Though adapted from J.M. Barrie’s play, this might as well be a parable about the eternal childhood of the cinema. Peter Pan refuses to grow up and so, for better and worse, do the movies. Peter is a delightfully unpolished figure: troublesome, impudent and with feral eyebrows that would never be found on the usual Disney cherub. Peter Pan hardly has a frightening moment – both Captain Hook and the tick-tock croc pursuing him are mostly played for comic relief – yet the movie still proceeds with a sense of danger. Our guide, after all, is a kid with the freedom to do whatever pops into his head. Encouraging him is Tinkerbell, another risky character. Her jealousy over Peter’s new friendship with Wendy is the most blatant example of a surprisingly mature subtext: how most of the girls in Neverland, from the mermaids to Princess Tiger Lily, are rivals for Peter Pan’s affection. Peter may want to remain a boy forever, but once heartbreak comes into play, hasn’t innocence been lost? Peter Pan isn’t entirely innocent – the portrayal of Princess Tiger Lily’s tribe is more racist than the worst Native-American sports mascot you’ve ever seen. Yet if you can forgive such sins, the movie offers other moments of purely felt movie magic: Peter’s wrestling match with his shadow; Tinkerbell’s glittering pixie dust; Wendy and her brothers flying for the first time, silhouetted against the moon. With kids’ movies this transporting, I don’t see why any of us want to grow up.
