I took Boogie to see Toy Story 3 today at our local Family Film Club. I always approach these cinema trips with a double dose of enthusiasm and dread. Enthusiasm because I love animated films, I’m just a big kid at heart. And dread because I know that I’ll be sitting there performing a feminist critique of the film and end up sitting there quietly swearing (see? feminism really does ruin your life). But at least there’s an argument that this film passes the Bechdel Test (toy_story_3), so maybe, I think, my profanities will be fairly low-grade today.
And then I have to sit through the short that runs before the film and I know that Jesus will soon be weeping at my language. Bear in mind that this short runs before every showing of Toy Story 3, a film aimed – ostensibly – at young children. It’s called ‘Day & Night’ (directed by some bloke called Teddy Newton) and is a call for us to embrace difference without fear (or somesuch). According to Wikipedia:
‘Day and Night meet and at first are uneasy about each other. They become jealous of each other due to the events occurring in their insides, and end up fighting at one point in the short. Eventually they see the positives in each other and learn to like each other. At the end of the film the things they saw in each other they see in themselves, as Day becomes night, and Night becomes day.’
Given that the biggest difference on earth, according to many, is that between male and female, it’s surprising (or, er, not), that one of the two characters isn’t female, but, no, they’re both identifiably male (despite both being fairly blob-shaped with no identifying genitalia). There are then two separate bits in this very short film where the Night character leers – with his tongue hanging out – at female characters (I say ‘characters’; obviously ‘objects’ would be more appropriate) who are in bikinis and either sun-bathing or splashing about in a swimming pool. Howdy, I say to Boogie, that’s what you are, my little cherub, an object to be viewed whilst splayed half-naked. I didn’t actually say that obviously. There was no need; the short had already said it for me, n’est-ce pas?
Wassup? Doesn’t she get the message enough in her everyday life she needs to see it spelled out on screen every 5 fucking minutes? I have written to the cinema to express my displeasure, but I don’t think it’ll get me anywhere; I used too many fucking swearwords and sound like a loon.
And now I just feel depressed and I was depressed enough as it was having finished Cordelia Fine’s book. She didn’t depress me but her conclusions made me want to put a shotgun to my head. But more of that later.