Kids' DVDS: March 2006

Roger Holland

Poor SpongeBob. A highly original fellow who breathes much needed fresh sea air into the stale kiddiesphere, he has faced frequent criticism from one side or another in the war for our children's minds.

The DVDs discussed in this feature are:

Note: importing any of these DVDs into the UK will require a North American or multi-region DVD player and NTSC compatible TV. All imports will be Region 1 only.

SpongeBob Squarepants - Lost in Time
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 21 February 2006

Jimmy and Timmy Power Hour 2 - When Nerds Collide
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 14 March 2006

Blue's Room - Fred's Birthday
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 14 March 2006

Holly Hobbie & Friends - Surprise Party
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 7 March 2006

Go Diego Go! The Great Dinosaur Rescue
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 21 February 2006

My Little Pony - The Princess Promenade
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 7 February 2006

Disney Princess Sing Along Songs, Vol. 3 - Perfectly Princess
(Walt Disney Video)
US: 14 February 2006

Quack Pack, Volume 1
(Walt Disney Video)
US: 14 February 2006

Goof Troop, Volume 1
(Walt Disney Video)
US: 17 January 2006

Nick Junior Favorites - Volume 3
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 7 February 2006

Nick Picks - Volume 3
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 7 February 2006

Backyardigans Cave Party
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 7 March 2006

Lazytown - Robbie's Greatest Misses
(Paramount Home Video)
US: 14 February 2006

Poor SpongeBob. A highly original fellow who breathes much needed fresh sea air into the stale kiddiesphere, he has faced frequent criticism from one side or another in the war for our children's minds. First, of course, he's been accused both of homosexuality, and of spreading an invidious homosexual agenda (also known as "tolerance"). More recently, he's been criticised for promoting stereotypes of other cultures. And why? Because the Burger King tie-in with SpongeBob's new DVD, Lost in Time, dares to offer a range of toys that includes Mariachi, Sultan, and Samurai SpongeBobs. I'm only surprised that the Cross Dressers Alliance of Provincetown hasn't marched on Bikini Bottom to protest Liberty SpongeBob (the little dude dressed up as Lady Liberty. Then again, drag queens tend to have a sense of humour.

SpongeBob Squarepants - Lost in Time features a double episode special, "Dunces and Dragons", plus a handful of other oft-televised episodes. "Dunces and Dragons" is a gentle spoof of Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Following a bizarre jousting accident at Medieval Moments, SpongeBob and Patrick travel back in time to fulfill a prophecy and save King Krab's kingdom from Plankton's tame dragon.

SpongeBob has yet to leap so much as a single shark. His continued success can be attributed directly to the good sense of the show's makers, who've resisted every temptation to mess with their formula. Yes, time travel is a little off the beaten track, even for Bikini Bottom, but all the episodes that make up Lost in Time retain the wild creativity, good-hearted idiocy, and refreshing disinterest in the specifics of popular culture that have been hallmarks of this hapless poriferan's all-ages appeal.

While SpongBob reigns at Nickelodeon, The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour 2: When Nerds Collide combines two of the network's other big players, The Fairly OddParents and The Adventures of Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius. And it's precisely the sort of over-embellished content void that SpongeBob has so assiduously eluded. The stylistic contrast between Timmy Turner's two-dimensional Dimmsdale, CA, and Jimmy's 3D Retroville, TX, is amusing at first, but that just about wraps it up for When Nerds Collide. A third crossover between the two shows, The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour 3: The Jerkinators, will air this June as the season finale for both shows. The Fairly OddParents, according to creator Butch Hartman, will not be back next season, which is something of a shame, since its fiercely sarcastic humour puts it head and shoulders above Jimmy Neutron.

Other well-worn tactics for extending a brand are demonstrated by this month's release of Blue's Room - Fred's Birthday and Holly Hobbie & Friends - Surprise Party. In the truly excellent Blue's Clues, Blue is an animated puppy with a curiously engaging bark who uses puzzles, simplicity, and repetition to help your children learn. In Blue's Room, she's an annoying talking puppet designed to merchandise to your children. Blue's shark has been well and truly jumped; the damn dog is starting to hump Mommy's leg.

