What you can save

Think about four films you love. Not films you respect or think you're supposed to love, but films you actually [[love->A film you love]]. <img src="ProjectorRunning.png" height="400">

We know what happens when a society fails to invest in film preservation. Of all the films produced during the silent era, from 1895 to 1927, 75% are gone--destroyed, discarded, lost, or simply left to decay beyond salvaging. We will never get these films back. [[We can never watch them again.->What will you save?]] <img src="Damaged.gif" height="300">

Through a twist of fate, inheritance, ecological crisis, the stock markets, or whatever you'd like to imagine, you have come into possession of the original versions and last surviving copies of $film1, $film2, $film3, and $film4. Their filmmakers are gone. The studios who owned them have been dissolved. It's up to you to save the films you love. Will you [[try your best->Who's paying for it?]] or [[let these films fade away->0 saved]]?

A century from now, $film1, $film2, $film3, and $film4 are gone. No one spent the time and money to preserve the originals or to digitize them and tirelessly migrate those digital files to each new format that arises. Your granddaughter, now an old woman, tells your great-great-granddaughter about $film1, a movie from long, long ago that you showed her when she was little on some crappy old digital file format that's long since become unwatchable. Your great-great-granddaughter has no way to see $film1. She forgets her grandmother's boring story quickly. [[The good news and the bad news]].

(set: $film1 to (prompt: "Tell me one film you love. Think of a particularly moving one.", "A film you love")) Now tell me [[another->A second film you love]].

(set: $film2 to (prompt: "Tell me a second film you love. Any kind of film, this time.", "A second film you love")) Now tell me a [[third->A third film you love]].

(set: $film3 to (prompt: "Tell me a third film you love", "A third film you love")) Almost done. Tell me just [[one more->A fourth film you love]].

(set: $film4 to (prompt: "Tell me a fourth film you love", "A fourth film you love")) Got your four films? Let's [[get started->Immortality on film]].

Film as a medium has always been about immortality. We point cameras at each other and turn a crank, or press "record" on a touch screen, so that we can grasp at a disappearing moment--whether that moment is a home movie or an elaborately staged Hollywood fantasy. We want to hold on to a little piece of that [[irretrievable past->Movies are mortal]]. <img src="ReelHands.png" height="300">

Movies are about immortality, in that sense. But movies are mortal. Whether stored on reels of celluloid or as digital files, they require money and labor to stay alive. Celluloid decays. <img src="DecayRoll.png" height="300"> Digital files, too, can degrade. And file formats are constantly cycling through updates and obsolescence. <img src="Error.png" height="150"> Professional archivists estimate that a digital moving image file must be migrated to a new format every 3-5 years to retain its resolution and keep it [[playable->Lost lost lost]].

To preserve these films, you'll need money. You have to pay for climate-controlled storage for the celluloid reels, preservation and perhaps eventual restoration costs, digitization if you want digital versions of the films, and format migration costs (in perpetuity) for those digital files. <img src="Workspace.png" height="300"> Time for some fundraising. You've scraped together enough money for two trips to plead your case in person to funders, so you'll be able to pursue two of these three funding options: [[Ask the government]]. [[Ask an arts nonprofit]]. [[Ask a wealthy philanthropist]].

You manage to get a meeting with officials from the Library of Congress--at least, what's left of it. During the journey to DC, you think about how you'll convince them that your project deserves their funding. They must have a dozen meetings like this one every day. As your meeting begins, you walk into a drab, institutional room and see a row of men in suits across the table. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The political climate is tense, with many competing needs and not enough resources. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Government success 1]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Government failure 1]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Government failure 1]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

After making a whole lot of phone calls to a whole lot of arts nonprofits, you finally get a meeting with one based in San Francisco. It's a chilly day in July when you arrive; Mark Twain was right about this place. Shivering without a jacket, you walk into the coffee shop in the Mission where the board members ask you to meet them. They apologize that they don't have an office where you can talk, as money has been tight lately. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The board here is sympathetic to your cause, but their nonprofit is underfunded and hears a lot of pitches for causes they could support. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Nonprofit failure 1]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Nonprofit success 1]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Nonprofit failure 1]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

