Make Peace

The Walking Dead S6E4 - Morgan vs Eastman

It's about redirecting. 

Evading.

And actually CARING about 

The Welfare of Your Opponent.

So You have to care about YourSELF.

You don't have to believe YOUR Life 

is precious, but that ALL Life is precious.

You have to redirect those Thoughts, 

The History that tells you otherwise.

What We've Done, We've done.

We evade it by moving forward, 

with A Code to never Do it AGAIN.

To Make UP for it.

To still accept What We WERE.

To ACCEPT Everyone.

To Protect EVERYONE.

And in DOING that, 

Protect Yourself.

To CREATE Peace.

Come home, Nana.

I'm right here.

(Sta)'-

I came to support you and to honor 

Your Father... but I can't stay.

I found my calling out there.

I've seen too many in need just to turn a blind eye.

I can't be happy here... knowing that 

there's people out there who have nothing.

What would you have Wakanda do about it?

Share what we have.

We could provide aid... and access 

to technology and refuge 

to those who need it.

Other countries do it, 

we could do it better.

The King :

We are not like these 

other countries, Nakia.

If the world found out 

what we truly are... 

what we possess... 

we could lose 

our way of life.

Wakanda is strong enough to Help others 

and protect ourselves at the same time.

The King :

If you were not so stubborn, 

you would make a great Queen.

I would make a great queen 

because I am so stubborn.

See, you admit it! 

If that's what I wanted.

Is that him?

Glory to Bast, man. 

Is he still growing?

Of course.

I see Nakia is back.

You guys going to work it out?

T'Challa... what's wrong?

Nakia thinks we should 

be doing more.

More, like what?

Foreign aid, refugee programs.

You let The Refugees in... They bring 

Their Problems with them.

And then Wakanda is 

like everywhere else.

Now if you said you wanted me and my men... 

to go out there and clean up 

The World, then I'll be all for it.

But waging War 

on other countries 

has never been Our Way.

You, too?

This is your last chance.

Throw down your weapons, and we can handle this another way.

I lived my entire life waitin' for this moment.

I trained, I lied, I k*lled... just to get here.

I k*lled in America, Afghanistan...

Iraq.

I took life from my own brothers and sisters right here on this continent.

And all this death... just so I could k*ll you.

Let the challenge begin.

Yield!

Snap out of it, T'Challa!

Come on, get up.

Come here.

This is for my father.

Erik!

Zuri, no. Stop!

Zuri! Zuri, don't!

I am the cause of your father's death.

Not him.

Take me.

I'll take you both, Uncle James.

No!

No! No!

Zuri, no!

No!

No! No! Zuri! Zuri!

No! No!

Is this your king?

Is this your king?

The Black Panther, who's supposed to lead you into the future?

Come on, Brother!

Is there nothing that can be done?

Him?

He's supposed to protect you?

No.

No!

Nah. I'm your king.

No! No! We have to go now!

Queen Mother, let's go!

The Queen Mother and Shuri, they are safe?

Yes.

Thank you.

We should get to them immediately.

I cannot.

What?

Though my heart is with you.

We cannot turn over our nation to a man who showed up here only hours ago.

He is of royal blood.

He k*lled T'Challa! In ritual combat.

Does that really matter?

You are the greatest warrior Wakanda has.

Help me overthrow him before he becomes too strong.

Overth row?

Nakia!

I'm not a spy who can come and go as they so choose!

I am loyal to that throne, no matter who sits upon it.

What are you loyal to?

I loved him.

I loved my country, too.

Then you serve your country.

No. I save my country.

What's wrong?

The king is dead.

Come with me, unless you want to join him.

First Baba.

And now my brother.

Mama, we didn't even get to bury him.

It's me. Nakia. Who is this man?

He's a friend of T'Challa's. He saved my life.

Where's Okoye?

Okoye is not coming.

She and the Dora Milaje will serve the new king.

Wait here.

What has happened to our Wakanda?

Allow the Heart-Shaped Herb... to give you the powers of the Black Panther... and take you to the Ancestral Plane.

What did I tell you about going into my things?

What did you find?

Your home.

I gave you a key hoping that you might see it someday.

