It’s rare to feel viscerally excited anymore about classic childhood films getting reboots since they appear more frequently than targeted internet ads for culinary schools on my browser, but the forthcoming live action production of Beauty and the Beast is an exception. Its trailer set my heart aflutter, which I passed off as a Pavlovian response to seeing Emma Watson inside of a castle with exposed brick, but upon re-watching the animated original, the enchanted story’s wonderfully deranged details returned to mind.
Let’s recap: Beauty and the Beast narrates (and sings!) the tale of Belle, the Judy Garland of Disney princesses, who is navigating her way through a period of life that’s very similar to my immediate post-college experience seeing as she lives at home with her peculiar inventor father, who has killer equestrian style and a booty that won’t quit.
Belle is viewed as a freak by her provincial community because she, an able-bodied female capable of lifting a broom, enjoys questionable hobbies such as reading her favorite books more than once. The thrill of charming a rare bird like her revs the engine of Gaston, an industrial-sized turd with a penchant for throwing and/or shooting things to compensate for his insecurities that run as deep as the teardrops in his thigh muscles. Gaston’s advances do not impress her, and this is fine because he will later find personal fulfillment as the premier interior decorator for Abercrombie & Fitch.
Due to misfortune that falls upon her father’s travels (Maurice doesn’t trust Google Maps), Belle volunteers herself as tribute into the rockiest Hometown Date that Bachelor Nation has ever seen. The Beast isn’t the worst; on a scale from deplorable (Juan Pablo) to deity (Chris Harrison), he is an average Brad Womack when you consider that his anger is pent-up resentment from not having taken his allergy medication on the morning when the old beggar showed up on his doorstep with a rose and condemned him to years of excessive hair growth. Additionally, his tolerance for pain could use some work.
The real stars of the film are the house’s objects, who demonstrate that clocks are ticklish and candelabras disregard fire safety when it comes to having affairs with feather dusters.
This time around, they caused me to realize that my own home ornaments are terrible matchmakers. For instance, this cherub lamp has watched me swipe right in vain too many times without ever breaking its stupid, adorable little lean.
The Underdog Award goes to Mrs. Potts, who keeps everyone’s messy asses in line, all while tending to her son Chip, who I pray will be portrayed by Jacob Tremblay. I demand that Potts gets a spin-off on Bravo (Handle & Spout) that follows her covert dates with Belle’s dad.
And while we’re rallying for the unsung heroines, can someone check in to see if THIS WOMAN HAS RECEIVED HER SIX EGGS??? JUST AS URGENT NOW AS IT WAS THEN.
The end. Raise your hands in the comments with any/all feelings (both about the old standby and the new version).
Want more stories from Mia? If you want to laugh: “Every Thought Catalog Advice Piece, as Written by Your Dad.” If you want to think: “Where’s the Cheat Code That Unlocks Adoption?” If it’s more movie stuff you want: “10 Weird Things About ‘The Devil Wears Prada.'” Follow her on Twitter and Instagram, too.