That Pixar’s marvelous, moving, and altogether astounding Up deserves every one of its accolades, and perhaps more, should be obvious just a few minutes into the film. But I feel a least a little bit sorry for the critics who had to sing the film’s praises. Yes, I love writing about film, and that love is rooted in a passion for sharing — some of my friends might call it pushing — great cinema with others. But every now and then, a movie comes along that’s so effortlessly delightful that I just want it to be mine, a treasure that I don’t have to share. It’s not that I don’t want others to see it — indeed, I’d encourage everyone to see Up now, and then again immediately afterwards if possible — but that I want to keep my personal experience of watching it to myself. That may not actually stop me from commenting on specific aspects of the film, what worked and why and how, or particular scenes and interpretations. But I’m glad I don’t have to write about it in a comprehensive or authoritative way, to summarize its plot or characters and make a careful case for its greatness. Doing so, even to rave, requires putting at least a bit of distance between oneself and one’s subject, and with a film as elegant and lovely and honestly heartfelt as Up, that’s not something I ever want to do.
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