An Extended Look at Treasure Island

Walt Disney and the word "simple" don't go together. Disney and the concept of simplicity don't go together, either. This isn't to say that some attractions at the various Disney theme parks aren't simple in their design or their impact, or that some classic Disney movies don't have simple story structures or character development. No, this means that while Walt Disney was able to tap into the inner recesses of people's psyches for maximum effect, something that may seem simple, he rarely created something that didn't have some complex thought placed behind it. So there is--I hope--some complex idea behind the first fully live-action film from Walt Disney Productions, 1950's Treasure Island. I just don't know what it is.

Based on the classic tale by Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island is a boy's adventure through and through. Though we get a mention of a female character--the lead character's mother--we never meet her, and no other women have dialogue, let alone important roles. Seeing as most of the film takes place on a large ship as its male denizens hunt for buried treasure, this isn't much of a shock. Still, I was struck by the gender imbalance during the opening section. We meet our lead, Jim Hawkins, a young boy who runs an inn with his aforementioned mother. Jim tries to shield one of the inn's residents, Billy Bones, from some nefarious characters including one who gives him an ominous black spot foretelling his doom. The plan doesn't work for long, as Bones dies the very night he receives the black spot. What he leaves behind, though, is a map to massive amounts of treasure. Joined by local elders Squire Trelawney and Doctor Livesey, Jim decides to go on an adventure unlike anything he's ever experienced. But what, Livesey and Trelawney wonder, will Jim's mother think? Will they be able to take the boy on their trip? Should they ask? Why does it matter, seeing as she's never onscreen?

That aside, most of Treasure Island is uncomplicated, unfettered, unpretentious entertainment. There's a treasure, and the characters onscreen want to find it, often at the expense of their fellow man. Jim, Trelawney, Livesey, and the captain of the ship they're sailing, the Hispaniola, Mr. Smollett, are all honorable enough. They're men who know that, sure, they're hunting down buried pirate treasure, but they're also not cutthroats. The problem is that, as such honorable men, they're initially blinded to the fact that they are surrounded by the scum of the earth on this voyage. You all know about Long John Silver, the pirate with a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder. Long John is the cook of the Hispaniola, and he has plans for mutiny so he can get ahold of the treasure. In this version--and perhaps in the original story, which I've never read--Long John Silver lucks his way onto the ship, as he happens to be the cook at a harbor inn where Jim and friends have a fateful lunch before getting their crew together. Though Jim's been warned of a man with a peg leg, he's won over by Silver's jovial nature. He should know better, though, as Long John Silver's intent is clear almost from his introduction, his eyes bulging at the very thought of unlimited gold.

This is a story that's seemingly as old as time itself, but Treasure Island is fun without trying too hard. I suppose that's one of the most interesting elements of this movie: it doesn't try that hard. The behind-the-scenes crew don't include many of the usual Walt Disney Productions suspects; it was directed by Byron Haskin, who would go on to direct the 1953 sci-fi classic The War of the Worlds, but nothing else notable for Disney. In fact, considering this movie's importance in the overall Walt Disney Studios canon, there's not much notable about it. Not being notable isn't the same as being creatively unsuccessful, certainly, but there's only one other movie in the Walt Disney Studios canon that matters as much as Treasure Island: 1937's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. There's little point in debating the quality of the two movies--partly because I'll be talking about the 1937 film on the next episode of the show and partly because...well, we'll just leave it at that--but for being the first of their kind for the studio, their importance can't be understated. And yet Treasure Island gets zero hoopla. Though it didn't come first, I imagine most people consider 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea to be the true first live-action Disney film, if only because of its ambition, big names, and technical prowess. While Robert Newton's performance as Long John Silver isn't too outlandish or outrageous, he can't hold a talent to the starpower of Kirk Douglas and James Mason.

What's more, though Treasure Island mostly looks realistic enough, it can't hold a candle to the major leap taken with the production design in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. For Disney to adapt boyhood tales by Stevenson and Jules Verne makes perfect sense, but in some ways, the former story feels like small fries. Honestly, watching this movie compared with watching 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is like watching a TV-movie compared with a big-budget epic. Disney's heart was not, I fear, in this movie as much as it was in the later film. Considering how touch-and-go the film studio was back in the late-1940s, though, I can understand Disney wanting to be cautious with his first foray into an arena that had many seasoned, skeptical veterans. I just wish he'd been more able to let his imagination run wild, or allow the filmmakers' imaginations to run wild.

The best thing I can say about Treasure Island, outside of it being purely fun, is that it didn't make me angry. Most of the live-action Disney movies I've reviewed for the show this year have made me angry, for one reason or another, be it Tron, The Black Hole, or 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. All of those films, though, did have ambition even if it was misplaced. The sole driving force of ambition in Treasure Island is wanting to make a live-action movie and just do it well enough to make people think that Disney could do it more than once, and in a more innovative sense. Treasure Island is not forgettable, but unlike the triumph of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, by not being first to the party of making live-action films, Walt Disney was only able to make a serviceable pirate movie in his first attempt to break out of the animation mold.

An Extended Look at The Muppet Christmas Carol

Is it right for us to see the Muppets out of their natural habitat? That question was posed to audiences in the 1990s, as Walt Disney Pictures brought us The Muppet Christmas Carol in 1992 and Muppet Treasure Island in 1996, two adaptations of famous novels with Muppets inserted into key roles. There were humans present in both films, but humans play second fiddle to the Muppets. Simply by being Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear, the Great Gonzo, and more, the Muppets take the spotlight away from the humans beside them. There have been different ways of saying it, but the biggest flaw in The Muppets is that Jason Segel and Amy Adams aren't as compelling as the felt creatures standing next to them. But the problem in The Muppets isn't nearly as frustrating as what happens in The Muppet Christmas Carol.

By making Ebenezer Scrooge a human character, director Brian Henson and screenwriter Jerry Juhl put themselves into a corner. The Muppets are the focus of any Muppet movie. But what if a Muppet movie becomes a movie with Muppets on the side? We get the Walt Disney Pictures' version of Muppet movies, something akin to Classics Illustrated adaptations with brighter colors and friendlier twists and turns. It's almost like a form of fan fiction: "If the Muppets were starring in a version of A Christmas Carol, who would play Bob Cratchit?" The problem, really, is that the creative team here boxes themselves in. A human plays Scrooge. Three of the ghosts--the ones with the most screen time--aren't played by Muppet characters we're familiar with. Some of the most famous Muppets are given small roles, simply because the movie chooses to be somewhat more faithful than we might expect to Charles Dickens' classic tale.

No matter how faithful Juhl and Henson are, though, we must remember something fairly important: this movie isn't that faithful, because of THE MUPPETS. Dickens didn't plan for felt versions of frogs, pigs, bears, and more to interpret his story, nor for them to sing about it. Good or bad, The Muppet Christmas Carol isn't that faithful an adaptation. It's more faithful than people assume, but that's because when you think of the Muppets, you don't think of honoring the author's intent or the source material. They may not have been as anarchic as, say, the cast of Saturday Night Live, but the Muppets have always broken the fourth wall, commented on the stories they're in or the jokes they're telling. In that way, The Muppet Christmas Carol is pretty toothless.

