My motto: 'No good movie is depressing. All bad movies are

When Roger Ebert declared, “My motto: ‘No good movie is depressing. All bad movies are depressing,’” he spoke not merely as a critic of cinema, but as a sage reflecting on the very nature of art and its power over the human soul. To him, the value of a film was not in whether it showed sorrow or joy, tragedy or triumph, but in whether it was true, alive, and meaningful. A film could recount despair and yet still uplift, for it would shine with honesty and depth. But a bad film, hollow and lifeless, weighed upon the spirit like lead, bringing no illumination—only emptiness.

The first truth of this motto is that a good movie, no matter how tragic, is never depressing because it offers catharsis. It allows the heart to feel fully, to weep, to rage, to grieve, and in so doing, to be cleansed. When one watches a masterpiece like Schindler’s List, the sorrow is immense, yet it is not despair—it is a recognition of human endurance, sacrifice, and the flickering light of goodness even in the abyss. In such works, pain itself becomes sacred, a mirror that enlarges the soul rather than diminishes it.

The second truth is that a bad movie is depressing because it is empty of spirit. It is not its subject that makes it heavy, but its lack of life. Such works drain the viewer because they offer no connection, no spark of meaning, no echo of truth. To spend hours in their presence is to feel one’s time and energy wasted, one’s longing for connection unfulfilled. Like false coin, they glitter but buy nothing of worth. They depress not by their tragedy, but by their failure to engage the heart at all.

History itself illustrates this distinction. Consider the tragedies of Sophocles, whose plays Oedipus Rex and Antigone were filled with suffering, blindness, and death. Yet for centuries they have stirred audiences not to despair but to awe, to reflection upon fate, duty, and justice. The people left the theater sobered but enlarged, their souls stretched by the encounter. Contrast this with the hollow entertainments of Rome’s later days, when gladiatorial bloodshed offered spectacle without meaning. Those who watched felt their humanity erode; they left not nourished but diminished. Thus Ebert’s words echo through the ages: it is not sorrow that depresses, but emptiness.

This motto also speaks to life itself. For life, like film, brings both joy and tragedy. Yet when our struggles have meaning—when they are endured for love, for truth, for justice—they do not crush us. They may wound us, but they also enlarge us. It is only meaningless suffering, devoid of purpose, that depresses the soul. In this sense, Ebert’s reflection is not only about movies but about existence: seek always for meaning, and no darkness will consume you; live without it, and even ease will feel like despair.

The lesson, O seekers, is to value truth and vitality above shallow appearances. When you create, create honestly, with courage and with heart. Do not fear sorrow, for sorrow borne of truth uplifts. Fear instead the void, the lifeless gesture, the hollow word or image that pretends to be art but carries no soul. In your life, as in your work, ask always: does this have meaning? Does this connect me to the greater story of humanity? If it does, then even tragedy may be endured with dignity.

Practical action lies before you. Choose carefully the stories you tell and the stories you consume. Surround yourself with works that nourish, even if they wound, and avoid those that leave you emptier than before. In your daily labors, seek depth, not mere surface. When faced with sorrow, search for its lesson; when faced with joy, savor its fullness. In this way, your life, like a great film, will never be depressing, for it will always be alive with meaning.

Therefore, let Ebert’s motto endure as wisdom: no good movie is depressing, all bad movies are depressing. For the essence of art—and of life itself—is not in avoiding sorrow, but in transforming it into truth. And when truth is present, the heart is never diminished, but always enlarged.