5 movie animals I think should face off against the Cocaine Bear

Cut to the Feeling is a monthly column by Anne T. Donahue about the art and pop culture that sparks joy, grief, nostalgia, and everything in between.

On February 24, one of the greatest cinematic offerings of this century will be released into the wild, introducing the masses to a hero we don't deserve and yet most certainly need: Cocaine Bear.

Shockingly, the movie's story is based on real events. In 1985, an American black bear overdosed in Tennessee after stumbling across a duffel bag containing 75 pounds of cocaine that had been dropped by drug smugglers. Unsurprisingly, the bear didn't survive his $2-million introduction to the white stuff. And even more unsurprisingly, Hollywood has zeroed in on the sensational tale and rebranded the concept — and the bear — as an aggressive, out-of-control killer who must be stopped.

Directed by Elizabeth Banks, Cocaine Bear stars icons like Keri Russell, Margo Martingale, and Ray Liotta (in his last performance before he died) and has been categorized as a dark comedy. It's an absurd new addition to the animal movie canon that looks violent, thrilling, extreme, and hilarious — and dear reader, I will not see it.

I've had a complex and storied relationship with animal-centric movies since I was made fun of for losing my shit during a first grade screening of The Land Before Time. I wept when Dumbo's mom rocked him from the confines of her train carriage. The trailer for the live-action Lion King left me in tears at my laptop before picking my cat up to cry into his fur. ("Don't ever leave me," I repeated as he tried desperately to escape my embrace. "You are my son!") Free Willy, Fly Away Home, and Flipper are movies I only half-saw, burying my head into "more important things" (see: the contents of my desk) during in-class elementary school screenings because I knew the inevitable "go on, boy!" scenes would render me hysterical.

Animal movies tug at my heart in the way nothing else in this world can: the music, the close-up of said animal's eyes, the threat of death … it's all too much.

And yet, the ill-fated story of a bear crossing paths with a mountain of cocaine is one too rich in possibility for me to ignore. Does the bear learn to speak? Does it suggest to its animal friends that they start a band or open a restaurant? Is it out for blood because it wants more cocaine or because it opts to sacrifice itself in the name of "Say No to Drugs"? Considering the real incident occurred in 1985, will we be privy to shoulder pads, business suits, and montages of Wall Street brokers in limousines, refusing to give the bear a ride due to his abrasive nature? And how can he be stopped?

Surely a human can't be expected to come up against a mammal infamous for its ability to hold its own, so I assume only a fellow animal can end the marathon of destruction. And since the only animal movies that can exist in my mind are ones where every animal remains safe, sound, and not addicted to coke, these are the animalistic stars I believe could face off against Cocaine Bear, neutralize him without harm, and ensure that his story ends with the promise of a long, healthy life.

Sassy the fluffy Himalayan from Homeward Bound

Voiced by Sally Field, the character I relate to most (in the world) would likely solve Cocaine Bear's problems in the same way I would: logic, a condescending tone, and a complete refusal to be steamrolled by a mammal who smells like the woods.

In Homeward Bound, Sassy became an icon to young, independent cat lovers (me) whose fluency in sarcasm was often unwelcome in life-or-death situations. Plus, she was also fluent in forestry: despite nearly succumbing to the force of a river and its subsequent waterfall, she recovers with the help of a kind man who helps her reunite with the other two-thirds of the Homeward team, where she learns that cats and dogs can co-exist and that love conquers all. Sassy wouldn't just survive, she would thrive — and teach Cocaine Bear what it means to be a sophisticated, debonair, member of animalistic royalty every step of the way.

Of course, this wouldn't be the first lesson she would teach Cocaine Bear. Cats bide their time. They're aloof, sneaky, and don't lead with openness. As a parent of two cats, I can attest to their stubbornness, looks of disappointment, and refusal to accept most people I bring into my life. Which is why I know that out of anyone, Sassy could intercept the coked-out Bear, offer a stare of complete disgust, followed by a quiet "Maybe you should have some water" that drips with disdain.

Imagine being confronted with that. Imagine your shame. Your sudden self-awareness. Your admission that you went too far. "Don't tell it to me," Sassy would respond coolly. "Take it up with the people you terrorized."

"I'm sorry," the Bear would say, turning around slowly to face the town's entire population. "I'm so sorry." A long, pained pause. "I should've just said no to drugs."

