Staff Inquiry: I’m Not Crying, You’re Crying

We’re in a glass case of emotion this month as the Film Inquiry staff examines the movies that get make them cry. Some had a long list of sob-inducing movies to choose from while others are more reserved viewers, but cinema has a way of breaking us all down eventually. It’s a catharsis we like, otherwise we wouldn’t keep coming back to the medium again and again.

We tried to be a bit more intelligible than Ron Burgundy about why these movies got us feeling so much, and since we were reminiscing about them from a safe distance, the team came up with some sound and varied reasons for why movies make us so emotionally vulnerable.

Tynan Yanaga – Up (2009)

Methinks this topic calls for some transparency; I don’t normally cry at movies. I’ll readily cry in the wake of personal tragedies, painful events, or on those occasions when one of my closest friends gets me cracking up so hard that I can’t help it, but I don’t cry at movies. If you allow me to cheat a little bit, I will make an exception for Up.

Because its opening sequence is so immaculate and exquisitely composed, it is one of the most moving passages that I can recall in any movie. I’ve seen it countless times now, and I know at least one of those times my eyes got a little misty.

I could go on and on about the lifelong romance of Carl and Ellie; I really could. Suffice to say, love is so often articulated not simply through word but in action. What makes this opening interlude of Up so moving is partially indebted to the fact that, aside from a few early one-sided exchanges, we watch the evolution of this love story not through continuous recitations of starry-eyed prose or gushing rhetoric but through day-to-day acts of affection. How they gaze at each other. The way they enjoy just soaking in the other’s presence. They seem so perfectly attuned and deeply content.

Thus, when the unfeeling world takes another one of its bitter turns – such an event that would make me cry in the real world – it doesn’t leave me unaffected. Grief, like love, can similarly be denoted through simple actions because there’s no way to express the pain. It’s so visceral and real and tender; it gets me every time. Up slays us before it’s even begun.

Kristy Strouse – The Green Mile (1999)

This was a tough one for me because so many films have made me sob. In my opinion, some of the best movies hit on such a personal level that it’s only natural to be emotional.

My kryptonite has always been animals, specifically dogs, but I wanted to find a film that always has this effect and that I routinely watch. I finally decided on the Stephen King adaptation The Green Mile.

So, lets talk about John Coffey.

He’s sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit. Michael Clarke Duncan (R.I.P.) plays him with such an innocence that it’s nearly impossible not to sympathize with this character. His supernatural ability to heal adds significance to the story and further demonstrates his capacity for selflessness.

There are several crucial tear-jerking scenes, with the most heartwrenching (spoiler) being his execution. However, there are many others, including a flashback to the crime in question, a resurrection of a mouse, and the reactions from the other characters to Coffey, including a guard played by Tom Hanks.

The crime is a heinous one, too. Two young girls are the victims, which in itself creates a pit in your stomach, but when they show Coffey holding them in his arms screaming, it’s downright emotional torture. This is a tale about the human spirit, and he embodies everything good about people. And yet, Coffey is forced to endure the pain and horrors that are committed daily, so much so that he’s desiring death.

How can you watch this film and not feel connected to the characters, or at the very least feel the impact of such a story? It not only makes me cry because of what’s happening on-screen, but because the basic components touch on the fragility of life.

Linsey Satterthwaite – Where the Wild Things Are (2009)

Any film that explores childhood, from the invocation of heady excitement to the realisation that something along the way was lost, will always edge on the side of melancholy, but Spike Jonze’s adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are absolutely floored me.

Jonze’s take on the beloved book by Maurice Sendak doesn’t feel like a film for kids despite the presence of giant furry creatures. Instead, it feels made for those who have lived and lost their adolescence.

Whilst the film revels in the joy and abandonment that comes with childhood, there’s also a looming sense of heavy-heartedness, from the autumnal palette of the film to the repeated hints that all things have an end. This is achingly realised in a scene with Max, the boy who has run away from home and befriended the creatures, particularly head wild thing Carol (voiced by James Gandolfini). As they walk across a desert, Carol exclaims ‘soon the whole island will be dust and I don’t even know what comes after dust’. The sense of malaise continues in this way so that by the time Karen O’s cover of Daniel Johnston’s Worried Shoes can be heard, I get a serious case of heavy boots and a trembling lip.