Talking to a friend about your fundraising options, you hear about a wealthy Chicagoan, Elizabeth Fielding, who's been funding a ton of charitable projects--even in this economic climate. Apparently, she inherited a fortune built from real estate foreclosures. Now she's trying to burn off the guilt of getting rich from people losing their homes. She's still living pretty large, you notice, when you meet her at her beautiful brownstone in Hyde Park. She offers you a gin and tonic and you take it, figuring you could use some liquid courage. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation, to help Elizabeth understand how much you care about saving these films and why she should, too. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Philanthropist failure 1]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Philanthropist failure 1]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Philanthropist success 1]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

Riding high after your first fundraising success, you're ready to ask an arts nonprofit for their support, too. After making a whole lot of phone calls to a whole lot of nonprofits, you finally get a meeting with one based in San Francisco. It's a chilly day in July when you arrive; Mark Twain was right about this place. Shivering without a jacket, you walk into the coffee shop in the Mission where the board members ask you to meet them. They apologize that they don't have an office where you can talk, as money has been tight lately. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The board here is sympathetic to your cause, but their nonprofit is underfunded and hears a lot of pitches for causes they could support. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Nonprofit failure (after success)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Nonprofit success (after success)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Nonprofit failure (after success)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

Riding high after your first fundraising success, you're ready to ask a wealthy philanthropist for her support, too. Talking to a friend about your fundraising options, you hear about a wealthy Chicagoan, Elizabeth Fielding, who's been funding a ton of charitable projects--even in this economic climate. Apparently, she inherited a fortune built from real estate foreclosures. Now she's trying to burn off the guilt of getting rich from people losing their homes. She's still living pretty large, you notice, when you meet her at her beautiful brownstone in Hyde Park. She offers you a gin and tonic and you take it, figuring you could use some liquid courage. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation, to help Elizabeth understand how much you care about saving these films and why she should, too. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Philanthropist failure (after success)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Philanthropist failure (after success)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Philanthropist success (after success)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

Riding high after your first fundraising success, you're ready to ask the government for their support, too. You manage to get a meeting with officials from the Library of Congress--at least, what's left of it. During the journey to DC, you think about how you'll convince them that your project deserves their funding. They must have a dozen meetings like this one every day. As your meeting begins, you walk into a drab, institutional room and see a row of men in suits across the table. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The political climate is tense, with many competing needs and not enough resources. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Government success (after success)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Government failure (after success)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Government failure (after success)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

You feel down about failing at your first attempt to raise funds, but you're determined to keep trying. An arts nonprofit is your last hope for getting some resources to save $film1, $film2, $film3, and $film4. After making a whole lot of phone calls to a whole lot of nonprofits, you finally get a meeting with one based in San Francisco. It's a chilly day in July when you arrive; Mark Twain was right about this place. Shivering without a jacket, you walk into the coffee shop in the Mission where the board members ask you to meet them. They apologize that they don't have an office where you can talk, as money has been tight lately. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The board here is sympathetic to your cause, but their nonprofit is underfunded and hears a lot of pitches for causes they could support. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Nonprofit failure (after failure)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Nonprofit success (after failure)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Nonprofit failure (after failure)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

You feel down about failing at your first attempt to raise funds, but you're determined to keep trying. This is your last hope for getting some resources to save $film1, $film2, $film3, and $film4. Talking to a friend about your fundraising options, you hear about a wealthy Chicagoan, Elizabeth Fielding, who's been funding a ton of charitable projects--even in this economic climate. Apparently, she inherited a fortune built from real estate foreclosures. Now she's trying to burn off the guilt of getting rich from people losing their homes. She's still living pretty large, you notice, when you meet her at her beautiful brownstone in Hyde Park. She offers you a gin and tonic and you take it, figuring you could use some liquid courage. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation, to help Elizabeth understand how much you care about saving these films and why she should, too. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Philanthropist failure (after failure)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Philanthropist failure (after failure)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Philanthropist success (after failure)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

You feel down about failing at your first attempt to raise funds, but you're determined to keep trying. The government is your last hope for getting some resources to save $film1, $film2, $film3, and $film4. You manage to get a meeting with officials from the Library of Congress--at least, what's left of it. During the journey to DC, you think about how you'll convince them that your project deserves their funding. They must have a dozen meetings like this one every day. As your meeting begins, you walk into a drab, institutional room and see a row of men in suits across the table. You need to make a case for the value of film preservation. The political climate is tense, with many competing needs and not enough resources. You talk about the films and: [[Their historical value->Government success (after failure)]]. These films will help future generations understand us and how we lived--what made us laugh or cry, what we ate and how we created homes, what we thought true love looked like, what we wished our families and our friendships felt like. [[Their artistic value->Government failure (after failure)]]. Film is one of the greatest art forms in all of human history, combining image and sound with an incredible range of aesthetic possibility. These films showcase film artistry as it was in our era. [[Their personal emotional value->Government failure (after failure)]]. These films mean something to you. You talk about a moment from $film1 that moved you like nothing you'd seen before and helped you through a tough experience in your own life.

