A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies

by David Thomson

From one of cinema’s wisest and most penetrating observers, an arresting new perspective on the sweep of film history.

David Thomson has been called “the greatest living writer on the movies.” Here is a career capstone of sorts—a one-volume history of film and screens as illuminating and provocative as his classic Biographical Dictionary of Film. In tracing the progress, from the Lumiere Brothers to the Coens, Thomson glories in the great movies, but admits to increasing unease over what the medium has done to us—promoting fantasy, misleading models of sexual identity, the cult of authority, power, and happy endings.

This revisionist history is as alert to technology and business as it is to art and fun in tracing our pursuit of the lifelike instead of life. By turns trenchant, lyrical, and comic, Thomson uncovers our addiction to voyeurism and villainy, and a habit of passivity that has betrayed our political and cultural identity. In a survey that reaches from Metropolis to Rear Window to Anora, this will redirect ideas about film everywhere. As The New York Times has put it, “Thomson proves anew that he is irreplaceable.”

Genres: Film, Nonfiction, History, Media Tie In, Art, Pop Culture, Sociology

368 pages, Hardcover

First published July 7, 2026

About the author

Librarian Note: There is more than one author with this name in the Goodreads data base.

For the film critic, see https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

Reviews

[Alex Sarll · Rating 4 out of 5]

David Thomson has devoted his life to writing about cinema, but as that life approaches its end he's been producing a series of slim, specific apostasies in which he's questioned how the medium has affected our attitude towards sex, death, disaster. Here, he assembles that piecemeal unease into a single (though obviously darting and digressive) counter-history of the field. An understandable impulse: if you've been an apostle of something synonymous with America, and America ends up where it has, it's only reasonable to ask if you've been worshipping Moloch all along. At its least essential, A Sudden Flicker is interesting only because it's heretical; when Thomson talks about the things prose can do that film can't, it's inevitably more notable than a crusty literature professor from 30 years ago making the same observation, but while neither of them is wrong, they're both omitting the corollary that film can equally do things prose can't, the same being true of any two artforms.

Elsewhere, though, a revisionist history by Thomson has the same attraction as anything else by him. The unexpected, resonant facts (James Dean and Ronald Reagan were in a TV play together!; Kenneth Williams, Christopher Lee and Patrick McGoohan appeared together in a Moby-Dick riff by Orson Welles!). The contact with history of someone who's been doing this long enough, for a young enough medium, that he has a connection back to almost its beginning (he reports a conversation with someone who saw the fabled ten-hour cut of Stroheim's Greed; apparently, and unsurprisingly, it was an absolute chore). Above all, the ability to grasp, in a quote he already used to title this book's more cheerful sibling, the whole equation. He talks about how rapidly the possibilities of cutting settled into a straitjacket from which any departure rendered a film avant-garde (and thus sidelined) by definition; I think he's weighted the scales a little by omitting the likes of The Haunting, but I can still see what he's getting at, and it's something most people wouldn't even think to consider. Obviously, I was particularly keen when he agreed with me against what passes for critical orthodoxy, as when sticking the boot into Spielberg's schmaltz, Scorsese's inattention to women and glamorisation of the worst of men. This last is a recurring theme, the way film, even under a production code intended to ensure crime didn't pay, has rarely been able to resist making bands of thugs and crooks look like the zenith of manhood, with results for which the world is now paying the price. And if a little voice tempts one to ask, hang on, haven't we been putting up with gaggles of these pricks setting themselves up at the top of the heap since long before film, hell, long before language...well, it still makes a hell of a story, doesn't it? And who can resist a good story, even while warning us about the dangers of the human susceptibility to story? That's part of what makes the book work as magic, instead of merely tragedy: it isn't really Prospero breaking his staff and drowning his books, and, wounded as Thomson is, he still loves those perfect faces in the dark, even if they did turn us all into ghoulish spectators of whatever horrors unfold before our greedy gaze. As he says of Pretty Woman: "It is a disgrace, as much as The Godfather. We should not sit still for it. I tell myself that every time I see the picture."

(Edelweiss ARC)

[Carlos Valladares · Rating 1 out of 5]

Cliché-riddled, painfully bad book from a soured curmudgeonly sensibility who has given up on cinema and wants you to as well. From the first pages pointlessly suggesting the great Blake Edwards was not an artist, to the last pages where he blames not TV but movies for creating Donald Trump (Jean-Pierre Gorin, 2026: “Americans [especially centrists and liberals] have been reducing its language and its thought to the word Trump for 10 years. It’s all we’ve ever talked about.”), and throughout the pages in between where Writer Thomson is lamely preferring literature over movies and wishes he were reading Henry James instead: This book blows. Depressing. I don’t get Thomson’s deal. Beyond disagreeing with him on almost every point or judgment he makes — his ironic jokes at the expense of JEANNE DIELMAN (“Could Akerman do PRETTY WOMAN?”), his Boomer defense of ANORA as basically “I liked the way Mikey’s ass jiggles and I laughed when she got fucked over by the rich Russians” — one wonders why DT even bothers to continue writing these books. That so many writers claim him as “ the definitive writer on cinema of our time” is the added insult to the injury he causes the medium of criticism and “scholarship” (really, he’s become a trivia slinger). At this point, I guess you just read him to see what he’s cranky about this year—or what he bizarrely loves, like ADOLESCENCE or ANORA. I’ve been making my way through the first edition (1975) of his biographical dictionary of cinema, and it’s night and day. The guy who wrote that first edition is curious, witty, and clearly loves looking deeply at his chosen passion. What happened?

