Saving Mr. Banks: The first film that I walked out on in a long, long, time. I didn't even walk out on 43, which hit the bottom of the Jesus pool of dickhead flicks. Mr. Banks was shot in grainy film, and I couldn't concentrate on its characters, no matter how witty and idiotic simple they put the scenes together. Did the devil Lucas sell his light and magic show to Englishwood Jesus in the name of Disney? How deep and thick will the pixels be when Voldemort redoes their films in fay yellow, tinker bell magic?
The title to the story is Saving Mr. Banks. The image of Mr. Banks right now is of a gay clown who doesn't have a clue on how to play an English gentleman from the lower middle class of rural English society. The author of Mary Poppins was shown as an eccentric psychotic who overcame her sexual obsession with her father by inventing a Mary Poppins from heaven to watch over her, independent of her social position in the family.
In fantasy, the author was a princess of heaven. Disney's interpretation of a person's spiritual life and times appears subjective and slanderous, and according to the present life and times of Mr. Banks, her father was a faggot who loved liquor more than his wife and children.
Did Disney put the old bag authoress on the Freud couch and get her straighten out? I walked out on the film, so I don't know, nor do I care.