This morning I have decided that I am a professional movie critic. First, though, I must inform you about my emotional state.
Everybody knows it’s a bad thing for a grown man to cry. It’s a sign of weakness and a serious lack of macho. Big boys just don’t cry and when a fat one like me does, it’s ugly.
But one of the most obnoxious things to do around me when you know something that jerks tears is about to happen is to pass me a dang Kleenex. It’s an acknowledgment of my instability and girliness, and it messes up the moment. It is entirely unnecessary. Don’t stinking do that, okay?
Another thing that yanks my chain is for someone to alert the crowd in front of the TV that I am crying again. My first experience with this agony was while we were all crammed in front of the old Magnavox watching Gigot. When the big, “touched” mute played by Jackie Gleason chased his child friend around the carousel because he didn’t understand that she really wasn’t going to fly away and the nasty Parisians jeered and laughed as he slammed into things I lost it every time. He couldn’t bear losing sight of her, and I still hate the French for that. People are cruel.
“Look at Savage, everybody!” trilled Sister. “He’s cryin,’ again!” and then twelve or fourteen pairs of eyes stopped and turned my way. “Awww, poor baby” said Paul. “Savage is a cwyyyy-baby, Savage is a cwyyy-baby” sang Tim. “Poor wittle snookums“said Battle. “What a little fairy!” said Henry. “He’s such a sissy.” said Monica. “DON’T SAY FAIRY!” said Dad.
It was trauma and abuse of the first order, and I’ll get even one day. Because of my brothers and sisters I am damaged goods so be warned: the footers under my emotional feet were made with a little too much sand if you know what I mean. Might even be a time bomb thing. I don’t know.
So now that you’re aware of that, also know that last Sunday night we decided to go watch Toy Story 3 because it’s harmless and not too deep and I’ll not be in danger of becoming a cry-baby girly-girl.
Steve Jobs will be remembered mostly for inventing Apple Computer in his garage, and that’s pretty cool. He could have quit there, but his real genius came later when he put together Pixar and started the whole thing with the Toy Story series. The first one was very cool and revolutionary and poignant and funny with several memorable one-liners. The second one was more hilarious as Don Rickles has to constantly remind himself that he’s a “married spud” when a sultry super hero or Barbie made the scene (I can’t remember who it was but she was either scanty or very femme anatomic or both). Both of these movies were funny and wholesome and drove home the importance of having friends and being true to them. For me they were safe.
Toy Story 3 is another thing altogether.
There is Michael Keaton, an old guy in real life by now, doing an excellent post-pubescent voice of disco and not really sure of his orientation Ken. It’s really funny, and Barbie is an equal dingbat albeit fox turned heroine. And what Toy Story movie would be complete without Cliff Claven as the evil pig and Rex the guilt-ridden dinosaur? It was Buzz Lightyear’s greatest performance ever. You have to see for yourself, but these factors alone make the movie well worth your nickel.
However, the typical Toy Story message to never be stupid enough to take yourself seriously and to always be true to the people you love is really slammed home here. Forgive. Move forward and hold hands. While nobody’s perfect, there are some among us who are more perfect than we ever will be and that’s okay.
This really isn’t a movie. It’s an experience that you need to share with the mother of your children. There is torture, theft, anger, hate, murder, fear, loathing and sex innuendo that’s all trumped by never to be lost, unconditional, innocent, raw and forever regardless of what happens love.
I won’t ruin it for you, but I will say that I was reminded to re-read Night so that I would remember to never, ever allow myself to forget what can happen if we allow it to. This is pretty deep stuff and the way the animators handle facial expressions- one scene in particular- is scary brilliant.
So if you are unstable like me and are a daddy or a momma, be warned about Toy Story 3. Go see it at the drive-in in Wildwood where there’s plenty of real estate and nobody can see the big, fat tears running down your face. It’ll probably get terrible reviews by the people who know what they are talking about, but for me there was irony that was big enough to make this one of the best movies ever. I’ll watch it many more times.
My dysfunctional thumb is up. Way up.
Savage Glascock