Yes. The sunsets there are the most beautiful in the world.

But I fear you still may not be welcome.

Why?

They will say you are lost.

But I'm right here.

No tears for me?

Everybody dies.

It's just life around here.

Well, look at what I have done.

I should've taken you back long ago.

Instead, we are both abandoned here.

Well, maybe your home is the one that's lost.

That's why they can't find us.

Breathe! Breathe, My King, breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The Heart-Shaped Herb did that?

This all Of it?

Yes. So when it comes time for another king, we will be ready.

Another king?

Yeah, go ahead and burn all that.

My King, we cannot do that. It is our tradition...

When I tell you to do something, I mean that shit.

Burn it all!

You know, where I'm from... when black folks started revolutions, they never had the firepower... or the resources to fight their oppressors.

Where was Wakanda?

Yeah, all that ends today.

We got spies embedded in every nation on Earth.

Already in place.

I know how colonizers think.

So we're gonna use their own strategy against 'em.

We're gonna send vibranium weapons out to our w*r Dogs.

They'll arm oppressed people all over the world... so they can finally rise up and k*ll those in power.

And their children.

And anyone else who takes their side.

It's time they know the truth about us!

We're warriors!

The world's gonna start over, and this time, we're on top.

The sun will never set on the Wakandan empire.

Wakanda has survived for so long... by fighting when only absolutely necessary.

Wakanda survived in the past this way, yes.

But the world is changing, General.

Elders, it is getting smaller.

The outside world is catching up... and soon it will be the conquerors or the conquered.

I'd rather be the former.

You heard your orders. Let's get to it.

So where are we going again?

We're taking the Heart-Shaped Herb to Jabariland.

Heart-Shaped Herb? What is that?

It gives whoever takes it heightened abilities.

It's what made T'Challa so strong.

Nana.

I don't like this.

The Herb belongs to us.

We may be creating a bigger monster with M'Baku.

Nakia, you should take it yourself.

I am a spy with no army.

I wouldn't stand a chance.

We'll go.

This is it for you, Cousin.

Hell of a move!

My pop said Wakanda was the most beautiful thing he ever seen.

He promised he was gonna show it to me one day.

You believe that?

Kid from Oakland, running around believing in fairy tales.

It's beautiful.

Maybe we can still heal you.

Why?

So you can just lock me up?

Nah.

Just bury me in the ocean... with my ancestors thatjumped from the ships.

'Cause they knew death was better than bondage.

Thank you.

You saved me.

You saved my family.

Our nation.

There's nothing to thank me for.

It is our duty to...

It was my duty to fight for what I love.

I should've...

You can't blame me, I almost died.

(Sta)'-

I think I know a way you can still fulfill your calling.

Please stay.

He moves it! He moves it!

Who man is that? Bucket!

Easy.

When you said you would take me to California for the first time...

I thought you meant Coachella... or Disneyland.

Why here?

This is where our father k*lled our uncle.

They're tearing it down.

Good.

They are not tearing it down.

I bought this building.

And that building.

And that one over there.

This will be the first.

Wakandan International Outreach Center.

Nakia will oversee the social outreach.

And you will spearhead the science and information exchange.

You're kidding.

Hey, yo. Man, what the hell is that?

That's like a Bugatti spaceship!

Bro, it came out of nowhere. Did y'all see that?

What?

Check it out, bro.

We can take this back to the house.

Pull up to school in this.

Look, we can break it apart. We can sell it.

On eBay.

Everybody get, like, a million apiece.

I wouldn't do that if I were you guys.

Where you come from? From Wakanda.

What is a Wakanda?

Hey, yo!

This yours?

Who...

Who are you?

My Name is King T'Challa, 

Son of King T'Chaka.

I am The Sovereign ruler of the nation of Wakanda.

And for the first time in our History,

we will be sharing our knowledge and 

resources with the outside world.

Wakanda will no longer watch from the shadows.

We cannot.We must not.

We will work to be an example of how we 

as brothers and sisters on this earth should treat each other.

Now, more than ever,the illusions of division threaten our very existence.

We all know the truth.

More connects us than separates us.

