Movies: Escape or Compass?

Movies used to be an escape hatch, a compass, and sometimes even a religion. From Oz to Endgame, here’s what we’ve lost (and what’s still worth believing in).

"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 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 movie magic and the ultimate emotional escape.

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, 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; they were worlds I dove into, heart first. You did too, admit it.

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

Case in point: Recently, I openly sobbed watching Me Before You (which I had avoided because I had seen enough TikToks to know 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, maybe?

My cinematic education was eclectic, to say the least. I enthusiastically sang show tunes way before I understood what they meant, or worse, knew them and sang them anyway.

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 these gritty blueprints of ambition, desperation, and sacrifice. They showed me that success was something you yearned for and struggled for.

Those 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, 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 flashy special effects, or rushed plots; the emotional impact of movies can disappear when nuance is traded for a killer spectacle.

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 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.

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, 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.

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 nearly ten years of storytelling finally hitting a crescendo in the most epic mic drop in cinema history (in my humble opinion).

That final battle scene was more than just a superhero movie climax; it was a masterclass in communal movie experience and cinematic payoff.

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, 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 profoundly 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 (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 the dinner table just to watch the kids cringe.)

Ultimately, I'm not chasing cinematic perfection or viral marketing gimmicks; 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.

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.