Fantastic Mr. Fox is your typical Wes Anderson movie.

Fantastic Mr. Fox is your typical George Clooney movie.

That is to say that Fantastic Mr. Fox is not typical at all. It is a wild animal.

Here is what separates the fox from the hounds (I’m looking at you, Planet 51) – dialogue. Yes, dialogue. This isn’t another movie about farts and humiliating kicks to the crotch. This is a movie about conversation and relationships and living. This is a movie about the art of being different.

Please note, there are technical achievements that I should address but I won’t because I don’t understand them and my fawning over such things, wonderful as they are, would seem trite. Just know that they exist and that they are appreciated accordingly.

What I do understand, meaning that I don’t have any answers but I know them when I’m in them, are the tangled webs we weave via the dynamics of action and the power of language. I recognize turmoil on a big screen and I can relate to it as it pertains to parenting and finances and the gnawing urge to steal one last chicken.

I also suspect romance when I see it.

It is a cluster cuss.

It is a hotbox.

This is a quilt of random phrases that I’ve sewn together and it will only comfort you if you are on the side that I am on – where I have seen the film and am now somewhat more content than I once was. Somewhat.

It is a patchwork of modified tube socks.

It looks good. The soundtrack is terrific.

My boys, ages 6 and 3, respectively, sat through witty, dry exchanges of words at play, something they are obviously not accustomed to, and they did not grow tired nor did they fidget. They laughed and they cheered and they pondered such things as the hardness of winter and apples that at least have stars upon them and they walked out entertained, full of happiness and popcorn.

I strolled out behind them feeling for the first time in a long time like I didn’t want my money back, and that, in so far as feelings go, is cussing fantastic. I hope to make it my trademark.

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