[Stitching Ghost]

I've been trying to come up with a decent review for this book for the longest time. The thing is I was invited to read and review this book, probably because I have the weird habit of reviewing books about cinema, but I don't really watch movies. I have watched 1 movie in full in the last 5 years (Iron Lung because Markiplier 🤷🏻‍♀️) and I'm bad with names (I will forget my own name if you give me half a chance). This hasn't been much of an issues for the other books I've read and reviewed on the subject but with this on it certainly has. While Thomson can be fun and his tone is quite engaging, I often found myself lost. He takes for granted that the reader knows who and what he's talking about and if familiar wit the people he talks about, which makes sense (after all before you read something called revisionist it might be good to be familiar with what's being revised).

Thomson is a yapper too so I feel like there was a lot of tangents in this book which I might have appreciated more if I had been able to keep up with who did what.

I'm not going to give this book a star rating because I don't feel like I was the right reader.

[Lexi · Rating 3 out of 5]

I love reading film criticism, so I was excited about this book being "a revisionist history" and looking at older films and Hollywood narratives through a different lens. I mostly did appreciated reading David Thomson's opinions about voyeurism within films and audiences as well as the villains that end up being celebrated.

However, this book felt all over the place. The author was constantly jumping between discussing different films or themes, and sometimes I was having trouble following the connections between them. When I was really connecting with the book, it was great. But there were so many moments where I was just a little bit lost.

Thank you to the publisher for providing an advance copy via NetGalley. All opinions are my own.

[Charlie Lincoln · Rating 5 out of 5]

"We live in a Netflix"

[Geoff Giancarlo · Rating 3 out of 5]

It really is remarkable how Trump broke in particular the brains of anyone who has been over the age of 60 in the last decade. Either towards delirious infatuation or nigh-complete forlorn and despair. Thomson is so enthusiastic and almost giddy describing the early decades of movies but as he draws closer and closer to Trump the balloon deflates more and more until the last chapter where he essentially sinks into a pit of regret, which I’ve seen from my own “cultured” liberal grandparents. Also what is his deal with Anora.

[Brian Shevory · Rating 5 out of 5]