The men in suits listen to your pitch with more interest than you expected. Maybe appealing to their interest in history was the right instinct. They don't commit to anything, but tell you you'll get a phone call next week. Sure, you think, reflecting on the speed of all your previous interactions with the government--"next week." You figure you'll never hear back, but to your suprise, you do get a call next week and the Library of Congress has granted you some funding! You breathe a sigh of relief. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found two major sources of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve two of your four films. $film1 and $film2 will live on. Their celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitizations and digital preservation plans for these films, as well, so you'll be able to circulate easily accessible versions, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->2 successes, pt 2]]

As you finish your speech, you see looks of boredom on the faces of the men in suits. A couple are checking their phones. They send you off without committing to anything, telling you you'll get a phone call next week. But the phone call never comes. Shit. You feel like a failure, going back in your mind over what you should have said to show them how important this project is. But, times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

The board members smile politely while you plead your case. They seem like really nice people, but you've got a sinking feeling that you didn't convince them. At least they don't make you wait long to find out. After ten minutes waiting in the cold outside the coffee shop while they discuss your proposal, their board chair, Aisha, comes out and puts a hand on your shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine a future where $film2 is just . . . gone," she says, looking genuinely distressed, "But there's so much for us to do and so little money to do it with." Disappointed, you mumble "I understand. Thank you so much for your time," and shuffle off down the block. You feel like a failure, going back in your mind over what you should have said to show them how important this project is. But, times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

You see the nonprofit board members nodding as you talk about the art of film and you feel hopeful that you made the right pitch. They tell you they won't keep you waiting long and ask you to step outside for ten minutes while they make a decision. It only takes six minutes out in the cold before their board chair, Aisha, comes to get you. "Oh goodness, I didn't realize how chilly it is out here! Maybe some good news will warm you up?" It does warm you up. It really does. "I'm not supposed to play favorites," Aisha adds, "but I really hope you'll save $film2. I've always loved that one." You breathe a sigh of relief. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found two major sources of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve two of your four films. $film1 and $film2 will live on. Their celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitizations and digital preservation plans for these films, as well, so you'll be able to circulate easily accessible versions, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->2 successes, pt 2]]

Elizabeth sips her gin and tonic patiently while you ramble on--probably for far too long. She's blunt when you finish. "I'm sorry, dear, but if I can't even tell that you're passionate about this project, why should I be? I just don't feel a connection to this one." You sigh and tell her you understand. On your way out the door, she adds, "And for the record, I've always thought $film4 was crap. Maybe don't preserve that one." You feel like a failure, going back in your mind over what you should have said to show them how important this project is. But, times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

Elizabeth listens to you with rapt attention, her gin and tonic forgotten on the coffee table. When you finish, her eyes narrow and she asks, "Did you do research on me before you got here?" she asks. "Probably not enough," you admit, embarrassed that you're so inexperienced at this fundraising stuff. "Amazing," she says. "I saw $film1 for the first time when I was in a really dark place. As silly as this sounds, it made a difference. I've watched it once a month ever since. I can't imagine a future where it doesn't exist anymore." You blink, not believing your good fortune. "You've got my support," she says, "at least to keep $film1 alive for a good long while." You breathe a sigh of relief. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found two major sources of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve two of your four films. $film1 and $film2 will live on. Their celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitizations and digital preservation plans for these films, as well, so you'll be able to circulate easily accessible versions, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->2 successes, pt 2]]

The men in suits listen to your pitch with more interest than you expected. Maybe appealing to their interest in history was the right instinct. They don't commit to anything, but tell you you'll get a phone call next week. Sure, you think, reflecting on the speed of all your previous interactions with the government--"next week." You figure you'll never hear back, but to your suprise, you do get a call next week and the Library of Congress has granted you some funding! You break into a wide smile and suppress a shout of excitement. "Thank you so, so much," you say. "You don't know what this means to me, and what it will mean to future generations." You wish you'd come up with the right words the first time around, too, but at least you got something. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

