Living in the Scoot Utopia

My closest friends know a side of me that few people see -- a dark and obsessive curiosity about death.

The concept of nonexistence both baffles and terrifies me and not a day goes by that I don't wonder about it. A burning want to understand the instant at which "to be" becomes "not to be," restrained by sheer terror that leads me to do all I can to not experience it firsthand.

This obsessive mindset compels me to Google the victim's name each and every time I read an article about someone meeting an untimely death. I feel a need to find out who they were, what they accomplished, and how they came to an end. Most importantly: I want to see that there is something on record, somewhere, telling the world that this person once existed and did something.

All of this dark aspect of my psyche I can, with near certainty, trace to a vague childhood memory that has been stuck in my head for years. I remember sitting next to my dad in a movie theater, to his left. On the screen before me, two animated mechanical mice -- father and son -- were being beaten to death by a large rock. The screen showed the attack from the perspective of the mice, with the rock smashing down and filling the entire screen with its blackness.

I remember feeling sick to my stomach and being very upset. I remember other children in the theater crying. I remember asking my dad if that was what it was like to die.

For decades this image has been stuck in my head, I have been completely unable to shake it. Every time my mind conjours it up the feelings of nausea and fear return.

I spent much of my adult life wondering what movie this was that I had seen. The closest I ever came to finding an answer was speculation that it might have been an obscure scene from The Rescuers, perhaps edited out for today's audiences. But last week I finally discovered the real source of my memory.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you in its entirety, the 1977 animated feature The Mouse And His Child:

The movie is an adaptation of a novel of the same name by Russell Hoban. The novel is a dark, philosophical allegory peppered with frequent, sudden deaths of many characters. Though about toy mice it was never intended to be a children's book, but in the United States that's exactly how it wwas marketed. Thus, when adapted for the screen, this dark philosophical allegory was also promoted to what was most likely too young of an audience:

The movie version of the story follows the adventures of a pair of wind-up toy mice who come into existence in a toy shop and wonder who they are and what the world is. After being damaged in a mishap they wind up in the dump, where they are taken captive by a group of wicked rats who enslave discarded toys. The mice escape and go on a quest to understand the world, find a family, and become self-winding so they do not have to rely on others.

As I watched the movie the other day, all of the images that had been "forgotten" for the past 30 years re-entered my conscious memory. Such as the fall of the mice. Such as the brutal dismemberment death of a donkey. Such as the sudden death by eaten of a rat that we had become somewhat endeared with. Such as the beating of a squirrel. Such as the eating of several minor characters. Such as the infinitely-regressing dog food label. Such as the uprising against the rats on the railroad tracks. And, of course, such as the beating to death of the film's heros. (Then there's that psychadelic final scene!)

The movie is a living contradiction. The animation style is simultaneously awkward and beautiful, with dialogue that alternates between childlike innocence and complex philosophical musings. The musical score is both as memorable and appropriate as it also seems suited for a 1970s TV show. Overall it seems aimed directly at small children, but its messages are more suited for adults.

In researching this movie online I found that I was not alone. A great many people around my age have shared similar stories of being plagued by a faint memory of one of the film's disturbing scenes and a great sense of relief to finally find the movie their memories had come from.

If you have the time (it's about 77 minutes) I do recommend watching the YouTube video. The film truly is a remarkable work of art, it was simply exhibited to the wrong audience.