Big thanks to Simon & Schuster and NetGalley for allowing me to preview David Thomson’s provocative and expansive A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies. I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect with this book. While I wasn’t familiar with Thomson’s writing, I’ve learned that he is one of the foremost film critics, authoring over 40 books in a career spanning nearly 60 years. He knows his stuff, and this book is touted as the culmination of all of his knowledge and thoughts about film, both celebrating and critiquing not just the artistry and magic of filmmaking, but also the commerce and industry of Hollywood and the silver screen. However, what I found most interesting was not just examining the trends and history of film, but rather examining how film has influenced individuals and society, and how the kind of imaginary pretense of stories on the screen has ended up influencing people’s expectations and understandings of the world around us. A Sudden Flicker of Light ends up being a fascinating study of the role of popular media on our own ideas and expectations about the world, which challenged my own thinking about my relationship to films, media, and others. I ended up enjoying this book, not only for Thomson’s unique, digressive style that seems to transition from one idea or film to another like a jump cut, establishing an implicit relationship, but also because Thomson’s ideas and critiques about the influence of film and popular media had me questioning and thinking more and more about why we watch films and what impact this has on us. It’s a fascinating look at the history of film, which as the book’s subtitled proclaims, challenges popular notions of films by frequently looking at influential factors, context, trends, and historical events that have influenced not just movie scripts and productions but also viewership and ticket sales.
Although Thomson’s book follows a somewhat historical progression of films, he starts the book focusing on cinematographer and director Haskell Wexler, who is often cited as one of the best cinematographers, but who was also fired from two award winning films in the 70s (The Conversation and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest). I wasn’t exactly sure what this brief biography had to do with the rest of the book, but after finishing I can see a few themes emerge from Wexler’s career, especially as he was working with some of the directors who helped shift the Hollywood machine from entertainment to art, revising the ways that we consumed films and movies. As Thomson explains, Wexler was asking a lot of questions, sometimes pulling the actors from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest aside to question the tone of the film, asking whether Milos Foreman was trying to elicit more comedy from a film that could possibly serve as a serious critique of society. This kind of conflict or dichotomy between artistry and themes in films and the need for commerce and audience approval is one of the oppositions that Thomson pursues and analyzes throughout the book. It’s fascinating to think about how Cuckoo’s Nest, an Oscar winner and beloved classic, may have turned out differently if it had sought to lessen the humor and been more serious or morose. Thomson raises some other examples, most notably the ending of Chinatown, which was rewritten to be dourer, which ended up subverting the audiences’ expectations for a happy ending. He also acknowledges the kind of ambiguous ending of Adolescence as another way that audiences are left with questions about the motivation, yet still can remain riveted to the screen based on the artistry of the acting, direction, and relevance of the plot. The discussion of Adolescence and Netflix’s influence on our viewing is also compelling to think about how the approach to home viewing and engaging longer form television has shaped our own consumption of films and movies.
I loved learning more about the history of cinema, and Thomson’s own reflections about how cinema has evolved over time. There’s a lot to learn about, and in particular, the chapter “Like Lightning” that deals with The Birth of a Nation, the first film to be screened at the White House, is fascinating, especially in its demonstration of how film has the power to alter the popular understanding of history and shape or reinforce personal beliefs, biases, and stereotypes. I found this chapter particularly relevant based on the ways that images, video, and other forms of media are often presented to win hearts and minds and challenge perceptions about the nature of the world. Rather than documenting a kind of truth or reflecting historical accuracy, Thomson explores the ways in which film manipulates and alters our emotions and ideas, much the same way that say videos shared of boat attacks or bombings are now shared on social media to drum up support for violent, illegal policies and unpopular attacks on other nations. In fact, Thomson’s last chapter, titled “Quiet, Piggy” raises some important observations and questions about the ways in which President Trump, a big fan of Sunset Boulevard and Gone With the Wind, two other films Thomson analyzes and critiques, has more or less become an actor in his own film, playing a kind of trope and using other motifs like violence, sex, and villainy to sell his film. It’s a fascinating deconstruction that questions how our viewership and voyeurism has shifted from watching what plays out on the screen as a kind of escapism and fantasy to actually enacting the fantasy in real life.
Thomson’s viewership and scholarship is nearly unlimited, but he seems to know a lot about film noir, as one of the chapters significantly focuses on noir. Other chapters focus on other film trends, but sometimes the chapters aren’t completely historical or thematic, and his style moves around a bit. At first, I found these transitions a little hard to follow, but as the book progressed, I appreciated his thinking and linking more and more. At times, Thomson has a kind of conversational style where it’s almost as if he’s sitting in a room sharing all of his ideas and observations that have built up over years of viewership with the reader. At other times, he makes humorous asides and suggestions about films, actors, directors, and themes. I appreciated how critical he was of the need to sustain a commercial audience, and how popular tastes and the Hays Code influenced the earlier film industry. Other chapters on Orson Welles’ brilliance are also fascinating to read to really understand how Citizen Kane both established and in some ways limited Welles’ career. Thomson goes on to examine certain trends in films that emerged in the 1930s throughout the 1970s, noting how world events like the Great Depression, World War II, and the Cold War influenced film themes and tropes, including villains, heroes, the roles of women, and the need for sex and violence in films, even if these ideas are implied more than explicitly stated or displayed. Again, through his insight, Thomson explores how films are more of a window facing inwards, in our own psyches and human nature, rather than a mirror reflecting reality, and often giving us what we may desire or want rather than showing us an objective truth.
A Sudden Flicker of Light is a fascinating read; one that will challenge readers’ understandings and thoughts about film and popular media and how it shapes our own understanding to the world. It’s a book I will need to revisit since there are so many different ideas, but it’s also an important book to consider due to how Thomson raises important questions about our own viewership (or voyeurism) and how the trends and themes films explore have not only altered us on an individual level, but also how they have shifted ideas, attitudes, and beliefs in society. I loved this book and highly recommend it!

[Sam · Rating 3 out of 5]

Between 3 and 3.5 stars. I'm really quite torn about this.

It's obvious that Thomson is the absolute expert on movie history. He does an excellent job with his "revisionist" history - showcasing films from the beginning of the industry until now with context about its time period and its perception today. Audiences then & now would disagree on perspectives. He works chronologically, presenting film as an ever-evolving medium that not only entertains but changes the world.

Where I'm torn is the sheer volume of examples he presents. While he works chronologically for the most part, he jumps around between films, actors, directors, and industry insiders so frequently that it gives you whiplash. He's knowledgeable but it feels like he tried to cram too many things in, especially as the book goes on. I feel this book could've benefited from either a more structured format (i.e. parts to differentiate time periods instead of each chapter blurring into each other) or narrowing down the scope to focus on a key few films that are emblematic of his point.

Overall, it was incredibly informative and interesting.

Thank you to NetGalley, David Thomson, and Simon & Schuster for a review copy.

[Sean Carlin · Rating 5 out of 5]

What happens when you realize the very institution to which you've spent a lifetime passionately devoted -- in this instance, cinema (or, as the author of this book unpretentiously and unconventionally refers to it, movie) -- has, on balance, been a destructive social force, promulgating a culture of hypermasculinity and cheapening life itself with a spirit of voyeurism, a mode of spectatorship that prepares us to passively watch, and just as passively accept, anything?

Such are the questions I've wrestled with for the past many years -- in a series of essays about the oeuvre of Quentin Tarantino, the faux-feminism of Joss Whedon, the "copaganda" of Die Hard and Heat, the petromasculinity of Mad Max and Fast & Furious. Such media, in my humble estimation, have trained generations of viewers -- mostly men -- to see ourselves as the righteous protagonists of our very own heroic narratives, cursed to live in a world filled with idiots.