And yet, I enjoy The Muppet Christmas Carol, as do many of you, I imagine. Part of it's simple: I like the Muppets. I really like them, and since there are so many of them, whether or not you know their names, it's easy to latch onto a favorite. When I was a youngster, my favorite Muppet was probably Gonzo. Lo and behold, he's the onscreen narrator for The Muppet Christmas Carol, so I wasn't complaining about not having Kermit, Piggy, or Fozzie to kick around. Now, I'm also a much more appreciative and aware fan of Michael Caine. (Seeing this when I was 8 meant that I'd probably never seen a movie with him in it before.) Caine is arguably the best Scrooge of the age of cinema and television. You can keep your Alistair Sims, Patrick Stewarts, and George C. Scotts, friends. They're all fine Scrooges, in slightly different ways. But none of them had to say, "Why, it's old Fozziwig's rubber chicken factory!" with a straight face. None of them had to say that kind of silly dialogue and mean it. That Caine does say those lines, does bring the proper amount of emotion to the character, and make the audience believe in Scrooge's life-altering transformation speaks to his power as an actor.

But therein lies the key issue with The Muppet Christmas Carol: the highest praise I have for one of its performers should not go to a human. Humans don't deserve zero praise for their work in Muppet movies; for example, I quite like Charles Durning and Austin Pendleton as the baddies in The Muppet Movie. But they're the villains, not the leads. In The Muppet Christmas Carol, at least, the lead character isn't played by a human. The same goes for Muppet Treasure Island, of course, but the problem doesn't seem as sharply in focus. Maybe it's that there are more Muppets with dialogue, maybe it's that the movie doesn't feel the need to be as faithful to its source material, but there's something a little wilder and bolder about that film.

I mentioned above that I was a huge Gonzo fan as a kid, and he's still one of my favorite Muppets. But as a critic and audience member who's not 8 anymore, I was surprised at exactly how long I had to wait to see Miss Piggy in this movie. (Note: I am aware that the same thing happens in Muppet Treasure Island.) With her being absent in the first half of this movie, and Fozzie Bear relegated to a five-minute part, I have to wonder if Frank Oz's heart really hasn't been in the Muppets ever since Jim Henson passed away in 1990. Oz spoke out against the new Muppet movie, because he felt that the characters weren't being honored or treated correctly. Certainly, that's not an issue here, but while the characters don't get denigrated, they also don't have much of the anarchic spirit we know them so well for. The closest the movie gets to acknowledging the Muppets themselves, outside of the characters they're playing here, is a slight in-joke regarding Sam the Eagle and his uber-patriotism.

Oz seems nearly as absent from this film as Henson; Miss Piggy gets the most material, playing Bob Cratchit's wife, but even she's toned down. Fozzie's in those aforementioned five minutes, and Sam the Eagle gets a joke about how he has to pretend to be a British patriot in this movie, not an American one. Such is the problem with being faithful to a story when you're also inserting characters who don't fit. Kermit is an OK Bob Cratchit, but it's not the same as Gary Oldman in motion-capture playing the character, from the 2009 version. First, there's Steve Whitmire, who has the unfortunate task of stepping in as the famed icon after Henson died. Then, there's Kermit. Then, there's Bob Cratchit. The extra level just adds a distance between us and the story.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing to consider about the Muppets and their movies is that adapting famous stories to include these characters isn't as outrageous as it seems; it's all about doing it correctly. The Muppet Movie is a road movie and an origin story. The Great Muppet Caper is an adventure where the leads are constantly winking at the audience, making us aware that they know they're in a movie. The Muppets Take Manhattan is a movie about putting on a show, just like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney did long ago. The point is this: adapting familiar cliches and tropes into new Muppet movies is fine. Adapting pre-existing stories and inserting Muppets into them is more problematic. We know where A Christmas Carol is going; we know the same about the old put-on-a-show cliche, but that cliche can change. A Christmas Carol can't, as soon as you decide to set it in London in the 1840s.

Michael Caine is the strongest aspect of this movie; the music is OK, if unmemorable, and the jokes are few and far between. That's another problem; this movie's not funny. I'm not saying I didn't find the jokes funny. I'm saying there aren't a lot of jokes. Aren't Muppet movies supposed to be funny? Even if you find it corny, Muppet Treasure Island has a lot more jokes than this does. Being faithful to this most classic of stories would seem like the right way to make a movie. But once you add in pre-existing characters, characters who I know and love, characters who have specific ways of acting and being, you have a problem on your hands. Again, I like The Muppet Christmas Carol, and it's the first movie of the holiday season I've reviewed for the show and enjoyed. But it's not the right adaptation, even if it features the best Ebenezer Scrooge.

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol

Like most fathers and sons, my dad and I have some rituals, some activities that we do just by ourselves. I'm an only child, so there's no one to share in these rituals, just the two of us. Though there are always some variations, those rituals can be boiled down baseball and the movies. My dad's been a New York Mets fan since he was born, and so am I. (Fun fact: we're also fans of the Buffalo Bills and Buffalo Sabres. We only like teams destined to break our hearts!) I've always been more of a film buff than my dad, though it's probably more honest to say that I've always been more of a film buff than anyone else in my family, close or extended.

Sure, there are some movies that my dad will not see, with me or anyone else. If it's a horror movie, or even a movie that is thought of as horror (prime example: 1979's Alien), he won't see it. And there are some movies, mostly romantic comedies, I've gone to out of obligation, because he wanted to see them while I wanted to run away from them as fast as I could. There are just some movies we see with each other to spend time together. But every once in a while, a movie hits the sweet spot of what we both like: action. One of my dad's favorite movies, one that's become one of mine, is Die Hard. (Calm down, reader, I know you're shocked.) The first movie is the best, but this is pure action fun. It's not too testosterone-y, it's not too incoherent, it's not too violent. It's just right. Some other movies that hit the sweet spot include The Fugitive and the good movie in the Mission: Impossible franchise.

(It's worth noting, mind you, that the latter films are based on television shows. Remember how, back in the 1990s, it seemed like every other movie was inspired by a TV show? Good times.)

I remember seeing the first Mission: Impossible movie back in May of 1996, and loving it. Siskel and Ebert reviewed it and complained that it was convoluted, that the story made no sense. They were intelligent critics, sure, and the Brian de Palma-helmed actioner isn't exactly 100% plausible, but who cares? This movie had Tom Cruise suspended by a wire in complete silence. It had Tom Cruise blowing up an aquarium/restaurant. It had Tom Cruise fighting a helicopter on a train. WHO CARES? I loved it in ways that I didn't love a lot of modern action movies. The Michael Bay-ification of action movies didn't turn me off the genre, but I wasn't enthralled by the jump cuts, incoherent filmmaking, and shoddy storytelling. My dad and I loved the first film; the less said about the second movie, the better. It was overlong, turgid, and a rip-off of a far better classic. John Woo was another director who might've seemed appropriate for the franchise, but brought a baffling level of Woo-iness to the proceedings.

