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My Daughter

 At the end of "Strega Nona," the titular witch punishes her naughty servant by making him eat bottomless bowls of pasta: Too much of a good thing becomes a kind of hell.


This is the position I'm in. My daughter has discovered the early nineties version of "Beauty and the Beast"--which is great--but I've now seen it five times in one week. I'm locked in a strange psychological battle with my daughter. If, in any way, I suggest that I've seen the film too many times, this will only make the film seem much, much more attractive. My best option is to cheerfully submit, hoping that the tale will lose its luster.

I occupy myself with editorial questions. This sorceress in the prologue--who the fuck does she think she is? She tricks the prince, then sends him to purgatory for one stupid remark? Also, I think about the Beast's patch of land. Presumably--to procure eggs, milk, textiles--someone needs to leave the palace, fend off the hungry wolves, and shop in the cute little stores in Belle's fabulous village. So: are the wolves menacing only at night? Where do they go during the day? And if they're a purely *nocturnal* threat, wouldn't Belle want to create a diversion and simply run off during one of her outdoor teatime hours? This doesn't seem like rocket science.

My daughter is mainly worried about the barking footstool. She calls it the "beast-dog." She just wants to know more about it. I agree that it occupies an "underwritten" corner of the script--but I can't persuade my daughter that this is Howard Ashman's error. In Susie's brain, the film is a documentary, and there exists some kind of excised footage that would flesh out the footstool's backstory--and I'm hiding the footage.

Usually, I fall asleep, and my trial ends. But I'm going to begin lobbying on behalf of "Corpse Bride." I think that this might be my future.
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