The Catharsis of Crying at the Movies

Sometimes you need to weep in public

The first time I remember completely losing control of myself in a movie theater was when my mom took me to Little Women in 1994. I was six years old and entirely unprepared for Beth’s death. I lost it. I remember wailing in disbelief and gasping for air as my mom slung me over her shoulder and carried me out. I didn’t appreciate then how good it can feel to cry in a theater, but it was my first taste of the strange pleasure of offering yourself up to a work of art fully expecting, if not hoping, that it will bring pure emotional devastation. 

From that point on it became something of a common practice to seek out books and movies that I knew would allow for this release. I can still picture our Black Beauty VHS (RIP Ginger) and my many copies of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies (I only read the sad stories). When a beloved character in some middle grade fantasy novel I was reading died unexpectedly, I would read that passage over and over again, often crying myself to sleep. I also did this with less beloved characters — like when Jack Torrence briefly comes back to himself at the end of The Shining (the book, not the adaptation) and urges Danny to run, his humanity and paternal love briefly overcoming the monster he’s become, even though it’s too late to save himself. 

I didn’t know how to articulate it when I was young, I just knew I wanted these things to make me sad and that for some reason, under some circumstances, feeling bad could feel good. A few years after the Little Women incident I found myself once again inconsolable in the theater as Jack Dawson’s frozen body sank into the Atlantic at the end of Titanic. It was the first time, I think, that I registered sniffles and shuddering breaths coming from those around me. I realized I was feeling what the movie wanted me to feel. Instead of rushing out in shame I went back for more, seeing it in theaters three times and eventually getting the double VHS.

Why does it feel so good? Though I’ve apparently always liked to hurt my own feelings, I don’t like it so much when the hurt comes from someone else. Movies are a way of bridging that gap and mediating the release. Someone else is hurting me, but I’m allowing it, I’m in control. Learning how to cede this control irl and trust others not to abuse it — ie, a primary condition of intimacy in relationships — has been one of the main projects of my adult life. Movies aren’t the only way to navigate this tension, but I still absolutely love the ritual of giving myself over to one.

I’ve been thinking a bit about why that might be, because I know it’s not just me. Lots of us seek out art that will reduce us to incoherent, breathless sobs. There are many reasons for this but I think a big one is that it’s just a chance to pause and actually feel things (at a safe remove). We’re so busy and our brains are so crowded these days, our attention constantly being pulled in a million directions at once, that blocking off a couple hours to sit alone (but also surrounded by others) in a quiet, dark room and just feel things is a novelty.

It’s also a reminder of our shared human experience at a time when we’re lonelier than ever. It’s a chance to feel connected and seen and validated. It’s a way for us to see ourselves and our struggles on screen and go, oh thank god, it’s not just me. It’s our mundane, ugly struggles rendered beautiful and monumental. When we experience these moments of connection we’re exercising our empathy muscles — something so much of our modern lives is designed to let entropy — and this feels good. It feels human. And when we hear the person sitting in the row behind us quietly stifle a sob, they briefly feel like less of a stranger.

I’ve found that this release feels particularly good when it catches me off guard, which is different from a cheap shot or a twist that comes out of nowhere and feels unearned. But I love when a movie takes its time patiently and carefully building to the moment of release. The absolutely stunning final moments of Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a prime example of this. I was 100% bought into that moment, I trusted where we were going, I was open to the heartbreak, and yet those final moments still surprised me. I almost started crying in this coffee shop just thinking about it.

I also gravitate to art on the other end of the spectrum — things that eschew quiet devastation and aim to overwhelm the senses. I find this is true for music, especially. Sometimes I need a wall of noise to wash over me in order for me to feel anything at all. Sometimes I need to feel wrung out and overwhelmed by something to find the catharsis. I might laugh, I might get goosebumps, I might feel sick, I might get angry, I might cry. I might not even know why I’m crying in these moments, but I know that I like it. And what’s more, I don’t need to know why. I love art that helps us define and comprehend our lives, but I also love art that understands that some feelings are beyond comprehension.

Over the past couple of years I’ve found myself crying more readily at movies. Maybe it’s just a sign of getting older and maturing a bit — I’m not as ready to run from the slightest emotional disturbance anymore. Maybe all the big, unwieldy feelings we had to push down just to get through the early pandemic days are finding their way to the surface now and movies are a convenient outlet.

But I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a pushover. It’s not a given that I’ll cry and I often feel unmoved by things that have been hyped up as guaranteed to leave its audience a mess. Misery porn tends to make me angry. Sappy, happy endings or anything too romantic or convenient leaves me cold and annoyed, wishing they’d gone for a bolder, more daring ending. I have nothing but disdain for holiday commercials that are basically manufactured in a lab to exploit our emotions; they are loathsome things.

As any horror fan will tell you, what makes something scary is incredibly subjective. It often depends entirely on what the individual viewer is bringing to the experience. I find it’s generally the same for what will make you cry. So here’s an incomplete list of things that, while not guaranteed, tend to get me a little misty eyed.

• When love isn’t enough

• Complex sibling dynamics

• Complex parent-child dynamics

• Characters sacrificing themselves

• Death as beautiful release

• Complex face acting

• “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” moments

I’d love to hear what gets to you!

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