Turns out, film historian David Thomson has been grappling with similar disillusionments. "So many modern movies are about terrible men," he writes, "as if the makers can't take their eyes off them." Reflecting on Robert Mitchum's violent antihero Jeff Bailey in 1947's Out of the Past  Build My Gallows High (though commenting more broadly on Mitchum's tough-guy persona), Thomson says:

Grown men gather around the campfire of film noir, running and rerunning films that are seventy-five years old and were made with skill and indifference, or the assumption so heavy in Mitchum's gaze that nothing really matters. . . .

I have tried to stress how far Out of the Past is uninterested in the women and their experience. But it is equally averse to interesting men, so long as they seem to be moody, impervious guys who can get away with their pose for forty years or so. That's how long Mitchum lasted, and how we seem to have forgotten The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973). In that he plays a minor figure in the Boston underworld, a big man physically but a fuckup, who would be wistful to observe Jeff's assurance when set against his own ineptness. But in the famous noir movies our ineptness or the signs of mental illness are covered up as a suave welcoming of death that real outcasts must be offended by. The violence has turned into existential affectation, and we swim along in the myth that no one is hurt. But that detachment may be the breeding ground for a male self-destructiveness that has brought us to a terrible brink.

It's comic now to think of Out of the Past as violent, or having a death wish. We hardly notice what we have become accustomed to and how easily we hold a silk umbrella against damage. Still, in the thirties and the forties, some observers worried over movie violence, and the calm that went with it. But too few appreciated that the damage depended on our not being there, available to be hurt. We said the cobra was not real, or even there. It was a play. So we fell in line with an attitude in which a would-be leader ruminated about how he could shoot someone dead on the street without rebuke. He thought he was in a movie? That seemed childish, but where were we?

It comes to this: In life, I have found few opportunities for behaving like Robert Mitchum. Yet I think his example has urged me sometimes to feel I was hoping to be seen in a noir light. We don't always know how fantasy works. Are there endorphins that kick in? Are there medications for it, or do we prefer to treat it as elemental? Like weather. Is cinema itself bipolar, the dark and the light? It made an adolescent attitude that hurt people around me. And which is not worthy of the kind of imaginative participation in life that I aspire to.

- pages 189–90

Wow. In all the ink I've spilled on this subject, I've never come close to saying it more eloquently and succinctly than that. And that is merely one of 323 pages of Thomson's ruminations on movie. His prose style reads almost like personal journal entries, frequently composed in sentence fragments and containing (often oblique) references to persons, events, and movies he does not stop to explain to the uninitiated. It's almost as if, in A Sudden Flicker of Light, Thomson is in conversation with himself -- and we are peeking in on his thoughts. (Voyeurism again.) It's the kind of book you know by page fifty you'll need -- and want -- to read again.

[Morts. · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5*

A relief to find comprehensive source notes… saves my picking back through listing films I need to see. 'To read’ / ‘to see' into the afterlife.

[Radu · Rating 5 out of 5]

Superbă.

[Desirae · Rating 4 out of 5]

There are books about movies that make you want to immediately rewatch everything you love, and then there are books that make you wonder whether you have been watching movies incorrectly your entire life. David Thomson’s A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies manages to be both. It is part film history, part cultural criticism, part personal meditation, and, at times, something resembling a very long conversation with a particularly opinionated friend who has seen absolutely everything. Thomson has spent a lifetime thinking and writing about cinema, and that experience is obvious on virtually every page. What is less obvious is exactly where he wants to take us.

The book attempts an enormous undertaking, tracing cinema from its earliest experiments with moving images through Hollywood’s golden age, European cinema, the New Hollywood filmmakers of the 1970s, contemporary directors, streaming, and the changing way we consume images. Along the way, Thomson discusses filmmakers, actors, studios, technologies, genres, individual scenes, cultural movements, and the peculiar relationship between movies and the societies that produce and consume them. The journey can take us from the Lumière brothers and Eadweard Muybridge to Méliès, D.W. Griffith, Fritz Lang, Hitchcock, Orson Welles, Chaplin, Coppola, Scorsese, Spielberg, the Coen brothers, and finally to the streaming era and films such as Anora.

But this is not really a traditional history of film. Thomson is much more interested in what movies have done to us than simply what happened in the history of cinema. His central argument is unsettling: movies have trained us to watch rather than participate, to confuse fantasy with reality, and to accept violence, power, celebrity, authority, and happy endings as natural parts of our emotional landscape. He is fascinated by our addiction to images and by the way cinema has gradually become inseparable from the way we understand ourselves.

And yet, for all his suspicion of movies, Thomson clearly cannot stop loving them.

This contradiction is where the book is at its best.

There are so many moments where I found myself completely enchanted by what Thomson notices. One of my favorites is the strange little anecdote about Hitler receiving Mickey Mouse photographs for Christmas. It is such a bizarre collision of history, celebrity, politics, and popular culture that it feels almost fictional. Then there are the cinematic images themselves: Catherine Deneuve surrounded by the oversaturated pastels of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, those colors somehow making the entire film feel simultaneously romantic and artificial. These are the moments when Thomson reminds us why movies have such an extraordinary hold over us. They don't simply tell stories; they create entire emotional worlds.

