The news of Rob Reiner’s passing hit me hard this morning. In the wake of this tragedy, I find myself doing what I always do when processing difficult emotions—turning to the stories that have shaped me. And Rob Reiner gave us so many stories. Stories that made us laugh until we cried, stories that broke our hearts, stories that reminded us what it means to be human.

Rather than dwell on the darkness of how his story ended, I want to celebrate the light he brought into the world through his films. Here are thoughts on eight movies that showcase why Reiner was one of Hollywood’s most versatile and important directors.

This Is Spinal Tap (1984)

It’s impossible to overstate the influence of This Is Spinal Tap. Without this groundbreaking mockumentary, we wouldn’t have The Office, Parks and Recreation, Abbott Elementary, or countless other comedies that have adopted the documentary format. Reiner didn’t just direct this film—he appeared in it as Marty DiBergi, the earnest documentarian trying to capture the essence of “one of England’s loudest bands.”

What makes Spinal Tap genius isn’t just that it’s funny (though it’s absolutely hilarious). It’s that Reiner and his cast created something that felt so authentic, so perfectly observed, that real rock stars initially thought it was a genuine documentary. The film’s improvisational nature—much of the dialogue was created on the spot by the actors—established a template that comedy would follow for decades.

The film goes to eleven not just in volume but in its commitment to the bit. Every absurd detail, from the tiny Stonehenge prop to the cucumber wrapped in aluminum foil, feels both completely ridiculous and utterly believable. It’s satire at its finest, lovingly mocking its subject while somehow celebrating it at the same time.

Stand By Me (1986)

If Spinal Tap proved Reiner could handle comedy, Stand By Me demonstrated he was equally adept at drama—and at capturing something ineffable about childhood and loss. This has always been one of my favorite movies of all time, and rewatching it at different stages of life reveals new layers each time.

Based on Stephen King’s novella “The Body,” the film follows four boys on a journey to find a dead body, but what they really discover is the bittersweet truth that childhood friendships, no matter how intense, rarely survive the transition to adulthood. Reiner captures the texture of being twelve years old with remarkable precision—the casual cruelty, the fierce loyalty, the way everything feels like life or death because, in a way, it is.

The performances Reiner draws from his young cast are extraordinary. River Phoenix’s Chris Chambers breaks your heart with his quiet recognition that he’ll never escape his family’s reputation. Wil Wheaton’s Gordie carries grief like a stone in his chest. And the film’s final moments, with Richard Dreyfuss’s older Gordie typing “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve,” capture a universal truth about the unique intensity of childhood connections.

The Princess Bride (1987)

“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

If you didn’t read that in Mandy Patinkin’s voice, you might be the only person on Earth who hasn’t seen The Princess Bride. My third-grade class was shown this film as an end-of-term reward, and I’ve been quoting it ever since. It’s one of those rare cases where I actually think the movie surpasses the book—William Goldman’s screenplay streamlines his novel while Reiner’s direction adds warmth and humanity that makes the fairy tale feel real.

What’s remarkable about The Princess Bride is how it manages to be simultaneously sincere and self-aware. The framing device of Peter Falk reading to Fred Savage allows the film to comment on its own story (“Is this a kissing book?”) while still investing us completely in the romance and adventure. It’s a fairy tale that knows it’s a fairy tale but never uses that knowledge to undercut its emotional power.

The film is endlessly quotable because every line feels both perfectly crafted and naturally delivered. “Inconceivable!” “As you wish.” “Have fun storming the castle!” These phrases have entered our cultural lexicon because Reiner understood that the best fantasies don’t ask us to take them seriously—they ask us to take them to heart.

When Harry Met Sally… (1989)

This is it. This is my favorite romantic comedy of all time. And while Nora Ephron’s screenplay deserves enormous credit, it’s Reiner’s direction that makes When Harry Met Sally… feel lived-in and real rather than contrived and formulaic.

The film asks whether men and women can truly be friends, but that’s just the hook. What it’s really about is how we build walls around ourselves and how the right person can help us tear them down. Reiner films New York City like a character in the story, using the changing seasons to mark the passage of time and the evolution of Harry and Sally’s relationship.

The famous deli scene gets all the attention (and rightfully so—it’s comedy gold), but the film is full of smaller, quieter moments that feel just as revolutionary. The split-screen phone call while both characters watch Casablanca from their separate beds. The way Harry’s voice cracks when he realizes he’s lost Sally. The documentary-style interviews with older couples throughout the film, which Reiner based on real interviews, lending authenticity to what could have been just another rom-com.

Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan have never been better, and that’s because Reiner knew how to use their natural personalities rather than force them into predetermined types. He let them be funny and vulnerable, prickly and warm, often within the same scene.

Misery (1990)

Talk about range. One year after delivering the perfect romantic comedy, Reiner crafted one of the most effective thrillers ever put to film. Misery is unforgettable in so many ways, from Kathy Bates’s Oscar-winning performance to that ankle-breaking scene that still makes audiences collectively wince.

