Jim Henson died before he could rescue me from a precarious home-life and whisk me off to live in New York City
In the summer of 1999, when I was 10, I watched The Muppets Take Manhattan about seven-hundred thousand times a day. I’d diligently rewind the tape, hitting play just as the phrase “Jim Henson presents” appeared again, and a jaunty whistle started to court the New York skyline.
I spent those school holidays dangerously dehydrated, not because of the 40°C days, but because I bawled every time the Muppet gang (temporarily) parted ways. Their defiant weirdness gave this social outcast unparalleled comfort. Their cinematic canon – not to be confused with Gonzo the Great’s very real bit of artillery – made space for laughter, love, loss, belonging, and the taste of occasional chaos.
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