The lab-coated Holly Hobbie marketing weasels endeavor to exploit a lapsed brand blessed with a valuable legacy of nostalgic goodwill. To this end, they call the star of Holly Hobbie & Friends - Surprise Party the great-granddaughter of the original, give her a couple of appropriately diverse friends, and turn her into the 10-year-old Britney Spears of arts and crafts. Cynical? Yes, but wholesome and worthwhile. Sadly, so wholesome that my captive test audience was turned off within minutes.

Time travel, crossovers, format changes, and generation jumps. Disney has opted this month for a more conventional marketing strategy, the spin-off. Lucky for the company, Dora the Explorer is a powerhouse of a show that's extending its winning formula and franchise with care and success, so check out the growing range of Dora toys at your local Target, and get ready for Diego. No Cousin Oliver he.

Dora's primo Diego, is a little older than her, and his adventures are conveniently aimed at a slightly older age group, so now your children can grow with the brand. Appearing first in the Dora episode, "Meet Diego", and given plenty of screen time in episodes such as "Dora and Diego to the Rescue" (Dora the Explorer - Save the Day), Diego's own series has been a long time coming and Go Diego Go! finally debuted on Nick Jr. in September 2005. Go Diego Go! The Great Dinosaur Rescue is his first DVD.

In "The Great Dinosaur Rescue", Dora joins Diego's regular cast of Baby Jaguar and older sister Alicia (do you see where they're going here?) in a time travel adventure of their own. The plot is your basic Dora scenario. First you find your lost dinosaur, then you return it to its family, practising your rudimentary Spanish as you go. But the songs are more complex and hipper, and the lessons go well beyond colors, shapes, and counting. Retaining the interaction between preschooler and story, Go Diego Go! focuses on problem-solving, movement, ecology, and learning. At the end of each episode, a quiz tests viewers on key points.

Additional episodes on this first Diego DVD include "Rescue of the Red-Eyed Tree Frogs" and "Diego Saves Baby Humpback Whale", in which Diego has to outswim sharks. In a much discussed 2003 episode of Dora, "Star Catcher" (Dora the Explorer - Catch the Stars), her abuela introduced a magic theme, giving Dora a Star Pocket to help her catch a cast of Explorer Stars, each with curious special powers. Many viewers (all of them adults) consider it no coincidence that the plot of "Star Catcher" saw Dora and Boots using Saltador, the jumping star, to leap a whole shiver of animated sharks. Thankfully, Dora continues to thrive despite having jumped her sharks, and Go Diego Go! will only broaden the brand's appeal. Now I wonder what Nickleodeon has planned for Alicia?

My Little Pony is another brand that's made a recent comeback. It seems that one reason for the introduction of a third generation of ponies, the Ponyville Posse, is that Hasbro lost the legal rights to the first generation, the Dream Valley Crips. (The commercial failure of the second generation in 1997 was obviously a factor too.) The current breed, first seen in 2003, obviously has more staying power and now, risking a lawsuit from Disney, Hasbro has introduced a princess motif into the storyline. Typically cutesy, My Little Pony - The Princess Promenade comes with higher production values and all the usual moral lessons for Daddy's Little Princesses everywhere.

Not to be left out, Disney has a new princess offering of its own. Disney Princess Sing Along Songs, Vol. 3 - Perfectly Princess is a collection of songs from sequels, adding Mulan, Pocohontas, and Ella to its ever-expanding all-purpose axis of evil. Further brand exploitation from the pointiest heads in the business comes this month from Quack Pack, Volume 1 and Goof Troop, Volume 1. Even as a child I resisted Mickey Mouse, let alone Donald, Goofy, and their tiresome families, and time has not mellowed me.

