Right Where I Belong: See Yourself in The Muppets (2011)

Have you seen this movie? Have you seen yourself in it?

Tell me what you thought of The Muppets and I’ll tell you who you are. If you identify with Walter – if you see yourself in his indefatigable championing of all things Muppet, giving of his sweat and time (and not appearing to have any other job) to ensure that the Muppets successfully show the world they’ve still got it – well, then you just might be a member of a Muppet fan forum.

And if you see the movie in the movie – if you’ve dissected all aspects of the film as an extended elaborate metaphor for itself as a comeback effort, both as the characters’ unsure efforts at their telethon, and as a new Muppet movie in itself, all continuously questioning their own viability, and at times their very will to go on – then you’ve come to the right place.

I’ve heard some rumblings among fans about the film’s ambiguous ending. Spoiler alert: Kermit and pals fail to raise the money necessary to buy back their theater, but exit the building to discover that thousands of fans have flooded Hollywood Boulevard, ecstatic at the Muppets’ return... and the credits roll, with no clues as to what’s next. The words “The End” play across the screen, but there’s no real ending… yet.

Therein lies the whole point of this movie. Jason Segel and his co-creators (co-writer Nick Stoller, director James Bobin, songwriter Bret McKenzie, and so on) did the best, and perhaps the most terrifying, favor that anyone could have done for the Muppets at this point in their history: they crafted a fun, heartwarming flick, full of laughs, fit to usher the Muppets into a new era. What era is this? No one knows for sure, yet.

The movie – like so many movies – needs you and the protagonists to discover who you are, what you want, and what’s most important. According to this film, though, what I and Jason Segel and the Walters of the world really want isn’t, in the end, what drives the Muppets. When you and I look up at that screen, we hear Walter’s voice echoing our own childhoods: that first time we saw those dolls wiggling on our television sets, and saw a magic in them reflected back at us, started something. Something that reassured us, deep down, that even if we felt (or in Walter’s case, were more or less actual felt) out of place, somewhere out there were other weirdoes like us. These puppets were our pals when we had none, and they always made us feel that we belonged.

So many among us fans have dedicated ourselves to reflecting Kermit’s vision back into the world: to sing, to dance, to make people happy. For the Muppets themselves, though, the movie allows them to finally find all they need in each other.

Segel et al. use the premise of the Muppets reuniting after a decades-long separation to boldly explore the characters, their motivations, and their relationships in a genuine way that few have before. For a movie that only squeaks by the Bechdel Test if you count Miss Poogy (as Rashida Jones only talks to Kermit), the writing admirably cuts to the heart of what works and doesn’t work about Kermit and Piggy’s relationship.

You may have only just noticed (no matter which brand of Muppet continuity you prefer) your discomfort with Kermit’s ability to connect with virtually everyone except Piggy. He sings “Pictures in My Head” to visitors he just met ten minutes earlier; he gratuitously mentors Walter. But in a curious idiosyncrasy, he can’t share his feelings with Miss Piggy.

When have we had a genuine will-they-or-won’t-they interest in Kermit and Piggy before? “WE need you; WE need you,” Piggy scoffs on the streets of Paris (and was anyone else creeped out by Kermit’s outright failure – where he’s previously succeeded – at wearing shoulder pads?) “You can’t just say: I need you.” He can’t. It would spoil all the tension. And this movie plays that dynamic so effectively.

Kermit may spend hefty chunks of this movie moping, but The Muppets actually allows his character to grow. By the end, he’s worked through his heartbreakingly roundabout way of telling Piggy how he feels (reminding her that if they don’t raise the money, this may be the last time they sing together) and flat-out asks her to stay with him. I wept. Didn’t you?

Further developed still is Le Pig herself. The divine swine is a tad stilted in her executive suits (and the bizarre Muppet Man scene does no one any favors here), but once she steps out of her office, her performance and her design take us so close to her finest years. Despite minor bumps early in the movie (most notably one scene that ended with a Piggy line and the next that started with a Fozzie line; each time I’ve seen the film, Fozzie sounded like Eric Jacobson had forgotten to switch off his Piggy voice), Jacobson deserves everyone’s acclaim.

