Dear Frozen the movie
You have been a good movie. I love the break from tradition, and you were one of the first to go there. By now, most of the queens, princesses and village seamstresses have had their little retelling interventions, including the Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Maleficent, Rapunzel and even Gretel. Some of these have gone full dark, with ninja Snow Whites and witch-hunting Gretels hopping around dystopic, sepia townscapes on important looking horses with good dental condition.
I love you movie
As a movie, you are kick-ass. Sister power is the most awesome thing ever, and has always made women look gangster. Long before Beyonce’s Lemonade. That true love’s only qualification is that it’s true. There are no other boxes to be checked on this form. Such sacrifice as we never thought we would make, and more love than we ever imagined we could receive will touch our lives, and make every moment soar. In the last few minutes of your story, all this came alive for me.
The child though
The child in me adores Elsa and Anna and and Kristof and Olaf and Marshmallow. I walked away moved by the movie and all its messages. Women, men, snowmen, overbearing guests, unlikely friends, good looking A-holes, slipping through sand, second chances and redemptions. The other child, my actual child, a five-year old girl, however – COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THING. She watched the movie and her mind came out chrome-plated and snow-flaked with Frozen. Now every reference, of good or bad, heroism and sacrifice, pink and blue, idli and dosa, is heavily steeped in the Frozen frame of reference. I tell a story of Malala and pat comes the question, “Why do you need to go to school if you have ice powers”. I speak of igneous rocks, ready to answer if fjords can be made from snow and igneous rocks. Cumulus clouds are merely Elsa’s extra snow supplies. If there are airports, there are planes to icy castles and if there is hair, it is snowy silver. Everyone else’s hair is all wrong, and Elsa’s wand might help fix you.
And the merchandise and music
Avoiding Frozen merchandise even after all these years is not a listed option. Toothbrushes, underwear, school bags and bedspreads are passe. A place in my brain close to the Amygdala has been hijacked by repeated Frozen merchandise exposure. I can no longer process regular items of everyday use without seeing green gowns or transparent blue shrugs. The rods and cones in my retina have become Elsa and Anna. I have been contacted by John Hopkins to advance the cause of neurosciences, on this account.
Then the business of THAT SONG. It was ok reading The Gruffalo’s story every night for 7.4 million nights straight, with a passable quality of voice overs and hand animation. I am saying its ok but if Hercules was up for his 13th task, this would be it. The Guiles of Gruffalo or the Gruffalo Groundhog Day, it might be called. But then “Let it go” happened. And by happen, I mean it played on loop for as much time as it takes for Rajma to cook, or a more fathomable reference, since the last T-Rex walked this earth. We now charge the MP3 player by directing plugging the wires into a small windmill we have installed just to meet this power surge. It is still playing.
Let it go, let it go. Turn away and slam the door. That’s the song, and my recent selfie confirms that my ears have now been replaced entirely with words from this song, appearing in C minor.
Shaken, Stirred and Frozen
PS: Apologies to Julia Donaldson, The Gruffalo is an amazing childrens’ book and I actually laughed non-stop every time for the first 65,000 times.