After much procrastination, I finally watched Black Mirror. If you’re like me, it takes some time to commit to a new TV series; it took forever for me to watch Breaking Bad, Orange is the New Black, The Path, and now Black Mirror. It’s a fascinating show that explores how technology can dehumanize and corrupt our lives, acting as both cautionary tale and dark satire. I love it.
It wasn’t those things that first hooked me to the series. The first two episodes I watched, “Nosedive” and “The National Anthem,” were intriguing but didn’t engross me. That honor belongs to “San Junipero,” a beautiful love-story about two women grappling with life and death in a virtual world. It’s a tear-jerker.
I love a good tear-jerker, though I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s because of how raw it is; penetrating the artifice of our personalities and touching us directly. I assure you, if something makes me cry tears of joy or sadness it will become a favorite.
So, in honor of “San Junipero,” I’m looking back on things that have made my cry, sob, mourn, and celebrate.
Many Spoilers Follow!
Black Mirror – “San Junipero”
“San Junipero” has so many layers they’re hard to parse, and I’m loathe to equate its power to any one. On the surface it’s about two woman, both in pain, finding each other. Yorkie, a bespectacled and quiet young woman, walks into a night club and sits quietly with a drink. She’s noticed by Kelly, a beautiful party girl, who joins her in hopes of throwing off a male pursuer. It’s not just convenience that brings them together; Kelly sensed something special in the timid girl. She invites her to dance, but Yorkie’s anxiety cuts their time short. Kelly follows, coming on to this intriguing girl, but it isn’t until their next meeting that they click and consummate their new relationship.
Their romance takes place in the virtual San Junipero; a world where the dying can upload their consciousness. It exists as a nostalgic wonderland, presented to us as a 1980s dance club in a beautiful beach town. Those close to death can visit San Junipero, then decide on whether to upload themselves or die naturally.
The chemistry of the actresses sells the romance immediately, but it’s the real world that gives devastating context to their romance. Kelly is a widow whose husband refused San Junipero due to their daughter passing before it became available. Kelly doesn’t believe in an afterlife, but feels obligated to forgo San Junipero so to honor her family. Yorkie, meanwhile, is a paraplegic who was crippled in a car accident after coming out to her parents. She never got the chance to find love, made more tragic by her parent’s disapproval after she revealed her sexuality. What’s worse, Yorkie’s family (who have custody still) won’t let her pass to San Junipero.
Eventually, Yorkie shares her address, despite worrying her condition will scare Kelly away. Not so, as Kelly then proposes to her so she’ll obtain power of attorney. This act allows Yorkie to pass on into San Junipero permanently, though it complicates Kelly’s life. Does she abide her familial guilt or choose to be with her new love?
“San Junipero” explores sexuality, the afterlife, survivor’s guilt, and the simple bond of two lost people who’ve found one another. It’s a clever episode, interspersing little clues throughout its run-time. How does the audience discover there’s more to “San Junipero” than it being a 1980s nostalgic lark? At one point Yorkie seemingly travels in time looking for a runaway Kelly. There’s subtle foreshadowing, such as Yorkie’s anger at Kelly after she plays “Dance Dance Revolution” (something Yorkie can’t do in real life), or their nearly getting into a car accident before making love. And Kelly’s anger at Yorkie’s selfish desires (understandable given how overwhelmed with joy she is) is devastating, as she scolds Yorkie (and herself) for not considering Kelly’s past.
In the end, Kelly decides to be with Yorkie, and the two drive off into the sunset while Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven is a Place on Earth” plays triumphantly. The conclusion would be predictable if it weren’t for Black Mirror’s consistently dark endings (The happiest up to this point had an episode’s protagonist being thrown in jail. Seriously). The final scene, interspersed with Kelly’s consciousness being plugged into a large mainframe, does suggest this isn’t a guaranteed happy ending. What happens if the San Junipero environment fails? Are Kelly and Yorkie just copies of themselves, their real souls having passed to heaven (or into nothingness)?
Beyond their relationship, the episode elicits a sense of regret, as seeing San Junipero’s residents recapture their youth reminds us of all the missed opportunities in our lives. In reality, a seventy year old can’t make up for a timid life by pretending they’re young and dancing the night away. There is no real San Junipero, and we can only leave our missed opportunities in the past, where they’ll live forever.
Regardless, in the end the episode is about Kelly and Yorkie, and my chosen belief is their souls exist in San Junipero, free of pain and judgment.
Now, if you excuse me, I have something in my eye. *sniff*
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine – “The Visitor”
DS9’s fourth year was a transitional one, and though it had many strong episodes it’s not my favorite. There’s a tonal shift that doesn’t sit well with me, due to the show moving from a more grounded and quiet dynamic to the heightened drama of a war arc. Funny, then, that it contains my single favorite episode of Star Trek, “The Visitor.”
