Coco

People love this movie. It’s not their fault.

At the end credits of the newest Disney juggernaut of sentiment, which focuses on the Mexican tradition of Day of the Dead, there is an ample list of cultural advisors, most of them highly credentialed. It feels like a preemptive move to stave off accusations of cultural appropriation (a thorny, politically correct concept that is seldom ascribed smartly). Well, whatever advice these mavens imparted to the creators of this movie, it seems to have been in vain. Coco is painfully inauthentic. Everyone involved may protest that they studied this and they researched that, and they got this detail right, and that Coco is the number one box-office hit in Mexican history, but the sense of contrivance remains.

The core problem is the story. The plot is the most strained I have ever seen in a children’s movie. For starters, it hinges on the dubious premise of a woman scorned. So here we have stereotype number one: Coco is the heartbroken Latina who never forgives, a character out of a telenovela. Eons ago, her musician husband walked out the door with his guitar and never came back. Which brings us to stereotype number two: the unreliable Latin macho who is very good at romance and very bad at responsibility. The day he left, Coco vowed never to let music play in her house ever again. I can’t think of a less credible overreaction. I can understand Coco’s rancor to a…