A movie as dense as Interstellar requires room for thought outside the confines of the screen, which is what the best cinema does: a series of still photographs flashed in procession, the ultimate gift of a movie is its invocation for the viewer to be creative, to give life to frozen pictures reassembled within their own mind. Nolan’s embrace and total devotion to analog in camera methods is one and the same, the result being movies that require the viewer’s mind to complete their consensual illusion.
And on the subject of 'love' in the movie:
It’s only through Cooper’s attachment to memories of his daughter and his separation from her, defined by love, longing, loss, regret and guilt, that a point in time can be defined, that its pull, its gravity, is an anchor, and this is what happens in the tesseract.
It’s not that love conquers anything; it is that our lives are a strange journey through time, through the infinite prison, and in doing so we have love as a result, a revolt against the “colossal hoax of calendars and clocks” as e.e. cummings wrote. We visit the dead, those we’ve lost; we remember them. The love here is about a grief that the film is full of, a mournfulness for the persistence and inviolable prison of time we journey through every day, every second, every moment, always losing it.
I watched Interstellar last weekend. The movie didn't immediately blow me away as Inception did but after a few days, my opinion of it is much more positive. This essay is the best thing I've read about it.