Of course, Disney isn't the only company to squeeze its catalog till the pips squeak. The crassest offerings from Nickleodeon are its Picks and Favorites collections. Aimed at gift givers rather than parents, Nick Picks - Volume 3 pulls together eight episodes from Nicktoons shows, including All Grown Up, SpongeBob, and The Fairly OddParents, while Nick Jr. Favorites - Volume 3 offers an episode each of Dora The Explorer ("Meet Diego"), Little Bill, Max And Ruby, Blue's Clues, The Backyardigans, and LazyTown. These last two shows also receive their own dedicated DVD releases this month, both superior to either Nick collection.

The Backyardigans - Cave Party offers four more of this odd animal crew's vibrant adventures, including a party in an ice age cave and a race around the world. As always, music is an important part of the show, specifically calypso and zydeco.

Lazytown is a popular maverick in terms of children's TV. Imported from Iceland, it blends puppetry, live action, and CGI to teach children the importance of healthy eating and exercise. The show's creator and star is Magnús Scheving, who appears to be the most famous living Icelander who isn't Björk, Bobby Fischer or a member of Sigur Rós. He was European Aerobics Champion twice (I'm European, and didn't even know we had such a title). Which is lucky, because the role of Lazytown's resident superhero, Sportacus, requires extensive physical activity.

Sportacus aside, the lead character in Lazytown is eight-year-old Stephanie, played by Julianna Rose Mauriello. The third human character is, of course, the Bad Guy. Played by the excellent, Jim Carey-esque Stefán Karl Stefánssonis, Robbie Rotten is a comic villain in the best Dick Dastardly style. He lives underground and hates to hear children running and playing on his roof, and so most Lazytown episodes focus on his efforts to keep the kids indoors with their junk food, televisions, and PlayStations. Lazytown - Robbie's Greatest Misses brings together four of his most fiendish plots, in one delightfully eccentric package recommended for the preschool potato on anyone's couch.


Spawning Ground

David Antrobus

In this ancient place of giant ferns and cedars, it seems the dead outnumber the living; the living fall away too quietly, too easily, taken away by stealth. There is tremendous natural beauty here, but its hold is tenuous, like moss clinging to rotting bark that will ultimately break and sink into the forest floor.

If I were to choose a visual symbol of my adopted home of Mission, an average-size town in the impossibly green western Canadian province of British Columbia, I would probably come up with a rotting carcass in a verdant pasture, a vision of death amid life. If this sounds harsh, hear me out and I'll tell my own truth about this place.

Clinging to the swift-scoured, salmon-haunted northern bank of the mighty Fraser River like an ailing lamprey to the deadly smooth flank of a Great White, this town, situated about 70 kilometers east of Vancouver, owes its entire existence to the water of its rivers and lakes, and to the wood harvested from the dense, surrounding forest. Settled in the mid-19th century, Mission has managed to survive despite two serious floods, a bridge collapse, the ominous early signs of malaise in the natural resource sector (did we really think the salmon and the great conifers were infinitely, magically renewable?), and a general reputation for unfocussed, redneck belligerence.

It all comes down to the Fraser River. The river has brought both food and trade; it provides a thoroughfare upon which the people of Mission (among others) float the great log booms that are the defeated renderings we humans fashion from the vast tracts of coastal rainforest (cedar, spruce, fir, hemlock) in our seemingly inexhaustible compulsion to exploit her resources and bring Mother Nature to her matronly knees — in part because (we believe) we can.

But the details about life in this town — the jeweler murdered in a robbery, the pretty high school graduate killed by a drunk driver, the 14-year-old suicide — in fact, all the jostling narratives crowding like paparazzi, each insisting on exclusive front page drama, bubble and coalesce and ultimately conspire to reveal the hidden Mission. There is a dark vortex lurking beneath the seemingly placid surface; the ominous shadow of something ancient beneath sun-dappled waters. Even the countless apparent banalities playing out on the town's rural borders disguise something deeper, more clandestine: the hobby farmer up in MacConnell Creek bemoaning his exhausted well; the entrepreneur hungry for an investment opportunity, eager to transform the hillsides of quiet, bucolic Silverdale into sudden, lockstep suburbia; the hiker mauled by a black bear in the mountains north of Steelhead. And always, the numerous lives derailed by marijuana grow-op busts. For all the gradual liberalisation of laws at the consumer end of this local economic rival to wood and water, those who supply the celebrated crop usually feel the full force of Canadian justice, anyway. There are times when nothing in Mission seems devoid of some kind of meaning.

