I spent thirty years convinced I didn’t need this film. As a teenager, the choice between a Disney “cartoon” and Nirvana in a darkened bedroom was no choice at all. I’d studied Hamlet. I knew who died. The songs had already escaped into the cultural water supply without me needing to press play.
Finally watching it, I enjoyed myself more than I expected to. The animation remains gorgeous, and Jeremy Irons is having a whale of a time as Scar — the only character a sulky fourteen-year-old could possibly root for, dangling a mouse and purring “life’s not fair” like he’s doing you a favour. The story moves with a ruthless efficiency I didn’t expect. It’s shorter than it lives in your head.
Still, for something this mythologised, The Lion King left me satisfied rather than transformed. Thirty years of avoidance and it turns out I’d already absorbed most of it by osmosis.