A few months ago, back when I was in my Recovering-from-Surgery-with-the-Aid-of-Netflix-and-Vicodin routine, my darling son, Henry, came to me and spoketh (slowly, so my drug-addled ears would understand). “Mom,” he said, “Get Kung-Fu Panda, you’ll love it.” My child has been one of those humiliated Children of the Corny Parent for a long time, the sort of kid who has had to sit next to the loudest laugher in the theater his whole life. We nearly got kicked out of Dobie the first time we saw Napoleon Dynamite—which I insisted on seeing about forty times— because I could not get a grip on myself, so loudly was I guffawing. So when my child recommends a flick, I can be pretty sure it’s going to be a winner by my standards, even without the aid of narcotics, and that it will be extremely goofy and induce much pant wetting. more ›