I also loved his observations about performances. His discussion of Al Pacino in The Godfather gets at something I think is difficult to articulate about Michael Corleone: the haunting quality of watching a person cross a moral threshold and become someone else. The restaurant assassination is not merely an important plot point; it is the moment when the character we thought we understood seems to disappear. Thomson is particularly good when he isolates a gesture, a look, a piece of lighting, or a transition and makes us reconsider why that particular moment has stayed lodged in our collective memory.

And then there is Reese Witherspoon, whose general quirkiness Thomson somehow manages to turn into something worth examining. This is one of the things I enjoyed most about the book: his willingness to follow an association wherever it takes him. Sometimes that produces a brilliant insight. Sometimes it produces the literary equivalent of watching someone wander into another room and forget why they went there.

That is also my biggest problem with A Sudden Flicker of Light.

For a book that calls itself a revisionist history, it can feel surprisingly erratic. Thomson's thinking moves rapidly from one film to another, one actor to another, one historical anecdote to another. A discussion of The Godfather can suddenly lead somewhere entirely unexpected, and a filmmaker or performance can become a jumping-off point for a completely different argument. This associative quality is clearly intentional, and there is something exhilarating about it, but it also means that I occasionally found myself wondering what exactly I was supposed to be taking away from a particular section.

The book feels deeply personal—sometimes wonderfully so, sometimes frustratingly so. Thomson is not trying to write the definitive history of cinema for everyone. He is writing about the movies as he has experienced them over a lifetime. That gives the book enormous personality, but it can also put the reader at arm's length. There is an assumption of film literacy here that I found occasionally intimidating. Thomson can move through references with the confidence of someone who assumes you have seen the same films, remember the same scenes, and understand why a particular actor or director matters. Even reviewers have noted that the book expects considerable familiarity with film history rather than providing much hand-holding for newcomers.

I also found myself resisting some of Thomson's larger conclusions. I understand his anxiety about our increasingly image-saturated culture, and I found his arguments about voyeurism, passivity, fantasy, and the influence of movies genuinely thought-provoking. But sometimes his pessimism feels so sweeping that it becomes difficult to separate a convincing cultural argument from the personal disillusionment of someone who has spent his entire life watching cinema change.

Ultimately, I think A Sudden Flicker of Light works best not as a straightforward history of movies, but as a collection of provocations from a critic who is simultaneously fascinated by cinema and increasingly suspicious of it. It is messy, opinionated, occasionally frustrating, frequently fascinating, and sometimes genuinely lovely.

I didn't agree with Thomson all the time, and I didn't always follow him where he wanted to go. But I kept finding myself stopping to think about a movie differently, which may be the greatest compliment I can give a book like this. The flickers of light are there—the strange anecdotes, unforgettable performances, impossible colors, peculiar actors, iconic scenes—and sometimes they illuminate something I had never noticed before.

I just wish Thomson had trusted those flickers a little more and given them a clearer shape.

[Sumukh · Rating 1 out of 5]

This book was in the new section at my library and, as I love film and have a background in film studies, I figured I’d give a shot.

After 2 chapters, I’ll admit I couldn’t finish reading it. I didn’t understand the point or where it was even headed. It was just this flowery writing that felt like Nicole Kidman’s AMC Theatres ad about film and the viewing experience historically.

There’s all this praise towards Thomson as a film writer on the book back but the book cover can’t even properly describe it as it’s a tome on movies with Thomson also shoving in his concerns on movies? Regardless, I couldn’t stomach the idea of spending my time reading 300 pages of what felt like gushing, meandering nonsense.

I honestly just rewatched that 1-minute Kidman AMC ad again on YouTube and it sufficed.

[Billy · Rating 1 out of 5]

I gave this book 100 chances to convince me to keep reading but I had to put it down a third of the way through. I had heard an interesting summary of the book on social media and had to pick it up, only to find the unedited ramblings of a man seemingly half drunk, half in a day dream—the kind of stuff that sounds cool until you read it with a clear head. He almost gets to making an interesting point a few times before returning to an episodic historical narrative that serves no clear purpose. I was constantly asking myself, what’s the point? And there’s only so many detours I’m willing to take without knowing where I’m going. I’m sad to say I’m not sure what his thesis is—sometime about movies being a “lifelike” distraction from real life. I’m not sure it’s deeper or more articulate than that. Can someone point me in the direction of writing that has articulated that idea more thoroughly? Or am I missing something?

[a.hugh mclaughlin · Rating 1 out of 5]

woke woke dare i say woke

This is a blather, I had read that this was a new look at cinema. Unfortunately this author never met a movie or star or production that he liked. The book degrades ever aspect of the movies. It is pathetic, whining and basically boring.. I love to read but this is a gross injustice..

