There are movies where we are interested in seeing people's

Hearken, O seekers of wisdom, to the words of Natalie Portman, who declared: “There are movies where we are interested in seeing people’s lives without agreeing with what they’re doing.” In this truth lies the essence of storytelling, ancient and eternal: that to witness is not the same as to approve, and that art has always been the mirror through which humanity examines itself, even in its darkest reflections. To watch a life unfold on screen—or in tale, or on stage—is to look into the abyss and see not only another’s choices, but also the fragile threads of our own nature.

The meaning is clear: art is not morality alone, but exploration. The painter, the poet, the dramatist, the filmmaker—these are not always preachers of virtue, but chroniclers of existence. To see a thief, a tyrant, or a wanderer upon the stage is not to become like them, but to learn from them. We may recoil from their choices, yet still be compelled to understand them. In this way, the stories that disturb us are often the ones that teach us the most, for they reveal not what we should be, but what we might become if desire, fear, or ambition were left unchecked.

The ancients themselves understood this. Consider the plays of Sophocles and Euripides, who filled their stages not only with noble kings but with broken men, proud women, and doomed souls. Did the Greeks agree with Oedipus, who slew his father? With Medea, who destroyed her own children in vengeance? No. Yet they gathered in throngs to behold their stories, because through them they glimpsed the vast terrain of human emotion—anger, pride, jealousy, grief. They did not watch to learn what was righteous, but to face what was real.

History too gives us such examples. Think of the tale of Richard III, immortalized by Shakespeare. He was no hero, but a schemer, a murderer, a tyrant. Yet audiences for centuries have been fascinated by him, not because they agreed with his cruelty, but because they wished to understand the dark hunger that drives a man to betray brother, friend, and nation. In watching him rise and fall, they were reminded of ambition’s poison and the corruption of unchecked power. Thus, in bearing witness, they became wiser—even while condemning his deeds.

What Portman reminds us of is this: the value of witnessing without agreeing. For to only seek out stories of righteousness is to dwell in a narrow world, blind to the shadows that lurk in humanity. To watch with interest, even when we disagree, is to open the heart to understanding. It is to recognize that within each of us lies the capacity for both light and dark, and that wisdom is born not from denial, but from honest reflection.

Let the lesson be this: approach stories with openness, not judgment alone. When you see a tale unfold—whether in film, in book, or in life itself—ask not only “Do I agree?” but “What can I learn?” If a story unsettles you, let it sharpen your awareness of your own choices. If it horrifies you, let it deepen your compassion for those caught in the snares of weakness. And if it shows you joy, even in the midst of error, let it remind you that humanity is complex and cannot be captured by a single measure of right and wrong.

Therefore, in your daily life, practice this ancient art of witnessing. Listen to the lives of others, even when you cannot condone their actions. Read the stories of those who falter, not to imitate them, but to understand the paths that lead astray. In conversation, in community, in your own reflections, remember that to understand is not to agree, and to watch is not to endorse. This distinction, held firmly, allows both compassion and wisdom to flourish.

So let Natalie Portman’s words guide you: honor the story, even when you reject the deed. For in the act of witnessing lies the birth of insight, and in the act of reflection lies the growth of the soul. And though you may walk always in the light, never forget to study the shadows—for only in knowing both may you truly understand the fullness of the human heart.