Some say that love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
From Twelve Songs (no. XII) by WH Auden
Tonight something raw stirred in me, creaky from years upon years of disuse. I found myself brimming over with all sorts of untrammelled emotions while watching The Princess and the Frog, brought to us by the makers of The Little Mermaid, the last olden-style 2-D Disney movie that made me feel anything more than momentary pleasure.
By the way, this is not a G-rated film in my books — spine-chilling stuff goes on, however mesmerisingly depicted, and there’s … sacrifice that left me in tears.
Back to the Dizzy, I mean, Disney. I must have been disarmed by the sudden familiarity of it all, even if there were modern touches like the Most Awesome Disney Princess Ever (and the Prince Who Found Meaning in Life!) and nods to Miyazaki (those creepy shadow followers, surely) and Pixar (thank God for John Lasseter). I was transported back to a time when, to paraphrase the movie, dreams could be as wild as I could make them, and all I had to do was work my darndest. But then I never did dare to dream too crazily, and never did apply myself as much as I should have.
Maybe it was the layabout frog prince making dreamy eyes that did me in, but all I want to say is, perhaps for just a smallish window of time, I believe in fairy tales again.