Of Condoleeza Rice and very short men...

Rating: Null/10 (5 January 2005)

Saw The Polar Express a few weeks back. Below some rambling thoughts then.
The Santa in this flick had a magnetic glow about him. He reminded me of Hitler. The elves resembled his mind controlled sex slaves. The way these red coloured minions assembled in a square, pregnant in anticipation of the old man's coming, is very touching. I sat riveted in my seat, completely spellbound by the most arousing rendition of "Santa Claus is coming to town" ever. So when Santa's well endowed figure sauntered into view, when he made his momentous entry, I experienced a near orgasmic euphoria. This is especially so after the pleasure delaying 5 minutes to midnight, which were suspended for like three hours (I did not bring my watch). Why couldn't Santa come any sooner? What's with the time paradox plaguing our desire for immediate gratification (to bask in Santa's presence that is). Guess he does work in mysterious ways then.
If you asked me, The Polar Express should also have been re-configured for screening into those literally "rollercoaster" theatres found in theme parks. Would have had oodles of fun letting my spine get severed by those rocky jerky seats. I BELIEVE I can take the pain, since my eyes were already cocked by its wildly dizzying visuals. And guess what, I think people who read deep into this flick might be on to something too. I hope someone can psychoanalyse on what motivates the millions of height-challenged ugly people and their fascination with red costumes. And why the insect-like, collective fixation with an old and overweight white man, also dressed in red? Does size really matter? Is red the new black? So many questions, so little time. Where is Carl Jung when we need him?
OK, besides psychoanalysis, I shall attempt to tread on an even trickier issue brought up by this movie - faith. Awww, faith....this Bob Zemeckis, his film sensibilities certainly appeals to the agnostic in me. Nice.
Notice how the boy with those lifeless eyes never truly utter the word "believe" (in the "expected" context of the word anyway) to anyone; not to Hitler, not to sour mopey wrong-side-of-the-tracks boy, not to OTT train man masquerading as Tom Hanks, not even the future Condoleezza Rice! You know, that fiercely determined black girl who's always touching and hugging boys that half second longer than is comfortable? But I digress. Instead, the boy imbued the true spirit of the word (believe) into an inanimate object, a bell. What could this mean? Does it mean more by not saying out loud the one word which "Neo" espouses? Is it enough to embrace faith, ideas and all such pontificating concepts within your internal shrine? Tricky questions indeed, and not recommended for the faint of heart.
With all said and done, I have only one man to thank, Bob, for he has yet again celebrated the wonders of indecision. He may not have succeeded in soliciting that connection I got from Forrest Gump or Contact with the Polar Express, but at least he is consistent. Thank you Mr Zemeckis. Know that I was on your "train" long before this meandering thrill ride. Hopefully, you will graciously offer me that cabin top coffee strained from (thoroughly washed) socks. Can't wait for your next picture. Surprise me!
P.S. I'm seeing my ear doctor tomorrow. I can't hear them sleigh bells ringing' either. I need help.