A further Bechdel note: Amy Adams has little to do in The Muppets but wince at Segel’s clumsy neglect (her one song focuses on whether or not she needs her man), but she does it so winningly. And as badass as her mechanical engineering skills may be, the fact remains that what she wants most is a marriage proposal. Couple that with Miss Piggy’s (albeit in-character) journey from an “I-don’t-need-men” brand of pseudo-feminism to a headline reading, "Miss Piggy promises to stay out of the spotlight; Kermit says, 'We need some time alone.' " When did this movie turn into Little House on the Prairie?

Setting aside the Bechdel notes: speaking of talking about men, Jason Segel loves to go on in interviews about how he plays with puppets and is still single (of course, in my book, playing with puppets is a trait of the highly eligible). But he and his co-creators were handed such a limited Muppet character palette that his thoughts on women are likely unrelated to his relationship status.

As long as we’re listing gripes, I have a few more. Much as “Me Party” and Richman’s rap amuse me, I’d rather have an original song to replace “We Built This City.” The Muppet Man scene slows the whole movie down. And Kermit’s preposterous Paris outfit makes him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy. I could do without electrocuting Walter (I had to look away) and fart shoes (sorry, fart shoe fans). And the way money serves as the driving force for much of the movie… just rubbed me the wrong way. Muppets are great, but those money dollars could be better spent elsewhere. The whole operation changes the focus of the usually-zen Muppet gang, besides turning them into a literal charity case.

And doesn’t Gonzo the plumbing magnate, or one of the copious celebrities milling around, have $10 million to spare? Or how about just a dollar, when the clock strikes midnight and the Muppets are a buck short? What ever happened to that $99, 999.99, anyway?

But it’s never really about the money. Let’s get back to singing, dancing, and making people happy. Segel and his pals’ greatest achievement with this movie happens to be the third-greatest gift in the world: laughter. In The Muppets, we find old-school, vaudevillian Muppety humor (Statler and Waldorf’s intermittent quips exemplify this perfectly) alongside self-referential, Flight of the Conchords-style humor (gosh, I adore the reveal of the hose at Mary’s window). We even find time for sweet, earnest jokes of a new breed (“You can’t drive to France, Walter.” “Yeah, it’s way too far!”)

In fact, by blending all these, the creators are well on their way to inventing a new genre of Muppet movie that may prove the key to the franchise’s longevity. The Muppets’ innocence starkly set against modern conventions has been played for laughs before, but not in this way. In Great Muppet Caper, for instance, our heroes need to travel the Atlantic cheaply, so they fly with the baggage. In an inspired Brooksian move, here they globetrot by map. And kudos to the writers for cleverly employing Chekhov’s Gun, planting both travel by map and Amy Adams’ repair skills as seeming throwaway gags – only to trot them out in a device that saves the Muppets’ fleecy hides.

The wide-eyed-while-self-aware gags fit neatly with the preconceived notions of the Muppets’ humor that audiences already have. The Muppets were never just for kids, and never altogether innocent—but that’s how they’re often remembered, and hilariously, adorably earnest humor suits them perfectly. The genre juxtaposition in The Muppets is far from seamless, but the laughs flow so abundantly that we’d tune in for this mix again.

On the subject of mixes: I adore the music. Even Chris Cooper’s rap stylings have grown on me. I hope Bret McKenzie’s parents are proud: self-parody could easily go horribly awry for the Muppets, but it doesn’t here. The songs play a significant role in transitioning the Muppets’ humor over to a new era. I only wish we’d had time for more Muppet Show-style sketch songs during the telethon – or longer versions of [Cluck] You and Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Yes, laughs, we can all agree, are crucial to this new vision for the Muppet future – even the villain learns to laugh in the end – so why, as soon as the Muppets have all reunited, do the rapid-fire laughs slow to a crawl? It’s like we’re watching a whole other Muppet movie: a choppy flick that leaps from one heartwarming moment to the next (and if you please, some of us need a moment to switch tissues); a movie where Gonzo whipping out a “Destroy Plumbing Business” button would be unthinkable.