“The Visitor” is a simple story wrapped in the sci-fi trappings of Trek. Captain Benjamin Sisko is apparently killed in an engineering accident, right in front of his son Jake, but then reappears sporadically throughout his son’s life. Thanks to one of Trek’s patented technobabble plot devices, Sisko is actually lost in a parallel realm that occasionally intersects with normal space, and his connection to Jake draws them together. This prevents Jake from properly grieving his father’s loss, resulting in a sad life dedicated to his father’s permanent return.
The father/son dynamic between Ben Sisko and his son is unique in the annals of Star Trek, and the affection they share is truly enviable. Still, it’s heartbreaking to see Jake push aside a successful career and marriage in order to bring his wayward father home. The episode is framed by an elderly Jake, played beautifully by Tony Todd, telling an aspiring young writer about his life-long obsession with his father. His eventual solution for bringing him home requires sacrificing his own life, which will somehow return Ben to the moment of the accident, allowing him to resume life without Jake ever knowing what happened.
It’s a sad, yet beautiful demonstration of a son’s love for his father. The final moment of the elder Jake and Ben Sisko together, with Ben cradling his aged son’s face while calling him his “sweet boy,” is a moment that’ll always bring me to tears.
This is why Deep Space Nine is the best Trek series.
Up
Oh boy, I don’t think this one needs an explanation. Pixar’s magna-opus, Up explores the life of Carl Frederisckson, from his childhood infatuation with future wife Ellie, to her death after a long and loving marriage. It’s a life full of ups and downs, including a devastating moment where they learn they can’t have kids. That moment is told, like all the others, without words. The camera captures Ellie sitting in a chair while the doctor gives her the bad news, with Carl standing behind, all viewed from the hallway as if we’re eavesdropping on their heartbreak. Then cut to a scene of a sad yet calm Ellie sitting outside while starring at the sky, with Carl hoping to find something that’ll make everything right. It’s incredibly poignant.
The rest of the movie is sweet, but never reaches the emotional heights of those first few minutes. There is a nice poetry, though, to Carl forming a surrogate family with Russell and Doug (“Squirrel!”). They’re the children he and Ellie never had, and an inspirational statement about moving on after loss.
Babylon 5 – “Sleeping in Light”
Babylon 5 is one of my favorite series, but Lord knows it hasn’t aged well. The SFX, ambitious as they may have been, look horrible by today’s standards. The writing, meanwhile, swayed back and forth between brilliant and self-indulgent; you always knew when a character was talking in the author’s voice instead of their own. Attempts at humor were hit or miss, mostly the latter.
But creator J. Michael Straczynski could do drama and emotion, weaving a five-year epic 
that saw empires rise and fall while characters evolved organically into heroes, villains, and whatever lies between. At the heart of the series was Babylon 5 captain John Sheridan and the alien ambassador from the planet Minbar, Delenn. Their love blossomed throughout the show, as they led the galaxy to peace against an ancient force known as the Shadows. They weren’t just a loving couple, but the honorable center of an ambitious morality play.
The final episode is the culmination of their romance. Taking place twenty years after the series proper, at the prophesied time of Sheridan’s death. Knowing the end is near, he and Delenn invite their friends to share one last dinner, where they recall what they’ve gone through and the people they’ve lost. For those following the series, it’s a well-earned emotional payoff for much of the cast.
The next morning Sheridan tries to sneak away before Delenn wakes, wanting to spare her the heartbreak of seeing him die. She finds him before he can escape, and the two share a final moment together. Sheridan reminisces on how his family would go for Sunday drives, and his leaving is just one more excursion. The two turn away from each other, feigning strength, but quickly run back into each other’s arms, tears flowing down their faces. The dialog is heart-wrenching, though I fear out of context a bit corny.
“Goodnight, my love… The brightest star in my sky.”
“Goodnight, you, who were my sky, and my sun, and my moon.”
The next day Sheridan disappears, his death unconfirmed. Soon after, the Babylon 5 station is decommissioned and demolished, its end tied to the fate of its greatest commander.
And Delenn? “Every morning for as long as she lived, Delenn got up before dawn and watched the sun come up.”
Quantum Leap – “M.I.A.”
Quantum Leap always wore its heart on its sleeve. Something of a temporal Highway to Heaven, each week saw its protagonist, Samuel Beckett (no relation to the playwright) inhabiting different people throughout the latter half of the 20th century. Having no control over where, when, and who he “leaps” into, Sam’s goal is to return to his own time and body. Believing that a higher power is controlling his journey, Sam tries to prevent tragedies in his host’s life, and once accomplished leaps out of their body and into another person and time.
