Nothing brings a sense of comfort quite like memories of a carefree childhood. In the book of our memories, there are pages dedicated to the playground: the favorite swing (the one where you could flip around and make a full circle—a challenging "sunshine"), the tires we loved to jump through, the basketball hoop where endless practice sessions took place, and, of course, the pavement tiles, perfect canvases for chalk drawings. Flipping through this chapter, we arrive at a section titled "Home." Ah, surprisingly, it holds even more vivid details! There's a small table, a dollhouse for Barbies or Lego mini-figures, teddy-bear-shaped stuffed animals, and that very bedside cabinet used to store all the "treasures" discovered outside (my personal favorite was a heart-shaped chestnut). And don't forget the small bed—a refuge protecting us from nightly monsters lurking within our imaginations. Even though many of us, millennials and early Gen Zers, missed out on the rapid technological boom of smartphones and ubiquitous computers, TVs and CDs (or cassettes) were already present in nearly every household. How many cartoons we watched! Old and new, colorful and black-and-white! Incredible worlds, where animals talked and adults actually understood you…
Yet nothing truly compares to the magic of the cinema! It wasn’t just finishing dinner at home in front of the TV, something mom occasionally permitted—it was a real trip to the movies, with a gigantic screen, air filled with the scent of popcorn, and the rare treat of mom allowing a Coca-Cola! For two whole hours, you plunged into adventures and journeys, experiencing a rush of emotions simply from being at the cinema itself. Only with age do you begin to realize that films and cartoons aren't just flickering images—they’re genuine portals back in time. These portals open precisely when adult thoughts surge like a tsunami, blocking fantasy from entering. A time when your biggest fear is no longer missing an evening meet-up at the playground, but unpaid utility bills instead. A time when lunch and dinner don't appear magically, but require your own effort and preparation. A time when parental care no longer irritates you but brings tears instead. It's precisely when the adult world—so heavy, mundane, grey, and filled with fragments of war, peace, and depression—begins to overwhelm you, that the doors to the past finally reopen: the portals leading to the worlds of dragons, mysticism, and mermaids.
We, simple mortals, are not the only ones aware of these secret doors. How else can we explain the fact that almost every year we get a remake of a childhood cartoon—but wrapped up in adult packaging, where instead of colorful drawings we see real people? Last year, comic and X-Men fans eagerly awaited the Deadpool-Wolverine crossover after Logan’s tragic death (yes, yes, I know that story was already filmed a while ago!), and this spring, besides the remake of "Snow White," we received a new grown-up version of "Lilo & Stitch." Just as we started digging ourselves out of piles of plush 626 toys, Toothless knocked at our door—the same Toothless from "How to Train Your Dragon"! The one resembling an adorable kitty! The one who stole our hearts way back in 2010.
Directors Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders skillfully intertwined the story of a cute, fluffy dragon with a child-friendly rendition of a century-long war. According to the plot, the inhabitants of Berk Island live in a constant state of "armed conflict" (as it’s fashionable nowadays to call a war) with dragons who frequently attack their village. The chief’s son, Hiccup, tries to blend into the rhythm of village life through clumsy attempts to kill the invaders. But one day he accidentally injures the most dangerous yet lovable dragon—a Night Fury (who looks exactly like my cat, Kifa). Knowing there are many children in the audience, Hiccup decides not to kill the dragon but tries to help him instead. By befriending this flying kitty, Hiccup not only gains fantastic nighttime flights and a loyal friend but also discovers that dragons don’t actually want to harm humans. They attack the village primarily because they historically lived there before humans occupied the territory (though this part is not strongly emphasized in the cartoon). Secondly, dragons—just like the aliens from the movie of the same name, or the bees from my grandpa’s apiary—have their own hierarchy. That’s why these flying, purring creatures stole livestock from humans: they were obligated to bring food to the Giant Queen. Thirdly, humans, being the pinnacle of evolution, never even attempted to establish communication with dragons. For humans, it was normal to keep chickens, cows, cats, and dogs, but dragons were perceived as evil. Well, this is one point where real life doesn’t differ much from the cartoon (or rather, the film—sorry!).
The climax and resolution revolve around Hiccup's interaction with the villagers. He tries to prove to them that dragons are actually friendly and don’t want to cause humans so much discomfort. But who listens to teenagers, anyway? It's not like it’s a track by My Chemical Romance. The adult villagers capture Toothless and attempt to find the dragons’ lair—which they've long sought—to destroy it completely. Upon reaching it, the Vikings, having vastly overestimated their strength, only manage to awaken the Giant Queen. Ah, Ellen Ripley would have handled it differently, but who listens to a woman in a world like that? Meanwhile, Hiccup and his friends tame other dragons and set off to rescue Toothless. Ultimately, a happy ending arrives when our protagonist saves both his world and the dragons’ world by destroying the Queen. After witnessing these events, both races finally find mutual understanding, manage to speak the same language, and begin peacefully coexisting on previously contested land.
