The blog entry "In Search of Redemption" inspired an outpouring of reader comments remarkable not only for their number but for their intelligence and thought. It became obvious that many of us go to the movies seeking some sort of release or healing. Many of you mentioned titles that especially affected you; two of my most-admired films, "Hoop Dreams" and "Grave of the Fireflies," were frequently listed. You all had your reasons. Now Ali Arikan, a longtime contributor to this site, has written me about why he was so affected by a relatively unlikely title, "The Out-of-Towners." His reasons were personal; he can post them below if he chooses to. But in connection with his explanation, he quoted the first paragraph of one of my reviews.
It was for "Frequency" (2000), Gregory Hoblit's movie about a man who uses a freak of his dad's old ham radio to be able to talk to him in the present, even though he was a child when his father died. Here is my first paragraph:
I know exactly where the tape is, in which box, on which shelf. It's an old reel-to-reel tape I used with the tape recorder my dad bought me in grade school. It has his voice on it. The box has moved around with me for a long time, but I have never listened to the tape since my dad died. I don't think I could stand it. It would be too heartbreaking.
Yes. I still have the tape, and I still feel that way. But in connection with movies, I didn’t think my emotions ever ran that strongly. Then I had a striking experience. In connection with the Great Movies project, I settled down to watch a relatively recent film I thought was a likely prospect, Mike Nichols' "Wit" (2001). It was a made-for-HBO film, and although we reviewed it on the TV show and I picked it as one of the year's best films, I had never published a written review because it never opened theatrically. This would be my chance.
On our "Best Films of 2002" show, I said:
Made for HBO, "Wit" is a drama both intelligent and heartbreaking, starring Emma Thompson as a woman dying of cancer. She is an English professor who filters her own suffering through the disciplines of the poetry she loves. She was always a proud, independent woman who stood apart from others--and now, at the end, she is alone. The movie is merciless in showing how hospital routine robs her of her dignity. And awesome in the way she struggles with every ounce of her humanity to keep her self-respect. "Wit" was based on a play by Margaret Edson, and was directed by Mike Nichols, who wrote the screenplay with Thompson. If "Wit" had qualified in theaters, Thompson would certainly get an Oscar nomination for her best work on film.
I inserted the DVD in the machine, pressed "play," and settled back to watch it. The first shot is a close-up of a man's face, a doctor, who tells someone she has advanced ovarian cancer. The next shot is a close-up of the woman he is speaking to, saying "yes?" or "and?" I forget which. I turned off the TV. I realized I actually could not watch the movie.
I remembered it too clearly, perhaps, and dreaded re-living it. When I reviewed it, its situation was theoretical for me, and I responded to the honesty and emotion of the drama. Since then, I have had cancer, and had all too many hours, days and weeks of hospital routine robbing me of my dignity. Although people in my situation are always praised for their courage, actually courage has nothing to do with it. There is no choice.
I used to smile at reader letters saying things like, "My husband is sick and I need a movie to cheer him up." I doubted the Norman Cousins theory that laughter is curative (I still do). The experience with "Wit" was a revelation. Yes, movies can be immediate and real to us--sometimes too real. Sometimes they record events we do not want to experience, or remember. It is a tribute to their power.
I have been watching a lot of Ingmar Bergman. Last night I finished "The Passion of Anna" (1969). My original review is missing, but it was on my "best 10" list for the year, so I gave it full honor. Have you seen it? It is avant-garde in some of its devices, such as cutaways to the actors discussing their characters. Astonishingly well-photographed by Sven Nykvist. Some of the best work ever done on screen by Liv Ullmann and Max von Sydow, and Bibi Andersson. And filled with deep, soul-lacerating anguish. But I could admire it, empathize with it, and not shrink away from it, because it was all happening to them. When it happens to you, that’s another matter.
I haven't seen The Passion of Anna yet, but it's definitely a film that I've been wanting to watch. The Virgin Spring is currently my favorite.