We all laughed hardest during the first ten minutes, before we even met any Muppets. And the more Muppets we encounter, the more the movie loses steam.

The pacing becomes almost jarring, as both the Gary/Mary and Kermit/Piggy relationships hit breaking points; as Segel and Walter battle for their own identities; and as the Muppets fret about how they can put on their telethon with so short a time frame—and whether anyone will watch them at all. Now that we’ve finally assembled the whole gang, they fumble so often that you’d think they almost don’t want an audience in the first place.

Kermit looked so content at the outset, telling Walter that Chris Cooper intended to turn the Muppet property into a museum. Maybe he knew how preposterous it sounded but needed to believe it. Because trying to drum up the energy for a whole new show really taxes the old frog. He didn’t ask for this reunion, or for the life-and-death urgency as the whole world watches with baited breath to find out whether the Muppets, and The Muppets, can succeed. None of the Muppets asked for this. They just came along for the ride, because Walter was sure they could pull it off, and because Kermit gave a close enough approximation of confidence.

And again, maybe that ambivalence is the whole point.

After claiming The Muppets Take Manhattan as my favorite Muppet movie, and as one of my favorite movies overall, for the better part of 28 years, I’m willing to concede and attribute this largely to nostalgia. This was simply the Muppet movie I watched over and over as a kid – and the least Muppety of the three original films. In that respect, 2011’s The Muppets has it beat.

The loving fan’s perspective that shapes this movie could have made it feel like the work of an impostor. Instead, Segel’s emotional investment in the project bleeds into the tear-jerking monologues, holding the whole nearly-polished work together. I expected to find myself irritated with Mr. Segel (a self-proclaimed proponent of the Big Three and Muppet Show-era productions, and not of newcomer characters) assigning himself (and Amy Adams, and Walter as his own alter-Muppet-ego… his Walter-ego?) so much screen time – but it all fits. The choppy pacing works, and the fact that we’re watching both a timeless Muppet comedy styled for the modern era, and a gut-wrenching search for identity, all makes sense for this film.

Sometimes the Muppets’ desperation (kidnapping Jack Black; Kermit going along with Rico Rodriguez’s assumption that he’s a Ninja Turtle) makes us cringe, but it feels so real. Fozzie’s humiliating Vegas job invokes this feeling so effectively on its own that most of the gang after him is relegated to a montage. No one likes being reminded of their half-hearted attempts to invoke old triumphs.

Kermit’s motivational speeches aren’t those of a frog fresh out of the swamp, who believes in his unknown gang’s Broadway show or their Hollywood prospects. When he wonders in 2011 whether the Muppets can come back, it’s heavy, and it’s difficult, and it’s not quite the spirit we want from our favorite foamy friends. We want confirmation that they can still entertain. They try, cranking out the genuinely zany sketches for their telethon (though they could have used more “Jack Black hates that he’s stuck in a corny show” jokes and fewer “Jack Black fears for his life” jokes to make the whole telethon work). Really, though, they’re not too sure they even want to try.

Throughout the film, the Muppets question themselves constantly. Some have hit bottom; some have merely been lying in wait for thirty years (apparently, the Electric Mayhem have been merrily playing the Times Square subway station), only to have studio executives deliver the news that they’re no longer relevant. After all their struggles, when they finally, just barely, put on their reunion show, we wonder falteringly along with Kermit’s song: will anybody watch, or even care? Or did something break we can’t repair?

As we breathlessly take in this movie, we can barely bring ourselves to ask the earth-shattering question (despite all warnings to the contrary): What’s next?

