If Martin Heidegger made it possible to understand time as a fundamental structure of human existential experience, Gilles Deleuze was one of the first philosophers to systematically transfer this question into the realm of cinema: can cinema bring time into the image not merely by means of movement, but directly? The significance of this question in Deleuze’s theory of cinema lies in the fact that he does not regard the history of cinema simply as a history of developments in techniques, styles, or narratives. For him, the history of cinema is, rather, the history of transformations in the relationship between image, movement, and time.
Deleuze’s two volumes on cinema, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image and Cinema 2: The Time-Image, emerge between these two questions. The first volume, originally published in French in 1983 as Cinéma 1: L’Image-mouvement, with its English translation appearing in 1986, deals primarily with films in which movement constitutes the substance of the image and organizes the relationship between perception, action, and time. The second volume, published in French in 1985 and in English translation in 1989, addresses the emergence of another kind of image that Deleuze calls the “time-image.” In the second volume, Deleuze’s concern is to explain this transformation: how, after the Second World War, time comes to dominate the cinematic image, and how the isolated or disconnected image takes the place of part of the rational logic governing the progression of events.
For this reason, the “time-image” should not be understood simply as another name for slow or slow-paced films. The concept points to a more profound transformation in the logic of the image. In cinema based on the “movement-image,” the image is largely situated within a network of perception, reaction, action, and consequence; in “time-image” cinema, however, this chain can break apart. A character may no longer possess the capacity to act or may not know what to do; their perception may no longer lead to action; a situation may be observed and experienced rather than serving as the basis for an action; and the image may no longer lead us toward the next event, but instead suspend us in the present. It is here that the concept of “waiting” becomes significant. In Deleuzian cinema, “waiting” is no longer merely the interval between two events; at times, the interval itself, time itself, and the state of uncertainty itself become the subject of the image.
Bergson Behind Deleuze’s Theory of Cinema
To understand the distinction between the “movement-image” and the “time-image,” we must begin with Bergson. In Cinema 1 and Cinema 2, Deleuze repeatedly returns to Bergson and bases his theory of cinema on a particular reading of his philosophy. This becomes evident from the very first chapter of Cinema 1, entitled “Theses on Movement: First Commentary on Bergson.”
Yet Deleuze’s relationship with Bergson is neither simple nor merely faithful. On the one hand, Deleuze takes Bergson’s theory as his point of departure; on the other, he reconstructs it in order to explain the ontology of the image and of cinema. In Matter and Memory, Bergson understands the world not as a collection of fixed objects existing independently of one another, but as a field of images. For Deleuze, this idea is of extraordinary importance because it makes it possible to eliminate the traditional separation between “image” and “matter.” Within this framework, an image is not something that exists merely in the mind of a subject. The world itself consists of images, and what we call perception is the result of a particular selection from this field. Cinema, therefore, is not a device that transforms the external world into a mental image; rather, it works with the world itself as an image. This understanding constitutes the basis of Deleuze’s cinematic ontology. In the opening chapter of Cinema 1, he speaks of the “identity of image and movement,” meaning that, at the ontological level, image and movement are not separate from one another. The table of contents of the book likewise shows how his discussion moves from the “movement-image” and the “light-image” toward different types of the “movement-image,” namely the “perception-image,” the “affection-image,” and the “action-image.”
For Deleuze, therefore, cinema is not, in the first instance, an art of movement in the sense that the camera makes objects move; rather, cinema is philosophically significant because it reveals the fundamental relationship between image, movement, and time.
Movement-Image / Time as Subordinate to Movement
In Cinema 1, Deleuze shows that a large part of classical cinema can be understood through what he calls the “movement-image.” In the “movement-image,” movement is not merely one element of the image; rather, it organizes the relationships between images and, consequently, the temporal experience of the film. To explain this configuration, Deleuze distinguishes three principal types of the “movement-image”: the perception-image, the affection-image, and the action-image. In his analysis, these three types correspond, respectively, to the relationship between perception and the world, the interval between stimulus and response, and the organization of action. Chapter Four of Cinema 1 is devoted precisely to this classification. This division is crucial to the discussion of time because at its center lies an “interval,” or a “temporal interval.” In Bergson’s image-world, the living being is confronted with a set of stimuli and, unlike inanimate objects, does not immediately respond to all of them. An interval emerges between the reception of a stimulus and the response to it, and this interval makes possible selection, perception, and ultimately action. Deleuze reconstructs this structure in his cinematic vocabulary. He organizes the perception-image of the world from the perspective of a center of perception. For him, the affection-image occupies the interval between perception and action, while the action-image directs this interval toward action and a transformation of the situation. This is why, in Deleuzian analysis, the “movement-image” does not simply mean an image in which something moves. The concept names a system of images in which movement, perception, and action are situated within a relatively coherent chain.
