Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius: Review By B. Alan Orange

Code Orange Alert #38588: Jimmy Neutron

(You're right; I have no business reviewing a kid's movie, let alone any other type of viable entertainment. Shame on me.)

Note: This review has been tailor formatted for KC Jones. (Children: Turn away now and go to Mr. Padnos' review.)

The Verdict: Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius is an unblemished ass, free from the irritation of hemorrhoids. (KC feels that my reviews are lacking a quick "Thumbs up-Thumbs down" type of mood indicator. Stars are pointless, and he didn't like my idea of the clock; one for every time I had to look at it. Four clocks would mean it was a bad movie, cause I kept glancing at the time. So, instead, I've gone with hemorrhoids. The longer I'm aware of the chair, the more intense the burning itch grows. For instance, Fellowship of the Rings would have ruined a Super Model's ass through discomfort of a hemorrhoidal cluster. A Beautiful Mind would have gotten the same verdict as Neutron. Lastly, The Majestic would've been given the verdict of A Fat Man's ass enc*mbered with four hemorrhoids and an anal fissure. I'm sure this un-unique way of rating movies wont fly very far in the face of Movieweb's Webmaster Kingsh*t, but we'll give it a try in the name of Mr. Jones.)

(SKIP THIS PART: F*ck Movieview and their little legion of five-dollar whor*s, constantly tossing yellow fliers in my face, asking me to write an essay about an unfinished film no one's yet seen. They besieged me at the line for Jimmy Neutron, turning me away. "I'm with the press." I tell them. This wrinkled-up hag, who wouldn't have a face without make-up, eyes me from head to toe, then demands ID. I can tell she's not with Paramount, the distributor of this fine flick. I whip out my California Driver's License. Stretching the gas-face as if she'd been flattening Bisquick pancakes with her Vagina, that dishrag scag aimed a mean finger at my wallet, "That's not a press ID. Where's you're press ID?" Three more Movieview sh*t-f*cks surrounded me, acting as if I were trying to pull something over on them. They edged me to the curb, trying to call a bluff that wasn't there. "Press ID? You gotta be kidding me." Just because I don't look like your average skin-diseased, turtleneck-wearing brownie-hound doesn't mean I'm not a legitimate member of the press. Where do these Movieview bitches get off asking for an imaginary Press ID they know doesn't exist? It's not their job to let me in and out of the theater; it's up to Paramount's PR people. They know who I am; they have my name on a list. Just because Paramount lets them exercise word-of-mouth through advanced screenings doesn't give Movieview the right to accost people who aren't part of their fishbowl scheme. "We're at a time of heightened security." Yeah, so? I flash my driver's license at Warner Brothers or Raleigh Pickford; I'm ushered in with a smile, left to wander freely about their fake cities and towns. I go to a gutted-out theater at the ass-end of Westwood, and I'm nearly beaten by a bunch of press-haters whose core function in life is to pester people. I hate them. I hate them all. F*ck Movieview: Lie on their questioners. I always do.)

READ: This is a fun, brainless flick that caters to the joys of childhood rather than supporting cynicism in a hipster "I'm oh-so-clever" slouch.

GLANCE OVER THIS, IGNORE MOST OF IT: A fat boy's delight, like touching a llama, Jimmy Neutron ushers in a quick little diversion that plays on the daydreams of every child, young or old, who has ever lived. It disregards the kid-friendly pastels of Pixar, and the ugly brown-yellows of Dreamworks SKG to blast forth in bright reds, and greens, and blues. It's the equivalent of an Astro-Pop, enjoyed on a warm summer sidewalk with two skinned knees. Neutron's look is a little less dignified than other recent Computer Animated features, but so is its stance. It's not an antiseptic 90-minute dig at Disney in morose artwork. Nor is it a superbly creative take on inanimate objects. Nickelodeon has cornered a distinct market, and utilizes its brand in creating a healthy screen presence for all involved. This is an amusing toy, held for a few intense moments of diversion before being tossed behind the couch. If adults can drop their misanthropic view of grade school humor and get back to that special place on the playground next to the swings, they're sure to enjoy it more than the guy in the raincoat sitting next to them. The question that stands: Will younger audiences eat this up after smarter, chart-topping fare like Monster's Inc. & Shrek? I sure hope so. Because it's super clean; yeah. It's cool.