The King :

But in times of crisis The Wise build bridges 

while The Foolish build barriers.

We must find A Way to look after one 

another as if We were one, single tribe.

The Secretary General 

of The United Nations :

With all due respect, King T'ChaHa

what can A Nation of Farmers have to 

offer The Rest of The World?

Are you playing around with that man again?

No. You're teasing him again.

Don't wake him. He must rest. No, I'm not.

No, I'm not.

Thabo, you're doing that.

He's doing it. He's lying.

No, he's resting.

Go, go!

KIDS; 

White Wolf!

SHURII :

Stop that!

KIDS : 

White Wolf!

Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.

White Wolf :

Bucky.

How are you feeling?

Good. Thank you.

Come.

Much more for 

you to learn.

A Radical Innocence

A Radical Innocence

'LET'S try fantasy!' said the editor, scratching his head for a subject.

But that is a word I do not like. It has come, through misuse, to mean something contrived, far from the truth, untrustworthy.'

Well, what about this? How can we, in our technological age, foster imagination in children?'

'That's large — and, for me, too pompous. I would just say feed and warm them and let the imagination be - though wonder, I think, is a better word. Or, perhaps — pace William Wordsworth

- intimations of reality. Does it need fostering, anyway? And is technology your only villain? What about education? We learn very quickly from books and teachers not to respect our childhood wisdom. Wasn't it Aldous Huxley who said -

Ram it in, ram it in,

Children's heads are hollow,

Ram it in, ram it in

Still there's more to follow.

Can it be for this that we stretch our wings, to fly from what is a real treasure to the dubious world of facts? Hasn't it ever surprised you that the cinema will happily rush us from seed to blossom, from beginning to end in the space of a second, but never attempts the more interesting adventure — the following of the lily, say, back to its basic bud? Yet it's all there, the bud is the clue, you have to go back to that. No: back is, perhaps, the wrong word. You need to be there as well as here - simultaneous experience - to recapture what was. And to know that it is.

As to preserving this experience; I can only speak for myself, of course, but I have always been grateful that nobody, as you put it, fostered my imagination. It was not deplored, neither was it given room. It was taken as a matter of course - another fact, like whooping cough, another fact, like daylight. Every child has it as a natural inheritance, and all the grown-ups can do is to leave him alone with the legacy. It is the child's own incommunicable experience - perhaps the only thing that is truly his own — and should not be spied on or disturbed.

This, I think, was what AE, the Irish poet, had in mind in 'Germinal’ when he imagined a child playing in the dusk - that magical moment between day and night — and the grown-ups calling him in from his dream.

Call not thy wanderer home as yet

Though it be late.

Now is his first assailing of The invisible gate.

Be still through that light knocking, The hour is thronged with fate.

Let thy young wanderer dream on:

Call him not home.

A door opens, a breath, a voice From the ancient room,

Speaks to him now.

Be it dark or bright

He is knit with his doom.

He knew that it is in the crack between opposites - dark and light, yes and no, here and there - that the real thing happens.

My childhood was full of such moments — wasn't yours? - and all that I am now somehow relates to them. Of course (and this is inevitable) I was called home from them to supper and bed and the life of the lighted house. But a clever child, a quick, cunning, foxy child, learns to smuggle them in with him and keep them alive in some inner secret cupboard.

'Children, it's late!' my mother would cry, in a voice full of clocks and water-heaters. (Not 'What are you doing — let me share it!") And my father would come striding, giving his impersonation of Zeus in a rage that we never could quite believe in. And then the dusk would catch him and he would fall silent, searching the sky for the first star till he, too, had to be called.

In this question of imagination, of the kind of fate that throngs the hour, so much depends on the quality of the grown-ups. I am grateful now, though I wasn't then (gratitude is a late growth) that I grew up in an atmosphere in which tradition was still part of life, laws few, fixed and simple, and children taken for granted; not 'understood' in our modern sense, not looked upon as a special race but as growing shoots of one whole process - being born, living and dying. My parents never played down to children, nor, on the other hand, did they treat them as equals; we were all just lumps in the family porridge. My parents had, I see now, what W B Yeats called 'a sort of radical innocence, as though by some thin spider thread they were linked with their own youth. When they joined a game it was not at all for our sakes but for their own enjoyment.