A monastery sits above this town, a Benedictine haven of alternating silence and the evocative clatter of Sunday Matins bells. Its tower is phallic and disproportionately defiant, rising above the landscape like a giant darning needle, casting its intrusive shadow over the patchwork quilt of human settlement as if to stitch a final tableaux, symbolically and definitively, of the history of the original inhabitants and their mistreatment at the hands of the white settlers. Said inhabitants were (and are) the Stó:lo people (their language, Halq'eméylem, was an exclusively oral tradition, so the words are spelled phonetically nowadays). Stó:lo territory stretched along the river valley from present-day Vancouver to Yale in the Fraser Canyon, a 170 kilometer swath of virgin, fecund land, teeming with such totemic creatures as salmon, ancient sturgeon, deer, black bear, cougar, coyote, beaver, and wolf.

The Stó:lo, a Native American (or First Nations) people belonging to the larger group of Central Coast Salish, settled this area around 10,000 years ago. Europeans, attracted by rumours of gold, arrived in the 1850s. The resulting clash of cultures did not work out well for the indigenous people, and today they are still recovering from the trickle-down effects of at least one generation having been torn from its extended family. Residential schools, for which the monastery in Mission is a present-day symbol, were sites of a particularly virulent form of cultural genocide. First Nations children across Canada were taken from their homes, often exposed to physical and sexual abuse and occasionally murder, their mouths scoured with soap if they even dared to utter their own languages. St. Mary's in Mission, founded in 1861 and relinquished in 1984, was the last residential school in Canada to close.

There are 82 Indian Reserves in the Fraser Valley. There are eight correctional institutions, two in Mission alone (Aboriginal people represent around four percent of the Canadian population, yet account for 18 percent of the federally incarcerated population). Somebody — something? — really likes to control and segregate people, around here.

This fragmentation is reflected in the odd demographics of the town in general. Leaving their multicultural mark have been, at various times, Italians in Silverdale, Swedes in Silverhill, the French in Durieu, the Japanese in the early years of the fruit industry (as in the US, the Japanese were rewarded for their labours by being sent to internment camps in 1942), and immigrants from India in the early days of the shake and shingle mills. (The Western Red Cedar, with its straight grain, durability, and imperviousness to the incessant rain, while inspiring Native culture with the quixotic grandeur of totem poles, grabbed more prosaic European imaginations in the form of the shake and shingle industry, which provides reliable roofing and siding components for homes.)

In some ways, Mission is a vibrantly conflicted example of Canada's multicultural mosaic. With just over 30,000 residents (of which 3,000 are First Nations) mostly crammed into a relatively small area, bordered by the river to the south and the mountains to the north, mill workers and biker gangs, artists and Mennonites, muscle car boys and summer folkies, soccer moms and Sikh Temple-goers, merchants and pagans, Freemasons and caffeine addicts, street people and Renaissance Faire anachronisms all rub shoulders with varying degrees of friction, occasionally achieving harmony in spite of themselves. Perhaps the relative accord is due to the overall youth of the population (73 percent are under 35-years-old).

Earlier, I mentioned the presence of death. Why? Because it is everywhere here, its proximity eerily palpable. It inhabits the sly rustle of the towering conifers. It taints the air with the swampy pungency of skunk cabbage in springtime. It hums incessantly in the sub-woofer buzz of the hydroelectric dams. It shuffles along in the downcast, scuff-shoed limp of a lone child returning to a chilly home. From a distance, even the monks in their dark cassocks, knit-browed and bound by their vows of silence, seem eerily close to the Reaper caricature. For actual evidence of its pervasiveness, though, one need not go far back in time.