Jimmy Neutron incorporates an entirely retro feel, coming on like a long lost song from the mid-50s. Its creative genesis rests in a hollowed-out post modernistic world, ripping off the best in yesteryear nostalgia while supporting our current boon in technology. Computers, the Internet, and the Nickelodeon channel rest comfortably alongside finned-out Buick Roadmasters, saddle shoes, and soda jerks. Boy Genius peaks keen interest in the scientific field of study while catering to the vast imagination of our youth. 8-year-old wishes are realized in every single Neutron invention. The kid flies rockets into deep space before class, zips around with a jetpack strapped to his back, and encases himself in a giant bouncing bubble of gum. All these images easily repeat within the recesses of the adolescent mind; Jimmy supports lucid fantasies used in spacing out boring adult fare.

At once, the movie celebrates the enthusiasm of losing your parents to Space Aliens while encapsulating the intense need to have them around. It goes from a night of unsupervised debauchery to shared feelings of loss once Jimmy and his pals realize they need their Mom and Dad to survive in this cruel world of tummy aches and untied shoes. It's a great message sold in a vastly imaginative way. Seeing all the carnival rides lift off the back end of a last-minute Mexican Amusement park and shoot into space sold this jolly little whip home. If you can't stare at that in amazement, smiling, then you're an abrasive sh*t-f*ck, and I don't want to know you.

Each singular action rips by quickly, never resting to bore or strain in interest. Soon to be its own Nickelodeon show, the movie moves like a sitcom decorated in pixels. Themes never center on one certain aspect for very long, skipping to the next neat idea while humming a pleasant, colorful tune. They cram so much crap in here; it's hard not to find something you'd like. It's refreshing to see material that arrives from such a stupid basis. You've gotta know dumb fun when it comes, otherwise you'll be doing donuts in a crowded parking lot with that grimace on your face for the rest of your life. Relax, lighten up, enjoy something derivative.

"Wait a minute. He basically called Lord of the Rings a sh*t-t*rd, but he's giving this a glowing review?" What can I say, this was never boring.

While the kids of Retroville, the town presented in the movie (we never learn what state it's in, but I bet you it's California), are rendered in cool, puppetoon-like animation, all of the adults have a very disturbing, indecorous look to them. If I were a kid, they would have sacred the Hell out of me. Its one aspect of the movie I don't fully understand. I was horrified to see them being chased by an extremely loud, photo-realistic (a computerized option abandoned elsewhere in the film) Alien Chicken, its gaping maw less cartoonish than anything found in the Phantom Menace. This came after having witnessed those spooky, big-headed adults perform the incredulous Chicken Dance polka.

Boy Genius has this weird fascination with poultry. Eggs are constantly apparent through out the film. Even the Alien Abductors, aptly named the Yokians, are incased in glass oval shells, their bodies having atrophied over time into small globs of green shapeless goo. These funny, less-than-threatening Invaders worship the Hen. Even Jimmy's teacher squawks about like a Rhode Island Red, pecking out each syllable in word structure. I guess the filmmakers needed their leitmotif, and this was just bizarre enough to not be offensive in a kiddy flick. If you watch the film closely, you'll see that all the youngsters in Retroville are "only children". There's not a brother or sister in sight. An odd choice, maybe it has to do with the retrofit of the atmosphere. Mom and dad only had sex once, during the honeymoon? I wonder if they sleep in separate beds.

A lot of the jokes aim low, but those are for the younger kids. Some gags, like the burping soda, were conceived by the writer's nine year old daughter. The script often seems to swing at that eye-level, which is okay. A lot of cartoons are so busy trying to appease the parents, they overlook their intended audience. Not here. This entire function is of a freer spirit. Parents will be doing themselves a favor in sinking to its level. The guy behind me, this jock-strap fanzine writer, wasn't digging on the Neutron. He kept kicking the back of my chair, groaning in discomfort. He couldn't compete with Jimmy's ability to breath freely in outer space. The gesture doesn't need a warning label; it's highly unlikely thopse kids will ever get up there to suffocate.

I do have to admit one thing. I was on Vibratab at the time I saw this. I doubt it had anything to do with my overall enjoyment of the piece. But, then, maybe it did.