Altruism - that impure emotion - had no part in their natures.

If he lost the throw in a game of chance, my father would stalk off in a huff, saying some one had cheated. And beating my mother at Old Maid was like slapping a goddess in the eye; a most discourteous act. In our family life it was their moods that were to be respected, not ours. It was clear that they had their own existence — busy, contained, important. And this, as I now see, left us free for ours. There is no greater burden for a child than parents who want to live his life; contrariwise, when they are content to be simply landscape and leave the child to make his own map, there is no greater blessing. His mind can turn in upon itself (and I don't at all mean introspection) wondering, pondering, absorbing the world, re-enacting in himself all the myths there are. And for this he needs nothing — nothing, no person, unless, perhaps, another child.

Not long ago I came upon two little girls sitting motionless on the floor, gazing in silence at a cardboard box. Gradually it dawned on me that they were watching television. What they were seeing I could not tell - more things in heaven and earth, I would guess, than are dreamt of in the philosophy of Top Cat and Wagon Train.

And I remembered how, for a long period in childhood, I was absorbed in the experience of being a bird. Absorbed, not lost, knowing, had I been faced with it, that I was also a child. Brooding, busy, purposeful, I wove the nests and prepared for eggs as though the life of all nature depended on the effort. 'She can't come, she's laying, the others would say, arriving for a meal without me. And my mother, deep in her role of distracted housewife, would come and unwind my plaited limbs and drag me from the nest: 'If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, no laying at lunchtime!'

Not, 'You are mad. I fear for your future. We must find a psychiatrist: Simply, not at lunchtime! Could she, too, once have been a bird, I sometimes wonder now? Not that one ever could have asked her, she would have thought it fanciful. But her homes were always a bit like nests, warm and well-fitted to her shape, the sard though rel room becomes a nest for main are int perching in the tork of a branch, or hanging from a leat by a thread like the mansion of the golden-crested wren.

She had, too, flashes of inspiration, when the streak of poetry in her Scottish blood broke up the daily pattern. Picnic breakfasts miles from home; or a table-cloth spread out on the carpet and supper on the floor. The sudden lively moments! She would have called them merely moods, but they seem to me now a kind of wisdom, as though she knew instinctively that nothing brings so much energy as the breaks in a regular routine. Full of the saws and customs that are handed down from the generations, innocent, honest, predictable - it was from her we learned, far more than from our less dependable father, to be ready for the unexpected, even to the point of knowing that truth can be juggled with.

"Is this Mrs MacKenzie?' asked my father, pointing with the carving knife at a chicken on the dish. (The fowls fattened for the table were all called after friends and relations.) 'If it is, I'm not hungry. I was fond of her.'

'No,' said my mother, 'it's Nancy Clibborn.' And fixed us with a hypnotic glance as though we were serpents and she a snake-charmer.

'Good!' he exclaimed, slicing a wing. 'I never could abide that woman — far too thin and scraggy?

And we, who that very morning had assisted Mrs MacKenzie to the chopping block, were left to sit in silent judgment. The facts, indeed, had been distorted. But we knew somehow that this was a matter less of morals than of expediency. Men - it was simple — have to be fed, otherwise everyone suffers. So we sat there like the three wise monkeys, seeing, hearing and speaking no evil.

It is fortunate for grown-ups that children understand them so well.

But there is always one law for the rich and another for the poor.

And we, in similar circumstances, did not get off so lightly.

"You told me a lie!' my father accused me when I denied leaving Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, two rag dolls - christened by him - out in the rain all night. It was his air of righteousness that had made me lie, and now his righteousness frightened and shamed me. 'I am disappointed; he said sincerely, as though he were Adam upbraiding Cain.

Then he flung what he hoped was the last straw — 'And letting them catch their death of cold!' But miraculously it saved me. Great and little, there they were, and standing in the crack between them I was whole again and free of guilt. All that mattered to me now was to rush Lord Nelson to the fire and dry his kapok body.