When J.J. Abrams revived the franchise in 2006, my dad and I were there. Though the movie's best scene is its opening (I do like the bridge battle at the midway point, however), we both enjoyed Mission: Impossible III, not just as a continuation of the franchise but as a fun action movie. Because it's a ritual, because we enjoy action movies, and because we like the first and third movies in the franchise, it made perfect sense that we wound up at our local IMAX theater last night to watch an early screening of Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol.

(At this point, let me cover two questions you likely have, reader. Question One: "Wha? Huh? This isn't a Disney movie! Why are you talking about a movie that's not from the Mouse House? WHY?" Answer: Calm down. You'll find out soon enough, but you really shouldn't get so stressed out about something so minor. Maybe lie down for a minute? Question Two: "Hey, I've heard that, if you see the new Mission: Impossible in certain IMAX theaters, you get to see the opening six minutes for The Dark Knight Rises. Did you see that opening? How was it?" Answer: Yes, I saw the new Mission: Impossible in a real IMAX theater, not a fake on, but sadly, I did not see the prologue to The Dark Knight Rises. However, the audience at our IMAX theater was told by a manager and the event emcee that a) they had seen it and b) it was so awesome, you guys! I mention that because, way to make me hate you, fellas.)

I was intrigued by Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol for a number of reasons. I still liked the series enough that I was excited, but having J.J. Abrams involved as a producer, as opposed to a director didn't concern me. I've liked each of his movies to different degrees, but his Star Trek is the best film he's done by a long shot. I don't know that each Mission: Impossible movie needs to have fresh blood behind the camera--nor that, despite what the press materials say, that was ever the plan--but Abrams has grown as a director elsewhere. It's who Abrams got to direct that really got me excited: Brad Bird. Yes, friends, we've finally gotten to the Disney connection! Brad Bird, the visionary behind The Incredibles and Ratatouille, is the director of Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol, and much of the film's press has regarded whether an animation director could cut it in the world of live-action. The answer is an emphatic, triumphant, and resounding yes.

Mind you, the very idea that jumping from one filmic medium to another would be immensely challenging has been dispelled in many ways over the last few years. Just this year, Gore Verbinski directed the animated movie Rango; he acknowledged that the challenges were immensurate and far worse than he expected. Yes, both types of filmmaking present lots of problems, some different than others, but the idea that you can't direct both kinds, or at least try, is ridiculous. Brad Bird's sturdy, assured, and propulsive direction of Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol proves that, while not everyone can do it, some people have the gift. The film's plot is typically nutty--Ethan Hunt and his IMF team are disavowed after they're blamed for a bombing at the Kremlin and have to stop the man who really is behind the crime--but when you have such tightly paced and impressive action setpieces and sequences, who the hell cares?

Oh, and what setpieces. As I watched the scenes set in Dubai, beginning with Ethan dangling for his life on the outside of the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world and ending with him in the middle of a sandstorm, I felt the same visceral thrill that I got from the sequence in the middle of The Dark Knight that features a truck flipping upside down at the end of a turbulent car chase. Part of why the sequence in M:I-GP works so well is due to Bird's shrewd choice to film key parts of the movie with 65MM cameras so it could be presented in IMAX.

Now, if you've been following the podcast, you know that I am a purist when it comes to format. I ask myself a simple question: how did the filmmaker make this movie? Sure, it's available in 3D, but was it shot in 3D? Sure, I could see Happy Feet Two--which, by the way, is not only in 3D, but in IMAX--but was it meant to be seen in 3D and IMAX, or 2D? Movies that are shot in IMAX are even rarer than those movies filmed in 3D; it's important, then, that people filming with IMAX technology know how to use it right. The most well-known modern filmmaker who employs IMAX cameras with his films is Christopher Nolan, but with M:I-GP, Brad Bird is planting his flag in the sand, or maybe he's just warning Nolan: "I can do a movie with IMAX, too, buddy boy." From what I've read in the press kit, only 27 of the film's 133 minutes was shot in IMAX, but those 27 minutes are glorious. Hell, the whole damn movie is glorious, but the IMAX sequences are jaw-dropping and vertiginous. When Ethan Hunt is hanging by one hand on the 139th floor of the Burj Khalifa, with the camera tilted down so we know exactly how far it is to the ground, it's all a person can do to not grip their armrests and pray to God they don't fall with him.

Roger Ebert, in reviews of classic action films like Aliens defined a subgenre, called the Bruised Forearm Movie, wherein a wife or girlfriend is so gripped with suspense that she grabs her husband's or boyfriend's (or girlfriend's) arm to the point where it bruises. I wouldn't say this is on the level of Aliens in terms of overall quality, but in the Dubai sequences as well as a few other choice moments, I was gripping my armrest tight enough that, had it been a forearm, I'd have bruised it. Accomplishing that level of suspense is all the more impressive because this new Mission: Impossible film isn't chock full of plot-based surprises. It will, I imagine, surprise no one to hear that Ethan Hunt does not fall to his death on that building, but knowing that Tom Cruise was actually climbing up the Burj Khalifa (again, according to the press kit, and although someone could've lied, I don't know what the point would be) makes that scene even more intense.

From the opening prison break-out, set to the tune of Dean Martin's "Ain't That A Kick in the Head?"--to a climactic fight on a rotating parking garage, M:I-GP, with Bird as a cool and confident director and Cruise as his typically self-possessed, uber-intense self, never lets up and shouldn't. I've seen a few criticisms about a key monologue delivered by Jeremy Renner halfway through the film, but I had no problems with it. Even in the most relentless of action movies, there has to be some downtime. Since the monologue answers--or begins to answer--many plot-related questions, it's necessary. With Renner as the one to speak the dialogue (by Josh Applebaum and Andre Nemec; if Bird had a hand in the script, it's uncredited), it's compelling.

Renner, as an IMF analyst with a checkered past, acquits himself admirably here, as do Paula Patton and Simon Pegg, as the other agents alongside Ethan. Pegg returns from the previous outing as comic relief, and...I mean, listen, he's Simon Pegg being his usually geeky yet charming self. What else do you want? Patton gets to be brooding and mournful while kicking ass, taking names, and looking beautiful doing it. The villain, played by Michael Nyqvist, is nothing too special or terribly frightening, but the Mission: Impossible films have been, more or less, about each director trying to top his predecessor. De Palma set the standard with the bravura CIA break-in sequence and the climactic chase in the Chunnel; neither John Woo nor J.J. Abrams were able to top that. With Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol, Brad Bird not only tops Woo and Abrams, but he just might prove himself to be the franchise's best director. Here's the only question Brad Bird needs to ask himself after this movie becomes a smashing success: what does he want? Because Hollywood is going to be bending over backwards to make it happen. He's made a newly minted gem here, one of the most purely entertaining movies of the year; on a more personal note, he made a movie my dad and I could bond over. What more can you ask for in entertainment?