[JoAnne McMaster (Any Good Book) · Rating 4 out of 5]

First off, I will say that I have read several of Mr. Thomson's books and own quite a few of them (I just haven't gotten to them all!) I find that he is an erudite writer who knows his subject well. When I decided to read this book, I was curious about the content, loving film as I do. I will say that I love classic movies, own thousands of them, and watch anything from the silents up until they started to get boring (I won't divulge when, as that is my own business and my own opinion). I will, however, say that I detest modern movies and don't watch them; I prefer to spend my time with Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire (I have a love affair with Fred Astaire), and Barbara Stanwyck. If you don't know who these actors are, you are missing out on something great.

Mr. Thomson does mention earlier (and some now) actors in this book, but it is mainly centered on directors. He begins with the 1800's and start of movie-making, which wasn't all that easy to do. Even then, people were enchanted by the five- or ten-minute films they were allowed to watch. Since then, we have come miles from what film started out as.

I have seen most of the films that are mentioned in this book, so I am familiar with the subject matter. I will add that this book would be essential for any college film major. You will be surprised at the depth of information inside. It took me a while to read, as I wanted to ponder what was being said by the author. Also, I have a habit (good or bad, I haven't figured out) of watching several of the films mentioned in any book having to do with the entertainment industry. It helps me understand more, see more, and enjoy more.

There are oodles (an odd word!) of directors found within this book, and he gives an honest opinion on their style and facets of directing. He also gives us background information, which is well-received by the reader. Personally, I do enjoy Howard Hawks, Mervyn LeRoy, and even Spielberg's films. All very good. We also agree that Fred Astaire was almost inhuman in the way he danced -- it was very sexy and more than musical; his air of grace and effortless moves were almost ethereal.

He speaks of directors from the earliest days, and doesn't pull punches when he does so. You learn of their failures, foibles, and successes. While Birth of a Nation is a long film (silent), it's interesting to view. Others, such as The Godfather, are classics that will stay forever.

The book is broken down into sections film history; from subject to director to film. There are analyses of some; reviews of others; and critiques of directorial styles. It is interesting to see the differences between Orson Welles and later directors, who have somewhat leaned upon his style (but you need to find the ones I am speaking of).

The only thing that bothered me -- and it may not bother others -- were the influx of political opinion, I was disappointed in Mr. Thomson, because, and I will say this freely, a book about film has no place for politics. I am fatigued by those who give us wonderful books and then feel the need to infuse their own politics. While I will not say how, but it is as if you are watching a comedy film and the ending is science fiction. You would leave scratching your head and wondering where the sci-fi came from, why it was added, and what happened to the original plot. Badly done, in my view.

Other than that, I can say that this is a very good book, and I am glad that I was given the opportunity to read it. I do enjoy Mr. Thomson's books; he is a terrific writer and critic, and this would be a good addition to anyone's entertainment library. Recommended.

I was given a copy of this book from the publisher but this in no way influenced my review.

[Dan · Rating 4 out of 5]

My thanks to NetGalley and Simon & Schuster for an advance copy of this look at film, the majesty, the use of color and light, the darkness that it pierces, and the darkness inside many of film's most known creators, along with why movies are best enjoyed in a crowd, and not on the couch.

My first experience at the cinema was watching Walt Disney's Robin Hood, in a movie theater in the Bronx, Parkchester to be exact. I was probably 3, and had no idea what we were going to do. The theatre's name escapes my Mom who was with me, but I remember it was small, and one stood in the lobby, while the previous showing was going on, waiting to go in. I remember the door opening, Robin Hood on a rope, bigger than anything I had seen ever. This is where my love of films started, one that has gone cold a few times over the years, for a variety of reasons. Reasons that also fade away whenever I read anything by David Thomson. Thomson is a writer, historian, and lover of movies, who has forgotten more about cinema history than I will ever know. Thomson also has a unique gift, to write about movies the way that I felt when I first saw Robin Hood. A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies by David Thomson is a look at film from its beginnings, bits of photos coming together, to where we are now streaming but not paying attention, the people involved, and why films still matter, even in these dark times.

The book is subtitled a revisionist history, but Thomson is just sharing the truth that Hollywood would like to censor. A how the sausage is made story, but to the movie moguls and investors the sausage is the creative types, the actors, the director and the crew. Thomson starts at the beginning when a murderer, justified by the courts, began to make a series of interconnected photos that showed motion. Eadweard Muybridge's experiments helped make the idea of cinema, moving pictures in the dark. Thomson goes through the ages, stopping on directors, who were not the nicest of people, racists, women haters, liars and cheats, but able to channel this into making films that still stun. Thomson looks at the real attraction of film noir, the drive of actors, and the simple cool that many had, as well as the looks of femme fatales. The book goes through blockbusters, the modern films, and even the post-Covid world, showing why audiences are needed to enjoy this medium, one that Thomson has loved all of his long life, and one he still has hope for.

A really very well written book, personal in many ways as only good criticism can be, and honest in ways many film histories don't like to be. As I said Thomson reminds me why I love movies, shorts, cartoons, long meandering pieces, B-movies, and Corman schlock. There is really no other entertainment like it, inspiring, uplifting, educational, and sometimes bad. Thomson is a heck of a writer, honest about himself and why he likes certain movies, the appearance of the cast, the way the movie is more about life than one thinks. Or its just escapist fun.

