I'm interested in existential films: I love movies that console

Hear now the words of Louis Garrel, son of French cinema, who gazes into the mysteries of existence with tenderness. He proclaims: “I’m interested in existential films: I love movies that console you in the same way that a person consoles a weeping child.” These words are more than the musings of an artist—they are a confession of his faith in art’s power to heal, to comfort, and to remind us that even in our deepest loneliness, we are not abandoned.

When Garrel speaks of existential films, he points to those works of cinema that dare to wrestle with the ultimate questions: Why are we here? How do we endure suffering? What gives meaning to the days of our lives? Such films do not run from sorrow or confusion; they embrace them. Yet their purpose is not despair, but consolation. Like a mother who bends down to cradle her crying child, these films whisper: You are not alone in your grief. Others too have wept as you now weep. In this recognition, the soul finds peace.

The image of the weeping child is powerful, for it captures the essence of human vulnerability. No argument can silence a child’s cry, no philosophy can reason it away. What brings comfort is presence, warmth, the quiet embrace of another. Garrel longs for movies that do the same: that hold us gently in the dark, not with solutions, but with solidarity. To watch such a film is to feel the invisible hand of another across the ages, saying: I too have felt as you do, and still I live.

History itself confirms this truth. In the aftermath of the Second World War, when Europe lay in ruins, artists turned to stories that were not escapist but existential. Italian neorealism, in films like Bicycle Thieves, did not shy from poverty, injustice, or loss. Yet those who watched them felt strangely consoled. For though the characters suffered, their humanity shone through, and in that humanity the audience saw themselves. The consolation was not in happy endings, but in the assurance that sorrow can be borne together.

Garrel’s words remind us that art’s highest calling is not spectacle but compassion. To console is to heal without curing, to soothe without erasing pain. Just as a parent cannot remove the hurt of a scraped knee but can comfort the child through love, so too can cinema remind us that life’s wounds do not isolate us. They connect us. Existential films reach into the quiet despair of the heart and transform it into communion.

Beloved listener, take this lesson into your own life. When those around you are in pain, do not rush to fix them with words or judgments. Instead, be as the film Garrel describes: console them as you would a weeping child. Sit with them in silence, acknowledge their sorrow, and by your presence remind them that they are not alone. In doing so, you become not a solver of problems but a bearer of light.

Therefore, cherish the movies and the stories that console rather than distract. Seek out art that makes you feel seen, not merely entertained. And in your own living, strive to offer the same comfort to others. For there is no higher gift than to console the suffering heart, no greater wisdom than to say through word, action, or even silence: I am with you.

Thus Louis Garrel’s teaching endures: the greatest art is like a hand upon the shoulder, like arms wrapped around a weeping child. It does not erase our tears, but it gives them meaning. And in that meaning, we find the strength to rise and continue.