The Boring Bits

The Magic on Life’s Cutting Room Floor

Alfred Hitchcock was once asked about the taut pacing in his films. How did he create such remarkable films? He replied, “Movies are like life with the boring bits cut out.”

Ah, those boring bits. We don’t like ‘em. And, with AI’s allowing for zero stoplights in our human connections, we can cut out anything that slows us down. If we do life right, it can play out like the tightest of film scripts, skipping straight to the good stuff, right?

I have mixed feelings about the downer that comes after the Crackerjack prize is opened. Boredom doesn’t seem to have much going for it, and you get even more as you age. Torpor often feels like the “flab of time,” a silent reminder that there’s probably a great party of life happening somewhere else and we’re stuck in a dentist’s waiting room, flipping through magazines that are all dated and clipped.

For a few years, I had an incredible meditation teacher. In our 90-minute sessions, we sat in silence, alone with our breathing. “It’s so boring,” I whined. “So?” she replied.

It was a simple response, but profound.

What if we saw these “cutting room floor” moments in life as just as essential as the intense ones? What if we allow them to simply unfold?

After my teacher’s answer, I began to think of the lulls in my life as I would the “base note” umami in food—adding texture and flavor in a magical way that makes everything richer and deeper. A quiet secret.

And my slow times turn out to be clairvoyant. I often need space before or after a big life chapter to understand its magnitude and gain perspective.

I love a good Alfred Hitchcock film. Especially Vertigo. When Jimmy Stewart climbs up that rickety spiral staircase, his woozy, psychedelic vision screams out. In the end, his character has to confront his fear of heights the slow way—one step at a time. Of course, the director speeds up these plodding moments. It would take too long to show the tedium of each step, each dull thud in time. Yes, those bits, if shown in the film, would be boring. But, as my meditation teacher might say, “So?” He arrives at his good stuff in the end and needed the steps to get there.

If movies are like life without the boring bits, then perhaps real life—full of slow moments, dull thuds, and occasional waits in silent rooms—offers something richer, something no film could hope to capture. The “flab of time” may not be glamorous, but it’s part of what can make the great big things in our lives reach cinematic heights.