RUBBISH REVIEWS: BIG HERO 6
It’s Sunday. Your partner is being cruel and unusual because they have to haul their ass to work in the morning and kiss goodbye to the butter enriched mince pies and the breakfast gin and tonics. You consider going to church for five seconds until you remember you haven’t believed in the resurrection since you were eleven and the chapel closest to you was recently converted into a restaurant that sells Crucified fries and Barabbus burgers. There’s only one sane option left, the cinema, so you rub a dry bar of soap under your armpits, grab your whining child and catch the first train to the closest screening hole, stopping on route at a supermarket to load up on crap you wouldn’t feed a dying dog but hey, cinema calories don’t count and there’s no way you’re going to be paying top dollar for a giant popcorn and some carbonated syrup.
You’ve chosen to see Big Hero 6 for no other reason than you’ve vaguely heard about it being a box-office smash and if you take your four year old to see anything violent your partner has threatened to disembowel you. Sure you sat down with him when he was a baby and watched a particularly savage episode of Game of Thrones but as far as you can tell the experience has had no lasting effect. I mean sure, he has a large collection of plastic weapons and his kindergarten has called you in on numerous occasions because he’s got a fetish for strangling his fellow pupils but all kids do that, right?
You sit down on a chair and plonk the child beside you. He says that he wants to go home so you hand him a fistful of sweets and pat him on the head. He’s probably crying on the inside but he instantly slips into a sugar induced coma and stares at the screen. You wave a hand in front of his face and get no response. Success. Curtains open. Time for the show.
As is tradition a big Disney movie kicks off with a little short and you immediately hate it because you have to wait for the movie but those cats in the mouse house have 90 years experience of manipulating human emotions and by the time the little dog inevitably meets the baby your heart has turned into sloppy ice-cream and you’ve got a big stupid smile on your face. These shorts are basically foreplay designed to get you lubricated, aroused and ready to be penetrated by the main feature. You feel dirty but Uncle Walt and his merry men have been grooming you since before you could string a sentence together so you automatically assume the position and take it up the magic kingdom.
For the next two hours you’re convinced you’re watching the greatest film ever made. Your critical faculties have been drown in an avalanche of peanut M&Ms and your delirious child is jumping around on his seat and waving his arms as the saccharine demon finally manages to take possession of his soul. The credits roll and you stumble out of the theatre into the cool air feeling defiled but strangely satisfied. Your child punches you in the leg several times and demands that you buy him the cute robot from the film whose name is…er…you can’t remember. You’ve only been out of the theatre for 60 seconds and already all memory of the movie is ebbing away. By the time you reach home you can’t recall the name of a single character but you’re pretty sure that when the sugar wears off you’re going to be in for a world of pain so you make a cup of coffee and stagger to your computer hoping the caffeine will keep you alive long enough to write a review. It does, just about, but there is no way in hell it’s going to get you through another draft so you convince yourself there are more important things to worry about than punctuation and grammar but you should at least have the decency to provide the audience with a memorable final sentence.
You stare at the screen for five minutes praying to whatever God is listening for inspiration. It ain’t gonna happen.