An Extended Look at The Santa Clause

So many high-concept ideas for big-budget blockbusters come from the deep, dark recesses of screenwriters' fevered psyches. One wrong twist, and a comedy for the whole family turns into a warped vision of a group of seriously screwed-up individuals wreaking havoc on the world. As a random, non-Disney example, Liar Liar is about a man who is physically unable to lie for a 24-hour period because his son wished it to be so, and somehow, the wish worked. Jim Carrey uses his rubbery physical exterior to sell every joke in this movie, to wring every bit of humor out of it. I haven't seen it in years, but I imagine that Liar Liar is a relatively entertaining movie with a sugary-sweet core.

But pretend, for a second, that the basic concept of the movie isn't that a man is unable to lie for 24 hours. Imagine that the concept is that a man thinks he can't lie for 24 hours, and so acts like a raving lunatic to the world around him. The comedy in the real film escalates, because that's what good comedy does: it builds. If I remember correctly, Liar Liar climaxes as Jim Carrey's character literally runs down a plane to save his son from leaving him forever. Now, sure, there are more outrageous climaxes to comedies, good and bad. But the core concept is a guy can't lie, and it ends here. What if it was just that a man had gone insane, and was acting like a crazy person? What if you were the mother of that man's son, and you saw him hunting you down on an airport runway? Would you want that man anywhere near your son, ever again?

I bring up Liar Liar to talk about another high-concept family comedy, The Santa Clause. This 1994 Christmas movie has an even simpler idea: Tim Allen turns into Santa Claus. THE Santa Claus. Not a department-store Santa, the real deal up in the North Pole. Though this was Allen's first big-screen gamble after having been a popular stand-up comedian and starring on the wildly successful ABC comedy Home Improvement, I don't know how the concept could've ever failed at the box office. The Christmas season--even though this movie opened two weeks before Thanksgiving, let alone Christmas--is a great time of year for families to see movies; as rote as it may be, The Santa Clause fits the bill perfectly. Except for one inescapable truth: in the real world, the story of The Santa Clause isn't heartwarming, but intensely twisted, dark, and frightening.

The basic plot is that Scott Calvin, a toy company executive played by Allen, accidentally sends Santa Claus to his death when he startles the big guy as he delivers toys and goodies to Scott's whiny son Charlie. After doing so, and being encouraged in a shrill manner by Charlie, Scott sees Santa's business card. The card just so happens to include a detailed legal clause that says, basically, if a person is reading that card and Santa's gone, that person becomes Santa. And, voila, Tim Allen is Santa Claus. Over the next 11 months, all the way up to Thanksgiving, Scott not only mentally accepts that he's the new Santa Claus, but is physically transformed into this idealistic icon. (All this is just an excuse to put a famous person into a fat suit and dyed-white hair, of course.) The main subplot of the film is that Charlie, having been skeptical on the notion of Santa Claus initially, has so embraced the seemingly ridiculous idea that his father is the real Santa Claus, to the point where his mother and stepfather are concerned that Charlie being around Scott is a danger to his mental state.

It's when this subplot crashes with the main story that The Santa Clause gets into trouble. Right before Thanksgiving, Scott's ex-wife has decided things have gotten too wrong, too creepy, too disturbing. (I should point out: I'm fairly sure that none of the characters use that kind of language, but that is the vibe we're meant to pick up.) Her husband, Neil, a psychiatrist who is the comic-relief buffoon despite being thoroughly sensible, suggests that they see if the court will take away Scott's visitation rights. A court date happens, a judge talks with Charlie in private, and then he tells Scott that, yes, his visitation rights have been revoked. Scott is obviously downtrodden about this news--even though we've not really heard him get frustrated or angry about the twist of fate--and so he goes for a lonely walk. On his walk, he just so happens to stumble upon his ex-wife's house, where he sees her, Neil, and Charlie having a family dinner. Scott decides to ring the bell and say good-bye to Charlie for, potentially, a very long time. (See, Thanksgiving is when Scott needs to go back to the North Pole to be Santa.) Charlie, of course, wants to go with Scott; Scott says it's not a good idea.

And that's it, right? Oh, if only. The issue would be closed if it wasn't for the magical appearance of the head elf at the North Pole, Bernard. Bernard is here to take Santa away--let's not wonder about the logistics of the situation, because who knows what would've happened if Scott hadn't been in the house, but still walking around--and Charlie decides to pull the old "Ask another authority figure if something is OK to do" gambit. Bernard says it's fine with him, and then Scott gets a glint in his eye. As he, Charlie, and Bernard prepare for Christmas, Scott's ex and Neil are worried sick, having called the cops. Where is Charlie? Is he all right? What has Scott done with him? These logical questions are all laughed off even though, by the time the movie has ended, it's clear that Scott essentially kidnapped his son for AN ENTIRE MONTH.

It's barely clear, mind you, since director John Pasquin and writers Leo Benevuti and Steve Rudnick do a piss-poor job of actually grounding the audience with a clear understanding of how time passes. Even though a month passes between Scott and Charlie going to the North Pole on Thanksgiving, and Scott doing his Santa duties on Christmas Eve (and sure, maybe it's just under a month, but you get my point), only 20 minutes go by without any sense that, for Scott's ex and Neil, the hours have turned into days, which have turned into weeks. From previous viewings, I remembered that the cops were involved but always found it odd that they got involved so quickly. Except it's not quick, because Charlie is gone for a month. Does Scott let anyone know? No. Does Charlie? Sure, for ten seconds, when he randomly calls his mom to say, roughly, "Hi! Uh...bye!" What's worst is everyone being OK with Scott doing what he does in the climax, simply because he's Santa Claus and that makes everything right.

I know. I am thinking too hard about a family movie once again, right? Why put more thought into a movie than its writers? Why not cut it some slack because it's a family movie, yes? To do so only reaffirms the laziness of the people behind the film. If I am the one pointing out the problem of Scott Calvin, as Santa Claus, has taken his son for 30 days, illegally, it's on the writers and director for making that problem. Family movies don't need to be lazy, they don't need to be dumb, and they don't get to have any slack given to them simply because they're, you know, for kids! Pixar movies prove that kids don't need to be talked down to, as do some great Disney films. On the other hand, of course, kids flock to this kind of movie no matter whether it's good or not. It's got Tim Allen as Santa! Isn't that enough?

It's not. This movie smacks of being made as a product first, with creativity thrown to the wind along with caution. And hey, I didn't notice how inherently, profoundly disturbing the third-act twist in an otherwise dull-as-dishwater story was when I was 10. So, no harm, no foul, right? I suppose not, but watching this movie now gives me an unclean feeling; I wonder how the writing process for this schlock came together and if the writers even cared about the message they were imparting to all the kids and families watching. Movies have powerful effects on all of us, and the idea that promoting--even obliquely--the idea that Christmas spirit beats everything, even a COURT ORDER, is absolute drivel.