In such a cinema, time is generally experienced indirectly. We perceive time through changes in situations, the movements of characters, causal relationships, and the progression of action. If a character moves from point A to point B, time becomes manifest in the form of this movement. If a character encounters an obstacle and overcomes it, the passage of time becomes visible through the transformation of the narrative situation. For this reason, one can say that, within the system of the “movement-image,” time is subordinate to movement. This does not mean, of course, that classical cinema lacks a temporal experience. The point is that time is presented primarily in an indirect form: time itself is not an autonomous subject of the image, but can be apprehended only through movement and changes in situations.
This logic reaches its culmination in the concept of the “action-image.” In the action-image, a character finds themselves in a situation, perceives that situation, acts on the basis of it, and through their action transforms the situation. A relationship is therefore established between situation and action that can be represented simply as follows:
Initial situation → perception → action → new situation.
This is what may be called the “sensory-motor” logic. In Cinema 1, in the chapters devoted to the “action-image” (Chapters Nine, Ten, and Twelve), Deleuze examines this logic through various examples from classical cinema. In the world of the “movement-image,” the world is still, to a considerable extent, intelligible and actionable. A character can recognize a situation and respond to it appropriately. Even when the world is complex or threatening, a relationship remains between a situation and the possibility of action. Modern cinema, however, encounters a world in which this relationship can no longer be established so easily.
Modern Cinema and the Crisis of the Movement-Image
At the end of the first volume of Cinema, Deleuze addresses the crisis of the “movement-image.” This crisis should not be understood merely as a crisis of a cinematic style; rather, it is a crisis in the relationship between human beings, the world, and action. According to Deleuze, after the Second World War, many films feature characters who, unlike the heroes of classical cinema, no longer know how to act. The world is no longer transparent to them, and action is no longer necessarily the logical consequence of perception. A character may see but be unable to act; they may move without reaching any clearly defined destination; or they may find themselves in a situation to which they can no longer offer any appropriate “sensory-motor” response, remaining completely passive. At this point, cinema moves away from the “action-image” and toward something beyond the “movement-image”; this beyond is the “time-image.” But the crucial point is that the “time-image” does not enter cinema from the outset as a new technique. Rather, it is the result of a crisis within the previous system of images. Once the relationship between perception and action breaks down, time no longer has to be expressed through action.
At the beginning of Cinema 2, Deleuze turns to Italian Neorealism to explain the transformation from the “movement-image” to the “time-image.” In this section, Deleuze distinguishes between different kinds of “optical,” “sonorous,” and “sensory-motor” situations. In a “sensory-motor” situation, a character observes a situation and responds to it. In a purely “optical” or “sonorous” situation, however, the character sees, hears, and experiences, but does not necessarily act. In introducing postwar Italian cinema, Deleuze speaks of the emergence of characters who “saw more than they acted.” This change may appear very simple on the surface, but it has important philosophical consequences. When a character no longer moves immediately from perception to action, an interval emerges within which time can reveal itself. The image no longer asks, “What should be done?” but rather, “What is happening?” And, more fundamentally, it asks, “What can be seen when one can no longer act?” Deleuze uses the terms “opsign” and “sonsign” to describe this condition. In such images, the image is no longer necessarily a means of conveying information that must lead to action; instead, seeing and hearing themselves become the subject of the image. This transformation can be traced through the cinema of Roberto Rossellini and Vittorio De Sica, and subsequently through modern filmmakers such as Antonioni and Ozu. Here, the question of “waiting” once again becomes important. In a cinema in which the image remains subordinate to action, “waiting” is primarily a matter of “waiting” for the next event. But when the image becomes detached from action, “waiting” can become an experience in its own right. A character at a railway station may be waiting for a train. In classical cinema, the train arrives and the waiting comes to an end. But in time-oriented cinema, what matters is the situation of waiting itself: the space of the station, the sound of trains approaching in the distance, the faces of the passengers, the changing light, and the passage of time that produces no significant narrative event. Here, “waiting” is no longer an interval between two events; rather, “waiting” itself becomes an event.
