As anyone who has ever read this column with even semi-regularity can tell you, I have a problem with children’s movies. I don’t like their insipid little story lines, their precociously cynical pre-adolescents, or their parents who exist merely as the straight men for the sarcastic/hostile comments directed at them by their preternaturally brilliant kids. In short, I hate them. Imagine, then, my delight upon discovering that our very own homegrown film festival–Mountain Film Festival–would be offering a “family program” of child-friendly short films. Finally, I thought: children’s movies that would be worthy of being called “films.”
For the most part, I was right: even though some of the films were better than others, none of them could be called insipid. (Except maybe the Swiss movie that was touted as being “James Bond meets Warren Miller.” More like “James Bond Meets Warren Miller…in the Old Folks’ Home”: despite some action shots reminiscent of The A-Team in its heyday, this snoozer never quite made it past 2 on the Excite-O-Meter.)
But before that there was an entertaining short about a couple of pieces of produce that were trying to escape from the crisper of an old refrigerator. Unfortunately, they are brutally attacked by various household appliances, until finally, only the lettuce leaf makes it outside to the freedom of the woods beyond (all it needed was some whistling and it could have been The Grape Escape.)
Then came a film about a day in the life of an Iraqi boy. At first, this seemed like a peaceful little movie, with charming scenes of young Iraqis enjoying a snowy day. Since the boys were near my son Clyde’s age (five), I was happy when Clyde asked me to read him the subtitles–after all, this was what I was here for: to see a child of mine attentively watching a film that involved neither ninja turtles or talking cows. With a fair bit of pride, therefore, in the discerning nature of my own little Renaissance boy, I confidently started whispering into his ear the words that appeared on the screen.
Now, after years of reading Good Night, Moon ad infinitum, I must admit that I am somewhat of a master at reading out loud without paying too much attention to what I am saying. And so it was that we were well into the story of how the boy lost his father before I started to wonder if maybe I should’ve been editing all along. It wasn’t too bad when the mother was explaining how there had been no work in the village and the boy’s father had gone looking for something to sell. But then she started to elaborate on how he had found a “cannonball,” and before I knew it I was whispering things in Clyde’s ear like: “there weren’t enough pieces left to wash…we put the pieces in a bag…and buried the bag…over there.”
After the movies were over I began to get a little worried: how would Clyde handle the information that somebody’s daddy could be found in so many pieces he needed to be buried in a bag? (As for the Swiss “action” flick, the only worries I had were that he might grow up to think you can shoot ten thousand rounds at someone running six feet ahead of you in a tunnel and still not hit them).
Later, when Clyde looked over at me with concern and started to ask me a question, I thought to myself: Here it comes. War. Life. Death. Everything. As it turned out, I was only right about the last part. “Mom?” he said. “Is the orange going to be ok?””
Skiing assassins, exploding fathers–thankfully, all Clyde really still cared about was the plucky produce. “Don’t worry,” I said, grateful for a lie I could live with. “It was just a movie.”