I have sounded like a Scrooge during my last two blog posts--yes, I know, and the last movie was A Christmas Carol--but that's only because I do actually cherish the spirit of the season and can't stand to see it to tarnished and besmirched. That may seem melodramatic to you, but Christmas movies are treasured by families around the world despite there being so few good ones, so few that actually empower and encourage that positive spirit. I know--or, God, I assume and hope--that the people behind The Santa Clause only wanted to embrace the Christmas spirit with their movie. I know that. But all I kept thinking during this movie's last 30 minutes--because again, I cannot stress enough how unengaging the first hour is--was, "What the hell is wrong with you people?" Not such a merry thought to have.

An Extended Look at A Christmas Carol

All cinema is artifice. This isn't a groundbreaking epiphany or statement, but the success of most movies hinges on the audience not taking that statement into account. But it's true: all cinema is artifice of one kind or another. Even documentaries have some artificiality, because no matter how blisteringly true something from, say, Errol Morris is, he's still shaped the raw footage he collected into a movie. Fictional films are far more artificial, depending on the content and presentation. Sometimes, if the director is shrewd enough, they can manipulate the audience in such a way that they've completely forgotten that they're sitting in a darkened movie theater, so they believe they're part of the movie they're watching.

Robert Zemeckis used to be such a director. There was a time--back when he made movies with real people, not animation--when his movies felt as timeless and magical as anything from Steven Spielberg. Spielberg produced the trilogy that helped Zemeckis leap triumphantly into the mainstream, the Back to the Future films. I mentioned it on the show, but I'll emphasize it here: I love the first Back to the Future film. (For posterity, I like Back to the Future, Part II a lot, despite appreciating its many flaws, but I've never been a huge fan of the final entry in the series.) I've seen it hundreds of times. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was watching it on HBO and reciting the film's script, not only line by line but matching the emotions the actors are evincing. I wasn't just able to parrot Christopher Lloyd as he said, to Michael J. Fox, "Weight has nothing to do with it," in response to Fox's Marty McFly commenting on the gravity of his time-traveling situation by saying "Heavy." No, I was emulating the baffled frustration in Lloyd's voice.

Point is, I love Back to the Future. And I love Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the first true example of Zemeckis' ambitious thirst to make unique and technologically advanced entertainments. It's a hell of a lot of fun to watch this zany trip into nostalgia, but Who Framed Roger Rabbit clues us in to a problem Robert Zemeckis has had in the last decade: technological wizardry is more important to him than telling good stories well. Even from Cast Away, which features a bravura lead performance from Tom Hanks, it's been clear that Zemeckis is more interested in pointing out what kind of cool tricks he's pulled off. Though Cast Away is a good film, I remember the hubbub surrounding its production more than the movie itself. "Look, Tom Hanks lost so much weight and they had to pause production for six months!" Four years later, however, is when Zemeckis would throw his lot in with pure artificiality: motion-capture animation.

Ever since The Polar Express in 2004, Robert Zemeckis has been disturbing people around the globe. OK, that's a bit much, but one of the chief criticisms of that holiday film was that the human characters didn't look quite right. There was something in the eyes, or more appropriately, there wasn't something in the eyes. Why get invested in a story populated with such lifeless automatons? I discussed this a bit on the show, but I never had much of a problem with the characters in The Polar Express, at least not to the same degree that I found fault in Zemeckis' other holiday film, the 2009 Walt Disney Pictures film A Christmas Carol, starring Jim Carrey as Ebenezer Scrooge, Gary Oldman as Jacob Marley and Bob Cratchit, and Colin Firth as Fred.

Since recording the episode, I coincidentally wound up watching The Polar Express again, as it's a movie my wife loves and finally bought on Blu-ray on Black Friday. While I think that the show-offy nature in The Polar Express is well-earned, it's also meant to distract from how empty the story is. You would think that Zemeckis and William Broyles, Jr., who co-wrote Apollo 13 and wrote Cast Away, could come up with enough content for a 100-minute movie even when adapting an extremely short story. (The Polar Express is based on a children's book by Chris Van Allsburg. It's interesting to note that another of Van Allsburg's works, Jumanji, was also adapted into a film and even though it's pretty flat, at least that movie doesn't feel like it's killing time.) You'd be wrong. I appreciate that Zemeckis couldn't make a 30-minute movie, but there's no forgiving the "Hot Chocolate" song or any of the other interludes, most of which are...songs.

I bring all of this up in comparison with A Christmas Carol, because even there, Zemeckis finds ways to kill time. Let's keep in mind that his source material is not only one of the most well-known stories of all time, but it's not 20 pages. While Charles Dickens wrote far longer novels in his illustrious career, A Christmas Carol is tailor-made for cinematic adaptation. Why screw with something that's been almost handed to you as a treatment for a film? This is, by the way, where I need to justify the fact that I'm a Christmas Carol purist. The root of this is that so many of the film and TV adaptations of this story are so unfaithful that it would be funny if I didn't find it so sad. "See Bill Murray in a modernized comic version of A Christmas Carol!" "Fall in love with Albert Finney as Scrooge in this new musical!" "Time for the Flintstones to retell this magical tale!"

I'm not against change, mind you. If every version of A Christmas Carol was faithful to the letter, it'd get pretty dull pretty quickly. But that's the point: so few versions of this story ARE faithful. Of the many different retellings, at least since talking pictures were invented, a grand total of three are faithful. Two are from television, starring George C. Scott and Patrick Stewart, respectively, as Ebenezer Scrooge. The other is a film from 1951, starring Alistair Sim. These don't have gimmicks, they don't have twists on the story, they're just the story.

Relating this to Robert Zemeckis' version, I must give him a bit of credit: ignoring the motion-capture animation, this is a pretty faithful adaptation. It's maybe 80-85 percent accurate, and that's no small feat. The two big problems, though, are that the movie does have motion-capture animation and was initially presented in 3D, and the 15-20 percent of the movie that's not faithful is completely wrongheaded. I appreciate that most of Hollywood, as an industry, assumes the people who consume its products are idiots. I'm aware that, yes, there are some truly visionary filmmakers and artists in the business who respect their audiences. And Robert Zemeckis is not the worst offender, but the action sequences in this movie are inexplicable and offensive, mostly because there don't need to be action sequences in A Christmas Carol. We could debate the classification of the scene where, after first seeing the Ghost of Christmas Future, Scrooge is shrunk to the size of a bug and is chased by said spirit. But that's a scene in this movie that seems chiefly designed to keep younger audiences awake.

