There is pure cinematic joy in Braveheart’s unabashed sentimentalism and righteous fury, announced forthright with an ostentatious aerial shot set to the yearning melodies of James Horner’s iconic score. Everything about this movie seems to harken back to an age unblemished by irony, when the broadest emotions could stand on a massive scale alongside bloodshed, tyranny, resilience, and honor. Avoiding complexity is thus essential to the film’s ambitions, which goes some ways towards explaining the mostly simplistic portrayal of Wallace and his arch nemesis, Edward I. History this is only in the broadest strokes. But that’s not why we’re here. This is an epic in the genre sense—meant to stir the heart and delight the senses. On those terms, I think few films can match its power. We are all Robert the Bruce, yearning to become caught up in the swell of a warrior poet and find in his glorious triumph the inspiration for our own flourishing.
I want to believe, as he does.