So I was talking with my boyfriend recently about Bandit–a.k.a. the dog from Jonny Quest, and don’t ask—when I had a curious thought.  Why is it that we, as human TV-watchers and filmgoers, are perfectly fine with the fact that dogs in the media sometimes act like dogs and sometimes don’t?  Seriously, am I the only one who finds this strange?  Take Scooby Doo and Scrappy Doo, for example.  It was weird enough when there was only Scooby, the dog who sometimes acted like a dog and sometimes acted like a person.  This was a dude who would sometimes walk on four legs and sometimes on two, and we were fine with that.  This was a dog who could speak English—not like Bugs Bunny can speak English, mind you, but some kind of bizarre pidgin English as approximated by a semi-sentient dog.  And we were okay with this.  I know I was.

But then what happened?  Then, the geniuses behind the Scooby Doo machine threw a wrench into the cogs—and his name was Scrappy Doo.  We were led to believe that the show was set in a universe in which dogs could kinda-sorta talk and kinda-sorta walk on two legs, and then here comes this new dog who speaks perfect English, without some kind of off-the-wall speech impediment, and how not only can walk and run on two legs, but who can box like a pro.

You would think that we, the audience, would have a problem with this.  And some of us did.  But you know what?  I really didn’t.  I accepted this.  I never even justified it to myself by saying, “Oh, I see!  In this universe, dogs do talk and act like perfect, hairy little humans.  It’s just that Scooby is developmentally disabled.  It all makes sense now!”  No, I didn’t say anything like that at all when I was a child.  I just said, “Huh, Scrappy can talk and Scooby can’t.  I accept this without question!”

Well, I’m older now, and wiser, and I realize that not all TV dogs are made alike.  But is there a way we could possibly categorize these canine critters?  Like, say, in a chart?

As President Obama says, yes.  Yes, we can.

I started writing this as a rebuttal of Fenzel’s “Paradise Lost at Paradise Falls.”  In the process of writing it, my thoughts have gotten a little more organized, and I’ve realized that (as usual) I don’t actually disagree with what he wrote as such.  I just have a much more cynical spin on it.  You’ll see where our readings overlap… and where they conflict. I encourage you to help us fight it out in the comments!

I do still have one major bone to pick with Fenzel, and since this is an argument on the internet, there are certain protocols that must be observed. Therefore, I will start by rephrasing his argument in the most overstated and reductive way that I possibly can, to that it’s easier for me to find fault with it.   As I understand it, Fenzel’s post boils down to this:  Up is valuable because it addresses a central part of our life experience that is largely ignored by Hollywood:  the question of how we should live once we’ve moved past the teleological process of “growing up.” He adds almost as an afterthought that in some cases people simply graft themselves onto the narrative of their children’s adolescence…   but this, to me, is strange, because it’s a rather crucial detail.  The question is not really “how should I live,” but rather “how should I live in the absence of children?” Now, maybe this is still one of the hard questions, but the film provides the easiest possible answer:   it simply rejects the questions premises, claiming that any life without children is hollow.

Bold claims!  Can I back this up?  I dunno, but I sure did spend about a thousand words trying.  And if you’re interested, you can read them!  It’s like we were made for eachother.  You complete me, internet.  You.. complete… me.

Up 2: Next Year in Jerusalem

“He caught him up, and, without wing
Of hippogrif, bore through the air sublime,
Over the wilderness and o’er the plain,
Till underneath them fair Jerusalem,
The Holy City, lifted high her towers . . .

. . . There, on the highest pinnacle, he set
The Son of God.”

– John Milton, Paradise Regained, Book IV

The kindness of the world toward your existence turns out to be an illusion of youth, and all love dies. Man must keep his faith and promises, even as he ages toward death — find a place to stand firm, even as he falls.

Pixar’s Up and John Milton’s great poems Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained are about more than what they have in common. A laundry list of their similarities would hardly be interesting (especially if you haven’t read the poems). But they meet at a critical and compelling place in what I like to call the Artistic Project.

This balloon is about to get heavy, so if at any point you need a little extra lift, bookmark this.

Now, let us go, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, to find our solitary way —

[First time guest writer Ferrett Steinmetz sends this dispatch, considering the implications of Up. It's spoilerrific, so the whole thing is after the jump. Proceed at your own risk.]

Matthew Wrather hosts as he, Matthew Belinkie, Peter Fenzel, Mark Lee, and John Perich reveal their favorite animated movies, give advice to a college student, debate tokenism and ethnic stereotyping, and think back to the good old days of Sesame Street.

In this episode, we also lay out a challenge for your mom.

Tell us what you think! Email us or call 20-EAT-LOG-01—that’s (203) 285-6401. If you haven’t yet, take the very short survey! And… spread the overthinking by forwarding this episode to a friend.

Download Episode 48 (MP3)