What makes Misery work isn’t just the horror of Paul Sheldon’s situation—it’s how Reiner makes us understand Annie Wilkes. She’s terrifying, yes, but she’s also lonely, damaged, and desperately trying to control a world that keeps disappointing her. Bates plays her not as a one-note villain but as a fully realized person whose mental illness has twisted her love of stories into something dangerous.

Reiner keeps the film claustrophobic without making it feel stage-bound, using the geography of Annie’s house to create mounting tension. Every creak of the floorboards, every rattle of pills in a bottle, becomes a source of dread. And James Caan’s performance as Paul perfectly captures the writer’s journey from condescension to terror to desperate, animal survival instinct.

The film also works as a metaphor for the relationship between artists and their audiences—the way fans can feel ownership over the stories they love and rage when those stories don’t go the way they want. In our current era of toxic fandoms and social media pile-ons, Misery feels more relevant than ever.

A Few Good Men (1992)

“You can’t handle the truth!”

Another endlessly quotable film, but A Few Good Men is so much more than its most famous line. This is Reiner working with Aaron Sorkin’s dialogue, and the combination is electric. Sorkin is a dialogue genius, but his words can sometimes feel overly theatrical. Reiner grounds them, making the rapid-fire exchanges feel like natural conversation between intelligent people rather than staged debates.

The film is essentially a courtroom drama, but Reiner keeps it visually dynamic, using the rigid geometry of military spaces to create tension. The way he films the climactic confrontation between Tom Cruise’s Kaffee and Jack Nicholson’s Jessep—slowly pushing in on their faces as the temperature rises—is masterful.

What elevates A Few Good Men beyond a simple military legal thriller is how it wrestles with complex moral questions. Is Jessep wrong when he says we need him on that wall? Can we demand both perfect safety and perfect morality from those who protect us? The film doesn’t offer easy answers, which is why it still resonates today.

The American President (1995)

Reuniting with Aaron Sorkin, Reiner crafted what might be the most idealistic political film ever made. The American President imagines a world where politicians can be both powerful and decent, where doing the right thing might cost you politically but gains you something more important—your integrity.

Michael Douglas’s President Andrew Shepherd is the president we wish we had—smart, principled, and capable of admitting when he’s wrong. His romance with environmental lobbyist Sydney Ellen Wade (Annette Bening) could have been contrived, but Reiner makes it feel genuine by showing how these two accomplished people challenge and complete each other.

The film’s climactic press conference, where Shepherd finally stands up to his critics and defends not just his girlfriend but the very idea of America as a complex, evolving democracy, feels like wish fulfillment in the best way. Sorkin’s words soar, but it’s Reiner’s direction that keeps them grounded in emotional truth.

Watching The American President now, in our current political climate, is both heartbreaking and hopeful. Heartbreaking because we seem so far from the civil discourse and basic decency the film depicts. Hopeful because it reminds us that such things are possible, that we can demand better from our leaders and ourselves.

The Bucket List (2007)

Reiner’s later films didn’t always reach the heights of his ’80s and ’90s work, but The Bucket List deserves recognition for giving us one more thing to add to our cultural vocabulary. The very concept of a “bucket list” has become so ubiquitous that it’s hard to remember the phrase didn’t exist before this film.

Pairing Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman as two terminally ill men who decide to live their final months to the fullest could have been mawkish or manipulative. Instead, Reiner finds genuine emotion in their journey, balancing humor and pathos while avoiding easy sentimentality.

The film asks big questions—What makes a life worth living? What do we owe to others versus ourselves? How do we find meaning in the face of mortality?—without pretending to have all the answers. It’s a smaller film than Reiner’s classics, but it shows his consistent ability to find the human heart of any story.

The Stories Live On

Rob Reiner’s career spanned genres and decades, but common threads run through all his best work: a belief in the power of storytelling, a gift for drawing naturalistic performances from his actors, and an understanding that the best entertainment doesn’t talk down to its audience but invites them to feel deeply and think critically.

From the anarchic comedy of Spinal Tap to the gothic horror of Misery, from the nostalgic ache of Stand By Me to the romantic hope of When Harry Met Sally…, Reiner proved again and again that there’s no such thing as “just” entertainment. Every story we tell each other matters. Every film that moves us changes us a little bit.

In the end, that’s how we should remember Rob Reiner—not for how his story ended, but for all the stories he gave us along the way. Stories that make us laugh, cry, think, and feel more connected to each other. Stories that go to eleven. Stories about friendship and loss. Stories about true love and terrible obsessions. Stories that remind us that we can demand more from our leaders and ourselves. Stories that encourage us to live before we die.

As Westley says in The Princess Bride, “Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.” The same is true for great storytelling. Rob Reiner may be gone, but the stories he told—and the ways he taught us to tell our own stories—will endure.

Thank you for everything, Rob. Have fun stormin’ the castle.