Will The Muppets flounder in theaters (though this seems unlikely at this point), serving as a devoted tribute and tender swan song for a legendary franchise? Or will the efforts of Segel and his cohorts show the corporate overlords that these characters can still pull their weight at the box office? And isn’t that the most chilling possibility of all?

Because Disney might well produce boatloads of new Muppet content after this, but unless Segel or someone like him shepherds another pet project through the Disney machine, I predict much higher odds for another Studio DC than for another The Muppets. Segel and Stoller write funny films, and if they and Bobin stick with the Muppet gang, I’ll be thrilled. I suspect, though, that so much of Segel spilled over into this film that he might have already produced his magnum opus.

Jeez. It’s so personal to me. I cried for well over 50 percent of this movie. I laughed lots, but I cried more.

I want this movie to do well… but part of me doesn’t. Part of me wants the Muppets to remain My Thing. These guys are my guys, my team, and here they are with a shot at the playoffs, and if I stuck with them all these years, shouldn’t I deserve something for all my dedication that these fair-weather fans, these box-office number-padders, don’t?

Sure, the Muppets used to enjoy this sort of mainstream popularity, even among the generally mirthless; if my parents hadn’t taped The Muppet Show in my infancy for me to watch over and over, I wouldn’t be writing this. But does everyone else in this theater now, in 2011, see themselves in Walter (and in Segel’s writing himself into Walter) the way that I do?

Did the people sitting behind me in the movie theater once gaze up at Kermit singing and dancing and making people happy, and start to reevaluate their own weirdness as something worthwhile—as a way to bring joy into the world? Do others in this audience feel, deep in their guts, that the Muppets represent a promise that there’s a home and a family for everyone? And if it’s just me, then what is everyone else doing here?

Now is the time to come out as a Muppet fan; it may be the closest brush with celebrity we can hope for. I’ve had friends, co-workers, and casual acquaintances approach me to ask for my opinions, and to regale me with their astonishingly informed (and at times, horrifically misguided) theories about the film, and about the Muppets overall. It’s a fine time to be a Muppet fan. Right now, everyone’s a Muppet fan.

Chances are, this won’t be the last time that Kermit and Piggy sing together. But I almost can’t bear (frog, pig, etc.) to find out what they sing next. All efforts leading up to the telethon have such an air of doing it all again once last time, for old time’s sake. And maybe old time’s sake is all I want from the old gang.

Whether or not they’re viable in money, the Muppets have love to spare. Even as the telethon fails to raise the money to buy back the theater, some of us Walters wouldn’t mind seeing the gang leave it at this one last, touching love letter from their fans: not just the fans who created the movie, but the fans who stuck with the Muppets even through Letters to Santa, and the fans voting with their box office dollars, and the fans chanting their praise at the stage door at the movie’s non-end.

To the Muppets’ surprise, they’re still beloved; all the signs lining Hollywood Boulevard say so. I cried through this movie because, as Fozzie recalls fondly as he stands in his flimsy Vegas outdoor dressing room: “We had a good run.” And if this one last show can bring this old box of dolls back to life, can prove that they’ve got what it takes to front a whole new era, I’ll be delighted.

But even if this is the last time they sing together, the last time they walk out of the theater together, their fans are still with them, and that’s enough for me. As long as they’re a team again, that’s how they deserve to be remembered.

“Gonzo,” clucks Camilla when Kermit recruits him to rejoin the gang, "Bock-bock." (“You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know what you really want.”) Maybe when Gonzo stops pretending for Camilla’s sake, all he wants is to be an artiste. Or maybe Piggy really only needs the love of her frog, not of the whole world. And maybe the Walters of the world will keep rekindling Jim Henson’s legacy – whether through our own work, or by keeping the Muppet fan fires burning.

But no matter what happens: when Kermit and Piggy agree that they only need that Just One Person, the story ends for me. They’ll always have each other. We out here will always have them. I’m satisfied.