Il I speak of my parents it is because parents are a child's first gods and responsible, whether they know it or not, for many seeds of tate. Later they dwindle to human stature and later still, when the process of nature reverses itself, the child becomes the parent's parent. I never had the opportunity to become, in this sense, my father's mother, for he died while still very young. But for me his death was a germinal moment, strongly fixing my memories. And gradually, as hearsay was added, I came to believe that I saw him plain, in feeling if not in fact. I remember his melancholy, which and inheritable When he had taken a glass, he would escatehie? the sack of Drogheda in 1649 till everyone around him felt personally guilty. We, not Oliver Cromwell, were responsible for the blood and slaughter. He was Irish, too, in argument, determined to have the last word, even — or perhaps specially - with children.

*Get that damned dog off my chair, or I'll send him to live in the stables!'

'Father, such language!' we protested, protecting a precious mongrel pet.

Criticism he did not like. And from his own flesh and blood - really, it was too much.

'Mealy-mouthed piety! If a man can't say "damned" in the bosom of his own family, where can he say damned, I'd like to know!'

"It wasn't "damned", it was "dog", we said. We never use that word to Tippu. He thinks he's a little boy.' Then he'll have to learn better, Father retorted. And proceeded, in a voice that would have melted marble, to teach the necessary lesson. And that, for us, was the end of Tippu. He left us, for less than a handful of silver, and slavishly followed at Father's heel.

He became, in fact, a dog.

Arguments, yes. But no explanations. I cannot remember that he, or anybody else, ever explained anything. It was clear from their general attitude that our parents had no very high opinion shamed me. 'I am disappointed, he said sincerely, as though he were Adam upbraiding Cain.

Then he flung what he hoped was the last straw - 'And letting them catch their death of cold!' But miraculously it saved me. Great and little, there they were, and standing in the crack between them I was whole again and free of guilt. All that mattered to me now was to rush Lord Nelson to the fire and dry his kapok body.

If I speak of my parents it is because parents are a child's first gods and responsible, whether they know it or not, for many seeds of fate. Later they dwindle to human stature and later still, when the process of nature reverses itself, the child becomes the parent's parent. I never had the opportunity to become, in this sense, my father's mother, for he died while still very young. But for me his death was a germinal moment, strongly fixing my memories. And gradually, as hearsay was added, I came to believe that I saw him plain, in feeling if not in fact. I remember his melancholy, which was the other side of his Irish gaiety, and know that it was catching and inheritable. When he had taken a glass, he would grieve over the sack of Drogheda in 1649 till everyone around him felt personally guilty. We, not Oliver Cromwell, were responsible for the blood and slaughter. He was Irish, too, in argument, determined to have the last word, even - or perhaps specially - with children.

'Get that damned dog off my chair, or I'll send him to live in the stables!'

'Father, such language!' we protested, protecting a precious mongrel pet.

Criticism he did not like. And from his own flesh and blood - really, it was too much.

'Mealy-mouthed piety! If a man can't say "damned" in the bosom of his own family, where can he say damned, I'd like to know!'

"It wasn't "damned", it was "dog", we said. 'We never use that word to Tippu. He thinks he's a little boy?

Then he'll have to learn better, Father retorted. And proceeded, in a voice that would have melted marble, to teach the necessary lesson. And that, for us, was the end of Tippu. He left us, for less than a handful of silver, and slavishly followed at Father's heel.

He became, in fact, a dog.

Arguments, yes. But no explanations. I cannot remember that he, or anybody else, ever explained anything. It was clear from their general attitude that our parents had no very high opinion of our intelligence, but at the same time, apparently, they expected us to know everything. We were left, each on our desert (but by no means unfruitful) island, to work out things for ourselves.

"Father, we said to the back of the newspaper. Doesn't God have a wife?'

"No.'

'Then who does the cooking?'

'Nobody:

Extraordinary! One son, no wife and cooks for himself.

'Father, what is God's other name?'

'Other name? He hasn't got one.'

'Not the duke of? Or even mister?'

'No, I tell you, just plain God.'

'Then why do you call him Harry?'

Down came the newspaper with a crash. His eye gathered its battle fervour.

