Four Movies That Make Me (And Only Me) Cry

I've said it too many times -- love that fourth wall. So, without further ado, the list:

4. Hotel for Dogs

It's a kid's movie. Emma Roberts stars. Dreamworks and Nickelodeon produce. What could go wrong, right? Well, throw in homeless dogs and kids in foster care, and apparently, I just can't cope. About an hour into the movie, I became convinced that all of the dogs would end up at the pound, where they would most assuredly be euthanized, and Emma Roberts and her little brother would never find a forever family or see their dog again. This thought spiral led to intense waterworks.

"You know there's still half an hour left in the movie, right?" the SO said. "Everything is going to work out. This is Hotel for Dogs, Laurel."

"It may work out in the movie," I said, "but that doesn't mean it would work out in real life."

A real life hotel for dogs?!?! Feel free to be just as bewildered as the SO. I guess in the absence of a good reason for crying during the actual movie, which was, of course, going to turn out fine, I decided to blame my tears on the tragedy of real homeless dogs and children in the foster care system. It's a legitimate reason to cry, but the truth is that those little four-legged critters running from the law (and the very presence of Don Cheadle)  just got to me.  

3. Frequency

Now, this movie is genuinely touching. A recently-separated-from-his-wife son finds a way to connect with his dead father through an antique radio in the back room of the family home he inherited. There are firemen, baseball games and '60s nostalgia. It's a lovely and magical combination. A lot of people probably teared up.

Most people probably did not cry so hard that they had to remain in the theater past the credits to compose themselves.

I have a special place in my heart for Dennis Quaid, and I do love James Caviezel. (Confession: I didn't see Passion of the Christ because of the controversy or the violence or the fact that I'm not Catholic,  etc., etc. I didn't watch the movie because I had issues with the idea of being sexually attracted to Jesus. There, I said it -- it's kind of nice to have that one off my chest.) But, it was something about a family getting to be that wasn't that, well, kept me in the theater trying to get it together long past the last scene. 

You know it's bad when strangers seek you out in the dark. "Are you going to be OK, princess?" a very kind gay couple asked me on their way out.

2. Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

I love kids books and I love kids movies. (Holes is another favorite, and I did get choked up on that one, too, but I'm trying to maintain my forward momentum.) I particularly love the way that the Lemony Snicket books are written, and I recognize that they are a bit darker than your standard children's fare.

In fact, I don't even think I'd be embarrassed to have cried so much during this one if I hadn't been with actual children at the time.

You see, I took my nine- and seven-year-old cousins to see Lemony Snicket while they were out of school for Christmas vacation. They thought Jim Carrey was funny. I held their hands when the snake got away. We were having a good time. Then, right at the end, came that montage about "sanctuary" and what it means, and I was a mess.

"I'm ready Laurel," Cousin #1 said as soon as the film ended.

"In just a minute."

"Can't we go yet?" Cousin #2 said, much more emphatically.

So, we left the theater in a throng of children and their parents -- my cousins happy as larks and dry to the bone while I trailed behind them puffy-eyed and sniffling.

1. Road Trip

I know what you're thinking -- Stiffler and Tom Green made a movie that brought anyone to tears for a reason other than pure embarrassment for their careers/parents? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is yes. (But, no, it was not a prostate joke that caused the crying.)

Just after my sophomore year of college, I found out that my boyfriend of a few years was cheating on me. (We were young and at different schools, and it was bound to happen, but the end of first love is the end of first love. To say that I was a little vulnerable would be like saying Alabama's gubernatorial candidates are kind of conservative.) To keep me from staring at photos or the ceiling and asking "why, why, why," my cousin decided to get me out of the house for awhile.

"Staring at Russell Crowe makes everyone feel better," she said when we got to the theater.

We were supposed to see Gladiator that day, and Gladiator probably would have been a good distraction. At least I didn't have to deal with an evil emperor and fight strangers to the death, right? Maybe I could have found a little perspective there.

"We're sold out for Gladiator," the guy behind the ticket counter said.

"What about the 3:45 showing?"

"We're all sold out for both," he said.

"How about a comedy then?" my cousin said, turning around. "Some laughter will do you good."

Her logic was spot on. The only trouble was that the entire premise for Road Trip is that the main character, who goes to a different school from his girlfriend, cheats on her, makes a tape of it and then accidentally mails said tape to the girlfriend. The whole road trip that gives the movie its name is a desperate attempt to get to the  girlfriend's college before the sex tape does.

Let's just say that I didn't cheer up that day.

Also, a large number of teenage boys probably thinks that they saw that film with someone with severe emotional and/or psychological issues sitting in the theater.

The Hotel Talisi

My parents were the kind to go through phases.

In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds. 

When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)

There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.

Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.

One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")

We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such. 

Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.

For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.

We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.

"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"

I could, but I didn't want to.

We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.

In no way did we have fun for the whole family.

But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.

I guess there's always Vicksburg.