The other two things are... well, I had a huge appetite for old

“The other two things are… well, I had a huge appetite for old black and white movies on BBC 2. At the weekends they used to run matinees, and the more romantic the better.” Thus spoke Ewan McGregor, and in his words we hear the confession of a heart shaped not only by life itself, but by the shadows and light of the silver screen. His statement is not simply about entertainment; it is about the way stories, even those flickering in monochrome, can nourish the soul, awaken longing, and plant within us the seeds of who we might one day become.

For the black and white movies of the past were more than diversions. They were windows into timeless struggles, eternal yearnings, and universal loves. They spoke in the language of restraint, where passion was shown in a glance, and tragedy in a silence. In these films, the romantic was not mere sentiment, but a reflection of human dignity—the yearning to connect, to sacrifice, to hold fast to another even when the world threatened to tear lovers apart. McGregor’s appetite for such tales reveals a young man who sought not only entertainment, but truths about the human heart.

The ancients too fed themselves on stories in the same way. The Greeks filled their theaters to watch tragedies and comedies unfold, stories of Orestes, of Antigone, of lovers like Phaedra whose desires and fates taught lessons about humanity. The Romans gathered for recitations of Virgil’s verses, drinking deeply from tales of Aeneas and Dido. Just as McGregor sat before his weekend matinees, so too did these ancient peoples hunger for stories—because stories, whether in the amphitheater or on BBC 2, are food for the soul.

Consider the tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, the gallant poet who loved with words but believed himself unworthy of love in flesh. His story, told again and again on stage and screen, remains a parable of longing, sacrifice, and hidden passion. It is such romantic tales that shaped generations, whispering that love is not always simple, that beauty is not always visible, and that the heart, even when wounded, can still sing. McGregor’s youthful appetite for such stories may well have kindled the sensitivity and presence that later defined his artistry.

There is also something noble in his preference: “the more romantic the better.” For in an age already leaning toward cynicism, to embrace romance is to embrace hope. To love these stories is to believe that affection, loyalty, and sacrifice matter. The black and white films, though restrained by the limits of their era, often spoke truths more boldly than modern tales: that love can defy war, social class, or even death. McGregor’s delight in them reminds us that to hunger for such stories is to hunger for a world where love remains the highest prize.

The lesson, then, is this: what you consume shapes who you become. If you feed upon cynicism, cruelty, and spectacle, you will reflect them. But if you fill your soul with tales of honor, affection, and hope, you will grow into a vessel that carries those same truths. McGregor, by devouring these films, prepared himself unknowingly for the day when he would bring romance, tragedy, and heroism to others on the stage and screen.

Practical action flows from this wisdom: seek out stories that lift your soul. Do not be content with noise and spectacle alone. Choose the narratives that stir your longing for truth, beauty, and connection. Read, watch, and listen to the tales that remind you of what is noble, what is tender, and what is eternal. In doing so, you will not only enrich your present, but prepare the soil of your soul for the future.

So, children of tomorrow, remember Ewan McGregor’s words. His appetite for old films was more than nostalgia—it was the hunger of a soul seeking to be shaped by beauty. Cultivate such hunger in your own life, and the stories you love will one day guide the story you live. For in the end, we become the tales we treasure, and the more romantic, the better.