An American Tail (1986) - by Joan de Newyark and Faro

(The beginning of my love for power ballads)

“There are no cats in America, and the streets are paved with cheese”; this is the dream of America, this is the dream of New York City. And so we come, just like Fievel Mousekewitz, to escape from tyranny and boredom, to be free.

Then we find when we arrive that there are cats, and there are cats dressed up as rats, and we learn that we have traded the familiar dangers and dominations for the uncertainties of the unknown.... and of being unknown.

Like Fievel we are alone; in this huge city we fit our lonely selves inside the tiny cracks of buildings that will never know our names. In the foreground it sounds like someone is walking down a long hall wearing high heels.  In the middle ground there are a few words said, mostly in a man’s voice but we can’t understand what was said.  Was it a question, then echoed by a woman’s voice?  Her response is short and they disappear.  There is the sound of a horn, short and polite, as if getting someone’s attention. And the sound of a wooden door hitting the frame that is also wooden and maybe too small, maybe it didn’t shut or maybe it is hollow.  In the background there is a consistent white noise, static, an air supply not turning off. Traffic, air, people, traffic, the road being rubbed, traffic in the air, traffic underground, water flowing, breaks squeaking, horns, whistles.  Even the whispers sound really lonely.  

The sound of a baby stroller and heels again walking down an open-air concrete hallway. A curtain in an apartment window across the way blows in the autumn air and we think about all the times we see this outside other apartments and fall in love. Someone storms out and for a second and the curtain blows back inside when the door opens.  When it slams the curtain rushes back outside trying to follow the deserter in the street growing dark.  But it is tied to the ceiling and can’t go far.  It is rejected and denied the life it deserves. 

There is a scrapping noise and an undetectable language.  The start of a car and the sound of tin banged by a whisk, a grocery cart pushed down the sidewalk.  The sound of more brisk, strong walking and a muffler that needs to be replaced. It is enough, we need to get up, get out, get on the street. But we stay inside. 

But somewhere, out there... in a tiny crack of the concrete sidewalk, a poor mouse feeling sorry for himself stops in front of a glowing window.  He wants to know how many people want to yell that sometimes they just hate this fucking city ... and so do we.