![]() ![]() By the fourth time, I was sure that I was not mistaken. I watched it again, just to make sure, then again. The first time I saw this clip, I gasped. She groans, lets her paws slip from the shelf, and shuts the door. Couldn’t she - maybe? She just wants it so bad - but no. She is still miserable, but there’s tiniest sliver of hope in it. But - not unlike Lot’s wife - Chloe looks back. She casts a sour glance away from the chicken, utterly dejected. ![]() But no sooner has her tongue completed a rotation of her mouth than she begins to frown and shake her head, forcing herself to say no. Her face bursts into a grin at once crazed and innocent. It is golden, glistening, and waiting for her. She is initially uninspired at the sight of eggs and apple juice. “My scene” (which is both in the movie and used in promos, because it’s so good) begins as Chloe opens the refrigerator door. We have just seen Chloe push her boring dish of cat chow aside and waddle off in search of more captivating nourishment. In fact, Illumination’s (best known for the Despicable Me and Minions) entire brand premise is “Yes, Pixar tries harder and makes better films than we do but we make tons of money anyway.” But is The Secret Life of Pets a miraculous psychoanalytic tool? IT IS FOR ME.īackground: We are introduced to Chloe, a very fat, poorly behaved cat (Lake Bell). The movie shows us a day in the life of a dog named Max (Louis C.K.) and his domesticated animal friends, who get up to a whole lot of mischief the moment their owners leave. Is it possible that Illumination Entertainment named themselves in full cognition that a clip of a cat discovering a roast chicken in their 2016 film The Secret Life of Pets would shed light on the darkest corners of my psyche? ![]()
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