From the Middle
Over the past year, I’ve written about films like Black Bag (BTS 085) and September 5 (BTS 082)—films that didn’t dominate box office charts, but stayed with me long after the credits rolled. Black Bag simmered with Soderbergh’s refined restraint, a modern espionage tale steeped in old-school tension and elegance. September 5, meanwhile, pulled me into the ethical pressure cooker of live media during one of history’s darkest Olympic moments—not through spectacle, but through emotional clarity and nuance.
These weren’t “content.” They were cinema.
Thoughtful. Slow-burning. Emotionally intelligent. The kind of stories that don’t demand your attention—they earn it.
And yet, they’re vanishing.
What follows is a reflection not just on the fading space for such films, but on what their disappearance says about our culture—our habits, our attention, and maybe even our humanity.
The Middle Is Disappearing — And With It, the Soul of Cinema
“The people we needed to come out didn’t come out.”
—Steven Soderbergh
There’s something haunting about that line. Not just for what it says about a single film’s box office, but for what it says about us. About where we are culturally, neurologically, and spiritually.
When Steven Soderbergh spoke candidly about the underwhelming theatrical performance of Black Bag—a sharp, star-studded, mid-budget spy thriller with rave reviews—he wasn’t just lamenting the economics. He was sounding the alarm on the evaporation of the cinematic middle class, the vanishing space between the bloated spectacle and the micro-budget indie. But look closer, and you’ll see: this isn’t just a film industry trend. It’s a mirror of a deeper societal unravelling.
Because in America—and far beyond—the middle is disappearing everywhere.
We are watching the erosion of the moderate, the thoughtful, the spacious. Economically, politically, and creatively. What once tethered us—middle-class values of balance, aspiration, community—is being torn away by extremes. And nowhere is this more visible than in the changing behaviour of the audience.
We’re no longer trained to linger. We are conditioned to scroll.
The Rise of the Dopamine Economy
Today’s attention economy doesn’t just compete for eyeballs—it rewires brains. Social platforms have monetised our need for stimulation so relentlessly that the idea of sitting with something slowly, like a thoughtful, character-driven drama, is increasingly alien. We now live in what psychologist Anna Lembke calls a “dopamine-saturated society.”
Every platform promises the next hit. Every feed refresh brings a micro-dose of pleasure. And in that environment, films like Black Bag—crafted for adults, rich in nuance, modest in scale—feel like a relic. Not because they lack quality, but because they ask something we’ve forgotten how to give: our sustained attention.
And yet, that’s exactly what we need.
What’s at Stake Isn’t Just Cinema
The decline of mid-budget films is not just a business problem; it’s a cultural red flag. These are the films that hold the space between the personal and the epic. They challenge, comfort, provoke, and reflect. They aren’t built to go viral. They’re built to linger. They’re where the soul of cinema lives.
Steven Soderbergh’s frustration is not just about ticket sales—it’s about a loss of place. A vanishing lane where stories for grown-ups, about grown-ups, can live. Not every story can or should be a multiverse showdown or a legacy sequel. Some need the quiet of a dinner scene. The ache of a long-held stare. The moral tension of a spy deciding whether to betray the person they love.
If these stories disappear, our collective mirror grows dimmer.
Reclaiming the Middle, Reclaiming Ourselves
So, what now? Is the battle already lost to the algorithm? Or is there still a way back to something richer, slower, more human?
The path forward requires a cultural recommitment to presence. Just as we speak of eating mindfully or meditating to slow the mind, we must begin to watch mindfully—to engage cinema not just as passive consumers, but as participants in a sacred art.
Here’s how we start:
Re-eventize cinema
Give people a reason to show up. From curated screenings to post-film salons, create moments that feel communal, not transactional.
Champion curation
We need new versions of Siskel & Ebert, of Kael, of Baldwin at the movies. Trusted voices who elevate lesser-known films and reframe how we talk about them.
Change the metric of success
Not every film is meant to conquer box office charts. Some are meant to change one heart at a time. Let’s measure impact by depth, not width.
Nurture independent cinemas
These venues are temples of story and culture. They’re not just exhibition spaces—they are modern-day town halls.
Rewire the audience
It sounds lofty, but it starts small. Share a film. Host a screening. Discuss. Pay attention to what stays with you.
Because the antidote to the dopamine trap isn’t more spectacle—it’s resonance. It’s the slow burn. The kind of story that, as Soderbergh said, you’re proud to say you made. Or, as an audience, proud to say you witnessed.
The Clarion Cry
We are at an inflexion point—not just for cinema, but for the very way we relate to art, to each other, to time.
If we let the middle die—if we let stories like Black Bag fade without fighting for them—we lose more than a genre. We lose a piece of ourselves. The piece that remembers how to sit still, to feel deeply, to wrestle with complexity.
So let this be a clarion cry.
Let us rise not with outrage, but with intention.
Let us show up. Not for Soderbergh’s sake. Not even for the film’s sake. But for our own.
Because in showing up, we reclaim our attention. And in reclaiming our attention, we reclaim our humanity.