Sam mostly changed the lives of everyday people. In his travels he helped integrate a 1960s southern town, save a deaf dancer from a life of prostitution, and assisted a TV children’s show host in reconciling with his estranged daughter. Sam is an earnest hero, both highly intelligent and selfless; the perfect person to “make right what once when wrong.”
Offsetting his virtuous nature is Al Calavecci, a Naval Admiral who ran project Quantum Leap with Sam. Al is a happy-go-lucky, libidinous man, always ready with a quip or more pragmatic assessment of Sam’s mission. He appears as a hologram that only Sam can see or hear, and provides him with data on the lives they’re trying to change. He’s a fun character, but with a streak of sadness to him. The episode “M.I.A.” explores his past, and is the show’s single best showcase for the character.
Sam leaps into an undercover detective in San Diego on April 1, 1969, and an uncharacteristically distracted Al informs him of his mission: a Navy officer named Beth is losing hope that her M.I.A. husband is still alive, and Sam has to console her until he’s repatriated. Sam is unsure, as the mission is vague and his host has no relation whatsoever to Beth, but he still goes along with it. With each attempt at soothing Beth Sam is intercepted by a slightly obnoxious man who’s pursuing her, almost as if fate doesn’t want Sam to succeed.
While Sam continues to get close to Beth, Al’s behavior becomes more erratic; he isn’t shaving, he’s spying on the mission without informing Sam, and is otherwise dour. Eventually the truth comes out that Beth’s missing husband is actually Al, who spent years in a Vietnamese P.O.W. camp. In the original history Beth had Al declared dead and moved on with the man Sam’s been running into. Sam realizes this just in time to fulfill his true mission, which is to save the life of his host’s partner.
Al’s plight is truly heartbreaking, and Dean Stockwell gives a brilliant performance (it’s said he demanded never to be given a script like it again, as he became an emotional wreck during production). It’s an understandably selfish act, with Al telling Sam:
“If you’re lucky life is gonna give you one shot at true love, and Beth was mine.”
“Al, I wish I could. But I can’t and no one knows that better than you.”
“No! I don’t know that!”
After Sam fulfills his mission Al is regretful his actions nearly cost a man’s life. Still, before Sam leaps, Al is given one more chance to see Beth. Alone, he talks to a woman who can’t hear him, sharing what became of him and wishing she’d never given up hope. Then, as if connected, Beth begins dancing to their song (“Georgia on My Mind”). Al joins her, unable to touch but still going through the motions as if they were slow dancing. When Sam finally leaps out they’re still dancing, and Al disappears in a brilliant burst of blue and white light. Beth sees none of this, but at that moment stops, startled.
“Al?”
Kingdom Hearts
Ah, Kingdom Hearts; the unholy union of cheerful Disney cartoons and brooding video game characters. It wasn’t supposed to work, yet 16 years later it’s one of the most popular franchises in video game history. Who’d thunk it?
The plot of Kingdom Hearts isn’t too deep; think Star Wars with Mickey Mouse. Series protagonist Sora fights the forces of darkness while seeking his friends, accompanied by Donald Duck and Goofy. Over the course of seven games the series has twisted itself into a knot of entertaining nonsense; deciphering the ins and outs is like manipulating a Rubik’s cube.
Kingdom Hearts doesn’t provoke much emotion, just a sense of attachment to its likable characters. There are a few exceptions, the most poignant of which is Roxas, the boy who never was.
Roxas is a personified part of Sora’s heart, lost when Sora sacrificed himself for a friend. Sora later survives, but the part of him that became Roxas remained separated. Not knowing who he is or where he came from, he falls in with a group of similarly born individuals called Organization XIII. For a year Roxas is told he has no heart, no emotion, and his only purpose is to carry out clandestine acts for the Organization. He does what he’s told, not knowing any better, but soon begins doubting his given role.
Due to his progenitor’s selfless and caring nature, Roxas begins exhibiting emotions, which in turn awakens the hearts of those closest to him. Still, he’s not a whole person, just a fragment, and that sense of emptiness motivates him to find purpose outside the confines of the Organization.
It’s easy to sympathize with Roxas, who despite himself becomes a puppet for all those around him. The Organization knows of his connection to Sora, and uses him to achieve ends that normally only his other self could. Sora’s friends, meanwhile, spend a year looking for him. When they finally find Roxas they kidnap him, brainwash him, and throw him into a simulation where he can be manipulated into reintegrating with Sora. He has no control over his own destiny.
Which is a shame, because over a year he truly becomes his own person, with his own aspirations and friends. All he wants is to belong, and comes so close it’s achingly sad.