Roger, thanks for your post. I've never had an experience where a movie hit too close to home to see it again, but I'm only 22 and perhaps that will come with time as I see more films and as I go through life more.
The movie that comes closest to affecting me so deeply that it's hard to watch is "The Passion of the Christ". I'm a Christian, so it's especially visceral and emotionally draining to see all that happens to Jesus over the course of the film.
I have a similar experience with 1993's My Life. My Life was a unnoticed film from 1993 that starred Michael Keaton as a man going thru the final stages of kidney cancer. As I remember it, it wasn't a particularly great film (save for an very effective performance by Keaton), but it didn't matter, I (as did my girlfriend at the time) cried like babies at the end. Since then, I married that girlfriend and I lost my mother to breast cancer. I've tried a number of times to revisit that movie and just can't. The mere thought of it takes me back to places in my mind that I just don't want to visit. I whole heartedly agree with you, Mr. Ebert, that films are powerful. And that's why I love them so much.
All the best to you and your recovery. I look forward to each new blog entry and review from you.
Sometimes, movies show us the way in these kinds of life scenarios too.
As an adoptive parent, I was blubbering by the end of the scene where Jennifer Garner talks to the baby through Juno's stomach. She shows such love for the baby and respect for Juno. It turned a potentially devastating encounter into a lesson in grace for everyone who might go through something like that. And, the movie also showed us that paint colors and plans don't matter much once someone arrives on your doorstep.
Great movies can bring important parts of life into focus.
Quite a thing the impact that films can have.
I posted this morning on the other thread mentioning "Grave of the Fireflies". I'm not precisely sure why I experience it so powerfully; the reasons could be many and they're well documented by others. It could be in part that I have kids almost the age of the children in the film. Anyway, it came in a lovely Studio Ghibli six disc set that I've owned for the last couple years. I've watched it once, thinking it one of the most extraordinary films I had ever seen and still haven't had the nerve to watch it a second time.
One day...
I guess we all reach a point in life where age quits giving us new experiences and abilities and starts taking them away from us. Thankfully we can often develop new insights regardless, but of course dementia and Alzheimer's can take that away too. What remains but the divine? The belief that we have touched a spiritual reality that remains even if all else is lost, and that this moment or gain is eternal despite what happens to our body and our mind.
When we realize the above at an early age, prior to the losses accumulating to a point where they suffocate us mentally and emotionally; I believe that's when we can look at life, or a movie, or a cloud, or hear a kitten purr, or feel the touch of a friend and really find humanity and redemption.
It's not a fear of potential loss, but a recognition of the inevitability of that loss that often moves us to be most human in our perception and actions.
In this manner, a sports film, a war movie, a buddy flick, a "chick flick", an animated tale, a documentary; all can equally move us if they are self-aware (without preaching or banging us over the head with their point and are not too manipulative).
Sorry, I just started writing and could not stop...
In my capacity as a crime fiction critic, I read a lot of books that have disturbing subject matter: kidnappings, murders, etc. None of it ever bothered me very much. (It is, after all, fiction, and words on a page have more emotional distance than scenes in a film. Not that films every bothered me much either.)
After my daughter was born, though, I found that I couldn't stomach certain types of stories any longer. One book in particular opened with a mother running in to a supermarket to buy a forgotten item. Her daughter is asleep in the car, so she decides to leave her alone. It's only for a few minutes, she reasons. When she returns, of course, her daughter is gone.
I couldn't read the book. It was too painful even to contemplate, and I found I didn't want to contemplate it. Those were images I simply didn't want in my head. So I put it away.
As life works its magic on us, for good and for ill, it changes us -- and those changes can't help but manifest themselves in how we react to the things we watch and read.
The movie that "hurts too much" for me would be "Trains, Planes and Automobiles." Very sad ending.