This builds to an ending that is etched in my soul and causes me to well up at the mere mention of it. As Max leaves the island, and in turn his new friends, Carol runs after his boat, and the sight of Gandolfini’s wild thing crying at the loss of Max is truly devastating, leaving me weeping as much as my furry cinematic companion. Where the Wild Things Are is a bewitching capsule of childhood, one that leads me to mourn for a time that I can never return to. It is a reflection of a period that we simply hope we savoured every (bitter) sweet moment of.

Amanda Mazzillo – Wreck-It Ralph (2012)

When asked to revisit a film that makes me cry, I automatically thought of Wreck-It Ralph. In general, Disney films know how to make me shed a few tears, but Wreck-It Ralph is one of the few films where I always cry at the same moments.

What makes Wreck-It Ralph stand out is how it always makes me cry both happy and sad tears. One of the moments in the film which always brings the tears is when Ralph and Vanellope make a kart together. Seeing how much Vanellope loves this kart after Ralph is worried he ruined it makes me cry some of the happiest tears a film has inspired in me. When Vanellope cries, I cry along with her.

Watching Ralph think he’s protecting Vanellope by not letting her race is also heartbreaking to me. This one scene shows how much Ralph and Vanellope care for each other and how much they don’t want this budding friendship to end. Vanellope is nervous that Ralph no longer cares about her, while Ralph is made to believe letting her race could be the end for her.

I love the depth of emotions this film awakens in me. Wreck-It Ralph is both the film that makes me cry every single time and one of my first choices when I’m feeling down. The focus on the importance of friendship and overcoming what society expects of us works together to make an unforgettable film. Hopefully, the sequel can capture some of the same emotions in me.

Jay Ledbetter – E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982)

Steven Spielberg has been able to capture the incalculable trait of “movie magic” more frequently and more memorably than any director of his (and maybe any) generation. His early films defined audience expectations for decades to come. Some modern (more cynical) moviegoers have come to criticize Spielberg’s so-called sentimentality and emotional manipulation. He has certainly gone on to use many of the same tools over the years, but in his earliest films, when he was focused on spectacle, universal themes, and heart above all else, Spielberg crafted the quintessential versions of the various genres he tackled.

From the adventure serial to adult sci-fi to the horror/thriller, Spielberg was churning out all-time classics every couple of years. I saw most of these when I was younger, but the one I didn’t see until I was 26 years old (merely a few months ago) was the most child-friendly movie he made during this era: E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.

I watched it mostly on a whim one lazy Sunday afternoon with my wife. I have been known to shed a crocodile tear or two during emotional moments in films, but I cannot name another time when my tear ducts opened wide enough for streams of water to form small rivers down my face and make patches of moisture on the collar of my t-shirt. E.T. is a movie I would’ve said I’ve seen a hundred times. There is a sameness to almost all of the kid-friendly movies today. You can predict which direction the plot is heading and very rarely do you feel at all challenged. Because of this, I was prepared to be rather underwhelmed by E.T., willing to chalk its familiarity up to it being the creation of the very formula that I have become so familiar with.

But E.T. is not a movie like the ones we get today. It is a movie with weight and sadness on the journey to one of the most beautiful endings in film, along the way covering every emotion in the book. There are tears of sadness that Elliot’s newfound best friend is leaving the planet, but also tears of joy that Elliot has found a degree of stability in his life because of what he learned through this friendship. I bawled like a baby. I bawled like a baby for the third time in about a half hour. You beat me, Spielberg. You won. And I’m glad you did.

Jax Griffin – Paths of Glory (1957)

Not many films make me cry; I can count them all on one hand. It’s not that I don’t react viscerally to cinema, but I have put walls up against being “too emotional” that don’t readily crumble. The first exception to this rule is Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory starring Kirk Douglas. It tells the story of three men tried for cowardice in World War I.