...The End.

It's More of a Supper Club

Last night I subjected my roommate to The Great Muppet Caper, and watching her flip out over the cameos was nearly as enjoyable as watching the movie itself. She recognized most of them on her own. I've got a swell roommate.

And what a swell film. Every character gets at least one moment to shine and at least one wacky one-liner (Lew Zealand repeatedly offering up his paper towels makes no sense, but always earns a laugh.) The Muppets triumph over adversity by means of genuine weirdness and tremendous song-and-dance numbers. The songs themselves range from rockin' Muppety funk, to sweet Muppety innocence, to monumental theatrical extravaganzas. And in spite of all this, Charles Grodin steals the show every dang time. He can't even do anything about it; he's too distraught by the ketchup on his cummerbund.

Everything looks terrific. The over-the-top, purportedly high-fashion costumes are ridiculous - culminating in the perfect teeny-weeny hat. Miss Piggy looks fantastic throughout; I wish someone would pay as much attention to her overall look now as someone was obviously paying to each individual outfit (and each wig, and each pair of heels) she wore in GMC. And the Dubonnet Club set, with its mirrored walls and lit floors, provides the perfect showcase for her to let loose with her mad tap-dancing prowess.

That's the most satisfying aspect of this movie. It may not be set in a theater, but the Muppets are playing themselves, filling in for the roles in a musical comedy that belongs to a grander era, which proves to be the ultimate venue for their talents. Naturally, in a setting like that, both the romantic leads deserve (and fully avail themselves of) showstopping tap-dance breaks; our imaginary 1940s audience expects it.

Furthermore, in a movie like this, all of Miss Piggy's delusions of divahood can come to pass. In this half-fanciful, half-real universe, everyone comes to see Piggy as the the star she's always known herself to be, in the scenes (and couture) that she so thoroughly deserves. She starts as a mere wannabe in Lady Holiday's office, but she carries herself through the farce so spectacularly (and dresses so smartly; I cannot emphasize this enough) that after the scenes at the nightclub, at the fashion show, and in her very own water ballet, Nicky's battle for Piggy's affections can simultaneously be deliciously absurd, and make perfect sense.

And my goodness, words can't fully do justice to Frank Oz's acting. Miss Piggy's "I don't need this lousy duck pond" scene is one of my favorites in Muppetdom, but Fozzie, too, is (in Piggy's words) playing eight hundred different emotions. Fozzie is devoted to Kermit to the end: his passion shows in his motivational speech to the gang; his fervor and naivete come through in his conviction that he'll accompany Kermit to his night on the town; he even gives a lovely, wistfully quiet sigh as he watches Kermit and Piggy dance.

Plus, Muppets on bicycles! They always, always make the sun shine.

Great; Now I'm the Bad Guy

My roommate and I saw Tangled last night, and we both absolutely loved it. We loved the characters, the animation, and everything related to the mother-daughter relationship. Of course, we were both afraid to go to sleep afterwards, for fear that our nightmares about our respective mothers chasing us might return.

The mother's character was stunningly developed; she was so nuanced a villain that she could have been real. Her lines were pitch-perfect for an overbearing mother with a psychological stranglehold on her daughter (and all the quick cuts with Rapunzel waffling between running off and moaning about how she's a horrible daughter were perfect, too), the animation for "Mother Knows Best" was marvelous, and Donna Murphy was fantastic.

I did have a couple of gripes with the writing (there's no reason for fairy-tale characters, even those speaking in contemporary colloquialisms, to use "like" the way Rapunzel did; that's just lazy) and with the animation (Rapunzel still did look like a Barbie doll, and her design hasn't veered even slightly from the old "no room for a womb" standard of animated female characters).

And all in all, it's very much a Disney movie. The women characters were a witch and a clueless pixie with magical powers. The heroine only discovers herself and reaches maturity with the aid of a love interest. There's still a princess, and still a happily-ever-after.

