By Moyshe Crotchedowitz

Sliced bread. A name forever held as a benchmark by which we measure the greatness of all that is created. None can dare imagine a world where bread did not come pre-sliced, such a tremendous breakthrough in brilliance that we commemorate its invention to this day. Can the human organism, in all of its fallibility, ever sculpt a work that surpasses such a level of artistry and ingenuity?

As a critic, it is my sworn duty to bring you, dear reader, the honest truth, un-distilled and unbesmirched by commercial compromise and Hollywood poseurdom. Nearly a quarter of a dozen of my doting, fawning fans have inquired one single, unshakeable question: “What is your favorite movie?” It is a question that has filled me with intense anxiety and dread whenever uttered. As a connoisseur of all cinematic-related endeavors, I have traversed this universe in search of an answer to that enduring question. It has been inescapable – burying into my swollen frontal lobe like the world’s most determined leech.

And so I embarked on a journey of rumination across this vast planet in a self-reflective quest for pictorial affirmation. It was filled with feebles and torment. I shant describe the abominable visions that latched onto my retinae during my expedition of self-discovery. After years of soul-searching, it is my extreme pleasure to inform my beloved audience that I have found enlightenment. It came to me, like a flickering, heavenly light hidden amongst shadowy chaos.

My white whale has been slain. I have discovered the greatest film ever produced. Nay, I have discovered the pinnacle of western civilization; a work of art that cannot ever be eclipsed. That film’s name? “The Boss Baby.”

Many philistines will likely question my intense admiration for “The Boss Baby.” How predictable. The greatest works of art, from James Joyce’s “Ulysses” to Ingmar Bergman’s “Persona,” always go unappreciated in their time. However, I trust that the stirring moral tale of Boss Baby Templeton and his friends will be vindicated by history. One need only gaze at the majesty of this piece (Dare I even call it a film?) and immediately find oneself overtaken by cathartic elevation.

Told in an anachronistic order so smooth that it should retroactively renders the entire filmography of Jean-Luc Godard irrelevant, “The Boss Baby” flirts between Kafkaesque absurdism, Frank Capra-inspired melodrama and the exquisite magical realism established by Latin American writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Junot Díaz.

The title confirms that power lies in simplicity. The film is called “The Boss Baby,” and indeed, it is about a boss-ass baby. He is a baby and he is the boss. A baby boss. A bossy baby. It’s obvious and direct. He is a boss baby. As someone who likely wears a diaper in real life, Alec Baldwin is perfectly casted for the titular role.

Numerous films choose to needlessly encumber their plots with tedious distractions, rejecting simplicity for the sake of hackneyed storytelling with little regard for artistic integrity. However, the masterful direction of Tom McGrath and ingenious script of Michael McCullers avoid the pitfalls of many substandard yarns.

The sequence where young Tim (Miles Christopher Bakshi) and the Boss Baby break into a dog factory to prevent a scheme to invent the cutest puppy in the world, thereby rendering babies obsolete (an obvious ethical meditation on the distinctions between man and beast) is of such sublimity that I would be stupefied were I to learn that the idea did not result from divine premonition.

Writing this review, I find myself confronting the Romantic Age dilemma wherein the constraints of human speech inhibit my ability to accurately express the beauty that “The Boss Baby” exudes. In spite of the dazzling animation reminiscent that of a Renoir portrait, this film does not merely settle for perfection, it transcends it.

I suspect that if any misfortune befalls the wunderkinds at Dreamworks, the source will doubtlessly come from the jealous grifters over at Walt Disney Studios and Pixar Animation, their capitalist mindsets incompatible with such unbridled joyness and resolute, virtuous purity.

Its characters carry overwhelming depth and complexity. The halcyon days of youth reverberate throughout this masterpiece, as exemplified in the wide eyed naiveté of Tim Templeton. Meanwhile, Janice Templeton’s (Lisa Krudrow) eagerness to spread her affection, no doubt a reaction against War on Terror-era suspicion and distrust, reduced this steely-hearted youth to blissful tears.

Embodying the phoenix-like cycle of rejuvenation and rebirth, the movie captures the fleeting mature of human consciousness, poignantly signifying how time is all too brief in the face of an anarchic cosmos. In the most riveting performance of his career, Jimmy Kimmel portrays a man who refuses to lose his faith in the Power of Youth despite the mockery of blasphemers, displaying an intensity of warmness and wisdom rarely seen in most studio drivel.

These were characters that I pined to know and befriend in reality, such was the profundity of their depiction. When I viewed the limitedness of my earthly domain, I wept. Ultimately, “The Boss Baby” bears a cultural significance more resonate now than ever. The piece excellently captures the childlike wonder of exploring one’s imagination. Our youthful experiences command us all.

In this age of disconnected technology and asocial behavior, our sense of concern for our fellows has begun to waver. Thus, we are slowly surrendering ourselves to the vice of apathy. This film that rises above film-kind reminds us of the necessity of caring and the bonds of fellowship. Truly exceptional on every level, “The Boss Baby” is poetry in motion.

“The Godfather.” “Native Son.” “Citizen Kane.” “War and Peace.” “Hamlet.” Dante’s “Inferno.” The Sistine Chapel. “The Odyssey.” The wheel. Fire. Sliced bread. “The Boss Baby” doubtlessly ranks atop these high marvels of human achievement. As a result of this magnificent splendor, I shall slumber peacefully and prideful tonight with my cherished milk bottle in my maw agape, content with the knowledge that I belong to a species – for all of our frailties – possesses the capability of crafting such grandeur.

“Cookies are far for closers” goes Boss Baby’s instantly iconic catchphrase, and by god, this film deserves all the macaroons in the world.

Moyshe Crotchedowitz can be reached via a series of interpretive dance and hand gives performed in the middle of the Haigas Mall.