All are good movies, ones likely, and rightfully, to be showered with awards in the coming months, but none of them teased out the big, blubbery feelings that one sometimes goes to the movies looking to access. I was dry-eyed when the credits rolled on the sad and soulful Dallas Buyers Club. I didn't lose it at the cathartic, nerve-rattling end of Captain Phillips. Though deeply moved by one of the year's strongest dramas, something about its august intensity appealed more to intellect than raw emotion. Ĭall me a terrible person, but I didn't cry during 12 Years a Slave. This article is from the archive of our partner.
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