The Movies That Made Me: What a Personal List of Favorite Films Quietly Reveals About Character, Conscience, and Connection

 I’ve always loved film—not just watching it, but thinking about it. Turning over its themes. Hearing a line or a musical cue days later, echoing in my head. I count it a gift, really: this love for the movies. And like many of the best gifts, it was something I inherited—quietly, without ceremony—from both my parents.

My father had a deep affection for classic comedy. He revered the puckered curmudgeonry of W.C. Fields and could still chuckle at the Marx Brothers’ chaos or an Abbott and Costello routine he’d seen 20 times. He also had a fondness for the old Basil Rathbone/Nigel Bruce films—their pipe-smoke air of mystery and clipped deductive logic. I didn’t quite share his enthusiasm for those Holmes and Watson pairings, but I admired his unwavering loyalty to them.

My mother, meanwhile, adored musicals. She loved the hokey charm of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in the “let’s put on a show” era of MGM. And she held a special place for the polish and precision of My Fair Lady. But it was The Sound of Music that most captivated her. The soundtrack album played endlessly in our home as she tended to chores like washing the windows or scrubbing the kitchen floor.

And so we watched, together, my parents and I. Long before video stores or on-demand streaming, we made a ritual of the occasional network broadcast. If Duck Soup or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers was scheduled, we circled the date in the TV Guide. It was appointment viewing in the truest sense. The screen was small, the signal sometimes fuzzy, and the commercials maddening—but we were there, side by side, letting the flickering images do their quiet work.

What My Favorite Films Reveal About Me (That I Might Not Have Realized) 

It wasn’t until recently—reflecting on a list of my favorite films—that I noticed how deeply those early viewings shaped not just my tastes, but something more foundational: my values, my worldview, even the rhythm of how I process life’s ambiguities. Here’s that list, roughly in the order they came to mind:

• It’s a Wonderful Life
• Casablanca
• North by Northwest
• 12 Angry Men
• Schindler’s List
• To Kill a Mockingbird
• The Shawshank Redemption
• The Silence of the Lambs
• The Empire Strikes Back
• Jaws
• Fantasia

At first glance, it’s an eclectic grouping: courtroom dramas, war epics, noir-infused romances, a horror-thriller, some adventure, a touch of sci-fi, and a wordless visual symphony scored by classical music. However, after sitting with the list for a while, I began to notice a different kind of pattern.

Moral Clarity in a Murky World

A number of these films—Mockingbird, 12 Angry Men, Schindler’s List, and It’s a Wonderful Life—center on protagonists standing firm in the face of apathy, cruelty, or institutional pressure. They don’t always win. But they speak up. They take the lonely stance. And they remind the viewer (or maybe just reassure him) that decency is still a viable strategy in a world that doesn’t always reward it.

I don’t think I’ve ever consciously modeled myself after George Bailey, Atticus Finch, or Juror #8. But I’m drawn to them for a reason. Their quiet strength suggests a kind of integrity I aspire to: not flashy, not heroic in the caped sense, but fundamentally committed to fairness. Even when it hurts.

Intellect, Subtext, and Restraint

Other films on my list—Casablanca, Silence of the Lambs, Shawshank—speak in code. They’re populated with characters who outthink rather than outfight their adversaries. They rely on wit, persuasion, and careful timing. These are films where subtext matters as much as dialogue—where a look, a pause, or a choice not to speak carries enormous weight.

This suggests something about me I may not say aloud: I value intellect over force. I like watching people reason their way through chaos. And I respect stories that allow ambiguity to linger.

But Then There’s Fantasia

The inclusion of Fantasia might seem like an outlier—no courtroom, no villain, no plot. But it’s crucial to understanding the whole.

Fantasia brings something wordless into the mix: a yearning for transcendence, a craving for art that bypasses the brain and goes straight to the bloodstream. It’s abstract, reverent, experimental, and occasionally a little scary. And I love it, as not only a movie devotee but also as a musician.

In fact, the more I think about Fantasia, the more I realize it belongs on this list not in spite of the others, but because of them. It reveals the hidden architecture beneath my taste: I don’t just want to be entertained. I want to be transported. I want to feel something. Awe. Grief. Justice. Wonder. Dignity. The urge to do better.

