I usually only write about genre on this site, but every now and then, a work of art comes along that affects me so deeply, I can’t bring myself to ignore it here just because it doesn’t fit under a prescribed category. Such is the case with the recent British film, Pride, which I saw in a small indie cinema just over a week ago in New York, and which touched me so deeply and entertained me so much that I proceeded to see it once more in New York the very next day, and then twice more when I returned home to Minneapolis. I haven’t revisited a new film–no matter how much I may have enjoyed it–so many times in the same week, and particularly not in the theatre, since I was in high school, and yet Pride has a magnetic draw over me that I can’t adequately put into words. I simply can’t remember the last time I have fallen so deeply and purely in love with a film. I already practically know it by heart, but I would go again and see it right here, right now, in a heartbeat. Part of me feels as if I would be perfectly happy watching it every single day of my life. It is remarkably uplifting yet at times also shattering. I have yet to emerge from the film without eyes wet with tears, and even knowing it inside and out by this point, I still need a few moments to compose myself after each viewing. And yet it isn’t a tragedy or an emotionally manipulative tearjerker. Far from it. The feelings it provokes in me are some of the most honest and wonderful I’ve ever experienced. I cry largely because I leave each time completely dazzled by peoples’ capacity for kindness towards one another, that even in very dark times, human beings can be remarkable to each other. And Pride has some genuine sadness, too, along with plenty of laughs. Every time I see it, I want to just hug every single person I see on the street. I want to sing and dance. I want to start a revolution. Set during the 1984 Miners’ Strike in the UK, Pride tells the unlikely but true story of an organisation of gay men and women who decided to raise money...