Upon hearing that Disney had acquired the rights to the Muppets franchise, you could forgive me for expecting yet another reboot in which my childhood memories are blenderized into a consumable morsel of nostalgia ready for the frothing mouth of the Multiplex. Thankfully, there are exceptions to this tragic rule: here’s a film of unquestionable pedigree, reaffirming my conviction that the Muppets are and always will be, no matter the occasional misstep, a source of pure concentrated joy.
With a tone that borders precariously on fan worship, we follow the efforts of Gary (Jason Segel), his partner Mary (Amy Adams) and sentient puppet-brother Walter as they try to get the Muppets back together again. The cast are uniformly great, bringing a refreshing self-consciousness to a screenplay that breaks the fourth wall with such frequency that it forces Kaufman-esque postmodernism to take a long, hard look at itself in the mirror. Such meta-referencing is a perfect counterpoint to the slapstick antics, thus forming a sensible stream of continuity between Muppet properties and our real universe. Not to mention the impressively high hit-rate of gags that come from all directions. (In a surprising twist of fate, even a Jack Black subplot is made to seem funny! Will miracles never cease?)
While it may not have the same emotional texture as Up or Toy Story 3, the film still retains a similar style of whimsy and wonder that’s perfect for children and parents alike. Although some of the musical numbers feel rather forced (Call me a cynic, but I’m not sure there will ever be a context in which I need to hear Chris Cooper rap), there’s still plenty of beautifully irreverent songs to complement the witty dialogue throughout. I truly hope Amy Adams and Miss Piggy’s faux-empowerment duet, “Me Party,” becomes an ironic anthem for contented singles everywhere. It’s this universal spirit that’s just so unique; a world free of cynicism, where flesh and blood coexist alongside those of foam and felt, where abject amateurism shares the stage with consummate professionalism. Quite how a band of puppets with ping pong balls for eyes have captured my heart remains a mystery, but they deliver a bear-hug of deadly positivity that’s well worth the ticket price.
Just like Statler and Waldorf on their critical balcony, I may kvetch and quibble over minor details, but when it’s finally time to “play the music” and “light the lights,” I wouldn’t leave my seat come hell or high water.
