A humble theory. |
Why We Watch Sad Movies A thousand cloudy Sundays have been spent mourning the deaths of the imaginary, which, though suspiciously lacking the wetness and stench of an actual finish, bring out one’s deepest anguish and props it up, like a head on a stick. All the pretty tragedies tend to come on slowly, artfully flirting as a swell of smooth, black sleep will do with the weakened and red-eyed. What is inevitable teeters on the edge of happening and the drama that leads it hints at a kind of divinity that never spreads thin: sorrow, the one-size-fits-all kind of condition that feels like cashmere on cold, goose-fleshed arms; everyone can afford it. Despair is pulled up through the throat; an invisible fist reaches down into the depths, grabs on to what is pumping or swollen, and pulls it up slowly, scraping the walls, like jagged nails running along a silk-draped pillow. Then, surrender slithers through the eyes, through the nose, and when the death is done, the illusion left to gather rot in its fantastical limbs and torso, the observer will look about meekly to see if they’ve been caught grieving for invention. There is perversion in the doleful hysterics but this is the appeal; it is a bit of coquettish dancing with a blank-faced partner, a sweet and sour canapĂ© to chew on. It is an opportunity to find romance in the unthinkable and to convince ourselves that disasters are dusted with poetry. No one is unprepared when the screen goes black. |