The 'Twilight' movies are great in their own right, but they

Hear the words of Mark Waters, a craftsman of film and a student of human emotion: “The ‘Twilight’ movies are great in their own right, but they certainly don’t have any sense of humor to them.” In this simple observation lies a truth about art and life itself — that even the grandest tales lose something vital when they forget humor, that divine spark which gives balance to passion and depth to drama. Waters, who gave the world stories that blended laughter and longing, reminds us that without laughter, even beauty grows heavy, and love, however eternal, becomes solemn and still.

The origin of this quote comes from Waters’ reflection on the landscape of modern storytelling. Known for directing films such as Mean Girls and Freaky Friday, he was no stranger to the delicate art of blending comedy and sincerity. When he spoke of “Twilight”, he did not seek to diminish its power — he praised its mystique, its intensity, its grand portrayal of youthful love. Yet he also recognized what it lacked: the release of laughter, the gentle humility that comes when art remembers not to take itself too seriously. To Waters, humor is not mockery — it is light amidst shadow, the whisper of humanity that keeps us from drowning in our own emotions.

This teaching echoes the wisdom of the ancients, who understood that laughter and tragedy are twin flames in the same lamp. The Greeks built two masks to represent the soul of theater — one smiling, one weeping — and they called them Comedy and Tragedy. They knew that neither could exist without the other. Aristophanes made the people laugh at their follies so they might correct them; Sophocles made them weep for their heroes so they might revere their own courage. In this balance lies the heart of art — and of life. When a story, or a soul, forgets humor, it risks becoming brittle, unable to bend beneath the weight of its own seriousness.

Consider the tale of Don Quixote, the wandering knight of Cervantes’ great novel. He dreamed of heroism and chased glory through the dusty roads of Spain, but it was his foolishness, his absurdity, his blind idealism that made him beloved. Through laughter, we did not mock him; we recognized ourselves in him. Cervantes, like Waters, understood that humor reveals truth where solemnity cannot. Without laughter, Quixote would have been a madman; with it, he became immortal. So too, Waters implies, even the most passionate love story needs the light of humor to reveal its humanity.

When Waters speaks of battling complacency in storytelling — the same battle he described in other reflections — he calls for something living and unpredictable. A story without humor can be beautiful, but it is complete only in one dimension. The viewer may admire it, even be moved by it, but rarely will they breathe with it. For humor, that sacred current, connects creator and audience through recognition — it reminds us that behind all art stands the fragile, imperfect, and wondrous human being. It is the divine wink that says, “Yes, life is serious — but not so serious that we cannot smile at its irony.”

In the same way, life itself is richer when touched by humor. The wise do not laugh because they are careless; they laugh because they have seen the whole of life and understood its contradictions. To be able to smile, even in the face of sorrow, is to possess inner strength. The Twilight saga, for all its beauty, is a mirror of youthful passion — intense, idealized, unrelenting. But as Mark Waters reminds us, passion without play becomes exhausting. Love without laughter becomes worship, and worship without joy becomes burden. The truest art — like the truest heart — dances between intensity and irony, between the sacred and the silly.

O listener, take this wisdom into your own life. Whatever you create — whether stories, relationships, or dreams — do not forget the gift of humor. It is the breath of renewal, the music that breaks the spell of solemnity. Let your seriousness be deep, but not heavy; your passions fierce, but not joyless. Laugh, even at yourself, for that laughter is humility in motion — the reminder that you, like every hero and every fool before you, are human.

Thus let Mark Waters’ words echo as a gentle yet profound truth: “The ‘Twilight’ movies are great in their own right, but they certainly don’t have any sense of humor to them.” For it is laughter, not solemnity, that completes the circle of art and the soul of man. The heart that knows how to weep and laugh in equal measure is a heart that truly lives — and the story that dares to mix darkness with delight will live forever in the memory of those who see themselves reflected within it.