday lives, imposes its own set of limitations on cinema as an art form. Filmmakers must decide how much they want to convey within a given runtime. Some create epic, multi-hour spectacles, while others need only a few minutes to express their vision and tell a compelling story. And although directors and producers usually shape a film’s overall concept, perhaps no one feels the pressure of time more acutely than editors. Every minute demands a choice – what to show, what to shorten, what to leave unsaid. In this context, time can be unforgiving, yet it constantly inspires and fascinates both creators and audiences. In film, time is not always just a timeline guiding the story or a tool for structuring the plot. In some narratives, it forces characters to confront the irreversible; in others, it encourages them to fully embrace the present moment before it slips away. At times, it brings relief; at others, it deepens wounds that cannot be healed. Time in cinematic stories can be a looping trap that prevents progress, but also a rushing current that pushes characters forward, urging them to let go of the past and make decisions that transform their lives. It is precisely this diversity of cinematic approaches to time that makes it one of the richest and most ambiguous themes in film – open to interpretation, formal experimentation, and deeply personal reflection.

When we think about time in movies, many people imagine Back to the Future-style journeys - time machines, space-time tunnels, and lightning-fast jumps between eras. For years, science fiction has dominated the cinematic portrayal of time as something that can be freely and creatively manipulated, rewound, or reshaped at will. But that’s only one possible interpretation. Time in film can also be a loop - a never-ending day that forces characters to reassess their lives. It can be a personal gift, allowing someone to revisit ordinary moments and experience them with greater care and tenderness. Time can also exist only in memory - blurry, fragmented, pieced together from seemingly trivial details that, in retrospect, turn out to be meaningful and form a coherent whole. Or it may simply flow - like everyday life, without fireworks, yet full of emotional weight and intensity. Each of these cinematic approaches reveals something different not only about time but about what it means to be human - and each is worth experiencing through the films that follow.

Palm Springs (by Max Barbakow)

The blazing California sun. A charming palm-lined resort with lounge chairs and an open-air pool. In this idyllic setting, two lovers are about to say their vows. Family and friends gather to celebrate the occasion. Among them are Sarah (Cristin Milioti) — a flirtatious single woman with no interest in serious relationships — and Nyles (Andy Samberg), a carefree drifter who doesn’t quite know how to exit a going-nowhere romance. Sparks fly quickly between the two strangers, and what begins as a spontaneous flirtation soon hints at something deeper. Then, something completely unexpected happens. The day after Sarah and Nyles meet… the same day begins again. And then again. And again. Both become trapped in a time loop. There are, of course, upsides — they can enjoy limitless freedom without consequence — but their connection, and everything they do, is stripped of any real future. Because tomorrow doesn’t exist. There’s only today — on endless repeat.

One of the most unconventional and refreshingly original romantic comedies of recent years, Palm Springs borrows a familiar narrative device used in many earlier films built around the concept of a single day repeating endlessly. We’ve seen it in science fiction (Source Code), in light-hearted comedies (Groundhog Day), and even in horror (Happy Death Day). In Max Barbakow’s film, the recurring day becomes a metaphor for being stuck — in life, in routine, in a sense of meaninglessness. Nyles has long since stopped fighting the loop; he’s accepted it and numbed himself to the emotions that might push him to change. Sarah, on the other hand, is trying to understand what led her to this place — and whether there’s a way out of this emotional stasis. Palm Springs shows that transformation doesn’t come from the outside — it’s something you must earn, even if every day looks exactly the same. Barbakow deliberately portrays emotionally stunted, pleasure-seeking thirty-somethings who struggle to express themselves or take a stance. Through them, the film quietly dismantles the myth of the “big kid,” suggesting that making your own choices isn't a burden — it's a privilege that enables you to shape a better life. But to come to that realization, the characters must endure countless resets and do-overs. In real life, however, time doesn’t offer us the luxury of infinite chances. 

Interstellar (by Christopher Nolan)

There are few directors today who can infuse their films with grandeur and epic scale while still telling intimate, emotional stories based on original ideas. Even fewer dare to incorporate elements of quantum physics, relativity, or astrophysics into their screenwriting. Christopher Nolan sits at the intersection of both of these worlds — and Interstellaris his most ambitious expression of that fusion. Set in the near future, the film begins as Earth becomes increasingly uninhabitable, prompting former NASA pilot Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) to embark on a rescue mission through a wormhole in search of a new home for humanity. But this is not only a journey through the galaxy — it’s also an emotional odyssey through the complex bond between a father and daughter, separated by time and space, but united by the promise of return and reconciliation. Nolan weaves scientific precision and the vastness of science fiction cinema with a deeply personal tale of longing, parenthood, guilt, and hope.