The bodies of three women were dumped between here and neighbouring Agassiz back in '95. Suicides and the furtive aftermath of murder, barely registering in the town at all, have spattered Burma Road, a potholed strip of rocks and dirt skirting the shore of Stave Lake. In 1997, Doug Holtam of Silverdale (a small community west of Mission) bludgeoned his pregnant wife and six-year-old daughter to death with a hammer. Against all odds, his young son Cody survived the attack. In 1995, a drunk driver, leaving in his wake not only the proverbial outpouring of community grief but also a devastated twin sister, killed 18-year-old Cindy Verhulst during the week she and her peers were busy celebrating their high school graduation. There was the little boy who slipped away from his day care centre and drowned in the swollen Fraser River. The 12-year-old boy found hanging from a school washroom towel dispenser. The elderly pilot whose body was discovered in dense forest a full two years after he had gone missing. And there was Dawn-Marie Wesley, a 14-year-old Native girl who took her own life in the basement of her home after enduring relentless bullying at school; barely noticed in life, Oprah material in death.

As disturbing and tragic as these stories are, however, there was little precedent for the breaking news in the summer of 2003. This one will need a little background.

Since the mid-'80s, women have been disappearing from Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest postal code. Partly due to the initial incompetence of the Vancouver Police Department and jurisdictional issues with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), partly due to the amorphous (read: investigative nightmare) nature of the disappearances, and partly because so few people cared about missing hookers and addicts, more and more women went missing, with nary a ripple in the public consciousness (or conscience). In fact, as of this writing, a horrifying total of 65 individuals are currently on the Missing Women list. For years, law enforcement didn't even refer to their disappearance as crimes, and it wasn't until 1998 that an official task force was even assigned to investigate.

Finally, in February 2002, Robert William Pickton, a pig farmer from the Vancouver suburb of Port Coquitlam (approximately half way between Vancouver and Mission), was charged with two counts of first-degree murder of two of the missing women. More charges followed in the months ahead. Pickton currently faces 15 counts of first-degree murder with seven more expected. DNA samples of 31 women have been linked to his 10-acre farm. In short, potentially the largest serial murder case in Canadian history is now underway just 35 kilometers from Mission.

Given the frequent intrusion of death into the area, I suppose it should have surprised no one when, on 20 July 2003, the missing women's joint task force announced they would be searching an area of wetlands near Mission. Just south of Highway 7 (aka the Lougheed Highway) and the man-made body of water known as Silvermere (itself the subject of a delightfully creepy urban legend or two), the area is basically marshland bisected by a meandering slough. Immediately following the announcement of the search, the site was fenced off with temporary chain link, and the highway's wide shoulders — traditionally home to roadside fruit and flower vendors hawking their locally grown products — were suddenly and unequivocally off-limits.

Driving this formerly innocuous stretch of blacktop, especially under the after-dusk arc lights, with their swirling bug armadas and liquid island oases in the dark, now touched off an indescribably eerie feeling. It was a relief when, on 8 August, the entire ensemble of law enforcement personnel (numerous forensic investigators plus 52 anthropologists) took up their tools again and vanished. They gave no word of what they had uncovered or even whether anything had been found at all, leaving our community to its familiar, fitful dreams once more. Mission's part in this unfolding story, as it relates to the wider world, remains amorphous and indistinct, with its usual chilly glints of barely suppressed horror flickering amid the overall grey.

Here, it seems, empirical proof takes a back seat to rumour and anecdote every time.

Sometimes, while hiking alone in the tree-bejeweled mountains west of Steelhead, east of the dams, I have suddenly felt the fetid breath of graves, a harsh raven-shadow lurking behind the abundant emerald and olive greens of this sodden paradise. Inexplicable noises in the deep tangled brush; distant rending, gnashing. Something skulking and hungry. With all the assured rationality of the white male immigrant, I've been known to smirk at the idea of ghosts, and yet stumbling along a jade-tunnel trail bristling with old man's beard and devil's club, I've occasionally recoiled from something, the skin of my arms prickling with gooseflesh. There are spirits here, all right, something not too far removed from the capricious tricksters who inhabit indigenous myth. Spectres of a kind, nursing some nameless, hollow ache of unrequited need rendered manifest, paradoxically, by a landscape dripping with life.