In the Organization he became close to two fellow members, Axel and Xion, who were told the same lie about not having emotions. His friendship nurtured what little heart they had, but the machinations of their superiors tore them apart.
Music plays such an important role in the moments described here, whether it’s the 80s music of “San Junipero” or the grand orchestrations of “Sleeping in Light.” Featured above is “The Other Promise,” Roxas’s sad, yet beautiful theme.
After his capture he befriends three simulated children named Hayner, Pence, and Olette. Like his real friendships, all he wants is to spend time with them before the end of his “summer vacation” (which in actuality is a countdown to his reintegration with Sora). Axel tries desperately to rescue his friend, but Roxas no longer recognizes him, which leads to a confrontation that leaves them both confused and diminished.
Roxas spends his last days watching everything he loves, both real and simulated, stripped away. Eventually, once his captors have finished their work, he finds himself face to face with Sora, who became comatose in Roxas’s absence. Knowing he has no choice, he embraces his fate and gives himself over to Sora. Thus ends the melancholy existence of Roxas.
If there’s one constant in the Kingdom Hearts universe, it’s that no one stays dead forever. Kingdom Hearts II ends with the suggestion that Roxas still exists within Sora, and a later game sets the framework for his reconstitution. It’s a weakness of the series that there are no real consequences, but if it means the return of Roxas, I won’t judge too harshly.
Paperman
Speaking of Disney, no list of tear-jerkers would be complete without Paperman, a beautiful black and white short from 2013.
We’ve all wished fate would step in and lead us to that perfect someone, who we’ll encounter in a fantastically romantic way. That’s what the nameless couple of this short experience.
Meeting on a train platform one morning, the two stand next to each other unassumingly, until a gust of wind blows a sheet of paper from the man’s hand onto the woman’s face; whose lipstick imprints a perfect kiss mark. Noticing this, the woman lets out a barely concealed (and endearingly goofy) laugh. The man snickers in response, but in this brief moment he closes his eyes and the woman disappears onto a departing train. She looks back from her seat with sad longing, knowing an opportunity has passed.
Later, once the man arrives at work, he sees her through the window of an adjacent skyscraper. Desperate to get her attention, he throws paper airplane after paper airplane across the street, hoping one will be noticed. All the while, the sheet from their fateful encounter lays nearby, waiting for its turn to be thrown. When that final attempt fails, and he sees her leaving the building, he impulsively runs to meet her. Unfortunately, she’s gone by the time he gets to the street. Frustrated, he stomps off, but is soon greeted by his fleet of paper airplanes, who push him in the direction of the train station. Meanwhile, the kissed sheet whizzes through the city, looking for the young girl whose lipstick is imprinted upon it.
Paperman took me by surprise the first time I saw it, appearing in front of the lighter and more pop-culture oriented Wreck-It Ralph. The plight of the protagonist, desperately seeking the attention of this beautiful stranger, is so relatable it hurts. Hurts because you want the guy to win the girl, and hurts because it’s the kind of purely romantic experience we suspect we’ll never have. It’s fanciful, funny, and heart breaking.
There’s a kind loneliness to these two characters, because each seems so pure of heart (in that way only fictional characters are), yet so sad. Take the woman, for instance, who walks deliberately, yet with no spring in her step. When the sentient paper airplane whizzes by she doesn’t hesitate to follow, newly exhilarated by this odd occurrence and eager to see where it leads. The man, meanwhile, has become pessimistic due to his failed attempts, and doesn’t suspect the spectacular event of being pushed by dozens of paper airplanes will end well. He’s wrong, and her sense of curiosity and fun are rewarded. It’s a beautiful parting shot to see the two facing each other on the same platform where they first met, the woman nervously sweeping a strand of hair behind her ear.
The short’s romantic tone is enhanced by its narrative choices. It’s black and white, which invokes the romanticism of old Hollywood, and trains have always had an air of romantic expectation to them. To board one is to set off on an adventure, leaving behind the mundane and moving into the unknown. Who hasn’t thought of hopping one and traveling until finding something incredible? Is love the emotional equivalent of such hope?
The short is sweetly hilarious. The man’s increasingly frantic attempts at attention result in a huge pile of paperwork disappearing. One of his airplanes misses its mark and lands in the window of a lonely man who’s enchanted by the random happenstance, but brushes off his wonder with exasperation when it’s made clear the plane isn’t for him. And when he finally works through his pile of paper, one of his co-workers protectively clutches his own. Then there’s a curious young child examining the man as he sits hostage to a large number of planes, only to have his mom pull him away. It’s cute.
I don’t believe in fate, just opportunities, and how you must pursue them with all your heart. Paperman demonstrates how such efforts might pay off.
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