I hope I'm wrong in that assumption--though it's not a great second option, I'll take Robert Zemeckis being passionate about the sequence for creative reasons over audience condescension. Let's pretend, though, that the sequence is meant to rouse kids out of their presumed stupor. Why waste five minutes of your movie on a seemingly endless chase two-thirds into your movie to keep kids awake? Don't most kids know the beats of A Christmas Carol? Aren't they aware of the story? And if they're not, and they're apparently bored out of their minds an hour through the film, a chase scene isn't going to stop that problem. If there were creative reasons for that scene, I would love to know them. I can't fathom any excuse or justification at this moment, though. Is this chase a good example of what madcap insanity Robert Zemeckis can come up with through the medium of animation? Perhaps. Is it necessary in a version of A Christmas Carol? No.

There's a lot of that as I watch A Christmas Carol, a lot of wondering whether a supposedly creative decision was worth the risk, and all too frequently, I have to answer with a big "No." Starting from the top, as we wonder if casting Jim Carrey, a middle-aged American actor predominantly known for comedy, as Scrooge is worth it. While Carrey can do drama quite well, he's a gifted physical performer, and motion-capture animation can feasibly transform any actor into anything, the casting seems especially weird when you consider that he's playing against Gary Oldman and Colin Firth. Could there not be a live-action version of this story with Oldman as Scrooge and Firth as Bob Cratchit? (Hollywood, you may send my check in the mail.) Don't get me wrong: Carrey's not bad in this film, but he's not a breath of fresh air, nor does he bring surprising poignance or malevolence or anything to his interpretation of the character. His accent is consistent, but it also put me in mind of his much more successful role in the underrated Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.

None of the actors are particularly amazing here, even though Carrey and Oldman are given room to stretch, as they play multiple characters. Oldman's best among the actors, bringing enough singular qualities as both Bob Cratchit and Jacob Marley. But none of the actors are served well by the motion-capture animation technology. I don't know why the quality of the motion-capture from ImageMovers Digital, the company Zemeckis founded in the late-1990s, is so shoddy compared to that of WETA or Industrial Light & Magic, but it is and there's no getting around it. The character design in A Christmas Carol is, I assume, not meant to be off-putting or disturbing, yet those are the only words I could think of when watching the characters interact with each other. There were flaws in the character interactions in The Polar Express and Beowulf, but they seem to stand out most sharply here.

The last scene of A Christmas Carol is meant to show us just how much Ebenezer Scrooge has changed, literally overnight. It's the first day back from work after Christmas Day and Bob Cratchit is late after "making merry." Scrooge intends on raising Bob's salary and, in general, treating him like a decent human being. When Bob arrives, Scrooge reveals his news in a typically grouchy fashion, building up to saying "I have decided to raise your salary!" Bob is naturally taken aback, and Scrooge laughs merrily, explaining that he's serious. The laughter is the problem in this version. We see Scrooge laugh for a good two seconds, and at no point does it seem human. The uncanny valley effect, wherein people are repulsed when 3D animation creates almost-but-not-quite-lifelike human characters, is on full display here.

A Christmas Carol is an iconic, rightly beloved piece of Western literature. I don't blame people for adapting it time and time again, and I welcome each adaptation with hopeful arms. Even if it's not faithful, an adaptation can be good. (I may have mocked the other, less faithful versions above, but that doesn't mean they're automatically bad for being unfaithful. Well, except Scrooge. I can't stand that movie.) If, however, you intend on being faithful in content but not presentation, you need to have a really good reason. Robert Zemeckis' sole reason for using motion-capture and 3D (of which, the less said, the better) is to nudge us in the ribs and say, "See? See? Look at what I did!" That's just not good enough.

An Extended Look at The Muppets

What is so special about Kermit the Frog? What is about Kermit, Fozzie Bear, Miss Piggy, the Great Gonzo, and others that make us treasure them so dearly, so closely? I don't ask because I don't get it--just a couple of days ago, I bought myself a Kermit the Frog plush. Why? Well...you know...I mean...HE'S KERMIT THE FROG. That's why. These characters, who aren't exactly one-dimensional, despite not being nearly as complex as we might perceive, are part of many people's childhoods. They were part of mine, certainly. Even though I grew up years after The Muppet Show stopped airing first-run episodes, I could go back and watch the best moments on VHS, as well as the Muppet movies. The nostalgia I hold for Kermit and friends is immense, even though there was a long stretch where I just let myself forget about them.

Make no mistake: The Muppets, the characters' triumphant return to the big screen is nostalgia writ large. The plot of the film, appropriately self-aware, is that the majority of people in the world forgot about the Muppets, not because they sold out or made bad movies or TV shows. No, we just forgot about the Muppets because we were distracted. Are the Muppets still relevant? Can they ever become relevant again? Are we too "hard and cynical," as a snappish TV executive played by Rashida Jones says, to welcome them back into our hearts? Of course, the answer is "Yes, if you let them back in." Some people have reacted harshly to the movie, and while some of their complaints are valid--this belongs to that category of movies I would dub "Movies I Love, Despite Being Imperfect"--I also read their reviews as being unable to accept what the Muppets have always been.

If, for example, you lash out at the movie, written by Jason Segel and Nicholas Stoller, having a lot of meta humor that comments on the Muppets being in a story, I fear that you have not seen a Muppet movie before. Even in their weaker efforts, such as The Muppet Christmas Carol, there's meta humor. Gonzo plays Charles Dickens and is literally facing the audience, for goodness' sake. Sometimes, if you're criticizing something that is part of a character's identity, an identity you used to enjoy, the problem isn't with the character. It's with you. This is not, by the way, meant to be me saying The Muppets is flawless, because it's not.

Instead of having Kermit, Miss Piggy, and friends be the lead characters, this is an ensemble piece of sorts. I say "of sorts," because the first 20 to 25 minutes of this movie is pretty much all about Gary (Segel), his longtime girlfriend Mary (Amy Adams), and Walter, Gary's brother who inexplicably is a Muppet. Gary and Walter are huge Muppets fans, but when Gary takes Mary and Walter to Los Angeles to visit the Muppets Studios, they're disappointed to see the facilities in disrepair because no one seems to care much about the characters anymore. Walter happens to overhear that something worse is about to happen: an oil tycoon named Tex Richman (Chris Cooper) is set to take over ownership of the studio and the Muppet name in one week due to a loophole in Kermit's standard Rich and Famous contract. Unless the Muppets come up with $10 million in a week, they lose everything. It's up to Gary, Mary, and Walter to find the old Muppet gang for a no-holds-barred telethon where they'll hopefully be able to maintain control of the Muppet name and studio.

While Segel and Adams are fine--Adams has less to do but is infinitely more charming simply because she's Amy Adams--but once Walter meets Kermit the Frog and they all head off to get the rest of the Muppet crew, their storyline is pushed to the sidelines, and for good reason. When you have a character as inexplicably charismatic as Kermit the Frog on screen, why would you want to focus on human characters? Cooper gets a pass, not only for being a suitably diabolical villain, but for being an extremely game performer. His musical number is a rap, and while I don't want to say anything else, it's an all-or-nothing sequence that the actor gives his most to. Still, the marquee stars here are the titular Muppets; I get why Segel and Stoller wanted to introduce the Muppets in a somewhat different way from previous films in the franchise (though it's similar to how Kermit meets the other Muppets in The Muppet Movie), but there's a clear imbalance between how much the good human characters have to do in the first 30 minutes versus the last hour.