Within that framework, however, Disney did everything they could to take this movie in a progressive direction. Everything that the writing for "Princess and the Frog" had gotten wrong by telling and not showing, this movie did right. Rapunzel may not have been worldly-wise, but as a heroine she was smart, brave, resourceful, and did all the rescuing on her own, and nobody made a big deal about it.

Oh, and the male chorus and Maximus the horse deserve huzzahs all their own.

Honestly, my biggest difficulty with this movie was suppressing the urge to take the cue from my favorite incarnation of the Rapunzel story at every call of "Let down your hair!" and shout, "My haiah?!" You're welcome, fellow moviegoers.

O Brother, What in Tarnation Art Thou?

Having listened to the soundtrack a handful of times, at least now I can match the songs to their cinematic sequences. Other than no longer having to come up with excuses, though, I can’t think of a more compelling reason that I’m pleased to have finally watched O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Sure, I enjoyed the movie; it made me laugh, it told a story that captured my attention, and it painted vivid portraits of its setting (Depression-era Mississippi) and of distinctive characters (Charles Durning stands out as the cavalier Governor “Pappy” O’Daniel). Even George Clooney’s portrayal of Ulysses, who grated dangerously on my nerves for the first few minutes, earned my favor by the end.

At the film’s conclusion, though, I found myself more frustrated than satisfied by its ambiguities. Who was chasing our heroes: the law or the Devil? What made Clooney’s character so vastly different – in his accent, his education, and his superstitions – from his contemporaries? And how could his wife be so obdurate as to demand that he fish out her wedding ring from the bottom of a lake?

Too many elements of the sometimes-real, sometimes-absurd, and sometimes-overwrought story made me feel that the filmmakers were toying with me. If they aim to spin a fairy tale, I’d expect more boldly whimsical storytelling throughout – not token overt mythological references at the beginning, middle and end. If they want my sympathy with the main character, I need a deeper glimpse into his backstory. And if the Coens ask me to take their somewhat jarring approach on faith, I expect more of a payoff: a satisfying conclusion, or at least more consistency in style.

Perhaps I’d have been more forgiving had I reviewed The Odyssey at the outset; perhaps I hadn’t seen enough Coen Brothers movies to know what I was getting into; perhaps the backdrop of chain gangs and lynch mobs put me in the wrong mindset for a quirky caper flick. But when Clooney conned his cohorts into setting out on his quest, he brought me along for the ride. And after blindly following him everywhere he led me, I still can’t make heads or tails of where we’ve gone.

Might I Add: Eat My Shorts

It seems obvious once you think about it, but it hadn’t occurred to me before. Mary Poppins, filled as it is with childlike whimsy, even as it turns the lives of tots Jane and Michael topsy-turvy and catalyzes the wind change that brings their family together, doesn’t set out to alter the children’s nature. Ms. Poppins may introduce chaos wherever she goes, but the mayhem unnerves no one the way it unsettles the story’s true protagonist: Mr. Banks.

Played with meticulous British rigor by David
Tomlinson, Mr. Banks is the only character to change significantly throughout the film. While he transforms from a brusque and exacting master of the house to a father eager to celebrate his children’s fleeting youth, Mary Poppins moves on, claiming (I’ve tried and failed not to overthink this; either Mary is a cold-hearted so-and-so or a big fat liar) that she feels no emotion whatsoever towards Jane and Michael. What would become of her, she muses, if she loved all the children to come under her care? (This, aside from the inability to perform magic, is the reason I could never be Mary Poppins. Or a teacher.)

Meanwhile, the household at large changes only in that it grows more light-hearted. Jane and Michael delight in the antics provided for their amusement. The domestics, having never previously tolerated each other, sing in the kitchen. And Mrs. Banks prioritizes her family over the Votes for Women rallies that the movie dismisses as frivolous (“You know how the cause infuriates Mr. Banks,” she babbles). If we weren’t focusing on Mr. Banks here, this would be the perfect place to launch into a feminist critique of the film: it takes a tantalizingly borderline sexualized pixie woman’s magical touch, the narrative says, to draw a gruff father with his nose stuck in meaningless numbers back to the earth- and hearth-bound concerns of his home and family, and back to the women-and-children’s realm of the supernatural. Yep; good thing we’re not getting into that.