The closest we Europeans get to perceiving this (however inadvertently) can be heard in the low extended rumble of the nighttime freight trains as they call out in the dark, hunching parallel to Railway Avenue long after most residents are asleep, lonely as a buffalo herd that's somehow seen and almost comprehended its own approaching ruin.

Of course, my telling is by no means the complete, illustrated history of Mission, a town that can barely hold onto its own name (since 1884, take your pick: St. Mary's Mission, Mission Junction, Mission City, Village of Mission, Town of Mission, and currently the District of Mission). Not by a long shot; this lurid splash portrays but a small corner of the canvas. How can any one person paint the full picture of a community, after all? No, despite my perverse zeal to stir the viscous mud below the bright surface, great deeds and happy memories adorn the history of this place, too, adding the sparkle and lustre of life above and hopefully beyond the stillness and silence. And yet, no matter how much joie de vivre this community may exhibit on its special days, like a red-carpet celebrity when the cameras start rolling — whether it be the laughing children with their maple leaf flags and pancake stacks celebrating Canada Day up at Heritage Park, or the benevolently stoned crowd at the annual Folk Festival, or even the choked air and sharp adrenaline at the Raceway — surely one thing cannot go unremarked: nearly half of those missing-presumed-dead women were of Aboriginal descent. This adds one more layer of indifference to a jaded populace apparently caught somewhere between the small town rural cruelties of its past and the uneasy suburban shrugs of its gathering future.

I know this. I worked with the street kid population here for years, witnessed their hardscrabble resilience. Few people ever gave a genuine damn about the plight of these children, even though some of the throwaways had not yet reached puberty. Two-thirds of street-involved youth in Mission are Aboriginal. Many are sexually exploited by family members, neighbors, pimps and selected citizens, but few speak of it. Some of these kids head west to Vancouver for a date with misery, stretching already tenuous community ties to the breaking point. My job as a street worker was to speak for these lost children, to ensure some semblance of the child welfare system would kick in through advocacy with social workers or teachers or families or counselors or probation officers. In a world in which the so-called "bottom line" — money and the politics of money — has become drawn too garishly, these already marginalized youth were, and continue to be, largely abandoned by a system designed to protect them. Sometimes I stand beside the town's failing heart, its run down main drag (1st Avenue), taking in the pawnshops and thrift outlets and dollar stores, and I'm convinced I truly hate this place... but only because I've loved it so deeply. In life: death. In death: life. The great inscrutable cycle.

In this way, the perennially troubled summer Pow Wow, always skirting the edge of ruin (corrupt, inept politics and sporadic funding, take a bow), yet often prevailing regardless, seems to me a far more accurate symbol of the clutching, ragged breaths that secretly haunt the sleep of this community. The fleeting vibrant colours of traditional dancers whirling in bright regalia — poignant as the plumage of endangered birds, flying amongst the high wailing melismas of the Northern-style singing and the vital, aorta-punching drums of the circles — somehow speaks more of an unavenged wound in time and place, set amid the cruelty that underlies so much beauty, than anything else this conflicted human settlement seems capable of offering.

An absurd contrast, really — this vibrant gathering and the judgmental silence of all those surrounding stories of the dead — the whole place holding its breath waiting for these mortal sorrows to purge themselves before the pristine lawns and asphalt and vinyl sidings are allowed to spread and eventually suffocate every fucking thing that ever felt like something here.

For here, tenacious as the town itself alongside relentless churning waters, the living will no doubt cling to hope and the perpetual dream of life until the muscled river — unnoticed, stealthy, taken for granted — wrestles away everything (horror, joy, splintered wood and the final word) at long last, sending it all tumbling toward the planet's dark and pitiless seas for good.

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