Movies: Escape or Compass?

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

My mom belted that out with a conviction only mothers and 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 were (to me at least) as convincing as religion. I can’t pinpoint exactly the first time I ever saw The Wizard of Oz, but I remember the ritual vividly. That once-a-year event: popcorn in a bowl bigger than my head, Mom 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.

When Movies Were More Than Just Movies

Movies weren’t something I merely watched; they were worlds I dove into, heart first. You did too, admit it. We were a generation raised on movie magic, and despite our cynical adult shells, the magic occasionally breaks through.

Case in point: Recently, I sobbed openly watching Me Before You (which I had purposely avoided because I had heard how gut-wrenching it was) while my family stared at me, bewildered.

But that full-body, heart-grabbing, “I’m not okay for the rest of the day” kind of immersion has…faded. So naturally, I’m asking:
What changed?
Me? Hollywood?
The entire universe?
Little bit of everything, I suspect.

My cinematic education was eclectic, to say the least. I enthusiastically performed show tunes way before fully grasping their meanings. Movies like Fame, A Chorus Line, and Staying Alive (way too mature for my age) became my adolescent obsession.

They were gritty blueprints of ambition, desperation, and sacrifice. They showed me that success wasn’t something handed to you; it was something you yearned and struggled for.

Those films didn’t just entertain me...they gave me fuel.

Movies: The Original Group Therapy

There was a time when movies seemed to be neutral ground. Casablanca. Star Wars. Jurassic Park. Back then, you didn’t debate whether a film was “problematic”; you just collectively agreed, “this story is awesome”.

Even blockbusters respected our intelligence. Interstellar didn’t just mess with your head; it cracked your heart open. And don’t even get me started on the genius that is the soundtrack.

But sometimes, the heart of a good story gets lost beneath special effects, rushed or contrived plots... I miss simplicity, when storytelling felt effortless, not calculated. Lately, the magic feels diluted. Maybe we've all just been overfed too many universes and sequels, which doesn't leave enough space to feel anything real.

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. 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, I crave escape. Maybe even something that touches my soul.

Tradition, Nerd Edition

Years after my mom 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.

One movie at a time, one iconic post-credits scene at a time, and it became our thing. We didn’t just watch those heroes grow; we grew up alongside them.

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 absolute insanity.

Portals opened to Wakanda, Titan, Kamar-Taj. One by one, the 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 part of the Wakandan army, ready to throw down with Thanos ourselves.

Then 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 wasn’t just fan service. It was ten years of storytelling finally hitting a crescendo in the most epic mic drop in cinema history (in my humble opinion).

That battle scene was absolute chaos, in the best way. Huge. Emotional. Earning every second of the last decade it took to get there.
And then, that quiet, devastating moment:

“I…am…Iron Man.”

Snap. Silence.

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

We still talk about it, wishing we could relive that first watch.
Because for those three hours, everything else ceased to matter. Not politics, social media, or whatever was waiting for us at work. Just pure, communal storytelling magic.

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

That night, it turned a theater full of strangers into a community. (Again, not too dramatic if you'd been there with us, I swear).

Endgame was the finale to a decade-long tradition. It was our story. Our thing. And now it had a final scene.

I am self-aware enough to recognize the irony of waxing poetic about a comic book movie. But great storytelling transcends genre. I've felt just as deeply moved watching powerful 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 (we’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 defend Infinity War, but I’ll still say “no cap” at the dinner table just to hear the kids groan in agony.)

Ultimately, I'm not chasing cinematic perfection or carefully curated social statements. I just want a movie that makes me forget about my phone, that pulls my heart into another dimension, and that creates rituals I'll remember a decade from now.

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.

✍️ Like this one? Don't stop here:

• The Best Thing I Never Got – I used to think I missed out on something huge. But the further I got from that almost-moment, the more I started seeing what it would’ve cost me. Not in salary. In self.
• I Know It's Fiction. Shut Up. - I know it's fiction. I also know I trusted Tony Stark more than most people in real life. You wanna argue with that, or you wanna sit down and read?

☕ Fueled by stories. Stabilized by caffeine.
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