So I've just had this epiphany and it's all your fault. Let me backtrack to say that Thompson was amazing in "Wit" and I really loved the movie. Like you, watching it again is not high on my list of fun ways to spend an afternoon; but for different reasons.
For me the film which is truly plague-ridden, as in 'avoid it like', is one I love. The actors are wonderful, the story...all of it. It's so weird that this never crossed my mind until now. About four and a half years ago, I found a previously viewed copy of "Moonlight Mile" in a grungy little video store. It was funny and honest and sad, and of course any two hours spent with Susan Sarandon is alright with me.
Then my little brother died. Okay, 28 is not so little, but it was just the two of us. Being the oldest made it my duty to boss and baby him all the days of his life; whether he liked it or not. So little brother it is.
In the early days after his death, when sleep was scarce and Millay's "Elaine" escaped my lips like a mantra; during the days when I was so very angry, I watched "Moonlight" again.
Like most things, during that time, it barely registered. A few months later, I popped it in the dvd player. Within a few moments Gyllenhal was hiding from mourners at the wake. And everywhere were the Italian words she'd taped up in preparation for their honeymoon. I turned it off.
Sitting here pondering your post, I suddenly realize a lot of movies have made my 'no-go' list; any movie I feared would make me feel too much. Historically, my favorite films 'go there', wherever 'there' is, fully and honestly. I never understood people who only wanted the fluffy popcorn flicks. Now I do. But it's definitely time to wake up again.
Before his death, I was just starting to get into Bergman so maybe...
Thank you Mr. Ebert, for sharing your thoughts and your journey.
There is so much here to think about. Some random thoughts:
David: I had the exact same experience once I had children. I can no longer read about violence to a child w/o blenching--it's too close for me.
Re "Wit"--I am an RN but have also been a patient, and so know something of the loss of control and dignity that all pts face. That film crams every minute with the terror of mortality and the fear of lonely loss, coupled with the essential character that is revealed by the crucible in which she finds herself, but I think it finds grace in the end (that's quite a sentence).
My father, (an MD) recommended that film to some of his pts in the gyne cancer clinic. Of those who chose to watch the film, some were grateful for witnessing a voice to their situation; some were devastated. I am left curious as to those who thanked him for his recommendation.
I find as I get older, I prefer my truths to be bleak rather than sugar coated. Or perhaps discovering that truth is bleak and can't be sugar coated is one sign of growing up...? I'm about to turn 46, so I suppose it had to happen sometime. :)
I saw "Moonlight Mile" with 2 friends in the theater. After it was over, we all just sat in our seats rather stunned. I share a liking for movies with my Dad (Mom says she never got over the Wicked Witch, or Heidi dying--not sure if Heidi actually dies, but the upshot is my mother doesn't watch films), and I would like to share MM with him.
I cannot and know I cannot since I haven't been able to watch it again since we lost my sister, the second sister to die within 5 years. I know he cannot watch "Wit" now. My sisters did not die of cancer, they suffered from a chronic illness, but still the reality of the film is too close. I can only admire those pts who were glad to have seen "Wit" as they themselves lived out their own story arcs. I am not sure I would have the fortitude.
To me, this mix of emotions affecting our preferences of film/book choices is like I'm on a high bank and there's an edge to the precipice: certain films show us the light and air and freedom that comes from coming close to the cliff-edge, the sheer joy of feeling alive and shouting into the wind, but other films show us the yawning chasm and certain destruction and our vulnerability that the precipice reveals.
Films like "Good Will Hunting" or "Lost in Translation" or "Little Miss Sunshine" celebrate the one side of that edge; films like "Wit" or "Moolight Mile" or "American Beauty" (well, that one may straddle the metaphor!) show us the "dark side" of that ledge.
Which is not to say that one type of film tends to be happy or sunny and the other dark or foreboding. Just that there is a balance to be had between the natural ease and facility that a cliffside boundary can give us and the danger of the abyss below--one cannot exist without the other. An essential dichotomy? Would we have the joyous feeling of freedom and grace (from films that show redemption/grace) if the chance of wreckage(cutting too close to the bone) weren't real?
