As the most unfeeling, unsympathetic, non-caring, common, uncouth — dare I say, tre? drole — parent of under double-digit aged kids in town, I have yet to sit down for an entire viewing of that cinematic masterpiece, La Marche de l’empereur.
For my fellow common and uncouth parents, let me translate: I, the great mocker of all things natural and good, have only watched bits and pieces of the movie, March of the Penguins. For the rest of you feeling, sympathetic, caring upper-crust do-gooders out there, relax. Shamus, 8 and Sean, 5, will grow up ‘normal? as they have experienced love in the Antarctica via the National Geographic movie. So, put down your pitchforks and go back to your water-pipes, the lads are safe.
As I write, I am hesitant (well, almost) to poke fun at this ‘beautiful,? ‘touching,? and truly ‘inspiring? movie for fear some eco-terrorist might consider torching my American-made, ozone-depleting, globe-warming pickup truck.
Lest you think I am a total Neanderthal, I remind you I did see some of this French flick narrated for American audiences by Morgan Freeman. Despite my Cro-Magnon-like tendencies, I started to feel bad for these waddling widdle birdies. I found the film rather depressing.
I know, I know . . . I am ‘sposed to sense the beauty that is the life and death struggle of emperor penguins. I understand, it is ‘extraordinary? how Mamma Penguin can find Baby Penguin after months at sea and a 70-odd mile trek through gale-force winds and blizzard-like conditions in surely cold weather. Yaddy-yaddy, yaddy; blah, blah, blah.
Wait!
Somewhere in the dark recesses of my puddin? head I hear Paul Simon softly singing about giving false hope on a strange and mournful day and about a mother and child reu-oon-nion.
I find it more amazing, beautiful if you will, that Dad Penguin stuck around all those days with all those squawking kids without any help from Mom. Oops, excuse me, I feel my knuckles dragging again.
But like I said, I the commoner, started to get depressed by the whole sad affair. There is nothing beautiful, majestic or inspiring about watching cute and cuddly, widdle gray baby penguins being attacked by and eaten by other of God’s creatures. Maybe I’m not just soft-headed but soft-hearted, too. Regardless, I think it’s brutal. There’s a reason I like to go to the grocery store to buy meat.
I had to turn away. (Leave it to the French to make beautiful and inspiring things melancholy.)
Yep, I’m one of them guys who grew up watching the Wonderful World of Disney in the late 1960s to the mid-1970s. Disney was a Sunday night staple at the Casa de Rush. My sisters and I were shaped by Walt Disney’s simplistic take on life. I like Walt’s ‘documentaries? featuring ‘wild? animals and voice-overs by some grandfatherly sounding guy. I can see and hear it now . . .
‘Oh, look, there’s Bobby the Bobcat — oh, wait. Look over here, a white-haired rabbit. Looks like Bobby’s thinking about dinner . . .?
Then Bobby the Bobcat would skip off after said hare, there’d be a cut in the action and the rabbit would scamper off. Bobby the Bobcat would watch forlornly at dinner escaping, snow falling from his whiskers.
? . . . Oh well, score one for the hare. Looks like dinner for Bobby is vegetarian tonight. Anybody for pinenuts??
I went on-line and actually found a promotion for one of those ‘true-life? Disney animal/nature movies. Check it out:
‘In Flash, The Teen-Age Otter, as soon as Flash is old enough to swim on his own, his natural curiosity takes him far away from the old mill pond that is his home. He struggles to survive man-made hazards … and man himself … in his quest to return home to his loved ones. A poignant animal adventure for everyone!?
That’s what I’m talking about! Wholesome, baby! No squealing, bleeding and soon-to-be eaten baby penguins.
I know, I know — Disney faked it and there is no Tooth Fairy. Sue me.
E-mail Rush: dontrushmedon@charter.net