T've never done such a thing in my life! Tell me the time, place and circumstance when you've heard me call God Harry!' Hewas probably seeing himself as we saw him every Sunday, in his tussore suit with the crimson cummerbund, gravely singing the last hymn as he handed the offertory plate to the vicar. A pillar of Christendom, the ideal church-warden. Would such a man have spoken so? Never in this world!

'But you do, Father, every day. By the Lord Harry this, by the Lord Harry that — you're always saying it.'

'Jumping Jehosephat!' he cried, rolling his eye at Heaven for help.

'Haven't you heard of figures of speech?" And he threw the newspaper at our heads and went calling, as usual, for my mother.

Well? Figures of speech were Greek to us, and we were left with the suspicion, already familiar, that we still had a lot to learn. But this, in itself, was a kind of education. Had he explained, we would have been furnished with an indigestible piece of knowledge but very little the wiser. As it was, another question was laid down in us to grow and breed and seek its meaning.

It cannot have been long afterward - though time is different at different ages and this can play the memory false — that for me, at least, the answer came.

It was dark, midnight or early morning, and the room was cobwebby with sleep. The cloudy grown-ups were pulling us trom the cocooning blankets - even the baby trom the cradle - and urging us to the window. There in the sky, over the mountain, as long, it seemed, as the mountain itself, was a huge bright tail of stars. It pulsed and glowed and wavered and I had the feeling, though heard nothing, that it made a humming sound. We were told, in whispers, to look and remember for we would not see this sight again for another 70 years, the time the great tail would take to circle the universe. Then they said it was Harry's Comet.

'Halley, not Harry, my mother insisted, later correcting what she called my mistake. But I merely assumed she was bad at spelling, unable to tell an R from an L. For by this time, the Lord Harry and his comet had become part of my own private mythology, a voice from the ancient room. Seventy years! I would have to be old as my great-aunts, who themselves seemed as old as the Grey Women of Perseus, one eye and one tooth between them. Even so, if he was coming back, I would wait for him.

Waiting for Harry! That is one of the things I have been doing all my life - imagining him out there on his appointed course, trailing his tail among the galaxies, while children crowd at the windows to see him and babies are plucked from the cradles. he came to mean, in spite of his apparent beach-combing of the universe, something stable and purposeful, a wanderer only in the sense that his wandering was according to law. The stars, for me, were his witnesses. Somewhere among them Harry was moving, faithfully pursuing his mysterious treadmill to the end of the world and back.

Where is he now? In Andromeda? Or wrapping his tail round Orion's head, a transient fillet of gold? It doesn't matter. He can't help turning and returning — some time, I suppose, in the eighties.

They've begun already to mention his name — always (will newspapers never learn?) always spelling it Halley. And do you know what they plan to do, in your technological age? Shoot a rocket right through his tail to see what it is made of! And then they will say it is only stardust. This troubles me. What will the children think, I wonder? Who will reassure them?

'Don't look at me!' said the editor.

"Why not? You're the very man! If I'm not here when Harry comes back — think of the slips between cup and lip! — you must tell the children. Say. that nothing is only this or the other; that stardust alone can't explain a comet; that there are laws and eternal patterns and Harry is part of them!

He gave me a look that seemed like a promise.

'O.K' he said. 'I will.’

First published in 'The New York Times, 1965.

NOBODY will EVER Publish This...

A comic book, Bill?

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

Well, it's perfect.

I'm going to inject my ideas right

into the thumping heart of America.

I mean, I'll get a real artist

to draw it properly.

She's an Amazon Princess that lives 

on an island of all women.

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

Paradise Island.

And  A Man crash-lands 

on The Island?

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

Yeah, Steve Trevor, The Spy.

And she wears 

a burlesque outfit.

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

Well, it's athletic.

And silver bracelets.

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

They deflect bullets.

And all her friends are sorority girls 

who have spanking parties,

and everybody fights Nazis 

and rides in an invisible plane?

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

Yes.

Ahem. Heh.

Prof. William Moulton Marston:

What?

Bill. We Love You 

Truly, so much.

But NOBODY... 

I say this with all the Compassion 

and Truth in My Heart :

NOBODY will EVER 

publish this.

Bee Movie

The "Insect Politics" speech 

was something that David Cronenberg 

came up with from his days as an entomologist. 