A real gift for film fans. I found it endlessly entertaining, funny and fun. I have had a problem with film recently, and I do think its the lack of sharing with others. Even an antisocial person like myself needs human contact, even if it is in the dark, watching others live life. A really good book for those who love film, and I can't wait to read more by Thomson.

[Glen Helfand · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have a friend who is prone to asking questions like "what's your top five films of all time?" I panic a bit, as this is not the way that I move through the world. I have become aware that those things change. The favorites of years past may give way to a new perspective on life. This is not to denigrate those films or books or whatever, only that they mark a period in my life. They still hold a dear spot in my aesthetic outlook, but they ebb and flow in terms of urgency. David Thomson has written a lot of books on film in his 85 years and they function as an evolving viewpoint in trust, in belief, in his own digestion of the myriad works he's consumed. He may have some regets along with his lingering favorites, I appreciate that perspective, as well as his intellectual precocity and quirks. "A Sudden Flicker of Light" is a retelling of film history (he calls it 'movie' singular, though I'm not entirely sure why). It's subtitled a 'revisionist history', and in press on the book, that's been presented as somewhat bitter outlook. Thomson will never stop loving movie, but in this late in life perspective, there are some misgivings, you could also call it a reality check that he engages in a mostly chronological manner. Film/Movie is magical, but it is also a real thing, a business, a phenomenon that messes with our minds (and aspirations). He suggests that our grasp on reality is shaped by flickering fictions (even if they are documentaries). I can relate. He tracks the medium and the message from the invention of moving pictures into the age of streaming (and the fiction peddling American president whose rise is so tied to media), and the increasing loss of collective experience (he notes how Nicole Kidman's much mocked AMC promo has her sitting in an empty theater). It's a Thomson book, and very much spending time with a life steeped in watching.

[Mattschratz · Rating 5 out of 5]

I enjoyed this book a great deal. I am always saying the kinds of things that Thomson runs through here, though with a lot less verve and a lot less authority than he has, so it was nice to see them totted up. That the movies have had catastrophic effects on the world is not something I dispute, though I think it's worth continuing to think about what to do with that. Cervantes and Jane Austen were aware that books had had catastrophic effects on certain of their readers (Don Quixote, Catherine from Northanger Abbey), but then people kept writing books. You can go much further back than Austen and Cervantes and find the initial trouble diagnosed by Plato: like novels and romances and epics, movies are lies; and the conditions of at least this world are such that many people would rather live swaddled in lies rather than attempt to understand the world around them. For all my catastrophism, though, I remain at heart a softie, and believe that we could improve the world in such a way that lies like the Iliad, or The Romance of the Rose, or the Godfather could be harmless adornments to our meaningful lives, instead of a machine that makes you go insane.

[Biblio Files (takingadayoff) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Film critic and historian David Thomson has made no secret of his preference for movies over television. He says the effects of television are as harmful and long lasting as nuclear fallout. With his most recent book, A Sudden Flicker of Light, he reevaluates a lifetime of film criticism and comes to the unsettling conclusion that movies are as much a problem as television. In this "revisionist history" (isn't all history revisionist?) Thomson goes back to the first silent movies, talkies, war propaganda, post war innovations, and up to the present, and sees that all along, the movies have invited us to watch violence, injustice, lies, probing for the spot in our psyches that secretly wants to be the villain. It's a gripping read and I had many lively conversations with Thomson as I read it. I think he gives movies too much credit for the current state of affairs, but it's worth considering. I look forward to seeing what others think and to hear Thomson talk about these controversial conclusions. Five stars, thanks to Edelweiss and the publisher for a digital review copy.

[Mark · Rating 4 out of 5]

The press reviews of this cradle to present (Muybridge to Anora>) history of the movies emphasize Thomson's souring on the whole enterprise. The last line of the book reflects some of that pessimism

For a century the fallacy had reigned that watching would make us better. Instead of just indifferent.

I'm not convinced and I'm not convinced that Thomson fully believes it; he simply takes too much delight in talking about the movies he loves and despises (sometimes they are the same movie). Rather after writing numerous books about the movies (including at least one other history), I think that Thomson simply finds this attitude a useful lens for prompting thought and reader reaction.

As always Thomson's prose is a delight to read, but be warned that the book is written for those with a fair prior knowledge of film. In case you can't tell, I thoroughly enjoyed this account and it comes highly recommended to those who love the movies enough to read about them.

Thanks to Simon & Schuster and Netgalley for providing an egalley for early review.

[YogScott · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.25*

I'm very torn on this book, but my frustration eventually won out in my rating. Thomson is a great writer on film, and I've enjoyed his writings on the topic since I discovered them. This work is filled with fascinating history and tales of moviemaking, perceptive analysis, and great writing. It is also filled with cliches, conclusions not remotely supported by the evidence provided by the author, and lazy grouching.

The thing that stuck in my craw the most is the person most central to his history of cinema is... Trump. Yes, he is a stand-in for culture/society in the writer's telling, but even so: come on. I loathe Trump; I've had friendships damaged over my loathing of Trump. But even I think this comes across as more than a little myopic. I would never argue "politics and culture are separate" because I don't believe that: they inform and interact with each other, and I don't dispute the value of exploring that interaction in a history of movies. But that does not mean all of cinema needs to be viewed through the lens of the current president.

