Disney Kills Off Christopher Robin

Who killed Christopher Robin? Disney, that’s who

IT’S enough to bring out the Eeyore in us all. The Disney Corporation has announced that Winnie the Pooh is about to relegate Christopher Robin, his faithful friend of 80 years, in favour of a six-year-old girl.
For Disney, it is a rebranding opportunity. But for the legions of fans who grew up with AA Milne’s whimsical stories, it is nothing short of sacrilege.
It is hardly the first time Disney has outraged Pooh purists, of course. They bought the rights to the Pooh stories and images in 1961. Pooh, Piglet, Tigger and the rest were duly Americanised and their characters changed; the wistful bear of little brain, who was regularly described as “growling”, acquired an effete little voice and West Coast perma-cheer.
By the end of the decade the original cast had been augmented by a new character called, with crushing inevitability, Gopher. “The latest stories are just regular American cartoons with Pooh and friends as characters in them,” writes one angry blogger. “I have a book where Christopher Robin goes to school, through the Hundred Acre Wood, in an American yellow school bus. Ouch!”

I used to read Winnie-the-Pooh (the original one) to my kids when they were little. They loved the stories. The Hundred Acre Wood was a magical place where no adults ever went, the inhabitants were all well-loved toys and Christopher Robin was the carefree child that they all wanted to be.
And it was all very familiar to children. Winnie and his friends were all recognisable. Piglet was the irritating, squeaky little toddler sibling who trailed along everywhere; Roo was the silly little baby who had to be carried; Kanga was the bossy, maternal older sister; Owl was the bookish nerd. Eyeore was the slow, timid one, Tigger was the hyperactive clown.
The friends went on exploration expotitions – young kids going and exploring gardens and alleyways. They had adventures – and scares; the terrifying Huffalump, the monster that lives in every child’s bedroom, always turned out to be imaginary. And at the end of the day, there was always Home, with its larder always full of delicious Hunny to feast upon.
I’m glad I’ve never watched the Disney travesties of that world.
But Winnie hasn’t been the only childhood literary treasure ruined by America. As a young child, I read every single Paddington Bear book in the library. One day, during the 80s sometime, I saw that a Paddington Bear TV cartoon series was starting. So I settled down with my kids to watch. That first episode was enough.
It wasn’t just the crude animation and bad writing. The whole thing was just wrong. As an illustration: In the books, one of Paddington’s habits is to give people a “hard look” when they are doing something he doesn’t quite approve of. It’s a very English thing to do – you convey your disapproval and feel you are doing something, without having to disturb the atmosphere by saying something; and, often, without the other person actually noticing. Very English, as I said, and with quite subtle nuances. Paddington – like most children – doesn’t have much power but does have a strong sense of rightness. His “hard look” is often the most he can do; it almost invariably passes by the recipient, but it makes Paddington (and, by extension, the reader) feel better.
The phrase “Paddington gave the man a hard look” conveys all those nuances quite nicely. The US cartoon-makers, however, completely missed all this. The cartoon-Paddington (totally unlike the book) was given magic powers; when he gave one of his “hard looks”, sparks shot from his eyes and magic stuff happened. Oh dear. Yet more proof that the Americans just don’t understand English. That was the last episode of “Paddington Bear – The Cartoon” that we watched.
Of course, this is just another in the long line of English literature that Hollywood has taken and ruined by squeezing it into that narrow, crowd-pleasing template that will give the studios the most returns. I often wonder why they bother to buy up filming rights at all, when the end result bears no resembalance to the book.
The most notorious example of this that I know is the case of Pat Barker’s novel Union Street. Set in Hull, the heroine, named Iris, is an obese 18-year old who overeats to compensate for the grief of her father’s recent death and the miseries inflicted on her by an uncaring family and boyfriend; the story charts her growing friendships with a varied group of women (including a 60-year old prostitute), who each impart some wisdom to her, inbetween telling each other their life stories. The tale ends with no great resolution – Iris is still overweight, still lumbered with her family and boyfriend; but, thanks to her women friends, she is now happier and stronger. Message of the book: good friends can help a woman through any troubles.
The 1990 film that was made from this was Stanley & Iris. It may be sufficient to tell you that Iris was played by a 52-year old Jane Fonda, without a fatsuit. In case you need to know more, there was no character named Stanley in the book – nor any character corresponding to him; there was no prostitute, of any age; Iris is a widow; the film ends with the eponymous couple driving off together to the big city, to live there happy ever after. Message of the film: sod the friends, all a woman needs is a bloke.