Babe

As once argued by my friend Kat Angus, Babe — the story of an award-winning sheep herder who is also a pig — is a fraud and a liar. His victory at the county fair is the result of collusion, a testament to his existing relationship with the sheep he's meant to assert authority over and who helps him come out a winner.

"La la la!" is the mantra of an animal whose innocent face hides an innate ability to skew results and bend the game to his favour. It is the siren song of a character who could outsmart a bear high out of his mind — a bear who needs to be corralled into the waiting arms of medical professionals who can offset the effects of the duffle-bag binge.

Babe would, of course, offer himself up as the ultimate bait: a happy-go-lucky wee animal who would entice the Bear to follow him, only to be the architect of the rescue mission and emerge stronger than ever. Who wouldn't chase down Babe? Who wouldn't want to hold him in your oversized bear arms? Who wouldn't pay to see a face-off between Babe and the Bear? To see James Cromwell standing in the foreground, ready to emerge and whisper, "That'll do, Bear, that'll do," into the Bear's surprisingly small ears?

This is the redemption tale Cocaine Bear deserves. And, after learning to dial back his aggression while still embracing his zest for authority, the Bear would place a paw softly against Babe's beautiful face and in his most enthusiastic voice, sing, "La la la." 

The raptors from the original Jurassic Park

The dinosaurs in Jurassic Park are of a different ilk than Littlefoot and his Land Before Time contemporaries, whom I would never pit against a bear. The Jurassic Park dinosaurs mean business. They're out for blood, food, blood, and more food. And the raptors in particular evoke the same feeling I get when watching Twister: pure, unadulterated adrenaline, followed by a very specific lust for power.

The raptors convalesce. They plan, plot, and work together in the name of a singular goal. Deep down, in my weirdest psyche, I long to be a raptor: a "clever girl" who can operate door handles without fanfare and find her way into air ducts in order to defeat and consume my prey. (Of course, in real life, said "prey" is the microwaved shepherd's pie I just burned my mouth on, but that's neither here nor there.)

Picture a dinosaur/bear face-off: a battle of wits. Of paws and claws. Of reptilian skin (or feathers?) and a coat of fur. Raptors wouldn't take kindly to a large animal whose newfound addiction to drugs has left it stomping through town without rhyme or reason — and yet they would be intrigued.

No, the raptors wouldn't take on Cocaine Bear — they would take his cocaine. And then, after making a fortune, they would retire to Jurassic Park (the island) where they, like myself, would avoid Chris Pratt content at all costs.

The Bear from The Revenant

For the record, I was rooting for the Revenant bear as he went up against Leonardo DiCaprio and that god-forsaken beard. The bear, in this film, was simply minding its own business. It was a mother. It had a child. It was doing the one thing we know mama bears do, and that's attack what's threatening their kids. Maybe Leo should've backed off. Climbed a tree. Drifted away on the door of a wardrobe that could've held both him and the bear.

Or maybe I just shouldn't have watched the movie.

In short, The Revenant bear is the only animal lead who I know could win the heart of a bear on a cocaine tear. After setting eyes on one another from across the forest floor, the two would form a bond unlike the cinematic world had ever known, uniting bears the world over. Their offspring, naturally, would grow up to ensure that no bears ever come into contact with cocaine or Leonardo DiCaprio again, effectively improving the lives of bears everywhere and forming the first-ever committee to fund global Teddy Bears' Picnics.

Paddington

I refuse to see Paddington because I love Paddington, and if I sense that he's in danger, I will abandon my home, my belongings, and my life, and make it my mission to save this fictional creature.

Paddington is love. He is precious. He wears a coat. He does his best. As a reader of the books, I love Paddington in a way that I typically reserve for pets, Baby Yoda, and Marcel the Shell. I want him to stay safe. I want him to succeed.

Am I good enough for Paddington? Would Paddington really like me if we met? Do I deserve Paddington? Do any of us?

Cocaine Bear might. We don't know the circumstances that led him to that duffle bag. He could've been gentle, too; he might've been kind. A storied soul who longed for adventure, but certainly not at the detriment of anybody else's safety. We don't know what looking into Paddington's warm eyes might do to him — whether they could remind him that once, too, he led with kindness, compassion, and love, and that he could use this experience to re-engage with those traits and live a life that's pure and good.

We don't know that Cocaine Bear isn't immune to magic, to narrative. We haven't even tried — we've just fled. Do you know who wouldn't flee? Paddington. Which is exactly how the third Paddington movie should begin: somewhere in 1985, after a rescue mission in the Tennessian woods.