A24 and the Power of Sadness

Founded in 2012 by Daniel Katz, David Fenkel, and John Hodges, A24 has quickly become one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary cinema. The studio is known for championing directors with bold, personal visions, including Ari Aster, Luca Guadagnino, Greta Gerwig, Robert Eggers, and Jonah Hill. Their films range widely in genre—from horror to coming-of-age stories and absurdist sci-fi to intimate dramas—but they all share a clarity of emotion and a refusal to pander to easy resolutions. A24 has established itself as a space where filmmakers can take risks, where awkwardness, melancholy, and existential curiosity are celebrated rather than smoothed over. 

The company’s films often leave viewers feeling as if they have been invited into someone else’s diary, one written in pastel sunsets, fluorescent motel halls, and ritualistic flower crowns. They ask audiences to slow down and sit with their emotions, noticing the ache and beauty that exist in the same moment. In Lady Bird, the bittersweet tension of leaving home before you are ready is rendered in soft Sacramento sunsets and sharp, awkward dialogue. Mid90s captures the desperation of adolescence in every scraped knee and stolen skate trick, showing that growing up is often just learning to hide the pain of wanting to belong. The Florida Project turns peeling paint and melting ice cream cones into symbols of both childhood wonder and adult struggle. Even the chaotic absurdity of Everything Everywhere All At Once mirrors the chaos of ordinary life, showing loneliness, regret, and the fragile hope that love might hold everything together.

What ties these films together is not style or genre but emotional honesty. Each A24 film, no matter how different in tone or texture, treats sadness as a kind of compass—something that guides its characters toward understanding themselves. The horror of Midsommar, the tenderness of We Live in Time, and the coming-of-age ache of Lady Bird all circle the same question: what does it mean to feel deeply in a world that often rewards detachment? A24 film encapsulates an ecosystem in which grief, longing, humor, and joy coexist. We Live in Time further traces love through years of quiet domestic loss, and Midsommar explores grief under sunlight and ritual, proving that pain does not always hide in darkness. Characters in A24 films are rarely sad because bad things happen to them. They are sad because they feel too much. Their sadness comes from sensitivity rather than circumstance and from the impossible task of staying open in a world that keeps trying to make them numb. They are learning how to live when the world refuses to slow down for them. 

A24 translates this emotional complexity into a visual language. The washed-out Technicolor madness of Pearl, the eerie symmetry of rituals in Midsommar, and the handheld intimacy of Mid90s create images that feel curated but alive. Each frame mirrors memory, nostalgia, and human emotion in a way that is uneven, unstable, and deeply familiar. The films create a kind of beauty that is quiet, uncomfortable, and deeply resonant. 

There is also a social layer to A24 that cannot be ignored. Watching these movies feels like participating in a collective moodboard. On one level, there is identification: the comfort of realizing that your private melancholy looks like someone else’s too. On the other hand, there is the social performance of taste. Liking A24 has become a shorthand for self-awareness, the cinematic equivalent of listening to vinyl or thrifting. The studio’s aesthetic, from the font on its merchandise to the muted color palettes of its posters, invites audiences to signal discernment, irony, and emotional depth. Even when the films are aware of their own coolness, their emotional truth hits hard. When Pearl smiles through tears at the end, it is horrifying and recognizable because everyone has pretended to be fine while everything inside them was breaking. Beyond evoking emotion, their films offer recognition, the strange comfort of seeing your inner life reflected on screen, realizing it is not yours alone. Perhaps that is why audiences keep returning, wearing the merch, quoting the dialogue, and embracing the aesthetic. 

At the same time, A24 sells sadness in a way that feels necessary and transformative. Heartbreak is cinematic, confusion is stylish, and existential dread can become an aesthetic you inhabit rather than escape. The studio turns emotion into both art and artifact, something to wear, quote, or collect. Like a candle that smells faintly of existential dread or a tote bag declaring, “I have good taste in movies,” A24 occupies that delicate, strange space between whimsy and discomfort, inviting viewers to linger, feel, and understand themselves a little more. 

In an era where Hollywood is dominated by sequels, prequels, long multi-movie franchises, remakes, and live-action reboots, A24 stands out for its commitment to original storytelling. The studio continues to give audiences new perspectives and fresh narratives. The Whale, for example, follows a deeply troubled man confronting grief, guilt, and estranged relationships in a way rarely seen on screen. Their upcoming film Eternity is said to explore the delicate tensions of love, loss, and the choices that define a lifetime, promising the kind of emotional depth and inventive storytelling that has become synonymous with the A24 brand. By taking risks on original ideas and voices, A24 proves that cinema can still surprise, challenge, and move us.

Jordan Straub is a first-year student at Columbia College studying political science. A big fan of film and the cinema experience, she can often be found checking movies off her ‘must-watch’ list, never giving a rating below four stars.