The law of the jungle.

Some things are mean to be forgotten. Then, years later when you stumble across it in the attic, coated with dust, rusted, forgotten, holding a flood of memories dimmed by the sooted black bulb hanging above you, it is meant to elevate you to a time, a space where everything is alright again.

The Jungle Book movie, with its quiet spirit, flash of perfection and the underlying simplicity of hope every classic child’s tale posses, plunges you back into the pond of innocence lost.

It’s time well spent. 3D glasses are uncomfortable over big geek glasses, especially if it’s previous user grabbed it with slimy fingers right on the lens, yet I didn’t mind.
The green was greener, the fire was brighter, it was what being on the proverbial other side would feel like.
Forget for a moment, the implied social awareness Kipling tried to sneak in into the children’s tale. Forget the lines “that’s not a song, it’s propaganda.”
Stop analysing, wondering about animation, production turnovers, origin of the actors, the faces behind the masks, and instead let yourself drown.

Howl with a pack of wolves, watch the brilliance of a squirrel tail. Coil like a panther about to spring, laugh like a boy in the jungle.
Call a water-truce, and bow before a burnt man-eater.
Get seduced by a snake, steal honey for a sloth bear. Find the inherent goodness in you, see the greed in the animals closest to humans.

Find hope, because it’s there in every scene. In the floated embers of fire, the tusks of elephants creating furrows on the land. There is hope, for man, for this earth.
In the deceit, the disenchantment, there is still a Mowgli in all of us.

The jungle book is not a movie of a book we have read a hundred times as children. It’s not just the dreams we had, a book the size of my palm, with the red border dog-eared with use.
It’s a lesson, a reminder that we owe something to the child we used to be, the one we try to outrun every single day.

So you run, you run, to catch up with the sun
But it’s sinking,
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same, in a relative way
But you’re older
Shorter of breath
One day closer to death.

-time, pink Floyd.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s