Leaning Into Cringe
On vulnerability, feedback, and the strange freedom of earnestness
“I didn’t know if it was supposed to be funny or not, or like, if it was Millennial cringe.”
As I stood in front of the test audience, already diving freely into the talkback, I took in this comment with a mix of curiosity and quiet confusion.
It was the first time we were screening our upcoming film, Smile… The Worst is Yet to Come, for an audience. My stomach was in knots. I chewed my cuticles. I paced. I fidgeted. I cried. Then I smiled, buzzed with nervous energy, and jabbered to everyone who walked through the door. I was anxious—but I was also full of gratitude. After all, this was a film I had started writing three years ago, pencil to pad.
We knew it wasn’t a finished cut—color and sound still needed work—but we had something we were proud of. It was also our first feature. Something we’d once only dreamed of making.
We needed a million dollars to make it. We made it for well under half, thanks to grants and a cast and crew who worked for less than they were worth because they believed in the vision.
When the lights went down, I stood in the back of the theater. The music—composed by my favorite artist—began. And there it was: the KissPix logo I designed over a decade ago. I stayed standing the entire screening. The audience laughed when we hoped they would. They seemed to feel the things we wanted them to feel. At the end, I saw tears in people’s eyes—including my own. And when the applause came, it hit something deep. I still feel the vibration of it.
We’d done it. We’d shown our first film.
Afterward, we passed out questionnaires (people obliged generously) and hosted a short talkback using a method I learned years ago at my theater company in New York: Inviolet Rep. It's based on Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process—a format that keeps feedback structured and centered on the artist’s intent.
Liz Lerman’s Process:
Step 1: Statements of Meaning
Responders share what was meaningful or striking about the work.
“I was really moved by the silence in that middle section—it created tension that lingered.”
Step 2: Artist Asks Questions
The artist poses specific questions they want feedback on. No unsolicited input.
“Did the shift in tone at the end feel earned?”
“Yes—it felt like a natural release from the earlier tension.”
Step 3: Neutral Questions from Responders
Responders ask nonjudgmental questions to spark reflection.
“What inspired the repetition of that line?”
“How did you decide on the pacing in the third act?”
Step 4: Opinions (With Permission)
Responders may offer opinions, but only if the artist agrees.
“I have a thought on the lighting—would you like to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“I wonder if a cooler palette would better match the emotional arc.”
This structure creates space for useful dialogue. Still, even with the best intentions, things can get away from you. You're a little raw after sharing work. The audience is eager. Conversations veer.
I remember attending a reading of a friend’s comedy script—hilarious script, excellent cast. It included one surreal, horror-tinged dream sequence. But during the feedback session, we spent over an hour discussing how to turn the entire project into a horror film.
I knew that’s not what my friend wanted to make.
Later, I pulled him aside and said, “Don’t listen to any of the horror notes. Let’s talk about what you actually want to know.”
We did. We re-centered on the film he was trying to make. I wasn’t a key player in shaping that project, but I did help hold space for my friend who wrote a fucking awesome script and was already on the right track. And that film went on to win the Audience Award at a major festival.
The wonderful thing about notes—of any kind—is that they mean people care. They’re engaged. Even a negative comment is a sign that your work provoked something. The real danger is apathy.
But the more I sat with that particular comment—
“I didn’t know if it was supposed to be funny or not… or like, if it was Millennial cringe…”
—the more I appreciated it.
Because here’s where I’ve landed:
I’m leaning into cringe. Fuck it.
1. Cringe Means You're Alive to the Moment
Cringe often stems from being emotionally present rather than emotionally guarded. It’s the opposite of irony and detachment. Leaning into cringe means you're in the room, trying, caring. That's rare—and magnetic. Cringe is often what vulnerability feels like on the way to resonance.
2. Cringe Is the First Draft of Cool
So much of what we call "cool" started as cringe. Early punk. Early YouTube. Early everything on the internet. Artists often get laughed at before they get taken seriously. Think: “Napoleon Dynamite” or “The Room.” Cringe doesn’t prevent cultural impact—sometimes it creates it.
3. It’s a Sign You’re Making Something Personal
If it feels cringe, it’s probably close to your heart. And that’s good. That’s the stuff worth exploring. The moment you fear embarrassment is often the moment you're about to say something true.
4. Cringe Invites Empathy
Watching someone go big and miss—or go deep and wobble—actually makes people root for you. It disarms the audience. It reminds them that art isn’t just craft, it’s courage.
5. Cringe Is Anti-Algorithmic
In a culture optimized for aesthetics, virality, and sleek branding, cringe is an act of rebellion. It resists packaging. It humanizes. It can’t be easily monetized, and that gives it soul.
6. It Expands Your Range
When you give yourself permission to be cringe, you give yourself permission to be everything. You’re no longer editing your work—or yourself—for some imaginary critic. That’s liberating.
7. You Can’t Be Original Without Risking Cringe
Originality is inherently awkward. It’s unfamiliar. That’s why so many “safe” ideas feel forgettable—because they’ve been socially sanded down. Cringe is often the residue of newness.
And look, I’m not suggesting leaning into cringe as means to not be accountable and to not have self-awareness. I believe in accountability and believe self-awareness is severely lacking in this world and even to an extent in art. But I do believe that cringe has become something we fear. And we can’t be afraid to take risks in art.
Cringe isn’t just awkward. It’s secondhand embarrassment. It’s what we feel when someone is too earnest, trying too hard, or missing the moment by a beat—or a month. Like someone doing a TikTok dance... five weeks late... in public... at a funeral (not really, but you know what I mean).
But I love earnestness. I’m okay with awkwardness. The world could use more people trying—really trying—to make something that matters, rather than something that dissolves with the next algorithm.
I don’t mind being late to the party if I arrive with purpose. I’m not a TikTok dancer. I’m a 46-year-old white guy. I will be late on some things. But I’ll never be late to a meeting.
Leaning into cringe is how I get honest on the page. It’s how I lead with vulnerability. It’s a way of saying, “Here I am. This is what I’ve got.”
And it’s especially important when making early work. Cringe often means you’re reaching beyond what’s safe. Every acting teacher will tell you: it’s easier to pull a performance back than to scale it up. The same applies to filmmaking. You don’t find your voice by tiptoeing.
I didn’t take offense to that comment. But if I could respond now, I’d say:
“It wasn’t supposed to be anything other than what you thought it was. If you thought it was funny, it was funny. If you thought it was cringe, it was cringe.”
Because once your art is out in the world, it no longer belongs just to you. You do your best to express something clearly. And it’s great to test your work with audiences because if there is a common note that something is not working, then it’s something that we should look at and try to address. A singular note or a note that few have but is different form the majority is simply subjective. But ultimately, the meaning—what people see in it—often exceeds your intention. That’s not a failure. That’s art doing its job.
So lean in. Dive headfirst into the deep end of cringe. Flail. Gasp. Get water up your nose. And keep going until you find the rhythm—until you’re floating in the very pool that’s been waiting for you all along.