As you finish your speech, you see looks of boredom on the faces of the men in suits. A couple are checking their phones. They send you off without committing to anything, telling you you'll get a phone call next week. But the phone call never comes. Shit. You're out of money to support your fundraising efforts. You've got to get back to your real job if you want to still have food on your table and a roof over your head at the end of the month. You can't believe you failed and your heart breaks thinking about what that failure means. $film4 will slowly decay in your basement. You'll probably be able to watch the reels of $film3 for another couple of decades, but it might die before you do. Strangers will never sit down together in a big dark room, eating popcorn, and watch $film2 again. That last scene from $film1, the one you'll never forget . . . no one on earth will remember it [[a hundred years from now->0 saved]]. <img src="MultipleReels.png" height="300">

The board members smile politely while you plead your case. They seem like really nice people, but you've got a sinking feeling that you didn't convince them. At least they don't make you wait long to find out. After ten minutes waiting in the cold outside the coffee shop while they discuss your proposal, their board chair, Aisha, comes out and puts a hand on your shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine a future where $film2 is just . . . gone," she says, looking genuinely distressed, "But there's so much for us to do and so little money to do it with." Disappointed, you mumble "I understand. Thank you so much for your time," and shuffle off down the block. You're out of money to support your fundraising efforts. You've got to get back to your real job if you want to still have food on your table and a roof over your head at the end of the month. You can't believe you failed and your heart breaks thinking about what that failure means. $film4 will slowly decay in your basement. You'll probably be able to watch the reels of $film3 for another couple of decades, but it might die before you do. Strangers will never sit down together in a big dark room, eating popcorn, and watch $film2 again. That last scene from $film1, the one you'll never forget . . . no one on earth will remember it [[a hundred years from now->0 saved]]. <img src="MultipleReels.png" height="300">

You see the nonprofit board members nodding as you talk about the art of film and you feel hopeful that you made the right pitch. They tell you they won't keep you waiting long and ask you to step outside for ten minutes while they make a decision. It only takes six minutes out in the cold before their board chair, Aisha, comes to get you. "Oh goodness, I didn't realize how chilly it is out here! Maybe some good news will warm you up?" It does warm you up. It really does. "I'm not supposed to play favorites," Aisha adds, "but I really hope you'll save $film2. I've always loved that one." You break into a wide smile and suppress a shout of excitement. "Thank you so, so much," you say. "You don't know what this means to me, and what it will mean to future generations." You wish you'd come up with the right words the first time around, too, but at least you got something. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

Elizabeth sips her gin and tonic patiently while you ramble on--probably for far too long. She's blunt when you finish. "I'm sorry, dear, but if I can't even tell that you're passionate about this project, why should I be? I just don't feel a connection to this one." You sigh and tell her you understand. On your way out the door, she adds, "And for the record, I've always thought $film4 was crap. Maybe don't preserve that one." You're out of money to support your fundraising efforts. You've got to get back to your real job if you want to still have food on your table and a roof over your head at the end of the month. You can't believe you failed and your heart breaks thinking about what that failure means. $film4 will slowly decay in your basement. You'll probably be able to watch the reels of $film3 for another couple of decades, but it might die before you do. Strangers will never sit down together in a big dark room, eating popcorn, and watch $film2 again. That last scene from $film1, the one you'll never forget . . . no one on earth will remember it [[a hundred years from now->0 saved]]. <img src="MultipleReels.png" height="300">

Elizabeth listens to you with rapt attention, her gin and tonic forgotten on the coffee table. When you finish, her eyes narrow and she asks, "Did you do research on me before you got here?" she asks. "Probably not enough," you admit, embarrassed that you're so inexperienced at this fundraising stuff. "Amazing," she says. "I saw $film1 for the first time when I was in a really dark place. As silly as this sounds, it made a difference. I've watched it once a month ever since. I can't imagine a future where it doesn't exist anymore." You blink, not believing your good fortune. "You've got my support," she says, "at least to keep $film1 alive for a good long while." You break into a wide smile and suppress a shout of excitement. "Thank you so, so much," you say. "You don't know what this means to me, and what it will mean to future generations." You wish you'd come up with the right words the first time around, too, but at least you got something. Times being what they are, you can't believe you found even one major source of funding. You really hustled to try to keep these films you love alive. Because of your hard work and passion, you've raised enough money to preserve one of your four films. $film1 will live on. Its celluloid reels will receive the ideal care and storage conditions, which should keep them viable for quite a while. And you've funded digitization and a digital preservation plan for $film1, as well, so you'll be able to circulate an easily accessible version, too. But you've got to get back to your [[regular life . . .->1 success, pt 2]]

