Bat Shit Movie Reviews

“As for Prince Eric, the object of Ariel’s obsession, he is as wooden as the mast of his own ship—a character so lacking in depth that one might mistake him for part of the nautical scenery.”

– Lord Reginald Kensington

In my role as the arbiter of taste and culture, it is with a weighty heart and a responsibility to truth that I must cast a critical eye upon the beloved maritime fable, “The Little Mermaid,” directed by John Musker and Ron Clements. This ostensibly innocuous animated feature, released in the final year of the neon-drenched decade of the 1980s, warrants a far more scrutinous gaze than it has customarily received. Thus, with a solemn pen, I, Reginald Kensington, shall proceed to dissect the underwater opus.

From the onset, let us address the elephant—or rather the sea elephant—in the room. “The Little Mermaid” parades as a colorful paean to individualism and love but belies a cavernous depth of troubling implications. The titular character Ariel, with her fiery locks and a voice that could command the seas, is no champion of feminist virtue. Indeed, she is the embodiment of adolescent naiveté, sacrificing her literal voice, the very essence of agency, for a pair of legs and the pursuit of a terrestrial prince she scarcely knows.

Jodi Benson’s Ariel is saccharine to a fault, her melodious tones less the rallying cry of an empowered sea maiden and more the cooing of a bird ensnared in a gilded cage. While the animation that brings her to life is undeniably fluid and detailed, it is the substance behind the artistry that runs aground.

Ariel’s foil, the sea witch Ursula, fares no better. Though she is a villain of Shakespearean intrigue and presence, her portrayal reeks of tired tropes and stereotypes. Ursula’s design is problematic, playing into historical prejudices against body size and reinforcing antiquated notions of beauty as virtue. Pat Carroll delivers each line with a venomous verve that is one part compelling and two parts caricature.

The crustacean composer Sebastian is as much a victim of mischaracterization as the rest. Billed as comic relief, his Calypso-infused tunes mask a thinly veiled colonialist perspective, where the exoticism of his culture is a mere backdrop for the predominantly pale-faced protagonists. The song “Under the Sea,” though catchy, trivializes the richness of an entire ecosystem to a backdrop for escapism.

As for Prince Eric, the object of Ariel’s obsession, he is as wooden as the mast of his own ship—a character so lacking in depth that one might mistake him for part of the nautical scenery. The love story, the supposed heart of this tale, flounders on the shoals of superficiality, propelled by the currents of happenstance rather than the winds of profound connection.

Musically, Alan Menken’s compositions are the solitary buoy in an ocean of mediocrity. Yet, even the score’s undeniable allure cannot mask the narrative’s deficits. The Academy Awards bestowed upon the film for its musical accomplishments stand as glittering deceits, baubles that distract from the hollow core within.

The animation, while a visual treat, cannot salvage the film’s storytelling shortcomings. Each frame is a reminder of what could have been had the artists been provided a script worthy of their talents. The animators conjured a vivid Atlantis and marine cast, yet their efforts are submerged in a sea of narrative negligence.

In summation, “The Little Mermaid” remains a floundering testament to a bygone era’s artistic and moral myopia. It is a film that could have explored the depths of autonomy, the human condition, and the complexities of oceanic lore. Instead, it chose to swim in the shallow end, content in its frivolity and unfounded in its acclaim.

This critique is not penned lightly. It is with the heavy hand of honesty and the sharp quill of rigor that I commit these thoughts to the annals of critique. For as we chart the course of culture and its creations, it is imperative that we steer by the stars of truth and depth. Let “The Little Mermaid” be a beacon for future endeavors to navigate the treacherous waters of children’s entertainment with greater care and consciousness.

Rating: I doth declare this fishy flick of children’s cinema deserving of two tuna tarred bat shits out of five.