I love big popcorn movies.

When Alicia Vikander declared, “I love big popcorn movies,” her words may seem simple, even lighthearted, but in them rests a truth about joy, about shared experience, and about the need for wonder in human life. For the ancients knew well that not all art was born of solemnity or tragedy—there was also the theater of laughter, of spectacle, of delight, crafted not only to instruct but to lift the heart. So too do the great films of spectacle—the big popcorn movies—stand as modern heirs to that ancient tradition, calling multitudes into the same hall, where together they gasp, laugh, and dream.

The phrase itself—“popcorn movies”—is no insult, but rather a hymn to stories that are vast, accessible, and unashamedly joyous. Just as the gladiatorial games filled Roman amphitheaters, or the traveling bards stirred medieval villages with tales of knights and dragons, so too do these modern epics of cinema fill our eyes with grandeur. To love them is to acknowledge that art need not always be solemn to be meaningful. It can also unite us in delight, reminding us of the simple beauty of shared wonder.

Think of the tale of Shakespeare, who was not only a poet of kings and tragedies but also a creator of lively comedies that made common folk laugh under the same roof as nobles. His works endured not because they served only the intellect, but because they served the heart in all its needs—sorrow, laughter, awe. So too with the blockbuster film: while critics may at times scorn its spectacle, it carries within it the same power that filled the Globe Theatre or the great stages of Greece—a power to gather people, to make them feel alive together.

Vikander’s words remind us, then, that joy itself is noble. Too often men and women are taught to honor only the heavy and the profound, forgetting that laughter and amazement are also sacred. A big popcorn movie may not always be subtle, but it speaks to the child within us, the dreamer, the one who longs to see worlds beyond our own and to believe, even for a few hours, that heroes rise, villains fall, and light triumphs in the end.

The lesson, O listeners, is clear: do not despise the simple pleasures, for they too are gifts to the soul. To sit among friends, to eat and laugh, to marvel together at stories woven larger than life—these are not trifles, but bonds of humanity. The ancients gathered around fires to hear tales of Odysseus and Hercules; we gather around screens to watch galaxies in peril or worlds reborn. The form may differ, but the hunger is the same: the hunger for shared wonder.

And so, in your own life, embrace both the profound and the playful. Read the heavy tome, but also watch the soaring spectacle. Speak of philosophy, but also laugh freely at the comedies of your age. For the soul is not nourished by solemnity alone; it requires the bright feast of delight as well as the austere bread of wisdom.

Practical action lies here: seek out moments of joy with others. Allow yourself to love not only the art that instructs, but also the art that entertains. Invite companions to join you in those experiences, and do not be ashamed of the laughter that erupts, the awe that rises, or the cheer that fills your chest. For in those moments, you are bound together as one, and that unity is itself a sacred act.

Therefore, let Vikander’s words ring as a gentle command: love the big popcorn movies, love the spectacles of joy, for they remind us that life is not only a struggle to be endured, but also a wonder to be shared. In their light we glimpse the eternal truth: that to be human is not only to think and to labor, but also to laugh, to marvel, and to dream together.