The cowboy doll Woody, the actual, physical thing as opposed to the computer animation in the two Toy Stories, is just a little creepy. I’m not sure what it is. The near-bug eyes that look like they never blink, the pointy triangle of a nose, or the vaguely crooked smile? Or maybe it’s because repeated viewings of Toy Story have conditioned me, slightly and irrationally, to expect the damn thing to come alive when I’m not watching.
We have two in the house. Lilly acquired one in Florida last year with a gift certificate her uncle sent her for Christmas ’04. I got another one for Ann this Christmas, albeit without a hat, at a resale shop for $2, the better to eliminate sibling quarrels over the first Woody. They travel around sometimes – assisted by little hands, I’m sure – but after they’re returned to their perch on a shelf with some other toys, I sometimes see that they’re wrapped around each other. The “brokeback mountain” position, I think of it. (Back when Lilly used to regularly strip her Barbies naked, I used to think of them as “Gentlemen’s Club Barbies.” Ann doesn’t seem to do that as much.)
“Brokeback Woody” isn’t a joke I share with anyone here. Too much explaining to do. I don’t pay attention to recent movies, much, but I’d have to stop reading newspapers, quit listening to the radio and disconnect myself from the Internet to miss comment on that particular one.
In the Tribune’s Sunday travel section a few weeks ago, there was an article about touring parts of the Canadian Rockies that were used as backdrops for the movie. “There is no such place as Brokeback Mountain,” said the lead sentence, “but that doesn’t mean that people won’t pay to see it.” An unusual bit of wit from that section, I thought.