by Adam Gnuse

I’d like to think I take movies seriously. I’ve got a couple fine art degrees. I’ve taught some college classes on film and writing, and I can go on about narrative and the benefits and constraints of genre far longer than anyone would be interested. . . . Also, I’m a grown man. So, why am I, once again, getting emotional about Muppet Treasure Island?

And while the film is redeemable if you’re already passionate about Muppets, Tim Curry, and—well, that’s about all, unless you have a child in need of distraction—I’m only emotional about one scene in particular. Or, less than that: one moment. The briefest, surprising twist in the middle of a love ballad sung between Kermit and Ms. Piggy as they face impending death, hanging by their puppet feet over the edge of a cliff.

Okay—quickly—some background on the film, as that’s necessary to understand the full magnitude of what’s about to happen here.

Muppet Treasure Island is exactly what it sounds like: it’s Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, with Muppets. In the film, there are good Muppets (i.e. Captain Smallet, played by Kermit the Frog), and there are bad Muppets, who are the pirates masquerading as Smallet’s crew. Everyone is seeking Treasure Island, where there is—presumably—treasure. RLS’ book is an adventurous, swashbuckling story, but its staying power has always been the relationship at its heart—Long John Silver, the pirates’ captain, disguised as a one-legged chef, plays a paternal role for the orphan Jim, who is trying to figure out what kind of man he’ll be in the world. As Long John’s plan to overthrow Smallet’s ship and steal the treasure himself is revealed, Jim must decide to turn his back on the pirate, even as it is clear that fondness remains between the two. “Muppet” Treasure Island raises the emotional impacts even further by adding some romance. The beautiful Benjamina (Ms. Piggy) is a jilted lover from the past of Kermit, I mean Captain Smallet. And as swords clatter and blunderbusses resound, perhaps the greatest fireworks come from the tempestuous clashes of these ex-lovers. Near the end of the film, Smallet and Benjamina are captured by Long John (Tim Curry) and are strung up over a cliff. As the pirates scud off to locate the treasure’s secret resting place, the rope suspending these heroes begins to burn through.

We’re caught up.

Well, mostly, because there’s one last, important detail to cover. Which is that good and evil certainly exist in this movie. These Muppet pirates are true scoundrels—to the point that we may even pity Long John as he struggles to grandstand and intimidate them under his control. For a children’s puppet movie, there’s a notable amount of murder and arson, deception and back-stabbing, skulls and implicit cannibalism. The stakes are real. Until this point in the film, nobility on the high seas has been greatly overmatched by cruelty. These pirate Muppets clearly get perverse enjoyment from dragging a naked blade along the skin (or fur) of other characters’ necks.

Now, we’re caught up.

In their moment of encroaching death, Smallet and Benjamina break into song. It’s the Hans Zimmer-scored “Love Led Us Here,” a song about how love is both the fundamental driver of adventure as well as its ultimate goal—which is striking here in this story about betrayal, lust for gold, and violent ambition. At the end of their lives, Kermit and Ms. Piggy—all pretense of roles fully cast aside in this viewer’s mind; here, this is real—they tell one another that the source of their joy, their treasure, all along, was each other.

Which is an expected thing for a kid’s movie to do.

It’s valuable message. We sympathize with the two lovers and hope the power of their goodness and love will pull them through okay. But then Muppet Treasure Island does something really odd. It forces us give the murderous pirates that exact same sympathy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbObOAeSMls

In a surprising cross-cut during Ms. Piggy and Kermit’s song, we are transported across the island, where simultaneously the pirates are opening the doors of the treasure room. Unlike Kermit and Ms. Piggy, the pirates are shot in beautified slow motion. Their faces express delight and relief, as if years-long pain and hunger have been taken from them. Their eyes (Muppet eyes) are opened wide as usual, but the psychopathic madness once implied by those globular ping-pong balls has been replaced by something else. The pirates toss golden doubloons and rubies, which catch and reflect light. They dance, run, and clasp each other in joy—in this moment, with Kermit and Ms. Piggy’s voices singing as their underscore, these pirates are no longer monsters. They are not killers, forced to swab decks and hatch violent plots in a ship’s dark underbelly. In their joy, they are better people (Muppets). They are either children, or something as innocent. Long John raises a necklace up high and guffaws in that joyous way only Tim Curry can muster. He’s a child among them, as well. Love led them here, too.

The sentiment only lasts a few seconds. Afterward, the divides between good and evil return, clear and distinct. But in that moment, the veil between who is worth our sympathy, and who isn’t, is torn away. The audience is left in that ambivalent space of—I’m going to say it—the very best art. Art that shows us the moral complexity of the world we live in, that highlights the wonder and glory it can be to experience it. This is art that pushes us beyond ourselves, and that shows us we can learn to love even pirates. And that, as pirates, as we all sometimes can be, we deserve to be loved, too.

It’s easy to roll your eyes at a movie like this. You certainly should be rolling your eyes at me, at three in the morning after a long night out, misty-eyed in bed, playing this clip on repeat. But even if Muppet Treasure Island doesn’t do it for you, I think there is something wonderful to finding sentiment like this, wherever you find it, especially when it’s in the most unexpected of places. Maybe, like a treasure buried in the sand, the best finds are the ones you didn’t expect.