There is a particular circumstance in which it can be predicted, down to the very second, when I will cry. I do it every time. I’m utterly incapable of preventing it; no matter how hard I steel my resolve, regardless of all variety of facial contortions I feebly attempt. I cry every time I watch Saving Private Ryan. To be more precise, I cry at exactly 2:40:46, the point of the film in which an old man, while standing among the graves of fallen soldiers, wondering whether his long life was lived in a manner worthy of the men who sacrificed their own to save it, asks his wife, “Tell me I’ve lived a good life. Tell me I’m a good man.” This scene, far more than all of the other dramatic moments, hits me deeper and harder than any.
These are the kinds of emotions that quality storytelling yield. They are the prods that jolt us into greater understanding, more heartfelt joys or sorrows, sympathy, or triumphant cheers. Not all stories do this. A place exists for mindless entertainment, but those are as mere wisps of wind when compared to a piece of art that enters like a storm, makes your skin tingle, causes your chest to thump as by hearing a thunderclap…and you love it.
I’m sure each of you have examples of films, literature, theater, or poetry that take you to that other place, gifts that you cherish for what they do to you, every time.
A few more of mine:
- In The Last of the Mohicans (film version), when Duncan, refusing to allow Hawkeye to offer himself up as tribute in Cora’s place, offers himself: “Just take her, man, and get out!”
- In The Phantom of the Opera (stage version), after Eric overhears Raul and Christine commit themselves to each other, he quietly laments to himself, “He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing…(crying)…Christine.”
- In The Two Towers (book version), from the chapter called “The Choices of Master Samwise” when Sam debates and questions his own courage: “But you didn’t choose yourself, you’ve been put forward.”
- When Lucy is reunited with Tumnus in The Last Battle.
A good story impacts us as nothing else can, and its effects can be felt long after its author has departed. Consider this one that you may or may not have heard before:
In a desperate land ruled by conquerors and collaborators, a people toil under the shackles of impossible expectations, until one day an unlikely hero arrives unexpectedly.
Befriending the people, filling them with courage and hope, he stands among them and speaks boldly, some say foolishly, where others had only cowered in fear.
Undeterred by threats, he gathers a band to join him on a dangerous quest, empowers and trains them, and leads them in revolution. As their victories mount, and his powers grow, they begin to believe that he is The One.
But then something happens. At the pivotal moment when their captain stands unflinching, toe to toe with the greatest of all enemies…he falls into shadow, defeated, cast down into the nothingness. It’s not a fairy tale. He dies.
His enemies dance in triumph and his company are dumbfounded, paralyzed as the realization sets in that, in fact, he was…mortal. That it’s over, and they have lost.
They retreat into dark places; ashamed, lost, hopeless.
Then, as the curtain seems sure to fall, the unimaginable occurs. He rises. Terror is realized by his enemies, who now understand that by striking him down, he has become more powerful than they could possibly have imagined.
Emboldened by his spirit, men and women take up the charge and fight with him. They branch out far and wide, freeing captives, fearing neither prison nor death, only passivity. Some die, many succeed as the battles surge over generations, and their kindred take up the mantle of their forebears.
And to this day you can hear them in every land exclaiming, not so much their battle cry, but rather the sacred memorial of their victor and His victories: those that were, that are, and that are to come, as they boldly proclaim, “Merry Christmas.”