
I braved the contempt of my friends last week and ventured out to see
Bambi, the Disney rerelease that is proving to be a hit once again in the
box office.  I was looking forward to a gentle, soothing, late afternoon
relief from the Washington Summer.  Instead I was traumatized.  As a
psycho-sexual return to the horrors of early adolescence, it couldn't be
more effective.  For the first half-hour, you're lulled into an agreeable
sense of security and comfort.  Birds twitter; small rabbits turn out to
be great conversationalists.  Pop is what Senator Moynihan would describe
as an absent father, but Mom's there to make you feel OK in the odd
thunderstorm.  You make great friends, fool around on the ice, discover
the meadow, generally mellow out.  Then, without any particular warning,
your mom gets shot, your voice breaks, huge growths start appearing on
your head, and your peers start heading off into the clover with the
apparent intention of having sex.  Next thing you know, the forest burns
down. If I were still eight, I think I'd prefer Rambo III.
		-- Townsend Davis
