Where dreams lead It is no secret that many venerable and thoroughbred filmmakers who found themselves a warm place under the rays of fame of Hollywood luminaries and are now unshakable seals lying on solid sun loungers of international recognition, made the first, but not timid steps on the creative path, creating a fundamentally different movie than the one that eventually brought them world fame, status and comfortable existence. So, while in the green grassy expanses of New Zealand, a young, already obsessed with cinema, but not yet burdened with epic trilogies, a cheerful enthusiast Peter with an initiative group of such obsessive comrades spent the remains of a student scholarship, exercising in bad taste, on the urban surface of the opposite hemisphere of our long-suffering planet, an even younger, but no less humorous animator Andrew experienced the first directorial experience, engaged in the revival of his own invented characters of a modest multi-construction.
Having dressed the allegedly children's cartoon in the entourage of a classic fairy tale, with the obligatory opening of the fairy tale edition with a kind voice-over storyteller and the subsequent fabulously traditional narrative, Mr. Stanton, tightly wrapped in the elegant robe of a cunning magician, safely lulls the vigilance of a gullible viewer, quickly building up, well-known from early childhood, an air castle on a soft cloud of illusory plot predictability. But, alas, the softer and more cozy the cloud, the more painful and hurtful it is to curl off, especially considering that the rapid fall in an insidious way is organized exactly in the ugly stretched limbs of the most unpleasant clowns, as if descended from a screenshot of a second-rate ugly horror film of the glorious eighties.
What happens next does not fit into any framework of the usual philistine understanding, for the director is naturally furious, ruthlessly kicks the main characters in the form of a boy who watched TV too often, and his sudden friend-dinosaur, bringing the degree of mad clown aggression against defenseless creatures to the maximum, under the wild, chaotic accompaniment of a deafening roar, crumbling into small fragments of clumsy patterns of naive audience expectations. And when a stunned, disheartened viewer, floundering helplessly, drowning in his own inability to influence anything, desperately tries to grasp the flimsy, distorted by the author's cynical plan, a straw of last hope, the treacherous storyteller treacherously falls silent, and the fairy tale book suddenly closes, leaving no chance of salvation. Fairy tales are over. Welcome to the real world, buddy.