Mary Poppins merits a repeat viewing just to witness Dick Van Dyke’s remarkable agility for yourself; you’ve heard his virtues extolled before, but no description can do his flailing limbs and unfaltering grin justice. You’ve also heard his Cockney accent maligned to no end, but Van Dyke’s positively elastic performance as Bert far outshines his shortcomings. (One has to wonder about Bert’s relationship with Poppins; with the two obviously at ease in each other’s company between long absences, does she have a Bert in every town?) The unflappable Julie Andrews, for her part, gives the most empathetic possible interpretation of Mary Poppins, a character whose two-faced callousness renders her borderline cruel at worst and an enigmatic feminine tease at best.

The enigma of Mary Poppins is what ensnares and ultimately pushes Mr. Banks to his furious limit. After failing to fire Mary Poppins, taking his children on an outing that leads to his getting sacked, and coming home to find himself playing host to a band of filthy chimney sweeps, Mr. Banks would be right to trace his troubles back to the perplexing nanny. (Incidentally, the bankers firing Mr. Banks has become my favorite scene; the gasp of “No, not that!” preceding the ceremonious inverting of his umbrella gets me every time.) Only a dejected chat with Bert, followed by the last-act innocence of his children – handing their father back the tuppence that led to his sacking – finally pulls him out of his dark frustration and back over the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious edge.

Mary Poppins isn’t even present for Mr. Banks’s metamorphosis; she merely sets the wheels in motion for his change to come from within. After manipulating everyone within her reach, letting the madness build to this act of mercy – to the wind change in the Banks household – is the least she can do. Watch this movie again, but prepare to justify much of it to yourself along the way.

She Is the Slayer

At the advice of just about everyone I know, I’ve finally embarked on my Buffy the Vampire Slayer journey. And a double episode in, I can tell you quite confidently that I want more.

Sure, some of the dialogue needs work, and not all the actors have wholeheartedly committed to it yet (it’s tricky to write fake teenage lingo into Joss Whedon’s florid-yet-snappy style; delivering such a line believably is trickier still.) Sure, we’re very much still in the 90s (judging by the theme song, Cordelia’s teased hair, and her cellphone antenna.) And sure, the plot manages to get simultaneously convoluted and oversimplified (the gang stopping to confer in the library, for instance, when facing imminent doom – and when inevitably all will be resolved in a grand fight scene anyway – really irks me.)

Overall, though, I’m surprised at how effectively the show has already established its voice. The characters – and much of the dialogue, really, for all my nitpicking – are right on target straight out of the gate. Buffy’s far more bearable than I had expected, and even, dare I say, pretty cute. Xander’s conversational fits and starts when he shoots off little quips actually remind me of Joss Whedon in interviews I’ve seen. Giles’s dry delivery offsets the sarcastic teens perfectly. And Willow’s unassuming nerdiness (to Buffy’s saying she’ll be right back: “Oh, that’s all right; you don’t have to come back,”) has won me over heart and soul.

The metaphors have already made themselves apparent if you know to look for them; this show focuses on misunderstood teenagers dealing with unknown adversity in all its forms. Buffy aches for a social life while struggling with her identity as a Slayer, out of the bounds of the rest of the world. Her whole little club of outcasts are even more misunderstood than most angsty teenagers (“Everything’s life and death when you’re 16,” scoffs Buffy’s mother), considering that they face doomsday scenarios they can’t tell anyone about.

Incidentally, it seems that with every episode, more and more students at Sunnydale High learn about the supernatural and then forget about it. After the incident with Luke feeding on half the attendees at the Bronze, for instance, Cordelia and her pals shrug off the whole incident with some line about gangs. And we’re in for seven seasons of this. How long before residents of Sunnydale deduce that something fishy’s going on?