I don't think so, but I'm getting long winded and muddled here, so I'll close.
I think I would love to see more of Bergman than I have already, as, if his work touches so deeply as it does with Cries and Whispers, then I must see it. There is something so unbearably truthful in the work. Looking into the Doctor's eyes as he stands in front of Maria, gazing, contemplating his future actions, contemplating whether or not he should truly delve into the situation, let himself be taken, overthrown, or to simply move away. He approaches, but, after a moment, realization strikes him, and he turns from her, making his way out, away from the devil's grasp, a smart man, indeed.
Recently, I saw Pierrot le Fou, Godard's 1965 film. What I noticed that was very interesting about both that film and Breathless was that both have so much resemblence to each other. I may be wrong when I say this, but, from what I've seen, Godard doesn't seem like the perfect guy with plots. He seems to care more about the relationships between people, and how people react, and then he throws something in there toward the end. Frankly, I love what he does with his characters, because he shows some truly astonishingly beautiful moments between people not often on display in films of any nature, especially todays romantic comedies (for the most part...there are exceptions, of course).
But, after I saw Pierrot, I watched the documentary from the second disc that delved into Godard and Anna Karina's life together, and how their films completely went with their relationship at the current moment. It brought forth something that became truly sad to watch. To see Belmondo's looks in the film as he realizes the betrayal...how can one express that? He surely did it well. He probably could have just sat down and observed Godard himself for a while, and realized what to do. It was so poingant and beautiful. No, I did not cry, but just the thought that "This is what the man must have been going through," was enough to startle me, at least.
(Lastly, I will say the film I cried the most, or more like wept at, was Aronovsky's Requiem for a Dream, a film with such a devastating ending that I could hardly fathom anything else to do at that very moment)
Savvy
Roger,
I have been a long time reader of your reviews from Bangalore.
When you talked about movies that made one cry - it reminded me of one of the movies by the Tamil movie star, Kamal Hassan, called Mahanadhi (meaning great river).
There is a scene where he comes to know that his missing teenage daughter was sold off as a prostitute and he goes searching for her and finds her in one of the red light areas of Calcutta. It was extremely moving and I could not help, but cry for the daughter and father. At the time I saw the movie, I did not have kids, but still the anguish hit me hard.
Thanks a lot for your wonderful reviews. I recently saw the movie - 'In Bruges' after reading your review. Your review has never failed for me.. Thank you again.
Regards,
Sathish
I encountered such a situation while viewing Oliver Stone's "Born on the Fourth of July" many years ago. Specifically, the quiet scene when Ron Kovic (Tom Cruise) returns home from Vietnam to his parents' house. Confined to a wheelchair, disillusioned, Kovic is a shell of the man he once was. But it was his father, Mr. Kovic, played by Raymond J. Barry, which caused me to hold up my hands to block the image from my eyes. Barry's character, in short-sleeved shirt and glasses, confused and devastated, tries to help his son while tears are welling up in his eyes. My own tears immediately came, as Barry had perfectly captured my father. It was such an emotional wallop, and I am not sure I ever understood my dad, or fatherhood in general, until that moment. Let's face it, dads are not Henry Fonda, Clifton Webb, Gregory Peck or even Thomas Mitchell. Barry, one of the finest character actors working today, hit the bull's-eye. I am most certainly not a veteran of war nor am I confined to a wheelchair. But by God, that was my dad on screen, and a film enabled me to confront my own definition. Watching the scene today is akin to dancing on broken glass.
There are certainly many movies that resonate with me personally because I understand exactly what they’re about, and what the characters are going through. “Atonement” would be a recent example, due especially to the speech Vanessa Redgrave gives at the end. The scene conveys the thought behind the story with clarity and directness (it’s one of the few movie scenes that I can think of where a character appears at the end and explains the meaning of everything that has gone before that don’t feel preachy or patronizing), and reveals that the movie isn’t just about the separation of a couple, but about someone who, at a very young age, makes a mistake so big that it haunts them for the rest of their life.
