It’s Not Me, It’s…Actually, It Might Be Me

“You’ll be swell, you’ll be great, gonna have the whole world on a plate!”

My mother used to sing that line like she meant it. It came from the crackle of our old record player: Merman, Streisand, Garland. Big, brassy voices that filled the house and somehow made everything feel possible.

And I believed her. Because back then, movies and music and musicals made you believe.

I don’t even remember the first time I ever saw The Wizard of Oz, but I remember the feeling. That once-a-year event, popcorn in a bowl bigger than my head, the TV wheeled into my bedroom like royalty. And when Dorothy stepped out of Kansas and into Technicolor? Forget it. That was the moment. The moment I fell in love with movies.

I didn’t just watch stories, I disappeared into them. And I know I’m not the only one. Most of us grew up falling in love with the magic, didn’t we? And honestly, I still feel it sometimes.

Last weekend I cried my eyes out watching Me Before You, in front of my family. No shame. I still get chills when the score and the dialogue land at the exact same second. So the magic isn’t gone…but it’s different.

That full-body, heart-grabbing, “I’m not okay for the rest of the day” feeling? Doesn’t quite hit like it used to.

So I’ve been wondering:

What changed?

Is it me?

Is it the industry?

Little bit of both?

I grew up on musicals and movies that made the world feel bigger than it was. I belted out show tunes way before I  understood what the songs were actually about. Didn’t matter. The music made me feel like I was part of something huge.

And then there were the movies that hit harder than I had any business watching at that age: Fame, A Chorus Line, Staying Alive. Way too mature for my age, way too intense, but I was obsessed anyway.

Those weren’t stories about instant success. They were about working for it. About struggling. About clawing your way toward something just for the chance to be great at it.

Those films didn’t just entertain me; they gave me fuel.

Movies: The Original Group Therapy

There was a time when movies brought everyone to the same table. Casablanca. Star Wars. Jurassic Park. People didn’t need to agree on anything except “This story is awesome.”

Even the big popcorn blockbusters knew how to thrill you without dumbing it down. And the quieter ones? They knocked the wind out of you. Interstellar didn’t just mess with your head; it cracked your heart open. And don’t even get me started on the genius that is the soundtrack.

And that’s what I miss. That kind of storytelling.

Back then, the story always came first. Before the message, the commentary…just the story.

These days it sometimes feels like the message shows up before the plot even clears its throat. Like I’m being handed a lesson before I’ve had a second to connect to anyone on screen.

And, to me, award shows now feel more like press conferences.

The magic’s still there but buried under a lot of noise.

Look, I don’t need my movies to avoid the real stuff. The world’s complicated. I read the news, I keep up, I care. But when I finally get a minute to escape, I want a story, not a lecture.

That’s the part I miss most.

Tradition, Nerd Edition

Years after mom made Oz night feel like a holiday, I started a tradition with my daughter.

She was eight when Iron Man launched the MCU, and already a tiny superhero nerd, just like me.

I grew up watching Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Star Wars, over and over on worn-out VHS tapes. I’d rewind fight scenes until the tracking went fuzzy. So when I saw that same spark in her, we ran with it.

One movie at a time, one post-credits scene at a time -  it became our thing.

We didn’t just watch those characters grow—we grew up alongside them.

And then came Endgame.

The Night the Theater Became a Battlefield

Opening weekend. Sold-out theater. The buzz before the previews even start, the kind that tells you this one’s going to be different.

Then...“Cap, on your left.”

The place erupted.

Portals opened. Wakanda. Titan. Kamar-Taj. One by one, the heroes returned, stepping out of the light like legends. And the crowd absolutely lost it. Screaming. Crying. High-fiving total strangers.

When T’Challa walked out and shouted, “Yibambe!” We all shouted it back like we were part of the Wakandan army, ready to throw down with Thanos ourselves.

Then Mjölnir flew into Cap’s hand, and the room detonated.  It was like the Super Bowl, Comic-Con, and a religious revival all at once.

And finally: “Avengers… assemble.”

That wasn’t just fan service. That was ten years of storytelling landing in a single, perfect moment.

The battle scene was absolute chaos, in the best way. Huge. Emotional. Earning every second of the last decade it took to get there.

And then Tony.

He looked Thanos in the eye, raised his hand, and said, “I… am… Iron Man.”

He snapped his fingers. Saved the world. Died for it. Just like that, his whole arc closed from flawed guy turned reluctant hero turned ultimate sacrifice.

The room went silent—like, pin-drop silent. It was a collective gut punch. People were crying, stunned, and some of us just stared at the screen, gutted.

We still talk about it. Still say we wish we could go back and watch it again for the first time, in that packed theater, with everyone feeling it just as hard.

Because for those three hours, nothing else in the world mattered.

Not politics. Not social media. Not whatever was waiting for us at work.

Just us. Together. Completely locked in.

Yeah, I know it’s a superhero movie. A big, nerdtastic CGI-fest with capes and nanotech and talking raccoons.

But it was also more than that.

Because great storytelling doesn’t care about genre, it sneaks up on you. It gives you people to root for, arcs that pay off, and moments that truly stick.

Endgame was the finale to a decade-long tradition. It was our story. Our thing. And now it had a final scene.

It was connection. It was closure. It was a reminder of what movies can be.

And yeah, the next phase of the MCU has been… let’s say… all over the place (we’ll get into that another time).But I’m still here.

Still watching trailers.

Still hoping.

Still waiting for the magic to show up again.

Because it wasn’t about being perfect. Or checking boxes. Or making a statement. It was just about telling a damn good story.

One that makes you forget your phone. That hits you where you live. That turns a room full of strangers into a team.

Now, I’m Gen X—with a dash of Xennial and just enough Greatest Generation energy to appreciate storytelling that earns its moments. (I try to keep up with the slang just to annoy the kids in my life. I drop “rizz” and “no cap” into conversations with a completely straight face, which they assure me is not the vibe).

But deep down, I still just want my movies to hit. Because even if the spectacle fades, what I really miss is the feeling.

The connection. The weird little rituals. The way a movie night turns into something you remember ten years later.

And yeah, just for a couple hours, I want to believe that the story will hit.

That the characters will matter.

That everything’s about to start coming up roses.

And for me, that’s still enough to keep showing up.

No cap.