W hen Scott suggested that we stop Beasts of the Southern Wild somewhere around the midway point last night I was so mad I wanted to spit. His request was reasonable enough. It was getting late and it wasn’t like the movie was going anywhere. As I stomped upstairs to brush my teeth into a foaming, frothy mess—a symptom of rabies in much of the animal kingdom—I promised myself that I would responsibly examine my overly-emotional response in an equally-reasonable manner. In the morning. Upon relatively dispassionate reflection, I think the experience of watching Beasts of the Southern Wild is not unlike dreaming to the viewer. Ergo (not to be confused with Argo, another newly Oscar-nominated feature),Scott’s ridiculous suggestion to suspend our viewing of…