What These Films Whisper About Me

I wouldn’t have been able to articulate this at age14, watching North by Northwest reruns or waiting for Jaws to finally air on broadcast (I did see it at its original release, but months after the summer mania over it had passed). But these films have become part of the scaffolding of my inner life. They tell me things I didn’t know I needed to hear:

• That the moral path is often the loneliest—but worth walking.
• That dignity can survive inside a prison (Shawshank) or under systemic hatred (Schindler).
• That the smallest decisions (12 Angry Men) can ripple into something bigger than ourselves.
• That even a jaded man in Casablanca might rediscover his conscience.
• That beauty, sometimes, needs no words at all

This list may have addenda moving forward, as I continue my love affair with a darkened theater and giant images projected at 16 frames per second (or whatever the present digital description is). I'm already kicking myself for omissions that include The Elephant Man, Paths of Glory, It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, Inherit the Wind, The Quiet Man).

If there are any here you're not familiar with, I highly recommend seeking them out.

And if you've got a spare seat next to you when watching them for the first time, I'd be happy to accompany you. 

 

Farewell to the Dog Who Wasn't Supposed to Happen

Parker's entry into our household 14 years ago was really a remarkable thing. It wasn't supposed to happen.

His arrival resulted from the departure of his precursor, Wesley. Wes, as people who know us are well aware, was a handful. He was our maiden voyage of dog ownership, and frankly, his entry into our home wasn't exactly smooth sailing. He was, as we later learned, the result of a none-too-informed breeder who didn't quite have a grasp on producing stellar Labrador Retrievers. He was willful, dominant, and a bit of a wild child, and it took the intervention of an ace obedience instructor to help us help him into being the A+ dog he became.

But numerous times during those early, tumultuous weeks with Wes, Eileen (not a dog person then but a dear dog mom now) would vent: "I hope you're enjoying this dog-ownership thing now, because when Wesley eventually shuffles off his mortal coil, we're done."

Over time, however, she softened, especially as Wes got his act together and became the great dog he was destined to be.

Wes' exit from our lives was sudden, shocking, and brutal. Unbeknownst to us, he had a vicious tumor growing on his liver, a condition we later learned had the ominous name "hemangio carcinoma." By the time I got our clearly distressed Lab to the vet, there was little that could be done. I stayed with him through those final moments, came home to an empty house, and waited for my family to come home from work/school to break the tragic news.

This loss hit us in November 2010. A month later, among my Christmas gifts was a card from Eileen. When I opened it, the card showed an adorable Lab puppy wearing a Santa hat. When I opened it, whatever Yuletide greeting was inside was augmented with a note: "Let's do this again. Love, Eileen."

In other words, she was green-lighting another Lab to join our family.

Fortunately, I knew exactly where I wanted to get him.

At that time, I was part of an online community of Lab owners from across the globe. It was a Listserv-based "board" on which members could post comments, questions, photos, stories, etc. etc. etc. During my time there, as I would share stories about Wes, I got to "know" a breeder from Michigan who had an established reputation for breeding top-notch (cute as hell) Labs.

Once Eileen okayed another dog in the house, I contacted this breeder, asked about schedules, and made arrangements.

On April 09, 2011, the litter came. Our breeder, knowing intimately what I was looking for, picked out a pup for us and designated it as ours.

Except. In the mental blur of a late-night whelping, she mistakenly allotted us a female Lab. In the light (and clarity) of the following morning, she reassigned us our dog, presumably sending the little girl elsewhere.

Because he was a Christmas gift, I wanted a Yuletide-themed AKC Registration name. I came up with: Kelrobin Cleveland Street Resident. "Kelrobin" was our breeder's insignia. The "Cleveland Street Resident" part was a nod to the 1983 film A Christmas Story, which had long been a Weckerly family favorite. His "call" name -- Parker -- dovetailed nicely, as it was also the surname of the family in the movie.

Bringing him home 10 weeks later was a saga that has entered the very lore of the Weckerly family. The plan. Long story short (because I've shared this tale verbally for years), Parker and I were delayed coming home because of weather, a setback that turned an afternoon arrival from Detroit airport back into Philadelphia into a late evening one. By the time we got back into the car in Philadelphia, I was rocketing back home on the Schuylkill Expressway with Parker sitting in the passenger seat, resting his wee head on my left thigh.

We were bonded from that night forward.

Love at first sight.

His life forward was relatively smooth. He potty-trained easily. Got along with everyone. Ate like a champ. Grew like a weed. Given the experience I had with Wesley, I embarked Parker on the same training regimen, taking him to obedience classes to learn to heel, sit, down, etc. Our trainer, Sue, fell in love with him almost at first sight, a rather startling outcome because Labrador Retrievers were never quite her favorite breed, despite having Goldens in her background. Not that she disparaged them; they just weren't her cup of tea (she preferred Dobermans, which she continues to breed and show expertly).