He was fascinated by insect societies, 

the division of labor, and the caste structure 

therein, yet they are 

VERY MUCH not-Human.

Mel Brooks didn't want people to know he was 

a producer for the film, because he thought people 

wouldn't take it seriously 

if they knew he was involved. 

When people DID find out, 

he decided to make the most of it 

by handing out deely boppers 

at the premiere.

Mark Kermode - Bee Movie

"....Several problems with it 

and they goes something like this :

Firstly, it has no proper sense of its anthropomorphism --

The way in which you do movies 

about animals talking to each other is, 

The Animals talk to each other, okay, 

you don't then cross over 

the species boundary, and have 

The Animals then talking to The Humans 

and The Gag is, 'The Animals talk --'

Right -- when we're in The Hive 

with all The Animals talking 

to each other, it's fine 

We're in Animal World, 

We're in Fantasy World, 

but there's a plot Point here, 

which is that He meets A Woman 

then He starts talking to her 

and she goes "Blimey! A Talking Bee!" 

So The Gag isn't that 

‘Bees live their life in relation to --

The Gag is that 

‘All bees actually talk —’

which means that none
of the rest of movie 

makes any sense because

Bees don't wear hats, 

Bees don't fly Planes,
Bees don't -- don't -- 

Bees don't -- y'know -- drive cars...
None of these things happen 

so you've trodden over The Line, 

you've broken The Unwritten Rule 

of 'You can do this, you can't do that --'

It's like 'No, you can't --' 

It's like -- 

"....It's made up.

It's not True 

Work it out."

...No, There are Rules, that you --

That doesn't work if you do that, 

in the same way as it doesn't work 

in Ocean's Thirteen, when 

Julia Roberts manages to get into a club 

because she looks like Julia Roberts, 

but nobody says 'Yeah, but, 

he looks like Brad Pit and 

he looks like George Clooney 

and that other guy looks like Casey Affleck 

and anyway there's a whole 

movie carrying on around it -- '

“It doesn't. You — 

No, sorry there's ways 

of doing anthropomorphism 

and that ain't one of them, 

Number one --

Number two, 

It's A Comedy about Lawyers; 

It's A Comedy in which
A Bee sues The Human race, right? 

Very funny for the...
you know, the grown ups 

and all the rest of it -- Kids :

"What.....? 'Sue', what does 'Sue', mean?
I don't know -- 

Isn't Sue you know, A Boy Called Sue …?

“…because they'll go straight away with 

that Johnny Cash reference weren't they?”

Well they're more likely to do that 

than say “Oh yes, I understand 

it's a legal term, so —

I don't think so 

Point number two —

“They're more likely 

to get the legal term

than they are the 

Johnny Cash reference --

Point number three : the whole thing about 

'I don't want to be A Drone --' 

is ripped off of ANTZ, which in itself 

was kind of ripped off of A Bug's Life 

and that, you know that's all been done before 

Point number four : The Jokes aren't 

as funny as they ought to be; that's not to say that I didn't laugh a few times but when I did laugh, I laughed as an adult laughing at adult humor -- not adult in the...  in the you know in the Jimmy Carr sense, but as in the --

So it's almost like you gone through the Looking Glass, the cartoon is no longer being made for the kids audience it's being made as a sort of you know I want to make gags that will make sense to the older audience and I've kind of completely bypassed the kids oh bother you know what I've got to do something for the kids let's do it as a cartoon --

And this all kind of came into Focus for me when I saw that trailer and the trailer was the gag is he Jerry sign but dressed up as a Bee he can't do the dressing up as a Bee so Steven Spielberg says and incidentally not very convincing Steven Spielberg may be a director but boy he can't act his way out a paper bag says why don't you just do it as a cartoon and you know what there's a terrible sense of that there's a terrible sense of that's what they've done they've just gone why not do it as a cartoon --

It's not terrible but it ain't a Kids film --

It's not a proper Kids film, 

because if it is a proper Kids film, 

it doesn't do --

the anthropomorphism thing 

doesn't work, the animation 

should be funny, the story 

should be better and the jokes
should be better and that --
none of those are True.