Depending on what four films you chose, the scenario this game plays out might be pretty improbable. Big, commercial films are unlikely to disappear anytime soon, especially as long as they have the potential to generate profit. The studios that own them will pay to keep them viable. But there are probably moving images you care about that won't survive. Think about that random YouTube video that makes you laugh every time you watch it. Ever seen a student film or a really small indie that you found touching? How about your own home videos--maybe of a grandparent who's died, an ex you still think about . . . Along with educational and industrial films (who have fewer individuals and institutions looking out for them), these kinds of moving images have a lower probability of survival. To give you just one statistic, 300 hours of footage are uploaded to YouTube every minute. Who will--who could possibly--take care of all of those moving images? It's important to preserve what we can. It's also important to reimagine our relationship with moving images--to understand them as [[fragile, impermanent things->Coda]].

. . . your life before all this responsibility fell on your shoulders. You'll lose your job if you don't stop this quest, and you'd like to still have food on your table and a roof over your head at the end of the month. You did all you could, the world being what it is today, but $film3 and $film4 won't survive. Strangers will never sit down together in a big dark room, eating popcorn, and watch $film4 again. That last scene from $film3, the one you'll never forget . . . no one on earth will remember it [[a hundred years from now->2 saved]]. <img src="MultipleReels.png" height="300">

A century from now, $film3 and $film4 are gone. No one spent the time and money to preserve the originals or to digitize them and tirelessly migrate those digital files to each new format that arises. Your granddaughter, now an old woman, tells your great-great-granddaughter about $film3, a movie from long, long ago that you showed her when she was little on some crappy old digital file format that's long since become unwatchable. Your great-great-granddaughter has no way to see $film3. She forgets her grandmother's boring story quickly. But all this talk about old movies puts her in the mood for $film1, another family favorite. She loads the file, turns down the lights, and settles in to watch, her eyes fixing on the same opening scene you've watched so many times. [[The good news and the bad news]].

. . . your life before all this responsibility fell on your shoulders. You'll lose your job if you don't stop this quest, and you'd like to still have food on your table and a roof over your head at the end of the month. You did all you could, the world being what it is today, but $film2, $film3, and $film4 won't survive. $film4 will slowly decay in your basement. Strangers will never sit down together in a big dark room, eating popcorn, and watch $film3 again. That last scene from $film2, the one you'll never forget . . . no one on earth will remember it [[a hundred years from now->1 saved]]. <img src="MultipleReels.png" height="300">

Archivist Paolo Cherchi Usai on film preservation: "The real question is, are viewers willing to accept the slow fading to nothing of what they are looking at? . . . Sooner or later you and I will both disappear, along with our visions and memories of what we have seen and the way we have seen it. Don’t deceive yourself." <img src="Swanson.gif" height="300"> For more on film preservation and its ethical complexities, see <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=io5ZAAAAMAAJ&q=paolo+cherchi+usai+the+death+of+cinema&dq=paolo+cherchi+usai+the+death+of+cinema&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwivrM6RitzVAhUo5YMKHWO6ANoQ6AEIKDAA" target="_blank">Paolo Cherchi Usai</a>, The Death of Cinema: History, Cultural Memory, and the Digital Dark Age. London: British Film Institute, 2001. View the [[credits]] for this game.

A century from now, $film2, $film3, and $film4 are gone. No one spent the time and money to preserve the originals or to digitize them and tirelessly migrate those digital files to each new format that arises. Your granddaughter, now an old woman, tells your great-great-granddaughter about $film3, a movie from long, long ago that you showed her when she was little on some crappy old digital file format that's long since become unwatchable. Your great-great-granddaughter has no way to see $film3. She forgets her grandmother's boring story quickly. But all this talk about old movies puts her in the mood for $film1, another family favorite. She loads the file, turns down the lights, and settles in to watch, her eyes fixing on the same opening scene you've watched so many times. [[The good news and the bad news]].

Designed by Jennifer Malkowski, Assistant Professor of Film and Media Studies at Smith College, with support from a Five College Blended Learning microgrant <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/"><img alt="Creative Commons License" style="border-width:0" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-sa/4.0/88x31.png" /></a> What You Can Save by Jennifer Malkowski is licensed under a <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License</a>.