[Cindi · Rating 4 out of 5]

David Thomson has spent a lifetime thinking about movies, and in A Sudden Flicker of Light he finally sits with some uncomfortable questions about what they’ve done to us. His argument is blunt: film trains us to watch—to get used to violence, injustice, and power, even when that power is ugly. Movies, he argues, are especially good at making terrible men look admirable, and we’re left living with the fallout.
What makes the book interesting is that Thomson hasn’t fallen out of love with cinema. He’s troubled, not dismissive—still drawn to those “perfect faces in the dark.” That tension runs through his revisionist history of film, from early cinema to the present. You don’t have to agree with all of it to stay engaged. Thomson makes his case with so much energy and intelligence that you find yourself arguing back as you read.

Thank you to the author, publisher and Net Galley for the ARC.

[Dave · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've loved movies for as long as I can remember, and David Thomson's A Sudden Flicker of Light has given me some new ways to think about that love. Rather than simply celebrating cinema, Thomson asks a more unsettling question: What have movies done to us?

His observations about how films shape our expectations of love, freedom, violence, heroism, and happiness are provocative, sometimes troubling, and often convincing. I particularly appreciated his willingness to challenge movies he clearly loves. I didn't always agree with him, but that made the book even more engaging.

Having recently taught a course on road movies, I found myself thinking about the difference between genuine freedom and the romantic fantasies movies encourage us to embrace.

For me, the book's greatest strength is its reminder that loving movies doesn't mean accepting everything they tell us. Sometimes it means questioning what we see.

[Derrick (DW) · Rating 5 out of 5]

David Thomson’s A Sudden Flicker of Light seems both a love letter to and a condemnation of film. Instead of just lauding the usually lauded canonical films, he points out the complicity that many have in informing the US’s fascism. He points out how much better literature is than film; but, he doesn’t digress into written literature very deeply, only to make a point here-and-there.

Thomson’s critique is not structured, it’s very digressive and rant driven. The rants and digressions speed by and with the reader like frames across the screens. The most important and fascinating part of the book is the earnest sense that he loves film despite its culpability with the current state of the world. Even beyond its surface level content area—film—the book is a long form example of the messiness of our love and the messiness of our hate. And how we can say the same thing towards both ends

[Terri · Rating 3 out of 5]

I didn't know what to expect when it came to a revisionist history of movies, but David Thomson delivered an interesting critique of the industry, its production, and its people. Though not in any way an all-encompassing history, Thomson hits key points in the film industry from its inception to one of last year's most talked about movies.

If you are not already a film buff, this may not be the first book that you want to read on the subject of movies as a whole, but it does have some interesting points and opinions from the author. What detracted me from some of the book is that is can hit the more common, popular points of movie history, then out of nowhere spend a little more time on something less known or significant. Either way, it has great talking points for those in love with film.

*Book provided by NetGalley

[Chris Williams · Rating 2 out of 5]

Really disappointed in this one. I love Thomson's Biographical Dictionary of Film. But this "revisionist history" of cinema is meandering, confusing and sloppily written slog. When Thomson sticks to his strength and writes about the early days of the art, it's intriguing. But as it goes on and he begins to lament what the movies have done to our culture, fumble around talking about Netflix and "Adolescence, and spends an entire chapter on a tirade about Trump, it feels like an old man yelling at the clouds, grasping for a thesis in a loose collection of unfinished essays. And to be clear, I have no problem with him tearing into Trump. I just don't quite think he does it in a way that makes much sense.

[Lulu]

“A Sudden Flicker of Light” by David Thomson is a look at the history of film and the lasting influence movies have had on culture. Rather than simply celebrating cinema's greatest achievements, Thomson explores how the medium has shaped the way people see romance, power, identity, and even reality. Blending film criticism with cultural commentary, he moves through decades of movie history with insight, wit, and a willingness to challenge conventional thinking. Rather than a straightforward film history, this is thoughtful work about the impact of film and media.

[Julesreads · Rating 2 out of 5]

Woof. Only made it 100 pgs and that was by sheer force of subway reading will. Both painfully obvious about the point while also being meandering, obfuscating, and sometimes just stalling. I’m not totally against where Thomson is coming from. With how screen entertainment has operated as a business and a compromised art, and with screens being such an issue, it’s fair to go and investigate our relation to cinema - the original screen entertainment/art form. But this is just a rambling way to go about it. Tacked on an extra star because it’s about movies and it’s the great David Thomson.

[Baby]

I’m an appreciator of David Thomson’s work, but this really is an odd book. It rehashes a lot of already familiar movie history in ways that can feel unfocused and disconnected from a larger thesis. If there’s a point of view, it only comes out in short bursts before the book inevitably veers back into covering well-known facts from popular classics. It’s never not interesting to be clear — Thomson is an incisive and curious writer — and perhaps this is simply an introductory book for those getting into movies (though he already has a few of those too). A bit of a head-scratcher, this one.