Coco (2017) — Riley Cross Reviews

The Blockbuster Take

Listen, you. You are settled in for a Night In. You’ve got the snacks, you’re wearing the pajama pants that are giving you some questionable love handles, and you don’t want a single problem tonight. You don't need the latest gritty reboot, and you definitely don't need me to hold your hand through a plot about time travel. You need Coco.

I spent six years at Blockbuster behind the counter—let’s call a spade a shovel, the store smelled like old video tape and desperation. I saw people treat animated films with the same suspicion they treated guys in shiny jumpsuits trying to sell them extended warranties. I’d put Coco in their hand and say, “Trust me, this hits different.” It was the most valuable rental recommendation of my career, maybe even the only one that didn't prompt a refund request.

This is the movie for when you are at that "I'm basically an adult now" phase of the night but still need a gentle stroke on the head. It’s beautiful, it’s loud, and it is aggressively emotional. I won’t spoil the big moment, but I will tell you about the scene where they turn on the generators at the end of the afterlife party. The screen lights up, the music kicks off on a grand scale, and you realize they aren't just watching a memory; they’re reliving a fragile, perfect moment that defined their family. It’s gorgeous.

Grab some tissues and maybe a glass of something adult because you will cry. This is the kind of movie that makes you want to call your parents—or at least look up the history of the distant relatives who raised you to be the disaster you are today.

Bottom line: It is the ultimate cinematic hug, even if it leaves you absolutely sobbing.