In praise of crying at the cinema

For me, the communal dimension is the most fascinating part of wail-worthy films. Crying synchronises aroom, creating awordless, collective experience between strangers sitting shoulder to shoulder in the dark. In the final scene ofHamnet, Agnes realises the play unfolding before her is not just theatre, but aconduit for Shakespeare’s grief over their son. As she reaches out towards the boy on stage, the surrounding theatre audience mirrors her gesture. Grief becomes catharsis, rippling outward, from mother to performer to crowd. And in the cinema where we sit, something similar happens; we echo it, too. There is aconnection on-screen as much as there is off-screen, ashared acknowledgement that insists we stay present with the pain.

Moments of connectivity like this feel increasingly rare in our digital age. We are accustomed to reacting alone, on asmall screen, privately. To be so naked with our emotions in acommunal setting alongside strangers, in real time, is an opportunity to reckon with our own feelings through external stories. The bottom line is, if you’re going to feel something, don’t feel italone.

Horror has long been marketed as agenre best experienced collectively, which perhaps explains why it remains one of the most profitable genres according to theAmerican Film Market. So could emotive cinema take over in much the same way? Aform of participation and reclamation of the cinema as aspace for vulnerability, discussion and most importantly, connection.

A critic forThe Guardian described aHamnet festival screening as ​“a lovely experience, to sob in amovie theatre alongside strangers, mourning for Agnes and William’s loss and for our own, amazed and relieved that afaraway, unknowable person has made something to connect us all.” Meanwhile, in an interview withLittle White Lies, Joachim Trier spoke about the power of collective silence in reference to ascreening ofSentimental Value, describing the satisfaction of ​“2,000 people completely breathing together, silent with the sisters [in the scene] and feeling for amoment, that the empathy machine of cinema was creating space”.

I understand that feeling. Ihave walked into cinemas feeling closed off and walked out cracked open. Afew years ago, Trier’sThe Worst Person in the World caught my friend and me on abad, frustrating day, but upon leaving the screening, we both unequivocally felt unexpectedly lighter, emotionally spent and – dare Isay it – cathartically moved for the better.

That Saturday morning afterThe History of Sound screening, Istepped out having shed afew quiet tears and felt gentler with myself. We shouldn’t go to the cinema to be mildly moved. We should go to feel something fully – and sometimes, that means going tocry.