In The Lego Movie, Will Ferrell provides the voice of President Business, a villain in the classic heartless corporate overlord vein, with all the worst tendencies of Citizen Kane, Mitt Romney, and Lee Iacocca (look it up, kids) combined. Lulling his citizenry into mindless construction work bound by instruction manuals, President Business secures unquestioning obedience through a steady diet of consumerist diversions, chief among them pop music, sports bars, and a one-gag television program concerning misplaced pants. A revolt ensues, led by "master builders" devoted to their own creative expression.

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Toward the end, which I am about to spoil, the whole Lego universe we've been watching turns out to be a fetishistically curated basement man-cave project. Ferrell incarnate comes lumbering down the stairs to catch his son monkeying around with the big display. He's dressed in that enduring symbol of Organization Man-era repression: a tie (though in fact a tie would represent a vast improvement for most anyone who actually does have to wear mandated attire to a job in the modern economy). Just as he's about to permanently glue the whole structure together, the heroic intervention of a stray magical Lego construction figure prompts a heartfelt conversation between father and son. Together they tear down the whole meticulous construction, resolving to build anew from the wellspring of their imaginations.

Much has been made of the subversive anti-corporate framework, though even the most enthusiastic reviewers have acknowledged the limitations of that posture in a film starring half the toy aisle. Others have noted the mild hypocrisy of a formulaically plotted story preaching individualism. For the most part, though, the message has been well-received. In some quarters, The Lego Movie has even been hailed as "a viable blueprint for post-neoliberal civics."

But Hollywood's happy ending accidentally points to a more intimate problem: Why are you playing with Legos, sir?

Not to be confused with the more ubiquitous grups, Ferrell's character represents a particularly hard-assed strain of the subculture known as Adult Fans of Lego, whose hobby, to be fair, certainly seems more admirable than other adult obsessions like fantasy sports, first-person shooter games, and Twitter.

And Legos sure are great! For kids. By all means, buy your kids Legos. Let them get down on the floor, cross-legged on their impossible reserves of cartilage, where they can build to their heart's content, following or ignoring the instructions according to personal taste.

Let's just not pretend a 40-some-year-old man's conversion from obsessive Lego instruction follower to child-partnered creative Lego artist represents an evolution in modern manhood.

Put the toys down. Go upstairs, find a book, and pour a cup of black coffee. At some point in the afternoon, your sons and daughters will be ready to go out for a push on the swing, a bike ride, or a game of catch. Be ready.

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