Maybe Corny and Wholesome Is What 2025's Movie Slate Needed

Nothing in this world is certain except death, taxes, and Year-End film lists. Every December, these roundups make their divisive return, as every major entertainment publication and Letterboxd devotee declare which pieces of media were most worth their time.

The way I think about what makes a movie the “best” has changed a lot in the past 12 months. I’ve recognized that my favorite viewing experiences fall into two camps: movies that get stuck in my head—stories that challenge my worldview, like On Becoming a Guinea Fowl and The Testament of Ann Lee—and movies that get stuck in my heart. The latter, films that may not get awards buzz but urge viewers to open their hearts, are the movies I think we need—and should embrace—right now.

Nicole Kidman says it best: “We come to this place for magic.” Movies are empathy machines; we watch them to experience different lives, and in the process, we can try to understand complex emotions a bit more. However, among both critics and film fans, there can be an impulse towards cynicism when movies want to elicit big emotions. These stories are frequently written off as corny or overly sentimental—but they’re often the ones that unabashedly remind us how to embrace joy and overcome life’s struggles. At times when I’ve felt that everything was hopeless (which, shocker, happened quite often throughout 2025), I’ve held tighter onto the stories that remind me of the world’s warmth. These movies—The Life of Chuck, Eternity, and Rental Family—may have gone overlooked regarding critical lists and box-office numbers, but those of us who make the time to watch them leave with a bit more hope. That’s something we all could use.

Going into 2025, my most-anticipated movie of the year was Mike Flanagan’s The Life of Chuck. The man behind Netflix’s best horror shows of all time helmed a Stephen King adaptation starring Tom Hiddleston that won the Toronto Film Festival’s Audience Award. These facts were all I knew when I saw it in May, and I came out feeling changed. The film’s three acts unfolded in reverse chronological order, and, as I put together the connections between a doomsday parable and a middle school coming-of-age story, its message moved me to cathartic tears. At the time, I was questioning a lot in my life—my Saturn Return has put me through the wringer, from coming to terms with my queerness to getting an ADHD diagnosis—and The Life of Chuck reminded me that even someone who felt they were insignificant and broken is important. I may not have danced in years, but I still contain multitudes.

Of course, I am speaking as someone who thoroughly felt the feelings that Flanagan wanted to convey to audiences. Not everyone agrees; despite the overwhelming love from viewers at TIFF, both critics and fans seemed split upon the film’s release. There are those like me, who grasp onto it like a life raft, and those who recognize what it wants to do but feel that it “stumbles” while treading a fine line of sentimentality.

People can tell when a film tries to push its audience to tears; the more obvious and unartful the attempt, the less successful. But if a movie is both obvious and artful, a tearjerker that knows it is one, then cries of sap and schmaltz can feel more like disapproval than dissent. In an era where the average person is primed to police emotions, and a new toxic dating trend pops up every few months, I start to wonder how much cries of sentimentality in movies are not based on how successful the film is, but instead how little the viewer is primed to let emotion in.

In the year of our lord 2025, I’ve judged my moviegoing experiences by how I’ve felt leaving the theater, whether I left “not just entertained, but somehow reborn.” The tail-end of the year has brought some really lovely titles. Hikari’s Rental Family, starring Brendan Fraser as an actor who’s hired by a family-impersonator company, was already primed to be a hit since I love cross-cultural themes. Still, I didn’t expect its exploration of human connection as a form of mental health to hit so hard. Meanwhile, A24’s Eternity instantly became my favorite rom-com of the year (though the honor admittedly wasn’t that hard to claim). Its examination of romantic love through its central love triangle landed for me, and more than that, Elizabeth Olsen’s performance leans so Old-Hollywood screwball comedy that I felt transported back to a simpler, more earnest time.

There’s no question that 2025 hasn’t been perfect. I know I’m not alone in facing financial anxiety from rising costs of living, or feeling an intense despair at the immense range of human selfishness every time I turn on the news. The national rate of depression hovers at a record high, and the APA reports that “loneliness and emotional disconnection appear to have become a defining feature of life in America.” I have an unfortunate tendency to listen when society tells me that I don’t matter, to isolate myself from people in fear of being hurt, and 2025 hasn’t exactly encouraged me to leave my apartment more often. So every time I see a movie or TV show that reminds me that life’s meant to be lived, and if I’m willing to open myself to life’s risks, it’s much-needed. Despite my tendency to hold these films tight to my chest—so no one can pop my warm bubble with a cynical barb—I need to share these reminders. I’m not the only one who needs them.

Despite the impulse some may have to cry “corny” or “preachy,” the biggest film moments of 2025 were ones that blended earnestness with big-budget spectacle. Sammie’s juke joint time travel in Sinners. Superman’s suggestion that loving people is the real punk rock. The desperate car chase scene that ends in a cathartic father-daughter reunion in One Battle After Another. Spike placing his mother’s skull at the top of the Bone Temple. Zootopia 2’s stealth romance. Rumi soaring through a stadium as her fans's love turns the crowd golden. These sequences, where the blockbusters shed their layers and get down to the emotion, are the ones that cinephiles have embraced as their own reminders, though they aren’t even aware of it consciously. After all, without sentiment, we wouldn’t have the movies.