23 minutes of Clapping: The Power of the Standing Ovation

Have you ever been so moved by a film that, when the credits rolled, you stood up and clapped, not just for a few moments, but for 23 minutes straight? So emotionally connected with the art, and with the people around you, that you collectively expressed gratitude until your palms stung?

At the world’s biggest film festivals, the prolonged standing ovation is a ritual. It’s part performance, part spiritual release. Every year, we see footage of stars and directors weeping, audiences clapping in unison, and journalists timing the applause like it’s an Olympic event.

This year, the Venice Film Festival broke its own record. The film: The Voice of Hind Rajab. Images of Joaquin Phoenix and Rooney Mara embracing the cast, surrounded by hundreds of tearful attendees, flooded news feeds and cinephile timelines.

So what is it that compels people to stand and clap for that long? What happens in that moment when admiration becomes communion?

Where It All Began

The act of standing to applaud has roots in Ancient Rome, where the “ovation” was a lesser military honour — a ceremony for generals who achieved victories not grand enough for a “triumph.” Over time, this form of public praise migrated from the battlefield to the theater, and eventually, to the cinema.

By the 19th century, the standing ovation had become a kind of cultural currency. It’s a public way to say: we have been moved beyond words.

The Modern Ovation

In Europe, three festivals reign supreme: Cannes, Venice, and Berlin. Having attended all three, I can tell you this: the Germans do not entertain the marathon ovation. They clap, yes, but 23 minutes? Ich habe keine Zeit!

Cannes and Venice, on the other hand, are built for it. At Cannes, it’s tradition. There’s even a dedicated camera operator whose job is to zoom uncomfortably close into the faces of the cast and filmmakers as they receive the applause. It’s both absurd and endearing; an annual spectacle that feeds social media for weeks.

But behind the memes and headlines, these ovations give us something profound: moments of collective emotional release.

I still remember Venice in 2022 — when Brendan Fraser returned to acting in The Whale. His standing ovation was pure tenderness. It wasn’t just about the film; it was about him. Watching him stand there, overwhelmed and bashful, you could feel the audience pouring years of affection and nostalgia into that applause. It was cinema as collective love letter.

Inside the Room

When I attended the Venice premiere of TÁR, Cate Blanchett’s ovation lasted around ten minutes. It’s customary to applaud every film at a festival, it’s part of the etiquette. Even when the film isn’t to your taste, there’s still an appreciation for the craft, for the act of creation itself.

One of the less enjoyable premieres I attended was Seneca by Robert Schwentke, starring John Malkovich. It was, frankly, a gruelling watch. Long, abstract, and painfully drawn out. When the film finally ended, the room was thick with anxiety. And yet… we clapped. Of course we did. John Malkovich was in the room.

There’s something humane about that. A shared acknowledgment that making a film, any film, is an act of courage. For a brief moment, before the critics tear it apart, the filmmakers get to feel celebrated.

23 Minutes

When a film really hits, and pierces through politeness and enters the realm of shared emotion, the standing ovation becomes something else entirely.

The Voice of Hind Rajab tells the true story of a five-year-old girl killed by Israeli forces in Gaza. It’s an excruciatingly poignant subject, politically fraught, morally complex, and deeply human.

To portray such a story takes courage. To watch it, in a room full of people processing that pain together, must have been transcendent. Perhaps that 23-minute ovation wasn’t just about filmmaking. Maybe it was about grief, and about humanity communicating with itself through art. Maybe it was an act of mass catharsis, a way to process collective despair.

Through that endless applause, the audience wasn’t just saying thank you. They were saying: we see this pain, and we feel it too.

Ironically, the ovation itself ensures a film’s immortality. Had The Voice of Hind Rajab simply premiered and been well-received, it might have gone unnoticed beyond the festival circuit. But “23-minute standing ovation” is a headline. It’s viral. It’s cultural shorthand for this film matters. And so, the applause became the film’s megaphone.

Your Own Ovation

Maybe you’ll see The Voice of Hind Rajab in a cinema someday. Maybe you’ll watch it alone at home. You probably won’t stand up and clap for 23 minutes… it’s not quite the same when it’s just you. But maybe you’ll cry. Maybe you’ll tell someone about it. Maybe you’ll rate it on Letterboxd or add the Blu-ray to your collection. That, too, is a kind of standing ovation. Your own quiet way of saying thank you to the people who moved you.

That is the power of cinema compelling you.

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