Time in Interstellar is not just a central theme — it is one of the film’s main characters. Nolan uses physics, specifically the theory of relativity, to show that time is not a constant: on one of the planets, a single hour spent on the surface equals seven years on Earth. For Cooper and his crew, this becomes a devastating reality — every decision to stay on an alien planet costs them not just minutes, but entire years of their loved ones’ lives. It’s an experience of loneliness not defined by distance in kilometers, but by the passage of time. In Interstellar, time acts as a force — it separates people, tests their bonds, but also gives weight to every fleeting moment. It is relentless, unpredictable, and irreversible — yet it’s precisely because of this that love, and memory gain such power. Nolan’s film speaks not only to those seeking emotional depth or visual grandeur, but also to those for whom time remains the greatest of scientific mysteries — a phenomenon that cannot be fully grasped or explained in simple terms.

Donnie Darko (by Richard Kelly)

Much like Interstellar, Donnie Darko is a film for those who see time not as a straight line, but as a complex, multidimensional construct — full of cracks, paradoxes, and ambiguities. If time in Nolan’s film is a scientific mystery, in Richard Kelly’s story it becomes a deeply personal labyrinth with no easy way out. The title character (Jake Gyllenhaal) is a suburban teenager struggling with mental health issues and a profound sense of alienation. After narrowly escaping death in a bizarre accident, he begins to experience strange visions and encounters with a mysterious figure in a rabbit costume — Frank — who predicts the imminent end of the world. As Donnie tries to make sense of what’s happening to him, the film introduces themes of time travel, quantum physics, fate, and parallel realities. The viewer is guided through a seemingly familiar world of high school life that slowly unravels, raising questions about what’s real and what’s imagined. Donnie Darko offers no clear answers — instead, it builds a haunting atmosphere where time and identity begin to collapse. It’s a film about growing up, loneliness, fear — and what happens when the world starts to fall apart not only on the outside, but deep within.

Time in Donnie Darko is not a straightforward timeline of events — it resembles more a vortex that’s nearly impossible to escape. It’s not just a theme of the film, but the central axis of its narrative — emotional, philosophical, and structural. Donnie moves through a reality where time feels unstable, fragmented, and prone to rupture. The future blends with the past, and what has happened might still be undone. At the heart of the story lies a question about free will and destiny — can Donnie change the course of events, or has everything already been written? Time here is not a space, but a closed structure, one that inevitably leads toward a predetermined end. It’s a story about how understanding often comes only when there’s no turning back — and how time can be both a form of salvation and a curse. Donnie Darko shows that time doesn’t have to flow forward — it can loop, repeat, and distort. In such conditions, making the one right decision — whether to save yourself or the world — becomes incredibly difficult, because time no longer allows for any do-overs.

Boyhood (by Richard Linklater)

You don’t need to seek an answer to the question “What is time?” to feel its passage every day. Seconds, minutes, hours — they often slip away too quickly, and we try to keep up, caught in the rush of constant optimization and prioritization of our tasks and goals. In such a hurry, it becomes hard to notice those small moments, seemingly insignificant gestures, and fleeting glances that — though overlooked in daily life — hold their place and meaning on the timeline of our lives. It is precisely these details that form our memories, and they are the very elements that shape our identity. Cinema that manages to capture these quiet fragments of everyday life invites us to view time differently — not as something to manage, but as something to experience. One of the most remarkable films to portray the rhythm of everyday passing with such unpretentious honesty is Boyhood, directed by Richard Linklater. It is a unique production, shot over 12 years with the same actors, who — just like the characters they portray — age and evolve before our eyes, not only in appearance but in essence.

An audiovisual family album — that’s the best way to describe Linklater’s Boyhood, a film that beautifully captures the idea that “time flows” — and there’s nothing unsettling or depressing about that. There’s no need to speed it up or try to freeze it; all we need to do is observe it closely. Boyhood doesn’t try to give life some grand, cinematic meaning — it shows it as it really is: fragmented, uneven, composed of seemingly trivial moments. It’s a film without dramatic plot twists, yet every scene pulses with authenticity. In a world where we often dream of our lives resembling a movie script filled with adventure, adrenaline, passion, and special effects, Boyhood reminds us that a story based on the ordinariness of everyday life is also worth telling. Yes, time flows — but moving with its current allows us to notice far more around us than futile efforts to swim upstream and resist the inevitable tide.

