:: tout en pleurs ::
Some time ago Pajiba – a site I tentatively trust with their movie reviews – has compiled the ten Tearjerkiest Moments of the last 20 Years and since it fits my state of mind I decided to follow in a slightly abbreviated fashion. So here they are: 5 scenes that made me cry like a little baby. The reduction in numbers stems either from the fact that I am a cynic badass who isn't easily moved by Hollywood's magic tools of emotional puppeteering or that I just forget too quickly. Considering the choices I could actually remember, I strongly suspect the second.
Dead Poets Society (Peter Weir), 1989
What can I say, I was 14. And if there is any film concocted to infiltrate the fragile, sentimental minds of 14-year-olds it's this one. It pretends to be deep and meaningful (poetry! dreaded utilitarism! dreams! suicide!) when it is just life-lesson kitsch in poor disguise. But back then I felt so grown up, tears streaming down my cheeks, understanding the power of teaching and the beauty of standing up (see what I did there?) for the things one came to believe in. Furthermore I always had a slightly ambiguous obsession with boarding schools (go Hogwarts!), especially of the 1930-ties/1940-ties kind – the books, the halls, the melancholy – it makes my heart ache. Still.
Captain, my captain, indeed.
Alias 5.01, 2006
I remember when watching this episode I silently started crying, stood up, went into the kitchen, fixed myself a glass of Whiskey, sat down again and resumed sobbing. My former roommate, who I presume had never seen me in an emotional state like this, stared at me in utter disbelieve. And he had every right to do so. Sure, I may have had a *slight* crush on Vaughn but that is absolutely no excuse to loose it when Spy-Barbies half-french hottie-soulmate goes down in a hail of bullets so unreal that it actually might have been a parody. The whole situation is even more embarrassing considering the scene leading to hottie's dead is one of the cheesiest, crappiest pieces of dialogue and acting ever encountered in a big budget TV production. I'm ashamed of myself.
Land and Freedom (Ken Loach), 1995
Not enough that there is a scattered bunch of volutnteers, singing The Internationale during a comrades funeral – they had to interlace it with this young women, going through the belongings of her grandfather who fought and sang – a long time ago. Even though I'm pretty sure that Mr. Loach, eternal optimist he is, would object with this reading, for me a lot of Land and Freedom's sadness derives from its hopelessness. Once there was promise in the air and it got shattered. A lifespan during which all your dreams have been perverted and/or crushed is a dreadful thing. I never dared to talk with my grandparents about that – and I never sung The Internationale at their funerals.
The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles) 2005
With the flood of 'politically aware' Hollywood productions came The Constant Gardener and on the first glance it is just that – a cheap vehicle of the viewers superficial absolution. But for once this film's saving grace is its more than conflicted love story (whereas it tends to be the other way around, myriads of pictures could have managed to obtain a certain level of endurability without the love). Anyway. Yes, there is big business exploiting post-colonial Africa, there are corrupt politicians, but there is also a man investigating the murder of the woman he loved, but barely knew. In the end, sitting on the shore, silently awaiting his own demise, it is the first time he can really be with her – no doubt, no secrets, no suspicions. Bummer she's dead.
Casablanca (Michael Curtiz), 1942
Some scenes solely work for you in a certain stage of life (see Dead Poets Society), some leave you completely cold if you watch them again (see Alias), some are conceivable only in the framework of the whole picture (see The Constant Gardener), but this one – it gets me every time.
I don't particularly care if Ilsa chooses duty over love or how conflicted Bogart managed to look the whole damn 100 minutes, but I care for those people and their little act of defiance.
Dead Poets Society (Peter Weir), 1989
What can I say, I was 14. And if there is any film concocted to infiltrate the fragile, sentimental minds of 14-year-olds it's this one. It pretends to be deep and meaningful (poetry! dreaded utilitarism! dreams! suicide!) when it is just life-lesson kitsch in poor disguise. But back then I felt so grown up, tears streaming down my cheeks, understanding the power of teaching and the beauty of standing up (see what I did there?) for the things one came to believe in. Furthermore I always had a slightly ambiguous obsession with boarding schools (go Hogwarts!), especially of the 1930-ties/1940-ties kind – the books, the halls, the melancholy – it makes my heart ache. Still.
Captain, my captain, indeed.
Alias 5.01, 2006
I remember when watching this episode I silently started crying, stood up, went into the kitchen, fixed myself a glass of Whiskey, sat down again and resumed sobbing. My former roommate, who I presume had never seen me in an emotional state like this, stared at me in utter disbelieve. And he had every right to do so. Sure, I may have had a *slight* crush on Vaughn but that is absolutely no excuse to loose it when Spy-Barbies half-french hottie-soulmate goes down in a hail of bullets so unreal that it actually might have been a parody. The whole situation is even more embarrassing considering the scene leading to hottie's dead is one of the cheesiest, crappiest pieces of dialogue and acting ever encountered in a big budget TV production. I'm ashamed of myself.
Land and Freedom (Ken Loach), 1995
Not enough that there is a scattered bunch of volutnteers, singing The Internationale during a comrades funeral – they had to interlace it with this young women, going through the belongings of her grandfather who fought and sang – a long time ago. Even though I'm pretty sure that Mr. Loach, eternal optimist he is, would object with this reading, for me a lot of Land and Freedom's sadness derives from its hopelessness. Once there was promise in the air and it got shattered. A lifespan during which all your dreams have been perverted and/or crushed is a dreadful thing. I never dared to talk with my grandparents about that – and I never sung The Internationale at their funerals.
The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles) 2005
With the flood of 'politically aware' Hollywood productions came The Constant Gardener and on the first glance it is just that – a cheap vehicle of the viewers superficial absolution. But for once this film's saving grace is its more than conflicted love story (whereas it tends to be the other way around, myriads of pictures could have managed to obtain a certain level of endurability without the love). Anyway. Yes, there is big business exploiting post-colonial Africa, there are corrupt politicians, but there is also a man investigating the murder of the woman he loved, but barely knew. In the end, sitting on the shore, silently awaiting his own demise, it is the first time he can really be with her – no doubt, no secrets, no suspicions. Bummer she's dead.
Casablanca (Michael Curtiz), 1942
Some scenes solely work for you in a certain stage of life (see Dead Poets Society), some leave you completely cold if you watch them again (see Alias), some are conceivable only in the framework of the whole picture (see The Constant Gardener), but this one – it gets me every time.
I don't particularly care if Ilsa chooses duty over love or how conflicted Bogart managed to look the whole damn 100 minutes, but I care for those people and their little act of defiance.
tanja jenni - 7. Mai, 11:05 TV-ish