The years passed. He grew, both in stature and in abilities. I got him into Obedience competitions, and he earned titles in Traditional Obedience, Rally, and Trick Dog. The letters after his name looked so official.

But his sweet spot was his work as a Therapy Dog. Once authorized (passing several tests to ensure he'd be okay around medical equipment, etc.), Parker became part of a local team sent to various senior homes for visitations.

The venue he enjoyed the most, however, was a program at our local library. The gist of these visits was to help build comprehension skills in children by having them "read" books to dogs. Studies had been done to indicate that troubled readers benefit from the nonjudgmental atmosphere of reading to a dog. No canine was going to correct pronunciation or inadvertently pressure a fledgling reader into doing better. By merely lying by the side of a child with a book, the amiable atmosphere and positive feedback, dogs made ace tutors.

One terrific reading tutor.

This was an activity Parker loved. He happily lay beside whoever was interested in reading to him and gladly "paid attention" to the narrative unspooling into his velvety ears.

The years tumbled forward. I'm not even sure how. Parker went from a student at obedience class to being a demo dog, helping novice handlers manage exercises like "Down," "Sit-stay, and "Come."

Parker in his element: Retrieving and wet.

And then ... Well... It all started slowing down. I stopped competing in Obedience, finding the long commutes and rigors of showing (there's a lot of waiting around) to be a lot to ask of him. I eventually retired him from his Therapy work. And although I would occasionally bring him to Obedience classes, it was more to visit than to demo.

From there, he seemed to enjoy retirement, content to find a sunny patch in the family room, nestle into it, and nap. But he still enjoyed his walks. In winter, he'd love a good snow, romping through the fluff and digging his nose into it, searching for a distant scent. We would vacation with him at the Jersey Shore, and he gladly walked the beach, chased seagulls (not at top speed, but still...), and pit-patted into the waves.

Undeterred by a few drifts.

But around the house, he'd sleep more. Play less. Walk shorter walks. Struggle to get in and out of the car. He developed some fatty lumps; nothing overly concerning (and definitely not cancerous), but they started skewing his once lean-and-muscular physique into something softer and more misshapen. His yellow muzzle gained a powdered sugar dusting. His bright brown eyes started losing some luster. 

Vet visits became more questions than answers. Slowing down. Showing signs of aging. Tuckering out.

Quiet restfulness...

I can't even really pinpoint a true drop-off, probably from a combination of inattentiveness and outright denial over the clock that was ticking louder and louder. But decline was evident. For one thing, he had developed a deep-chested, rattly cough that often left him gasping. He also started struggling to get up and down our staircase, so I bought him a sheepskin sling to aid him.

The vet visit associated with his 14th birthday (April 2025) gave us some sobering news. That cough that had become so prevalent in his everyday existence was a canine medical condition called Geriatric Onset Laryngeal Paralysis Polyneuropathy (GOLPP), an acronym that sounds as awful as the disease it represents.

Our vet let us know that there is a surgical remedy. But given Parker's age and overall health status, he couldn't recommend it.

Absent that kind of intervention, we brought him home and waited for him to tell us next steps.

Over the course of the following weeks, it became evident to me. To us. To just about anyone who would see him. His quality of life was dropping daily. Outside walks were a matter of minutes (sniff, plod, potty, return). And the remainder of his day -- hours and hours -- were spent asleep, trying to find peace and escape from the respiratory distress that plagued him.

A vet appointment on July 01 confirmed our worst fears. The GOLPP was exacting a vicious toll.

And as a result, it is time to say farewell.

Parker ... 

You were the dog we somehow thought we didn't need.
And yet you were everything necessary to make us whole.
From the moment you rested your head on my leg on that first drive home, I knew.
I knew you were mine, and I was yours.

Thank you for every walk, every wag, every quiet moment together when words weren’t needed.
You helped raise this family. You softened hearts. You healed. You comforted. You provided humor and joy. You taught.

Like every other pet owner who finds him- or herself in this awful position, I wish we had more time. But I’m so grateful for every day we had. And so is the rest of the family.

I hope you know the pure love that defined your life. Then. Now. And forever.

Goodbye, Parker. Go chase seagulls. Go plow through snowy fields. Go nap in a pool of sunshine. Go give the scare of a lifetime to an unsuspecting squirrel. Go give an elderly angel a kiss on the hand. Or find a young soul with a picture book to cozy up with.

We’ll find each other again.