Lemonhope
I’ve always liked Pendleton Ward’s Adventure Time. Part of it really spoke to my love of over the top childhood cartoons, imagination running wild, while another part spoke to the serious adult storyteller within. Towards the end of the shows run there’s this epoch, it’s almost a stand-alone hero’s journey movie compressed into a few episodes, it’s called Lemonhope. I implore you to check it out.
My son must have been around three years old when I showed it to him. (There’s some pretty seriously scary nightmare sequences in there, so say what you will about my parenting decisions) He was really enjoying it, it was nearly bedtime and we were relaxing together in the TV room watching it and he was just completely transfixed on the final song.
(Watch it here; the essay continues below)
He was transfixed in that way kids get, locked eyes, almost unblinking, just becoming one with the experience. Towards the very last few bars of the song, his face melted into pure horror, and he howled, crying to me:
“Where are his mommy and daddy? Where did they go?”
In a flash of that moment, he was inconsolable, pure terror and sadness. I just held him as he sobbed. I told him I loved him, he was safe. The DVD menu repeated in the background as he fell asleep in my arms.
It’s moments like this which give me the utmost respect for beautiful, powerful art - my three year old son built the whole narrative arc in his own mind, and it moved him so much, it hurt him.
Let’s share some respect for the storytelling in our own hearts that make such adventures possible, and let’s take this as a lesson that art is capable of transmitting, transmuting great horror, and incredible beauty.
