Tired and broke ($14.50 for 3D), and this place is grub city. “Attention Pavilion customers: we will now be showing Avatar in 2D only.” A piece of exemplary illogic, in desultory font. Fuck the ushers. To work the ticket booth is to possess a second, inscrutable mouth. And do they see me? The creep who sees every kiddie movie alone, the sap at every rom-com, the ape-king of the action flicks? Help me, Marina Abramovic, patron saint of the brave humiliation without which no two people can be freed to speak as equals. The body is a glass house: throw enough stones at it, and the soul might just come to the window and wave.
On go the glasses. A beaut. A boy and his dog, or Le Petit Prince. The small fight the big: dad enormous, the demon mountain-huge. “Our parents’ war is ours, now,” so by the end a now-iconic prosthetic leg of the springy crowbar-looking kind is brandished. Dragons are bombers. The kid can draw, a skill the existence of this very movie makes quaint. 3D has yet to emphasize anything but itself: water, reptile skin, flight.
What will happen when one day the glasses come off and on, instead, goes the gear that tells the gullible brain, you are touching and being touched? Many things, the smallest of which will be that poetry—the poetry of essences, what else?—will end, and begin.
A cute movie for the grandkids who, if small enough, won't be hurt by thinking that the outcasts will be eventually appreciated, that brains, rather than greed and power, rule the world and that the nice guy will get the hot chick in the third reel.
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