On the tip of my finger where most people have lines that run down to their palms, I have a microscopic circle of dots. Noticeable only to the officer who one day will book and fingerprint me for stalking Miss Minnelli, this tiny cluster is no more than one of those souvenirs that we all collect on our travels through childhood. It is a security blanket of a scar that makes my right arm tingle every time I tap the circle with my thumb.
My family’s first VCR was a beautiful, shiny, clunky piece of silver magic. Miraculous though it was, its true power bubbled inside a smaller device that pulled the videocassette strings. Possessing the remote control transformed any mere mortal into the master or mistress of the galaxy, capable of commanding with minimal finger movement that time moves forward with great speed or backwards with, well, slightly slower speed. Although highly discouraged due to the potential damage it may cause to the universe, time could be paused, but the seasoned VCR puppeteer knew it was prudent to stop time completely. No other period in my life since has granted me the ability to move forward with such ease and thoughtlessness. When I was the maestro of that machine, I could fast-forward and never look back . . . the enhancement of rewinding was still a thing of the future.
Addictive is that power behind the scenes, behind the curtain, above the stage, above the audience, in the wings, or in the editing room. When I managed to gain control of the Kit Kat-sized remote, I sat directly across from the television, prepared to make godlike decisions that came with such a coveted position. On the tip of my (yes, MY) remote control was a half-dome out of which the rays of world domination and channel change came shooting. For hours I would press my fingertip against that dome, my body connecting to and channeling the world of film and television. Over the years, that half-dome of the remote control rearranged the map of my right hand, and forever I will walk this earth with a circle of circles on my index finger where lines ought to be. I have kept the existence of this scar to myself for decades, but now Liza’s handlers will know the distinguishing characteristic by which they can identify me.
This scar came to be with help from Pinocchio’s Christmas (1980), only half of which we had recorded on videocassette. Oddly I never questioned what happened to the rest of film; I accepted the version available as complete and enjoyed it throughout all four seasons of the year. Frequently I have insisted that Network (1976) is the most frightening film ever made, but now it is with embarrassment that I retract . . . without question, Disney’s film adaptation of Pinocchio (1940) should be rated NC-17. When approached delicately, many with whom I have spoken revealed pattern nightmares involving whales and ocean chase scenes. During these discussions, everyone’s face steadfastly maintains the maturity of an adult, while their dewy eyes plead with me to change the subject.
Indeed Disney’s sequence with Monstro the Whale is petrifying for all ages, but when it comes to film, the most damaging trauma inflicted upon me – or maybe the second most damaging, after Annie’s Miss Hannigan – occurred on Pleasure Island. Oh, the trauma of Pleasure Island. The cries and shrieks of little boys as they watch their hands devolve into donkey hooves . . . my respiratory rate just increased writing those words, hence a spirited need for the tamer, made-for-television Pinocchio’s Christmas. Aired during both the season and year of my birth, the plot of this 50-minute flick is simple, and the frights are minimal: after Papa Geppetto gives young Pinocchio an arithmetic book as an early Christmas present, the little marionette decides to sell his present and use the money to buy something in return for generous caregiver. The fox and the cat, the harebrained villains of the tale, convince Pinocchio to bury the money in the Enchanted Forest, where it will grow into a money tree. Alas! the tree never appears, the money disappears, and Pinocchio sells himself to a puppet show as a live marionette, where he can earn enough money to buy Geppetto the present he deserves. After he steals a female wooden doll from the show and runs away with her, Pinocchio faints in the Enchanted Forest when a mystical blue light comes floating his way. It is here where our VHS cuts off, demanding I go through pre-Internet life pondering this Christmas cliffhanger.
The holidays can be a difficult time for everyone, especially children of the 80s.
Some childhood scars never fade, their deep-rooted impact always at and on our fingertips. But with remedial treatment of Pinocchio’s Christmas, perhaps the donkey tails never sprouted; the donkey ears never developed; the hooves never manifested, and gradually the cries and shrieks of naughty little boys fade away in the distance.