Watched the new Pixar film, ‘Inside out’ last night.
It purports to show the inner workings of a typical young girl’s mind but in
fact demonstrates the extent to which the Disney-esc gestalt has penetrated the
American psyche, which makes it unnerving. In its sixty minutes it could easily
undo several years of personal therapy, though as a therapist it’s likely to
lay bare the difficulties of cross-cultural counselling far more than any text
on the subject. They’re just weird. I’m guessing through psychoanalysis they’ve
glimpsed some sort of cognitive perfection by putting one’s brain on a jogging
machine on the assumption it can achieve a perfect physique. In truth, well my
truth at least, tempting one to consider how the brain works via a set of
frenzied cartoon figures is confusing at best. I for one would gladly strangle
Ms Joy, the hysterical one, for her blind hyperactive optimism alone. But then
I’ve never had a pink elephant invisible friend dressed in candyfloss. No in
England we’re made of sterner stuff, depression. Somehow when you’re born
depressed you’re very culture inoculates you against it. We don’t have happy
memories to rescue us, we’re motivated by the ones we’d rather forget. We can’t
conceptualise joy because when we’re joyful we’re too busy enjoying it. When I
see a couple viewing a perfect Miami condo for the price of a dishevelled English
terrace on ‘Place in the Sun’ I want to say, “Run, run away now you’ll go
crazy!”
