I consider myself somewhat of a film buff. I’ve watched a lot of movies in my life, I even went and got myself a BA in Film Theory and Criticism (which allows me to say, “would you like fries with that?”). And I, like most of us, have watched the same film multiple times.
But toddlers, good lord you toddlers. You love your repetition. As soon as the end credits of a movie begin to crawl up the screen, my daughter turns to me and screams, “Let’s watch it again!” I have begged–begged–my child to watch something different, anything different, so that I’m not forced to sit through Garfield yet another time.
Now some kid films are genuinely entertaining with interesting characters and clever dialogue. And then there’s Garfield. It’s as if a childless person shat the script out not giving a single fuck what the parents would have to endure.
But when I am forced to watch these films (which I always am because I’m a softy and would stab hobos if my daughter asked my sweetly enough), my mind begins to wander and I begin to insert monologues from other films I consider more interesting.
Let’s take a brief glimpse into my head, shall we?