Hay un amigo en mi

Out this week is a film about a crazy Nazi doctor who sews people up bum to mouth to make one long chain of poo. Almost nothing else happens in that film and the effect itself is poorly realised, almost entirely relying on the hideous nature of the idea itself. Yet just when it feels like we really have reached the end of days and as we start praying for some extremists to annihilate us once and for all... a piece of cinema is released of such intelligence, such wit and such skill that it reaffirms one's faith in Western civilisation. I'm talking about Toy Story 3.

Image by Jerrod Maruyama via Flickr

The trilogy of films takes me from the onset of adolescence to quite firmly into adulthood. But at each stage it has caught me at just the right life-changing point to evoke tear-inducing nostalgia. It's odd to think that a wholly computer-generated film was such a novel prospect when the first film was released.

The film deftly blends genres in the way a summer blockbuster should. Within a single reel the film is horrific, hilarious and honestly moving. A terrifying Chucky-style doll patrols a twisted, utilitarian, euthanasia camp called Sunnyside ruled by an emotionally-twisted bear who smells of strawberries.

It is expertly plotted. Every single line of dialogue is relevant and threads through a narrative so tightly wrought Chekhov or Fielding would be left a dribbling mess at the sheer genius of it all. The final moments, rocketing through utter despair and seemingly unavoidable oblivion to tender yet bittersweet parting of ways, earns every tear it amply receives.

A powerful, powerful movie. Just when you think it can't get any more sublime, Buzz gets switched to Spanish mode.

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