I can’t think of any examples of films whose events resemble events in my own life so closely that I can’t bear to watch them. But I don’t think I will be revisiting Stanley Kubrick’s “Barry Lyndon” any time soon because its message (the way I interpret it) is built on thoughts that I would rather not have seen so vividly illustrated. The movie is haunting, a brilliantly told story and a technical marvel, and it also has a message so hopeless that I can’t describe it as anything but utterly depressing. If it can be hard when a movie reminds you painfully of an event in your own life - a tragedy in your family, an uncomfortable experience, a personal misfortune – how much worse is the thought that, whatever highs or lows you experience in your lifetime, in the end, it all doesn’t matter?
The great film editor and sound designer, Walter Murch, observed in a keynote address that when a child wakes from a disturbing dream, the comfort often given includes the reminder that "It's only a dream." When that same thing happens to a child watching a movie, the comfort is "It's only a movie."
Movies, so akin to the natural way we remember and experience life, are often powerful triggers that easily put us smack in the shadowy areas of emotions that we may not voluntarily visit otherwise. Frequently staging an ambush in some part of my inner landscape, movies, like vivid dreams, can recreate the joy and terror of living.
I remember watching a movie on HBO back in the early 1980's that affected me strongly at the time as I was going through a period where my father and I did not get along at all. "Tribute", a Jack Lemmon film. I often credited the movie as a catalyst for a reconciliation with him, and for that I'm thankful; to this day I consider my dad one of my heroes.
Now as far as the movie itself, I had a chance to watch it again a few years ago. Nothing of my initial reaction to the film...which I had included on my own personal "Top 10" favorite films list...had lasted. I actually found the movie to be a big letdown, even a bore. I noticed really bad lighting, cinematography, editing. I guess I grew as a movie fan and have learned to realize qualities in movies that blew right past me when I was 20 and still a relative film novice.
Needless to say, I no longer consider "Tribute" one of my favorite movies, or for that matter even a very good film. But I am still thankful for the chance to see it during a crucial period of my young adult life.
To David Montgomery's point above: becoming a parent has made my wife and I extremely susceptible to any themes involving children.
We used to joke that the only move I'd seen my wife cry over was My Dog Skip. But she recently had to turn off Away From Her. I found it hard to bear as well, and I noticed an interesting point when it was discussed in the office. The 20-somethings loved it, though they admitted to crying, almost in the same vein as The Notebook (which I have not seen). The older 40-somethings found it wrenching and almost too painful. For me: in watching Gordon Pinsent and Julie Christie, I realized that, as lifers, this was in both of our futures, a fact that we both knew, I suppose, but being suddenly faced with it, it hurt.
As you can no longer watch Wit, I can no longer watch Trainspotting, but for a different reason. The brief scene showing the fate of a baby in Trainspotting used to flash by without my noticing it. Life gave me two children, one of whom had special needs during his infancy that led to many scary cribside moments for us. Can't watch it anymore...
On a non-personal level, Zhang Yimou's "To Live" is an emotional wrecking ball. Gong Li put's in one of the most amazing performances of all time, and while I understand none of it without subtitles, her passionate, irrational cries during her daughter's deathbed scenes just kill me. And her reminder to their old friend, who accidentally killed their son and is contemplating doing the same to himself, "Remember: You still owe us a life!" brings my mind to a state of utter confusion as to the state of our place in the world, and how it imparts responsibility to others.