Manchester by the Sea (by Kenneth Lonergan)

Most people who’ve gone through difficult times, faced crises, or coped with loss have probably heard someone say, “time heals all wounds,” “it gets easier with time,” or “you just need time to feel better.” But what if that’s not true? What if time brings no relief, offers no solution, doesn't help you forget, and at best, only teaches you how to carry your scars? These are the kinds of questions echoed in one of the most emotionally devastating dramas of recent years — Manchester by the Sea. The film’s protagonist, Lee Chandler (Casey Affleck), is a withdrawn and lonely man working as a janitor in Boston, living in a state of emotional suspension. After the sudden death of his brother, he returns to his hometown to handle the formalities, only to unexpectedly learn he’s been named guardian of his teenage nephew. Coming back forces him to confront painful memories he had tried to flee — a personal tragedy that shattered his life into pieces.

In Manchester by the Sea, time doesn’t act as a healing force, nor does it imply any transformation in the main character. It brings no relief, no forgetting, and no symbolic “new beginning”; there’s no cathartic breakthrough either. Time merely sets the rhythm of everyday life, which continues regardless of whether Lee is ready to take part in it. He doesn’t try to rebuild his old life or bury the past — he simply learns to live alongside a pain that cannot be erased. Kenneth Lonergan offers neither easy comfort nor quick answers — his film is a study of unresolved grief and trauma, which time doesn’t dissolve but instead settles even deeper within a person. Manchester by the Sea reminds us that not every story needs to end in personal growth — sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is accept that some losses stay with us forever. In this case, time doesn’t heal wounds — it merely disinfects them and places a bandage on top. 

Aftersun (by Charlotte Wells)

Calum (Paul Mescal) and his 11-year-old daughter Sophie are spending their holiday at a resort in Turkey. Their daily summer routine consists of walks, swimming in the sea, sightseeing, and attending the hotel’s themed evening events. But beneath the surface of this idyllic picture, Calum’s quiet sadness begins to emerge. The girl notices small gestures, ambiguous behavior, and moments of silence from her father, but she cannot decode them or piece them together in a coherent way. Only years later, as an adult, Sophie tries to make sense of those holiday memories and understand what she sensed back then but was too young to articulate. Aftersun avoids easy sentimentality and instead builds its story out of fragments and ellipses — exactly the way we perceive the world around us in childhood, when we’re not yet able to grasp or fully interpret everything we experience.

Time in this story allows Sophie to look at past events from an entirely different perspective. The past isn’t neatly arranged or explained — on the contrary, it remains fragmented, emotional, built from isolated images, like moments retrieved from a dusty VHS tape. Time doesn’t give Sophie a full answer, but it lets her see more — to notice what once slipped by, what was too difficult or too unclear to comprehend as a child. The past still hurts, but it no longer paralyzes — she can finally see it, even if it’s impossible to piece it all together. Aftersun shows that some relationships can only be understood from a distance — and that the passage of time doesn’t erase emotions but rather brings out what is most profound and enduring. It’s a quiet yet deeply moving story about how much we need time to understand others — and our own past.

About Time (by Richard Curtis)

Most of us have probably thought — or even said out loud — “if only I could turn back time.” As it happens, the main character in Richard Curtis’s film actually can. At the age of 21, Tim (Domhnall Gleeson) learns from his father that the men in their family possess an extraordinary ability — they can travel back in time to specific moments from their own lives. At first, Tim eagerly uses this skill to fix awkward situations and clumsy mistakes, rescue failed dates, and carefully build a relationship with Mary, whom he meets by chance. But over time, he begins to realize that constantly editing his life isn’t the perfect solution — because making mistakes and not always making the right choices is also a vital part of daily living, and it’s what shapes our character.

In this romantic comedy, time — or more precisely, the ability to go back in time — initially seems like the perfect tool. It allows the protagonist to avoid failure without major consequences and relive pleasant moments again and again. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Curtis isn’t interested in telling a tale about time travel itself — rather, he uses it to highlight the value of time. The ability to revisit the past doesn’t solve everything — you can’t escape loss, death, separation, or the fatigue of everyday life. Tim learns that the secret to happiness isn’t about changing the past, but about living each day as if you wanted to live it again — without turning back the clock. This is a film that gently reminds us that perhaps the greatest gift isn’t rewinding time, but realizing that this moment, right here and now, is enough.