Ever wonder what happens when a kid’s wildest dream collides with the adult world’s sharp edges? Big (1988), directed by Penny Marshall, answers with a gleeful, heartfelt romp that still feels like a warm hug from your childhood self. This isn’t just Tom Hanks wishing on a carnival machine to wake up as a grown-up; it’s a timeless probe into what growing up really costs and it’s as relevant now as ever.

Hanks’ performance is the film’s beating heart. At 32, he channels 13-year-old Josh Baskin with a gangly, wide-eyed charm that’s both hilarious and haunting. Watch him navigate a corporate toy company or fumble through a first romance his every move screams kid-in-a-man’s-body, from the way he scarfs pizza to his baffled squint at a cocktail party. It’s not just mimicry; Hanks taps into a universal ache for innocence, making Josh’s journey resonate with anyone who’s ever felt out of place in their own life. Today’s audiences, bombarded by cynical blockbusters, will find his sincerity a refreshing jolt like stumbling on a Polaroid from simpler times.

Marshall’s direction is the unsung hero here. She balances whimsy with grit, grounding the fantastical premise in a grimy 1980s New York that feels alive, not nostalgic. Her camera lingers on small moments a kid’s bike abandoned in an alley, Josh’s awe at a Manhattan skyline lending emotional weight to the story’s stakes. Yet, the film stumbles in its final act, rushing Josh’s return to childhood in a way that feels too tidy, sidestepping the messier questions of identity and regret. It’s a minor misstep, but it leaves you wishing for a bolder gut-punch.

The score, by Howard Shore, weaves a playful, jazzy thread that mirrors Josh’s wide-eyed wonder without overpowering the story. It’s subtle but effective, amplifying the film’s emotional swings. In an era where superhero epics dominate, Big reminds us of cinema’s power to tell human-scale stories. Its exploration of authenticity versus ambition hits hard in a world obsessed with curated online personas Josh’s unfiltered joy is the antidote to our filtered feeds.

Big endures because it dares to ask: Would you trade your inner child for success? In 2025, as we grapple with burnout and nostalgia, it’s a question that stings. This isn’t a flawless film, but it’s one that grows with you, urging you to wish big and maybe hug your younger self a little tighter.