From Indirect Time to Direct Time
Deleuze’s most important claim in Cinema 2 emerges at precisely this point: in the “movement-image,” time is presented largely indirectly through movement and montage, whereas in the “time-image,” the possibility emerges of presenting time directly. When two shots are placed one after another and we infer the passage of time from a character’s change of location, the movement of the sun, the aging of a face, or the transformation of the narrative situation, time has been presented indirectly. We infer the existence of time from changes occurring within the images. In the “time-image,” however, a film can be organized in such a way that time itself is felt within the image, even when narrative movement has almost come to a standstill. This is the moment when cinema moves from being an art of representing movement to becoming a philosophical art of time. Time is no longer contained within movement or dependent upon it. Here, an important misunderstanding must be avoided. The “time-image” does not mean an image that takes time as its subject. A film about time travel is not necessarily a “time-image” film. Nor is a film that employs flashbacks necessarily a “time-image.”
Deleuze’s concern is the structure of the image itself. A film may be made about time and yet remain entirely within the domain of the “movement-image.” Conversely, an apparently simple film about everyday life can make time directly perceptible as an experience. Thus, the distinction between the “movement-image” and the “time-image” is not a distinction between two cinematic subjects; it is a distinction between two systems of perception. In the first system, time is subordinate to movement. In the second, movement can become subordinate to time. This is precisely what Deleuze examines in his theory under the concept of “aberrant movement.” Movement is no longer necessarily directed toward a clearly defined narrative goal, and movement itself can become a sign of the transformation in the relationship between image and time.
One of the most complex concepts in Cinema 2 is that of the “crystal-image,” in which the past and the present become simultaneous. In ordinary experience, we regard the past as something that has been left behind and the present as something that is currently here. But in his reading of Bergson, Deleuze emphasizes that the past is not simply something that no longer exists; rather, it remains present in a complex relationship with the present. In the “crystal-image,” this relationship becomes visually and cinematically manifest. The present and the past are no longer like two completely separate moments; instead, they become intertwined within a single image, situation, and structure. This is why Deleuze pays particular attention to filmmakers such as Alain Resnais and Orson Welles, as well as other filmmakers concerned with memory and time. In such cinema, the question is no longer simply, “What happened?” but rather, how does the past exist within the present, and how can the present become an image of the past? This issue is also important to the experience of “waiting.” “Waiting” always has a relationship with the future, but the future is not separate from memory and the past. We wait for something that we imagine on the basis of what we have experienced before. Thus, “waiting” simultaneously faces toward the future and relies upon the past.
As mentioned earlier, Bergson presents time to us as the duration of moments. Heidegger introduces time as the future-oriented structure of existence. Deleuze, however, translates these two problems into the language of the cinematic image.
Waiting in “Time-Image” Cinema
In “movement-image” cinema, “waiting” is often a form of narrative suspense. The spectator knows that something is supposed to happen, and the film keeps them waiting until that moment arrives. The value of “waiting” derives from the outcome toward which it is directed. In “time-image” cinema, however, waiting can become detached from its outcome. The spectator may continue to wait, but can no longer be certain that the event they are waiting for will actually occur. Rather than resolving “waiting,” the film prolongs it. The final sequence of Antonioni’s L’Eclisse is a striking example of the concept of “waiting” in modernist cinema. The spectator waits for Monica Vitti and Alain Delon to arrive at their meeting place, but time passes, they never appear, and the film ends. This is where a connection can be established between the cinemas of Tarkovsky, Ozu, Jancsó, Béla Tarr, Haneke, and Kiarostami, without reducing these filmmakers to a single homogeneous category. In Tarkovsky, extended time and “waiting” can become a transcendent experience. In Ozu, time emerges through the rhythms of everyday life and its pauses. In Béla Tarr, “waiting” can become a process of exhaustion and repetition. In Haneke, “waiting” can generate anxiety and violence. And in Kiarostami’s cinema, “waiting” often creates a space in which the spectator must complete the narrative gaps and determine the relationship between image and meaning for themselves.
The historical importance of Deleuze’s theory lies in the fact that he does not define modern cinema simply as cinema that is “slower” than classical cinema. If that were the case, the “time-image” would be nothing more than an increase in shot duration or a reduction in the number of cuts, whereas the issue is much deeper. In the “time-image,” the fundamental crisis occurs in the relationship between perception and action. A character can no longer necessarily transform the world into situations upon which they can act. The world may be too complex, ambiguous, damaged, or incomprehensible for them. Consequently, cinema is no longer compelled to move constantly toward action. In this sense, the “long take” is neither, in itself, a sign of “time-image” cinema nor a necessary condition for it. What matters is the relationship that the long take establishes between the spectator and time. A long take may simply function as a form of narrative suspense; but it can also make the spectator stop waiting for an event and instead feel the passage of time itself. This distinction is crucial.
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