On a personal level, I would submit "The Graduate" (and not simply because, like "Wit", it was directed by Mike Nichols). I'm cheating because, in fact, I can and do watch it with immense pleasure. But it is intensely painful every time. I was Benjamin Braddock 5 years ago, and I've had many struggles since then that, in their way, have left me much like Braddock even at 26. It reminds me of my own failings, which at first glance would seem unpleasant, but the absurdity (and the perfection) of the film also impart a strange sense of hope. Perhaps it's because I know that Dustin HOffman did not succeed either for much of his youth. He was unknown until this film, at which point he is 33. So I have 7 more years until this film can rightfully depress me. :) But the film is great, and I love reading Mr. Ebert's thoughts on it. Perhaps one day Mr. Ebert could write his updated thoughts on the film, on what Braddock's experience might be like for someone in his position in today's vastly different world?
For me, the most painful "movie" is actually a television episode. In the series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the episode "The Body" shows the lead character, a young woman named Buffy, as she discovers her mother's lifeless body in the living room.
It was heart-wrenching to watch at the time - and much more so a few months later, when my own mother unexpectedly died.
One part of the dialogue is particularly poignant to me. It features an ex-demon named Anya, who had previously been immortal, but is now a human girl struggling to come to terms with her helplessness in the face of death:
Anya: Are they gonna cut the body open?
Willow: Oh my God! Would you just... stop talking? Just... shut your mouth! Please!
Anya: What am I doing?
Willow: How can you act like that?
Anya: Am I supposed to be changing my clothes a lot? Is that the helpful thing to do?
Xander: Guys—
Willow: The way you behave—
Anya: Nobody will tell me.
Willow: Because it's not okay for you to be asking these things!
Anya (crying): But I don't understand! I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's, there's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore! It's stupid! It's mortal and stupid! And, and Xander's crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why. (She puts her hand over her face, crying.)
Willow (after a long pause): We don't know... how it works... why.
I am only 23 years old, and though my life has gone through numerous downs and further downs, close reflections of my life have never really affected my ability to see films related to what has happened in my life.
My grandfather died of Alzheimer's disease, and I was there with him every step of the way into the furthest reaches of his dementia, and yet Alzheimer's in film ("Away from Her", "The Notebook", "Iris") does not affect me to the point of tears or depression, oftimes because I can separate myself from the characters and see the plot wheels turning despite the excellent performances involved.
Likewise, my father is an abusive alcoholic who I removed from my life when I was 16, and films about alcoholics ("Days of Wine and Roses", "28 Days", "The Lost Weekend") do not depress me as much as make me want to just reach into the screen, grab the characters and shake them until they come to their senses.
So I find it odd that, in reaction to your above post, the only movie that I cannot bring myself to see because of how deeply it affects my emotions is "Big Fish." Your review on it is slightly negative, and I agree that it is a flawed film that doesn't succeed in its execution, but there was a film where I was able to forgive its shortcomings easily and immediately because I felt an honesty and emotion backing every line of dialogue and shot of film that is so lacking from most major Hollywood releases today.
It is a movie about storytellers from, arguably, one fo the greatest storytellers in film today. And as a young storyteller myself (my first novel was published earlier this year), when I saw the film (thankfully alone) in theaters on its opening weekend I became immersed in the life of this man, this good man, who loves to spin a good yarn and live his life through them.
By the end of the film, when Billy Crudup (who plays the son in the film) picks up the torch for storytelling left by his father (Albert Finney) and, in the process, gives his father the perfect story to act as an epilogue to his amazing life moments before his father's death, I lost it. Tears, snot...all of it. In the theater. I couldn't help myself. Because really, who could ask for a better ending to our lives than surrounded by loved ones embracing our journey and carrying it forward to future generations?
When the movie came out on DVD, I immediately bought it and put it in my DVD player, but could not make it past the first scene. The fact that a movie could affect me so strongly actually scared me a little bit, and I filed it away in my movie room. When the special edition DVD came out, I immediately bought it and tried again, and could not get past the scene with the Witch and her eye.
