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 moms and brassy Broadway stars can muster, usually while vacuuming or washing dishes. Our old record player crackled out Merman, Streisand, and Garland; iconic women whose voices filled my 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 don’t remember exactly when I first saw The Wizard of Oz, but I vividly recall the ritual we used to have back then. That once-a-year event involved popcorn in a bowl bigger than a baby tub, and my mother would ceremoniously wheel the TV into my bedroom.

And when Dorothy stepped into glorious Technicolor? Sigh.

That was the moment I fell in love with movies.

Movies weren’t something I merely watched; I lost myself in them. You probably did too, admit it. I still do, 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 for me, that full-body, heart-wrenching, “I’m not okay” kind of immersion has been harder to achieve. So naturally, I’m asking: What changed?

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

My cinematic education was eclectic, to put it mildly. 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 just about helping with chores.

Movies like Fame, A Chorus Line, and Staying Alive became my adolescent obsessions. They were my roadmap for life, teaching me that success was something you had to want and work for.

There was a time when movies felt like neutral ground. Casablanca, Star Wars, or Citizen Kane, for example. Back then, we didn’t dissect every line or character for hidden meaning.

We usually just argued about who had the better lightsaber.

Now it feels like many films come with an invisible checklist measuring how "correct" or "informative" they are, rather than how good they are.
Somewhere in all that, the storytelling got diluted.

And look, I get it: the world’s a hot mess. I do stay informed, because I care. I'm crazy about biopics and documentaries.

But when I finally carve out precious time for a movie, nine times out of ten it's because I've had enough of the world and need that escape.

And I know I'm not the only one.

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

My girl was eight when Iron Man launched the MCU, and already a superhero nerd, just like her mama. At her age, I was wearing out VHS tapes of Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Star Wars.

It became our thing, one movie and 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.

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

For three hours, we laughed at inside jokes and felt those full-circle moments, both good and bad.

When Nat made her ultimate sacrifice, we were stunned into silence. During the buildup to the final battle, when Mjölnir flew into Cap’s hand, our theatre detonated.  

Then, the crackle of "Cap, on your left.”
Portals opened from Wakanda, Titan, New Asgard, the Sanctums, Kamar-Taj, and many more. One by one, our heroes returned from the "dead" and the theatre absolutely lost it.

When T’Challa emerged and shouted, “Yibambe!” We all roared it back like we were gonna throw down on Thanos right alongside them.

It was absolute insanity in the best possible way.

And finally: “Avengers… assemble.”
Two little words signifying over a decade of storytelling, hitting a crescendo in one of the most epic moments in cinema history (in my humble opinion).

Everyone was screaming, crying, and high-fiving total strangers. It was like the Super Bowl, Comic-Con, and a biblical rapture all rolled into one.
(Too dramatic? Nah, not if you'd been there.)

That final battle scene was a masterclass in communal movie experience and cinematic payoff. It was huge and emotional, and it earned every second of the years invested to get there.

And then, this devastating moment; you could hear the hearts breaking.

Six years later, and there are still so many of us who wish we could relive that first watch.

And yes, I know it’s a big, nerdtastic, CGI-fest of a superhero movie. But it was peak storytelling that cared about its characters and respected its audience.

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

For my daughter and me, Endgame was also a finale to our established tradition. Our thing. And now it was over (or so I thought).

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

I've felt just as moved watching biopics like Schindler's List, Walk the Line, or The King's Speech, or in moments like the D-Day landing in Saving Private Ryan. Artrax's death in The Neverending Story (hello childhood trauma), Yondu's funeral, or the final scene in The Father.

But Endgame had something no other film did for us: time. Over a decade of it. Eleven years of growing older together, of inside jokes, dumb debates, and everything that made us us.

That's why I'm now holding out for Fantastic Four and Doomsday. I'm hoping those stories carry the kind of stakes 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 in the game, and if anyone can nail this, 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.

✉️ New, real stories every week. Subscribe for more.

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 darkly funny, brutally honest stories about trauma, resilience, and healing.

Her platform, Unfinished Business, has been read in over 30 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and raw essays on reinvention, grief, and the absurdity of real life.

Heather writes personal essays about trauma, resilience, and reinvention—stories that explore emotional survival, healing, and humor in everyday life.