Movies: Escape or Compass?

"You’ll be swell, you’ll be great, gonna have the whole world on a plate!”

My mother used to belt that out with a conviction only mothers and brassy Broadway stars can muster, usually while vacuuming or washing dishes. Our old record player crackled out Merman, Streisand, Garland; iconic women whose voices could fill your world with optimism.

And damn if I didn’t buy every word.

Back then, movies, music, and musicals felt like a religion; they were my first taste of magic and the ultimate emotional escape.

I can’t pinpoint exactly the first time I saw The Wizard of Oz, but I remember the ritual vividly. That once-a-year event involved popcorn in a bowl bigger than a toddler tub and my mother ceremoniously wheeling the TV into my bedroom.

And when Dorothy stepped out of Kansas and into Technicolor? Sigh. That was the moment I fell in love with movies.

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When Movies Were More Than Just Movies

Movies weren’t something I merely watched; I lost myself in their sanctuary. You did too, admit it.

We were a generation raised on movie nostalgia and cinematic storytelling; despite our cynical adult shells, that magic still gets me sometimes.

Case in point: Recently, I openly sobbed watching Me Before You (which I had avoided because I had seen enough TikToks to know better) while my family stared at me, bewildered.

But overall, that full-body, heart-wrenching, “I’m not okay for the rest of the day” kind of immersion has…faded. So naturally, I’m asking: What changed?

Me? Hollywood?
A little bit of everything, maybe?

My cinematic education was eclectic, to say the least. I enthusiastically sang show tunes way before I was old enough to be singing them so...enthusiastically.

Like, I knew all the words to Dance: Ten, Looks: Three before I even had boobs. I honestly thought When You're Good to Mama was about helping with the chores. And let's just say Two Ladies raised more questions than answers.

So anyway, movies like Fame, A Chorus Line, and Staying Alive (also above my age) became my adolescent obsessions.

They were a sort of blueprint for life at the time. They showed me that success was something you yearned for and struggled for.

Films didn’t just entertain me...they fueled me.

Movies: The Original Group Therapy

There was a time when movies seemed to be neutral ground. Casablanca. Star Wars. Jurassic Park.

Back then, people didn’t debate whether a film was “problematic”; they just collectively agreed, “This was awesome" or "That really sucked.”

But sometimes, the heart of a good story gets lost beneath flashy special effects or rushed plots; a movie's emotional impact can disappear when nuance is traded for a killer scene.

And it’s not limited to one genre; this happens with true stories, controversial events, documentaries, you name it. The nuance, the subtle art of storytelling, gets sidelined.

Somewhere along the line, Hollywood got more invested in its “messaging” than in making movies people actually escape into.

And look, I get it: the world’s messy. I stay informed, I care. But when I finally carve out precious time for a movie, it's because I've had enough of the world and need that escape.

And I know I'm not the only one.

Tradition, Nerd Edition

Years after my mother made Oz night an annual event, my daughter and I began a tradition of our own.

She was eight when Iron Man launched the MCU, and already a little superhero nerd, just like her mama. I’d worn out VHS tapes rewatching scenes from Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Star Wars. So when I saw that same spark in her, we ran with it.

It became our thing, one movie and one iconic post-credits scene at a time. Years passed as we watched side by side, collecting memories like Infinity Stones. (See what I did there?)

And then came Endgame.

The Night the Theater Became a Battlefield

Opening weekend. Sold-out theater. The buzz before the previews even start, the kind that tells you this one’s going to be different.

Then, softly...“Cap, on your left.”
Cue the absolute insanity.

Portals opened to Wakanda, Titan, Kamar-Taj. One by one, our heroes returned, stepping out like rock stars. And the crowd absolutely lost it - screaming, crying, high-fiving total strangers.

When T’Challa emerged and shouted, “Yibambe!” We all roared it back like we were in the Wakandan army, ready to throw down with Thanos ourselves.

When Mjölnir flew into Cap’s hand, and the room detonated.  It was like the Super Bowl, Comic-Con, and a biblical rapture all at once. (Too dramatic? Nah, not if you'd been there.)

And finally: “Avengers… assemble.”
That was more than just fan service. That was nearly a decade of storytelling, finally hitting a crescendo in the most epic mic drop in cinema history (in my humble opinion).

That final battle scene was a masterclass in communal movie experience and cinematic payoff. It was absolute chaos, in the best way. It was huge and emotional, and it earned every second of the last decade it took to get there.

And then, that quiet, devastating moment:

Snap. Silence.

I swear you could hear the souls shattering. Everyone felt it: stunned, devastated, and yet still oddly united.

So many years later, and still so many of us wish we could relive that first watch.

And yeah, I know it’s a superhero movie—a big, nerdtastic CGI fest with capes, nanotech, and talking raccoons. But it was storytelling at its peak. It cared about its characters and respected its audience.

It turned theaters full of strangers into a community. (Again, not too dramatic if you'd been there, I swear).

Endgame was also our personal finale to our established tradition. Our thing. And now it was over.

I am self-aware enough to recognize the irony of waxing poetic about a comic book movie. But great storytelling transcends genre, does it not?

I've felt just as profoundly moved watching biopics like Schindler's List, Walk the Line, or The King's Speech, movies acclaimed for their nuance, artistry, and unflinching honesty.

And I’m also fully aware that the latest MCU phase has been…scattered (I’ll unpack that another time). But here I am, still watching trailers and hoping for lightning to strike again.

And maybe that's why I'm still holding out for Fantastic Four and Doomsday. I'm hoping those stories carry the kind of stakes and the weight that started this whole thing in the first place.

There’s still talent on the bench. I’m watching Matt Shakman. The Russos are back. If anyone can land a story this size without losing us, it's them.

Give me storytelling that doesn't try too hard to go viral; I'll take that over what's trending any day. (I can quote Casablanca and fiercely defend Age of Ultron, but I will say “no cap” at dinner just to watch the kids cringe.)

Ultimately, I'm not chasing cinematic perfection; I just want genuine storytelling that makes me forget about my phone and reconnect with the emotional power of film.

I want to believe, just for a couple of hours, that life could actually come up roses.
And for me, that’s still enough.

No cap.

Want More? Read Next:

• This essay pairs with Beautiful Lies: daydreams, movies, and survival. Same muscle, different flex.
• If MCU debates are your thing, head to Stark Contrast.
• For wistful nostalgia, see GenX Is Not Okay Right Now.

☕ I’ll keep writing; you keep the coffee flowing. Deal?

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.