And now there it sits, on a shelf in my movie room filed alphabetically next to my fifty or so favorite films, right between "Beauty and the Beast" and "Blow Up."
And it sits. And sits.
Maybe one day...but not today.
As I briefly mentioned in the previous comments section, and elaborated on in private communication to Mr Ebert, like he kindly mentions, there are a few scenes in the remake of The Out-of-Towners that move me deeply. It's the way Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn's characters say goodbye to their daughter, leaving home for the first time for college. The way the two deal with the trauma, so succinctly executed in the briefest of scenes, and played to perfection by the three actors. It is, for me, one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the history of cinema (as is a scene a few minutes later when the two come back to an empty home).
The reason is personal, and I prefer to not get into too many details, but suffice to say, the way I said goodbye to my folks when I went to university, the way I saw them walk away as I stood there at the gates (if family is indeed nuclear, then this was like the splitting of the atom): those are memoris indelibly etched into my very being, and in the scenes I mentioned, I saw a perfect mirror image.
We make connections with films all the time, but sometimes, the connection is, indeed, too painful to bear. Once again, I must quote an excerpt from Mr Ebert's excellent review for Frequency, which ends with one of those deeply moving sentences that makes you weep instantly:
The ending of the movie is contrived, but then of course it is: The whole movie is contrived. The screenplay conferences on "Frequency" must have gone on and on, as writer Toby Emmerich and the filmmakers tried to fight their way through the maze they were creating. The result, however, appeals to us for reasons as simple as hearing the voice of a father who you thought you would never hear again.
Hi Roger,
I think what you're getting at is a real human truth. Just more than two years ago, I watched a close relative die from cancer. The process was both agonizingly slow and remarkably quick. She was only 53, young and vibrant, in perfect physical condition (she was a regular marathon runner). But cancer struck her, and she noticed it far too late.
The process was slow given the nonstop hospital visits and then those last few weeks, where she basically was in hospice care, with my wonderful mother acting as the nurse. The process itself I'll reserve out of respect for privacy. Days later, simply seeing pictures of her was enough to make me (and everyone else) cry profusely.
Movies have the same experience. It's not that they hurt too much; it's that they can remind us of life before tragedy and disease. My non-scientific hunch is that looking at "Wit" for you was like looking at an old photograph; you had seen the photo before, admired it, praised it, but seeing it again brought back new feelings because of new experiences.
I graduated college only about five years ago, and was lucky to get to review some movies freelance during that time for some local papers, and of course during college. A lot happens to a young person in college, and in a sense, even the worst movies I reviewed (and I reviewed "The Hot Chick" and "VeggieTales," so I have a solid understanding) were a nice escape.
When a movie deals with pain and death and sorrow, I think audiences are decidedly split. Most "general" audiences want the movies to simply entertain them and lift their spirits; others, particularly critics and serious film enthusiasts, are looking for a film to challenge their idea of what cinema can be. A good friend of mine is as smart and savvy about film as anyone I know, but he's alienated from pictures like "Monster's Ball." When that film came out, I remember him watching it on disc, more or less hating it, and explaining why.
"Why would anyone want to make this movie?" he asked, wondering how a movie filled with so much sadness and pain could ever be seen as not simply entertainment, but a worthy investment of time.
I didn't fully agree with him then and I don't fully now, but I could hear his viewpoint: even serious films for him needed to entertain more so than enlighten. There had to be some larger vision, like in "Far From Heaven" or "Brokeback Mountain," which he did love. Or consider something like "American Beauty," a recent film, where darkness and sadness are all over the place, effortlessly masked by hearty satire and bathed in luminous cinematography. Those elements are intentional distractions, keeping us at a distance from the real tragedy beneath; a movie like "Wit," which I did see and which did haunt me, confronts reality head on, forces us to see what cancer and death looks like, but also what it **sounds** like.
If someone writes you another letter asking for a movie to cheer up their sick relative or friend, I think you should do what I do: default to a movie you've already seen, a m