The winter of 1992 was when I discovered music. And by ‘discovered’ I don’t mean I, like, got my first Walkman. I mean ‘discovered’ in the sense that I tapped into the yet-unexplored artistic regions of myself. First my parents transferred me to Catholic school in Connecticut, where my new best friend was a Beatles fan, inspiring me to buy The White Album and Abbey Road. Within weeks of that, the only thing on MTV was the video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I threatened to dye my hair pink until my dad ponied up for Nevermind and Ten.

It’s almost unbelievable that one person can be exposed to such high pop art in one season. Up to that point I had been a rhythymless kid from the suburbs whose favorite song might actually have been the theme song to Fresh Price of Bel Air. Suddenly I was wearing ripped jeans, head-banging in basements, screaming the lyrics to “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road” during gym class and, in general, finding the music of my own life. Music had saved me from being boring.

I thought this would be the peak of the way art could change me until the summer of 1999. I was living in Boca Raton, of all places, teaching swimming to toddlers between my sophomore and junior years of college. I saw the following four movies in the theater, in succession: Fight Club, Magnolia, American Beauty, and Being John Malkovich. Seeing those particular movies in one short time period didn’t just tune me into the beauty of film, it inspired me to question my follow-the-middle-class-road trajectory. Movies saved me from myself.

As anyone who likes going to see movies knows, they tend to suck these days. They’re all action or horror or cartoons or dance contests between hot white chicks and hot black chicks. What happened to the summer of ‘99? Or, for that matter, the winter of ‘92? Is it the art, or what we want from it? Have we become completely, totally, irretrievably base? Because what’s popular says a lot about who we are as a people, as a culture: our tastes, our values, whether we just want to be pacified, or if we demand to be inspired.

Anyway. Just as I’m about to move to South Africa, just as my faith in the American people is at an all-time low (Obama’s election notwithstanding), what happens? For the first time in a decade, I see four legitimately good movies in a row.

Brad Pitt in the title role of In the Case of Benjamin Button

The Mysterious Case of Benjamin Button made me cry over something that I cannot relate to in any way, something that makes no logical sense, and which even had little to do with the short story it came from. That’s quite a trick, if you ask me. Though the special effects are grand, and the sets are nearly as luminous as Cate Blanchett, what made this movie so wonderful is how it made the argument that true love isn’t born out of circumstance or lust or insecurities that need filling: true love is just true love.

Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino

See Gran Torino because you want to believe that people can change. See it because there aren’t enough good, honest movies about aging old men, or the immigrant experience. See it because the non-professional actors are really, really good, and because no one has ever done anything tougher than Clint Eastwood pretending to shoot gang members with his index finger. See it because it’s that good and has made $100 million, and that says something positive about us as a people.

Mickey Rourke as the title character in The Wrestler

Find your way to The Naro to see The Wrestler while it’s still around. Some might say that the heart of the American story is ambition. I say it’s redemption. In this movie an aging, broken-down wrestler (think an alternate life path for Hulk Hogan) struggles with the decision to either risk his health in the ring or sacrifice his dignity and start a new life making ends meet however he can. Mickey Rourke’s character magnifies the identity issues that are in the forefront of many American lives and choices. He confronts his own in the story with a heart-wrenching humanity rarely seen in theater, film, or even real life. The Wrestler is a gift.

Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett in Revolutionary Road.

Finally, last night I saw Revolutionary Road. “Nobody forgets the truth,” Kate Winslett’s character says of suburbanites abjectly not living their dreams, “They just get better at lying.” And isn’t it the truth? This movie might not be recommended for anyone who has been divorced, is considering a divorce, feels stuck in their life, has had or has admitted to having an affair, misses the city, wants to move to Paris but knows they never will, or wants to believe that everything will ever be ok. Or maybe, actually, it’s just the film for all those people.

This winter of films doesn’t belong with the winter of 1992 or the summer of 1999 in the pantheon of popular artistic achievement. But for all of you who worry that Americans just want candy-coated, lighter-than-air art, these four movies can get you to believe again.