All the way back. I'll wait.
Were there any movies you just couldn't stop watching as a kid? Anything that, despite your parents' desperate pleas for mercy, you had to see every single day?
My two-year-old has already passed through one of those phases. A few months ago, not a day went by without hearing that sad Land Before Time music and being reminded, once again, that Littlefoot's mom was dead.
It could be worse. A nephew of mine used to watch Elmo in Grouchland every time he came to visit. Eventually he moved on to Cars, but almost an entire decade later my brain still occasionally sings, "Welcome to Grouchland--now scram!"
I had my own movie obsession as a kid. I knew how to work the VCR by the time I turned three, and was even kind enough to rewind--just so I could immediately watch my movie again. My favorite movie enchanted me, inspired me . . . and left me pretty messed up, too.
Ah, yes. Good ol' beautiful, creepy Fantasia.
Crocodiles dance-chasing a lonely, appetizing hippo. Zeus raining judgment down on merry fauns and centaurs. Mickey Mouse going all ax-murderer on a walking broom.
I soaked that in every day.
Looking back, I don't know how Fantasia didn't leave me psychologically damaged. Then again, I did grow up to be a writer, so maybe it did.
But one part of that movie always freaked me out.
I can already hear you crying Night on Bald Mountain--that one at the end, with the giant demon rising out of the mountain and ghosts and goblins and skeletons dancing around like everyone in the local village has just sacrificed their firstborn child.
That one is pretty creepy. But nope, you'd be wrong. I loved Night on Bald Mountain.
You know which part of Fantasia could have ruined my whole childhood, though? Igor Stravinsky's Rite of Spring--or, as anyone who's seen Fantasia knows it, "the dinosaur one."
That song plays in my worst nightmares. And it's not just because of the dissonant chords in the string section. It's not just the blaring brass motifs. It's only partially the horrifying climax that proves you must never, under any circumstances, encourage the trombone section.
It's that first, quivering solo bassoon line, hounded by a pack of woodwinds lurking in the darkness as the animation drifts slowly through the void of space.
It's that primitive inferno of an Earth, the world that would become my home, empty of all life.
It's those untamed lava flows that pick up rocks the size of houses and toss them to and fro until they crumble and the molten rivers swallow everything that's left.
It's that menacing Tyrannosaurus rex who shows up in the middle of a peaceful lunch and sends the wide-eyed herbivores scurrying as the string section, suddenly possessed with blood lust, pounds out every heavy footstep.
It's the killing of a desperate Stegosaurus, marked by powerful low brass as the Tyrannosaurus gloats.
It's the desert death march of all kinds of thirsty dinosaurs, tongues wagging, weak legs giving way one . . . by one . . . by one.
It's the footprints in the mud that lead to piles of bone, the muscle, skin, and sinew long departed.
It's the rumbling of the Earth, the opening of chasms, the shooting up of mountains, the devastating, final tidal wave, that each wipe clean all traces of this planet's old inhabitants, accompanied by screaming brass and frantic strings.
It's the quiet at the end. The desolation. The frigid moonrise.
That affected me as a three-year-old. At a tender age I learned that I was small, I was nothing, in the scope of a vast universe. In the emptiness of space, I was alone. And nothing sent my toddler heart pounding harder than the thought of utter, complete loneliness.
I learned the terror of a swift but hard-fought death. I saw the ugly, wasting face of extreme thirst. Something told me I, too, would someday leave my ghostly footprints in the mud.
At three years old I understood the universe could squash me like an insect. At three years old I knew the Earth could wipe away the evidence that I had ever lived.
Right now you're probably thinking, Wow, those are some really heavy thoughts for a three-year-old to have. Well, kids will surprise you. Here's a fun fact: In kindergarten I came home from my first earthquake drill with an annoying nervous tic. For months, it seemed, I braced myself for sudden doom by whimpering every few waking seconds. I had seen Fantasia; I knew what an earthquake could do.
I know the Disney animators based their scenes on what the music made them see, and not what the composers had originally intended. But you can't convince me that Stravinsky didn't have gory dinosaur murder-fests in mind when he wrote Rite of Spring. That song freaked me out. And someday I will give Igor Stravinsky a big, fat piece of my mind.