These are not the thoughts I was thinking when I walked out of The Muppets. All I was doing was smiling. I felt happy. It's not that I don't feel happy in general, but it's rare that movies make me feel as happy as this one did. Is it perfect? No. Do I care? No. When a movie makes you feel as good as The Muppets does, does anything else matter? The movies have a number of purposes for existing. Some are meant to show us worlds we've never even imagined before. Some are meant to educate us. Some are meant to inspire us. And some are meant to make us feel good. How often do we see that adjective? "The feel-good movie of the summer"? How often do movies actually make us feel that good, or as good as the filmmakers want us to feel? So why carp on a movie that's not perfect if it works so damn well at making me happy to be alive, happy to spend 20 bucks on a movie that could easily have been a massive failure, happy to see Jason Segel and company pull off the impossible?

So what is it about The Muppets that made me so happy? First of all, as I mentioned above, this movie could've sucked, and sucked hard. Reviving items of childhood nostalgia is fraught with peril, and we've seen the cinematic corpses littered around the pop-culture landscape. Sure, it made money, but how many of us who grew up with the Indiana Jones of the 1980s wants to acknowledge the very existence of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? Yes, they're massively successful with children, but again, are you a legitimate fan of the Star Wars prequels? If anything, the Muppets have an even wider appeal than Darth Vader or Indiana Jones do, so this was an undertaking that could've failed very quickly and very obviously. There's no question that Jason Segel is a massively obsessed Muppets fan, but who's to say that being a fan of something can equal making a good version of that thing? I don't doubt, for example, that David Koepp is a fan of the Indiana Jones trilogy from the 1980s, but his script for the new movie wasn't anything the majority of fans would call faithful or fitting. Being a fan means nothing once you're working to create something new.

But even though The Muppets is an essentially nostalgic piece of fan fiction--as most newer versions of older properties are these days, mind you--it's a successful film. At no point does it feel like Segel and Stoller are doing a disservice to the Muppets. At no point does it feel like what's happening on screen is something out of place with the ethos and spirit exemplified by the late Jim Henson or the other Muppeteers who've either passed away or retired. (Or, in the case of Frank Oz, are too grouchy to accept a new guard of Muppet filmmaking.) The Muppets is funny, heartwarming, sweet, and subversive as The Muppet Show or the related movies ever were. It's enormously relieving, frankly, to see that one property from our collective youth hasn't been tampered with to an inexorable degree.

The anarchic yet welcoming spirit is on display not only with the new characters or the message of the story--that talent knows no bound and should be accepted no matter what form it arrives in--but in the music. You can't talk about the Muppets without talking about the music they perform. As the always-astute critic and scholar Jason Mittell (@jmittell) pointed out to me today on Twitter, "The Muppet Movie has one of the greatest songbooks of any film musical." Now, I haven't discussed The Muppet Movie for Mousterpiece Cinema yet. I will at some point in the future, of course, but Mr. Mittell is absolutely right. The music in that film not only does a great job of explaining in perfectly witty and syncopated lyrics what the characters want, but it also introduces or expands upon those characters in subtle yet profound ways.

The score and songs for The Muppets is maybe not that successful--few movies are, to be fair--but they're catchy, sometimes moving, and fitting within the greater Muppets songbook. Most of the songs were written by Bret McKenzie of the comedy duo Flight of the Conchords. From the upbeat opener "Life's A Happy Song" to the disco-infused "Me Party," all the way to the film's high point, written not by McKenzie but by a group of songwriters who are apparently responsible for the majority of Hannah Montana songs, "Pictures in My Head," the soundtrack for the film is bouncy, toe-tapping and moving in unexpected ways. One of the more potentialy dangerous moments in the film comes at the end of the telethon the Muppets are holding at the last minute (hosted by a kidnapped Jack Black, in an inspired gag). Kermit and Miss Piggy begin their big duet: "The Rainbow Connection." Talk about a moment that could've caused groans among the audience, but instead conjures up tears. By ending the song with every Muppet singing the chorus, Segel, Stoller and director James Bobin are only able to reaffirm the idea that the Muppets' sensibility hasn't gone away, it was just taking some time off.

I mentioned up top the idea that some people maybe aren't willing to accept the 21st century update of the Muppet characters. I don't mean to put thoughts in people's minds, but I wonder how much of that can be chalked up to the fact that these are not the original Muppets. Sure, it's still Kermit and Piggy, but it's not Jim Henson and Frank Oz. Having grown up with the option of two different Kermits (The Muppet Christmas Carol opened when I was 8), I'm inured to the notion that Kermit's voice can be as fluid and changing as that of Mickey Mouse. Were children and adults as frustrated by the change in the latter's voice when Walt Disney chose to stop performing as Mickey in the 1940s? I can appreciate the pushback some people have when it comes to Kermit's voice being different, but I've let it go. I can either ignore the idea that a character's iconography goes beyond the original performer or I can embrace it. I've chosen the latter.

Having said that, I don't want to pretend that every new voice of an old character works well. Eric Jacobson, who performs as Miss Piggy and Fozzie Bear, does a pretty solid job as the former but is far too inconsistent as the latter. If Jacobson is new at the character, it would make sense, but I fear that he's practiced enough at it and just can't keep it as solid as he'd like (or as solid as I'd like).

But I didn't care. I really didn't. We go to the movies all the time, and while I wish they would always succeed at their aims, it doesn't happen. Some movies succeed because they're ambitious, some succeed because they're crowd-pleasing, and some succeed because they're life-affirming. It's all-too-rare that a movie can be all three of those. But, that's The Muppets: a movie that will make you happy if you're a kid, a young adult, or a senior citizen; a movie that confirms the idea that Jim Henson's spirit is very much alive; and a movie that swings for the fences. As I said on the show, if you like being happy, The Muppets is for you. If you don't like being happy, I'm concerned for you.

An Extended Look at Beauty and the Beast

There is an inexorable, inexplicable quality about some great movies, as there is about great art in general. Sometimes, yes, we can pinpoint exactly what makes a movie work so well, why it becomes one of our favorites, why it wins awards, why critics love it, or why it makes millions of dollars at the box office. The script is insightful, the direction is incredible, the visuals are eye-popping, the performances are immense powerhouses of talent. These are easy ways to calculate what makes a movie work, but sometimes, we see a movie and we just like it. Sometimes, you can’t put your finger on one element about a movie that burrows itself under your skin, but you love it all the same.

