I love films that make me react emotionally and physically when

Alicia Vikander, in speaking of her craft and her loves, once revealed: “I love films that make me react emotionally and physically when you walk out of the cinema. Two of my favorite films however have got to be The Tree of Life and The Piano Teacher, which also stars one of my favourite actresses, Isabelle Huppert.” In these words lies not only admiration, but a truth about art itself: that its highest purpose is not to entertain alone, but to stir the depths of the spirit, to move flesh and soul alike, leaving the viewer changed in some quiet, enduring way.

For to react emotionally and physically is to be seized wholly by a vision. The heart quickens, the breath shortens, the body itself trembles in response to beauty, terror, sorrow, or awe. This is the measure of true art: not that it distracts us for an hour, but that it inhabits us long after we depart, like an echo in the chamber of the heart. A film of such power becomes a teacher of life, showing us not only the world as it is, but the world as it feels, as it aches, as it dreams.

Consider the mention of Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life. That film is no mere story, but a meditation on existence itself: childhood and memory, grief and divinity, the majesty of nature and the fragility of man. Its images of light in trees, of rivers, of the birth of galaxies, awaken in the viewer a sense of the eternal. One leaves not merely having watched a tale, but having brushed against the infinite. This is what Vikander calls the reaction of body and soul: the way a single vision can leave one walking differently, as if carrying a new weight of meaning.

Then there is Michael Haneke’s The Piano Teacher, a work of piercing intensity. With Isabelle Huppert’s fearless performance, it draws us into the dark chambers of repression, desire, and pain. It is not a film of comfort, but of confrontation. It asks the viewer to see what is often hidden: the suffering that lies beneath composure, the violence beneath silence. This too is art — not only the art that uplifts, but the art that unsettles, that makes us tremble, even recoil. For as the ancients knew, truth is not always gentle. Sometimes it comes as fire.

Throughout history, art has held this power. Recall the plays of Sophocles, whose Oedipus Rex left audiences trembling with dread and pity. The people of Athens did not leave the theater merely entertained; they left chastened, reminded of fate, of hubris, of the fragility of human greatness. So too Shakespeare’s tragedies left Londoners shaken, made to feel the weight of ambition, betrayal, and loss. These works, like the films Vikander treasures, became more than performances. They were encounters with the raw pulse of life itself.

The lesson is clear: true art is not meant to lull us into forgetfulness, but to awaken us. If you seek growth, seek works that disturb, inspire, or humble you — those that reach beneath the skin. Do not always choose the easy laughter or the soft melody; sometimes it is the hard note, the heavy silence, the aching image that teaches most deeply. Allow yourself to feel, to tremble, to walk out of the theater, the book, the song, altered in some way. That alteration is the gift.

What, then, must you do? Train your soul to be open. When you encounter a work of art, do not dismiss the discomfort it brings. Ask why it unsettles you, why it makes your body react, why it lingers. Let art become a mirror to your hidden self. And if you are a creator, remember this: your task is not merely to please, but to move, to awaken, to draw the audience into an encounter with truth.

Thus, let Alicia Vikander’s words stand as a reminder: the greatest films, the greatest works of art, are those that seize us wholly — in heart, in body, in memory. They linger beyond the walls of the cinema, beyond the closing of the book, beyond the silence after the music fades. They remind us that to be human is to feel, to be shaken, to be changed. And in this trembling, we discover our truest strength.