The film seems to be most remembered for its stunning tracking shots, particularly those which sweep across the battlefield following the men as they attempt to cross no man’s land. As Kubrick’s anti-war film, Paths of Glory highlights both the horror and futility of war beautifully. I can make it through 99% of the film without tearing up, but the final scene is both so beautiful and so heartbreaking that it breaks me down every time.

Without spoiling the outcome of the trial, the unit featured in the movie finds themselves in a bar at the end of the film and, suddenly, in the presence of a beautiful woman. She sings, and as she does the film cuts between individual shots of the men staring at her. They don’t look at her with longing – the interaction feels far more maternal, as though she is soothing them with a lullaby like children. It perfectly highlights the loss of innocence and the uselessness of said loss, and it will always bring a tear to my eye.

David Fontana – A Monster Calls (2016)

I’m not really a crier in general, but I have admittedly lost it at more films and TV shows within the past few years than I have during actual sad events. When my great uncle died in April of 2014, I didn’t shed a tear. But a couple months later, I watched the final episode of the TV show Six Feet Under, and I was a complete and utter mess.

A similar thing happened with A Monster Calls. Just about a year and a half prior, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I watched my family members exude the proper emotions, crying occasionally and overall seeming more despondent. But somehow I didn’t seem too disheartened by it, living my life as I typically did on a day-to-day basis. People might have thought I was too strong to show emotion. But in reality, I was dying inside.

When I watched A Monster Calls last January, I was deeply moved by J.A. Bayona‘s fantasy-drama, admiring its spectacular animation sequences, the poignant performances, and overall sense of sincerity with its approach to the difficult theme of death. But even more than simply admiring a great film, something else happened: by the time the credits rolled, I was suddenly welling up like I hadn’t since the ending of Six Feet Under. Thankfully, there weren’t too many people in the room to hear my screeching sobs, or to see me walk out of the theater with glistening tears streaming down my face. But in a way, I didn’t care. I drove home in a blur, and immediately sat down to write this review.

When I watched the young Connor in A Monster Calls see his mother slowly start to get more and more sick, I saw myself. My own mother has thankfully since recovered, and has been in remission for some time. But witnessing on screen what I was afraid to face, I finally allowed myself to feel the emotions that I should have had all along. It was a catharsis like I had never felt before. But, like Connor himself through his adventures with the tree-like Monster, it’s only through the power of fiction that I was able to face my own reality.

Gus Edgar – Ratcatcher (1999)

Lynne Ramsay may currently be receiving deserved acclaim for You Were Never Really Here, but her debut feature remains her magnum opus.

An emotional coming-of-age tale set in Scotland, where the ‘coming-of-age’ is stunted and the ‘emotional’ is anything but, Ratcatcher has all the ingredients to make your eyes sting: a tearjerker’s primordial soup, if you will. There’s the impoverished landscape, the grey and saggy colour palette, the social climate rife with blood and bullying, and that title ain’t just metaphorical – the critters are everywhere.

It all sounds rather one-note, doesn’t it? But Ratcatcher isn’t simply an extended exercise in miserablism – there’s a reason why it makes me bawl my eyes out every time. Part is due to the circumstances of its young protagonist (a wonderfully puppy-dog eyed William Eadie), sure. But Ramsay wades through the defeatism with dollops of poetic realism.

There’s a gorgeous and yearning lyrical quality to the formalism – a fantastical segment involving a rat’s escapade to the moon is perhaps its most overt use. Joy, too, is found in combing lice from hair, and there’s even a whimsical comparison between a bloody cut and strawberry sauce. Ramsay knows that the best way to get the tear ducts going is to match melancholy with sublime escapism – which makes the melancholy all the more cruel.

It’s the final scene that truly gets to me, though. Set to Rachel Portman’s terrific piano-poking theme, Ramsay teases ambiguity before settling on a devastating final blow. Though as the credits roll, the potent beauty in Ratcatcher is impossible to miss in spite of your incessant tears.

Those are some of the films that make us cry. Which ones draw tears for you? Let us know in the comments!