Now, don’t get me wrong: Beauty and the Beast has a lot of clearly standout aspects to it, but I don’t know that I can tell you why I admire it more than I admire most other Disney movies. I’m not ready to say it’s my favorite Disney movie of all time—and keep in mind, I am not including Pixar films in this mix, because that’s an entirely different list—because I’m more than partial to Pinocchio. But the more I think about Beauty and the Beast as well as other movies that came out during this so-called Disney Renaissance period, the more I realize that it’s thanks to movies like this that are making me so invested in the podcast.

I don’t mean to present some bias against movies from the 1930s and 1940s by saying this, but the level of entertainment and enjoyment I get out of Fantasia, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and even Bambi isn’t anywhere near what I get out of Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King, and The Little Mermaid. You could probably make a solid argument that this is somewhat due to the content of children’s entertainment in the 1990s versus what was available in the 1930s. Maybe I’ve always just been more mentally able to be entertained by modern fare, though I do love plenty of old movies. I just don’t share that love very frequently with Disney animation. I admire it, but I don’t always love it.

Is that heretical to say? I’d say the same of some older live-action films, that I admire them but I don’t share the love for them. The visceral pleasures of Pinocchio make it one of my favorites, but it’s not just that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is a princess movie, it’s that I find the storytelling to be far less impressive than that of future Disney movies. “Future Disney movies” means, by the by, movies from the era when Walt Disney himself was still instrumental in making the movies he produced, as opposed to just being something of a cinematic figurehead. There’s no question that watching these films is like watching works of art, literal works of art. The skill that goes into bringing Snow White, Cinderella, Peter Pan, and others to life is staggering even now. The skill that goes into the stories of those movies is, I think, a bit lacking.

That’s not the case with Beauty and the Beast, a movie that manages to be cheerfully old-fashioned while seeming fresh, new, and unexpected. The story is, indeed, as old as time itself, yet we’re won over by it all the same. Can the beautiful and intelligent girl be wooed by a ghastly, masculine creature? Can that creature grow up, leave behind his childish immaturities, and become a real man? Well, of course, but the journey we take to get to the expected resolution is more than worth it. See, sometimes, the best stories don’t have to be flashy or stylish or unique. It’s weird, I suppose, to commend Beauty and the Beast for not being something from the mind of a groundbreaking writer or director, but there you have it. Beauty and the Beast is an emotionally satisfying tale told well.

But it’s compelling to consider how badly this movie could’ve turned out. The Blu-ray of the film, which I highly recommend, includes an alternate 18-minute opening from before Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise were attached to direct the film. Only a couple of years before everyone around the world fell in love with Beauty and the Beast, it was set to be directed by Richard Purdum, protégé of Richard Williams, who was the animation director for Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Purdum’s version of Beauty and the Beast shares many similarities with the version we have now, but it’s also wildly different. What’s truly fascinating is watching the creative process at work in both versions.

Beauty and the Beast is, of course, set in France, but the animation looks so starkly opposite in the junked version versus what we have now. Imagine what would have happened had the village Belle and her father, Maurice, lived in was still part of the Gallic countryside, but was populated not by rustic villagers but by lots and lots of fops. Yes, you read that right. Powdered wigs, lots of fancy makeup, corsets, the whole get-up. That could’ve been what each person in Beauty and the Beast looked like. What’s more, in the original version, Maurice seems less kindly simply for being younger and not seeming like a kooky old grandfather. And, the enchanted servants sing “Be Our Guest” to him, not to Belle. This is just one of many examples of why starting from scratch isn’t always a bad thing. Just think about how many times we read these days about production troubles for this or that live-action movie. People always assume the worst when they read such stories, and being fair, with live-action filmmaking, production troubles don’t bode well.

But animation, somehow, gets a pass from us. Now, part of this is thanks to the media not covering the ins and outs of an animated film’s production as they do for live-action films. I realize, of course, that Beauty and the Beast came out well before websites like Deadline Hollywood Daily became the norm for entertainment journalism, rifling through each movie’s daily garbage for some kind of morsel, and before other, legitimate publications aped Nikki Finke’s style of writing and content. But still, it’s always been very popular for Hollywood-based journalists to cover, with some glee, the foibles and follies of movie productions. So why not focus on stories like Beauty and the Beast having its original version scrapped and replacing directors? If that happened in live-action movies, we’d hear no end of it.

Of course, I wonder if people would’ve been as receptive to Beauty and the Beast had they known about its troubles during the production phase. As it stands, Beauty and the Beast is one of the most appropriately beloved Disney films, standing alongside Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and a few others as one of the great animated films of all time. And, just like those examples, the love story goes exactly as we assume it will, but there’s one immense and important difference. In Sleeping Beauty, we get to know Aurora, but her Prince is kind of a cipher. Still, even Prince Phillip is a vast improvement on the Prince in Snow White, who gets maybe five minutes of screen time and barely interacts with the titular character. Here, as evidenced by the title, we get to follow this story from both perspectives. Though we begin the story with Belle (and the triumphant opening number of the same name), once we meet the Beast, the film belongs as much to him as it does to her.

If there is a chief reason for this film’s creative success, it’s that. By not focusing only on one half of the blooming love between Belle and the Beast, Trousdale, Wise, screenwriter Linda Woolverton, and the Disney animators take a massive step in the right direction. Although other later Disney films, such as Aladdin and Hercules, would attempt to give equal time to both sides, it’s awfully hard to do that when your movie’s title focuses squarely on one person. I’m not saying that those movies need to be called Aladdin and Jasmine, or Hercules and Megara. No, that would be incredibly silly, but the Disney team has to know that by titling the movie after one character, it means I’m going to focus on that one character. (The discussion over how weak the storytelling is in Aladdin by making the Genie the most interesting character is one for another day.) Beauty and the Beast may make us focus first on Belle, but our interest in both characters is equal.

Of course, there are plenty of elements in this movie about which I could rave. The easy one, and the most appropriate, is the music and songs from Alan Menken and Howard Ashman. Ashman passed away in early 1991, and was never able to see the finished film; it’s truly heartbreaking to consider that someone so instrumental to the film’s success couldn’t see what came from his time and hard work. There aren’t as many songs as I’d assumed there would be, and certainly nowhere near as many as there are in the Broadway adaptation of the film, but when you have “Belle,” “Gaston,” “Be Our Guest,” and the title song, who needs excessive singing? Those four songs are among the very best music from Walt Disney Studios. The melody may not be as iconic or embedded in our psyches as “When You Wish Upon A Star,” but they’re playful, sweet, and damned catchy.

Beauty and the Beast is one of the all-time classics for Walt Disney Pictures. It should come as no surprise that Disney himself tried to make an animated version of the film in the 1940s, but chose not to either because he couldn’t crack the story or because French filmmaker Jean Cocteau got there before he did, at least in terms of creating an iconic version of the fairy tale. 45 years after Cocteau’s vision of the story was released, the geniuses at Walt Disney Feature Animation were able to make the namesake of their company proud with a rousing, moving, and thoroughly entertaining movie that best encapsulates the old saw: “Isn’t it a shame that they don’t make movies like that anymore?”