What's The Last Movie That Made You Cry?

This is a question I got asked today. I had a ready answer, already written up and stashed in away. The last movie that made me cry f-ed me up so bad I think I wrote about three different times.

With my move and the few possessions I wanted to retain being scattered to the four winds, I don't have access to all those angst-ridden ponderings. But lucky, lucy you, I got at least one of them.

So, playground rules in effect: I'll show you mine with an understanding of reciprocity.

Disclaimer: Though I say it below, I feel the need to be clear on this point--I don't do weepy movie time. I don't like crying in general, and it's few and far between that I find book, music, film or other media that inspires it.

The film in question was The Jacket. My original thoughts were a lot less linear and much more reactive. This is not a logical review of the movie. It's a visceral response translated into the weak words I could muster to convey what I felt. Here's an excerpt of what I originally wrote:

This movie. This damn movie just hit me in that secret place you live; that private grotto where you stake out your last stand, you and all your fears. 

It wasn't enough to cry during the movie. I ended up crying afterwards as well.

Maybe I'm just tired, and getting soft and sentimental in my dotage.

But I hate crying. I hate it.

There is a horrific beauty in this movie, in more ways than one. Ironically, I was looking for poems on beauty today to send to some friends. And here I come home to a horrorshow marvel, a poetic phantasm. 

But more than that, here is the piercing heartache of terrible purpose. The kind of purpose that destroys as it fulfills. And failure to fulfill is beyond destruction. It's worse than death. 

Failure means you stay here and live forever, knowing in your heart you took the wrong train.

Typing it out makes it easier. We are, after all, reactive creatures and require proof in the pudding. So after making a lifetime out of dodging destiny, it becomes easy to dismiss existential worry--there's no evidence. None except that wriggling, niggling, mildew worm that shuffles just to the right of your line of sight: missed ya, missed ya, missed ya. . .

Tomorrow is almost here, look at all this sensory input. Hard and concrete. Large and discrete. Easy to measure, easy to feel. None of this gobbledegook, if you will.

I read that now, and I can understand that it might mean nothing to others. Truthfully, the Tyrant known as Distance has given me some sense of calm about that film. I even wonder to myself, was it really that bad?

But believe this bub, I will Never Watch That Fucking Thing Again. I can be detached discussing it right now. But that mofo carved out my heart and did the Mexican Hat Dance on it. I was weeping, weeping, halfway through the film.

A movie hasn't filled me with that much anguish since, ironically, The Pianist. Another movie I will Never Again View.

(Sidebar: I hate movies about the Shoah. Hate hate hate hate. I hate them because they are true, and I can't ever separate the action on screen from the reality that This Shit Right Here Actually Happened to These People. I watched The Pianist under protest. The guy who picked it up as our rental did it despite my displeasure. He then had the audacity to look at me halfway through and say, "God, what's your problem? If it's so bad we'll turn it off." Yes, he was a dick. Yes, I hope his falls off.)

So what can I add to the above that might make some kind of sense? Here's what made The Jacket so gut wrenching: tragic inevitability. Every frame just drips with Impending Doom and Horrific Consequences. It's awash in Inescapable Destiny. People searching for tiny patches of sunlight, who would be content with mere seconds in the sun, but instead are pummeled by tsunamis of terrible circumstance.

And I think it's so particularly poignant because the catastrophes are so small, so personal. We've all heard a version of the quote that if you kill one man it's a tragedy, if you kill thousands it's a statistic. Well here is one small, singular tragedy. The lens of the camera magnifies it to an epic exploration of the horror of flawed fate.

I'm sure all of this just oozes something psychologically disturbing and embarrassing about me, but the truth is I've never bothered to revisit the whole thing long enough to do a post mortem. Some movies bum you out. Some harpoon your soul. Thar she blows, mateys.