Our staff and contributors share their cultural enthusiasms.Įventually, Miguel realizes that Héctor is his real ancestor, and the movie sprints to a conclusion that’s as skillfully engineered to produce waterworks as the montage at the beginning of “Up.” But until the end, “Coco” is mostly, wonderfully, a mess of conflict and disappointment and sadness. He falls to his knees in the petals, and then looks up to see a grand floating metropolis, confetti-colored in the darkness: the Land of the Dead. Instead, the guitar turns Miguel invisible, and whisks him across a skybridge covered in thick, soft marigold petals that glow like lava. He sprints to the town mausoleum, hoping to borrow de la Cruz’s guitar and prove the value of music to his family. On the Day of the Dead, he accidentally shatters a framed photograph on the family ofrenda, then spots a hidden detail in the picture, one that makes him suspect that his wayward ancestor was in fact de la Cruz himself. Earnest, sweet Miguel teaches himself to play the guitar in the attic, watching and re-watching tapes of the bygone star Ernesto de la Cruz. Her daughter, Miguel’s grandmother, now runs the family and its shoemaking business with an iron chancla.
She instituted a permanent household ban on music and started making shoes. His wife, the ferocious Mamá Imelda, was left to take care of their young daughter, Coco. The protagonist, Miguel, is a twelve-year-old boy in the fictional Mexican town of Santa Cecilia-named for the patron saint of musicians-and he is trying to get out from under the shadow of his great-great-grandfather, who left his family to pursue a career as a musician. “Coco” is unlike any film I can think of: it presents death as a life-affirming inevitability its story line about grudges and abandonment makes you feel less alone. In the weeks since that viewing, “Coco” love has continued to spread among my demographic-thanks, in part, to the movie’s release on Netflix in May. By the end, every one of us was crying through a manic grin.
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Andrew came home a third of the way into the movie, cracked a beer, and silently sat down on the floor of the living room to watch.
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In return, I received a series of panicked instructions to not start without him. People we knew-people in their twenties and thirties, few of them with children-had been freaking out about “Coco” in group texts and random conversations, saying things like, “I cried so hard I started choking,” and “I’ve watched it five times this month on airplanes.” “Hey ppl over here getting drunk and watching Coco just fyi,” I texted Andrew, who was still at the office. I assumed that he was being hyperbolic, until a night in April when I invited three friends over to watch “Coco,” all of us first-time viewers with high expectations. “You have to go to see ‘Coco,’ ” he croaked. I hadn’t moved from my permanent station behind my computer monitor, a hub for the ongoing erosion of my belief in human good. “What’s going on with you?” I asked, watching him wheel his bike back into the living room. One weekend last fall, my boyfriend, Andrew, whose favorite movies include “Deliverance” and the original “Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” went off to go see the Pixar movie “Coco,” by himself, and came back in a delirium of happy, wistful tears.
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