In film, you can have sad endings.

The words of Anna Torv strike at the heart of storytelling itself: “In film, you can have sad endings.” With this simple observation, she calls attention to a truth that echoes from the earliest myths to the silver screen of today: that stories need not always end in triumph, for there is wisdom and beauty in sorrow. In the realm of cinema, where illusions may comfort and distract, the sad ending holds a deeper power—it dares to remind us of reality, that life is not always wrapped in joy, that struggle and loss belong to the human condition as surely as love and laughter.

The ancients knew this well. In the amphitheaters of Athens, men and women gathered to watch tragedies where heroes fell, where the gods punished pride, where noble souls were struck down by fate. These plays did not leave their audiences hopeless, but purified, in what Aristotle called catharsis. By witnessing a sad ending, they learned to face their own grief with courage. Torv’s words, then, are not only about film, but about the oldest purpose of art: to prepare the soul for the weight of life, not by hiding sorrow, but by unveiling it.

Indeed, the sad ending carries its own dignity. It refuses the easy lie of perpetual victory, offering instead the harder truth that even in failure, betrayal, or death, there can be meaning. Consider the story of Romeo and Juliet, lovers whose tale has lived for centuries not because it ended in joy, but because it ended in heartbreak. Their deaths became more powerful than their lives, teaching generations that love is sacred, fragile, and worth the cost of pain. Such stories endure because the sad ending reveals what happiness alone cannot: the value of what is lost.

History itself offers its tragic narratives. Think of the fall of Joan of Arc, a young woman aflame with vision, betrayed, condemned, and burned. Her story ends in ashes, yet from those ashes rose inspiration for centuries. Had her tale concluded with triumph in battle and quiet death in peace, her flame might not have burned so brightly across time. The sad ending was the seed of her immortality, for sorrow engraves itself deeper in the heart than comfort ever can.

Torv’s reflection also reminds us of the freedom of art compared to life. In reality, we cannot choose our endings, nor do we know how they will come. But in film, a creator may shape sorrow into narrative, giving it order and meaning. In this way, the sad ending becomes not a cruelty, but a gift, allowing audiences to glimpse loss within a frame that can be endured, understood, and carried away as wisdom. Through art, sadness becomes teacher rather than destroyer.

The lesson is this: do not flee from sorrow, whether in stories or in life. Just as film can show us sad endings and still leave us enriched, so too can our own losses deepen us rather than diminish us. Pain shapes compassion, failure sharpens resilience, and grief teaches love. To demand only happy endings is to remain a child; to accept sorrow as part of the tale is to grow into wisdom.

Practical action lies within reach: when you encounter a story with a sad ending, do not dismiss it as despairing, but ask what truth it reveals. When you face hardship in your own life, do not see it as the final curtain, but as part of a greater drama still unfolding. Keep a journal, write your own narrative, and honor the sorrows that have shaped you alongside the joys. For only when you embrace both can your story be whole.

So remember Anna Torv’s wisdom: in film, you can have sad endings, and in life, too, they will come. But endings are not failures—they are teachers. Let them deepen you, let them humble you, let them awaken in you a greater reverence for the fleeting beauty of joy. For it is only through sorrow that happiness shines its brightest light.