Oh, how wonderful it would be to rewatch this movie—or rather, the remake of a beloved animated film—if only the events from 2014 to 2025 had been completely different. Surely, it would have been intriguing to view everything from a single perspective—in this case, the human point of view. As children, it seemed entirely logical: humans were simply defending themselves; dragons were stronger and thus more dangerous. Negotiating with them was out of the question! Therefore, should people arm themselves and kill them? No, such a thought definitely wouldn’t have occurred to us in childhood. Most likely, back then we would have felt sympathy for the giant, lovable dragons who, theoretically, could not only kill one single human but burn down an entire village within hours. Yes, back then our hearts wouldn’t have ached over occupied territories, nightly attacks, or city residents who lost limbs and needed prosthetics because of war.
In those distant, innocent, incomprehensible days of Avril Lavigne, emo style, and tecktonik dances, it wouldn't have occurred to us that the residents of the island of Berk lived for years in a constant state of war with gigantic creatures without even thinking of relocating. And if that thought had crossed our minds at all, it would have seemed an absurd plot device. How could anyone exist, have children, live their lives, and even go to school when each night could bring another attack? Back in 2010, such a reality felt like something straight from the pages of a history textbook, yet what about today? Now, when reading the news or experiencing similar situations firsthand, the question "Why don't they just move?" somehow gradually fades away. Perhaps being an adult means seeing more than just one side of the coin?
On June 23, 2025, Russian forces attacked Kyiv with 16 missiles and 352 drones, hitting a “highly dangerous military target”—a residential building in the Shevchenkivskyi district. Death, pain, grief, and despair—and yet somehow life goes on? Public transport doesn't stop, the metro still runs, and, surprisingly, the sun rises again each morning. Well, perhaps dragons don't fly overhead. But that's already another story.
So who exactly are we in this movie? Are we the brave Vikings, defending ourselves from invaders and enduring constant attacks on our homes? Or perhaps the powerful dragons, soaring freely over our own territory, concerned only with our safety? Are we the Dragon Queen? Hiccup? Toothless? Stoick? Or maybe no matter how many times you remake a cartoon into a movie, real life will always remain far more complex? Some stories simply cannot be transferred into the exaggerated dimension of cinema—a world where all sides are simultaneously right and wrong, a life where every conflict can be resolved through friendship and mutual understanding, an existence where dragons and humans eventually collaborate. Daily life differs from a cinema not just because of popcorn smells and movie posters; it includes other essential components. Is it possible to befriend someone who wants you dead for no reason? Is there a definitive line between good and evil? And can we conveniently place all the blame on one single Evil Giant Queen? Or in our case—a small, bitter old hatchling?
Probably not. Perhaps the magical world of cinema still lacks the complexity inherent to our reality. There’s none of the despair that arises from uncertainty—movies have limited runtime, ensuring logical closure. Cinema has too much magic, too little injustice, and almost none of the dry, harsh, sometimes tedious reality. It was wonderful to watch cartoons as a child, back in the distant past when there was no war. But now, sadly, everything loses its significance. Rescuing Toothless no longer seems quite as critical, because one day you may realize you're no longer the main character—not Hiccup, not a strong and fearsome dragon—just a background extra whose death wouldn't even be tragic enough to affect the storyline. Whether you flee or stay, fight or hide—your actions seem insignificant, almost invisible. Yet growing up is precisely about understanding not only the magic but also the limitations of a film. Movies don’t have time to explore every character’s backstory; they have a core narrative with a scripted scenario. Perhaps today your contribution to victory was forgotten in Scene Five, Minute 26. But in the end, even that modest five-dollar donation could secure a happy ending. And we need that more than ever!
Not everyone will manage to train a dragon, save an entire island, or ride a Night Fury at night. Unlike real life, a movie lasts only two hours. But each one of us has built, continues to build, and may keep constructing the storyline, leaving our own marks on the pages of history—as a protagonist, a supporting character, an extra, a villain, or even a clown. Growing up also means understanding your own place under the sun—or under the spotlight, if that analogy suits you better. You don't necessarily have to tame a dragon to become a hero—there’s Hiccup and his crew for that. Sometimes small contributions toward a happy ending are enough. And this rule doesn't apply only to cinema. It works even in our gray, ordinary, dragonless, and often dangerous world.
And perhaps this is exactly what makes our world magical?
About Author:
