It seems like my brother had issues with “Napoleon Dynamite”:
During the 19th century, Bethlem Psychiatric Hospital became a popular London attraction, particularly on the first Tuesday of every month when admission was free. All other days, visitors paid a penny to look into the cells of the insane and watch them fight and fornicate. Some tourists brought long rods to antagonize the patients and precipitate an entertaining response.
Today, we no longer poke lunatics with sticks. Don’t have to, as there are films like Napoleon Dynamite that do the poking for us and then record it for posterity. All we have to do is look, point, and laugh.
What is there to identify with in Napoleon Dynamite? Every time he is beaten, headlocked, or thrown into a locker, we chuckle: there is something about him that not only deserves to be humiliated buts wants to be. Napoleon Dynamite makes us the bully, not the bullied, a bizarre piece of masochism from Hess whose faux-redeeming ending can’t undo eighty minutes of figurative wedgie and latent racism – note how the film’s only latinos and blacks are incorporated into Napoleon’s coterie of half-wits. This is empowering for whom, exactly? Not the lunatics, but perhaps people with sticks.
Read the rest on your own.