Speaking of metaphors, I can’t help noticing the sexual overtones overtly apparent when vampires appear in the upper-world. All the petting and caressing from the vampires; all the writhing and moaning from their victims: something about this experience is pleasurable for the vampires in ways most snacks are not. It speaks to the characters’ experience, too; on top of being teenagers battling their way through a school situated over a hellmouth, they’ve got to figure out the demons of their sexuality.

Vampires represent the unknown and are thus terrifying, but also curiously tempting – exotic in their power, their mystery, and even their confidence. When erstwhile pal Jesse becomes a vampire (spoiler!), he claims he feels better than he ever did while alive – like “a new man” – and tries to redeem his old loser self by attempting to rape Cordelia. And if you’re looking for proof that enigmatic vampires are sexy, tell me you haven’t undressed Angel with your eyes.

From here on out, Buffy’s world is bound to get more profound, more confusing, more disturbing – but I’ll take it. Bring it on.

Riding the Wild Waves

It’s here; it’s here! At long last, after months and month of waiting, it’s finally here. It’s prepared to meet your expectations, but simultaneously soar above them and thwart them in ways you’d never imagined. It makes perfect sense; it knows you better than you know yourself; it molds itself to the confines of your mind and clings to needs and wants and worries you’d never even imagined were there. And while at times it may be terrifying to behold, it leaves you with a glimmer of hope that millions of others like you, just as frightened, are standing alongside you, as you tentatively explore the same uncertain future together.

I’m talking, of course, about Google Wave.

Like Where the Wild Things Are, Google Wave finally crashed to the shore this month, after a seemingly endless wait. And like Where the Wild Things Are, I wanted to get there before anybody else, so I planned ahead and got my tickets to a midnight showing. Er, my invite from a Google-employed friend. The service is a big buggy, to be sure. This morning, for instance, I noticed that all my old waves had disappeared; if that happened with G-mail I’d be quaking in my boots. For now, Wave functions mostly as a toy – a shiny and comely and intuitive toy, of course – but until a larger chunk of the population switches over, the revolution won’t be arriving just yet.

Where the Wild Things Are, on the other hand, upholds every aspect of its reputation. True to director Spike Jonze’s vision, we voyage not through an adult’s idyllic recollection of childhood, but through the raw experience of a nine-year-old mind. Camera angles knock jarringly against each other; the weather matches our mood; the lines between fantasy and reality blur as pieces of Max’s real world invade his dream.

The beasts Max envisions vaguely recall his real life: one Wild Thing not unlike his sister spends all her time with inscrutable new friends, while a male-female couple fill an ambiguous void in Max’s family. Carol, the Wild Thing voiced by James Gandolfini and only truly understood by Max himself, destroys houses (which resemble a knickknack from Max’s nightstand, and recall the events that precipitated Max leaving home) when he gets upset. More than characters Max knows, though, the Wild Things depict crude emotion, embodying Max’s range of destructive streaks, loneliness, confusion, fear, and at times, unfettered joy. They follow his whims and build the fort of his dreams, thanks to their beliefs in the myths Max tells about himself, and to their earnest engagement in his tales of one-upmanship that only authentic nine-year-olds would tell.

True to the not-always-sunny childhood experience (and to the original book), Max, unfit to run a world of his own design and populated by his own limited understanding, eventually returns home to his mother. After all the terrors of one’s own mind coming to life and the invocation of the audience’s inner fears, the capacity to come home to a warm dinner in a house with a caring parent has its appeal. It’s a little bit disappointing, in a way, this last truism of childhood: you’ll never be as free as you want to be.

But you never know. Maybe, with the aid of Google Wave and a little imagination, we can finally become that child’s vision of a grown-up, as free as we’d always wanted. We’ll have to wait and see where this journey takes us.