Reality doesn’t like steady cams, smooth gimbals, slow motion trance-trapping outbursts of energy.
It doesn’t carry muzak. Those emotive triplets on that fucking software piano and reverse glitches of degraded digital signals.
Reality leaks like the warm blood of a woman having her period into a cheap tampon, when ‘filmed’ by people who make spots for cars, perfumes and their celebrated mascots (by public — the most dense collection of unintelligent protein in the universe).
Reality doesn’t shed tears for clever trickery; forms and speeds in variation, developed for a popular impact, seeking virtue.
Reality knows its genetic make up with its eyes closed. The sound will always, always, always give away a liar, cheater.
Reality is handheld, caressed and battered, like the camera, it jostles around like a ship in tempest. You cannot control it. Cannot smooth it.. without sucking the life out of reality.
Aesthetics developed by filming commercials cannot be appropriated to documentation of reality without becoming a vague spot with a missing product. Here is your example:
Cinematography is not the art of flushing out the jaggedness of reality.
Cinematography is the art of writing with reality for the jaggedness that must hit you in the chest not the eye.