But I still watched that movie every day. It was my favorite, after all.
So, yes, I'll take that hellish piece the demons dance to on Bald Mountain. Just please keep Rite of Spring away from me.
I had my own movie obsession as a kid. I knew how to work the VCR by the time I turned three, and was even kind enough to rewind--just so I could immediately watch my movie again. My favorite movie enchanted me, inspired me . . . and left me pretty messed up, too.
Ah, yes. Good ol' beautiful, creepy Fantasia.
Crocodiles dance-chasing a lonely, appetizing hippo. Zeus raining judgment down on merry fauns and centaurs. Mickey Mouse going all ax-murderer on a walking broom.
I soaked that in every day.
 |
| Mickey likes to dance with all his victims. Image credit: Movie Fone |
Looking back, I don't know how Fantasia didn't leave me psychologically damaged. Then again, I did grow up to be a writer, so maybe it did.
But one part of that movie always freaked me out.
I can already hear you crying Night on Bald Mountain--that one at the end, with the giant demon rising out of the mountain and ghosts and goblins and skeletons dancing around like everyone in the local village has just sacrificed their firstborn child.
That one is pretty creepy. But nope, you'd be wrong. I loved Night on Bald Mountain.
 |
| Loved it. Image credit: ComingSoon.net |
You know which part of Fantasia could have ruined my whole childhood, though? Igor Stravinsky's Rite of Spring--or, as anyone who's seen Fantasia knows it, "the dinosaur one."
That song plays in my worst nightmares. And it's not just because of the dissonant chords in the string section. It's not just the blaring brass motifs. It's only partially the horrifying climax that proves you must never, under any circumstances, encourage the trombone section.
It's that first, quivering solo bassoon line, hounded by a pack of woodwinds lurking in the darkness as the animation drifts slowly through the void of space.
It's that primitive inferno of an Earth, the world that would become my home, empty of all life.
It's those untamed lava flows that pick up rocks the size of houses and toss them to and fro until they crumble and the molten rivers swallow everything that's left.
It's that menacing Tyrannosaurus rex who shows up in the middle of a peaceful lunch and sends the wide-eyed herbivores scurrying as the string section, suddenly possessed with blood lust, pounds out every heavy footstep.
It's the killing of a desperate Stegosaurus, marked by powerful low brass as the Tyrannosaurus gloats.
It's the desert death march of all kinds of thirsty dinosaurs, tongues wagging, weak legs giving way one . . . by one . . . by one.
It's the footprints in the mud that lead to piles of bone, the muscle, skin, and sinew long departed.
It's the rumbling of the Earth, the opening of chasms, the shooting up of mountains, the devastating, final tidal wave, that each wipe clean all traces of this planet's old inhabitants, accompanied by screaming brass and frantic strings.
It's the quiet at the end. The desolation. The frigid moonrise.
 |
| Image credit: Fanpop |
That affected me as a three-year-old. At a tender age I learned that I was small, I was nothing, in the scope of a vast universe. In the emptiness of space, I was alone. And nothing sent my toddler heart pounding harder than the thought of utter, complete loneliness.
I learned the terror of a swift but hard-fought death. I saw the ugly, wasting face of extreme thirst. Something told me I, too, would someday leave my ghostly footprints in the mud.
At three years old I understood the universe could squash me like an insect. At three years old I knew the Earth could wipe away the evidence that I had ever lived.
Right now you're probably thinking, Wow, those are some really heavy thoughts for a three-year-old to have. Well, kids will surprise you. Here's a fun fact: In kindergarten I came home from my first earthquake drill with an annoying nervous tic. For months, it seemed, I braced myself for sudden doom by whimpering every few waking seconds. I had seen Fantasia; I knew what an earthquake could do.
 |
| Nothing good. Image credit: American Geophysical Union |
I know the Disney animators based their scenes on what the music made them see, and not what the composers had originally intended. But you can't convince me that Stravinsky didn't have gory dinosaur murder-fests in mind when he wrote Rite of Spring. That song freaked me out. And someday I will give Igor Stravinsky a big, fat piece of my mind.
But I still watched that movie every day. It was my favorite, after all.
So, yes, I'll take that hellish piece the demons dance to on Bald Mountain. Just please keep Rite of Spring away from me.
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