The Willoughbys

If you love stories about families that stick together

and love each other through thick and thin and it all ends happily ever after...

this isn't the film for you, okay?

This is my city. I've seen it all.

Look at 'em. Boring people living boring lives.

I'm not judging.

Yeah, I am.

I've stared into a lot of windows, okay?

I've seen happy families, supportive families, functional families. Ugh.

But the best stories are always in the windows where nobody looks.

No, look down.

There they are. Hidden.

I'm the narrator, by the way.

And a cat. Get over it, yeah?

This family's story is weird, you know,

hidden away from the modern world in their old-fashioned home.

I'll show you around. Fantastic mouse hunting here.

When I say "old-fashioned," I mean they go back a long way.

A family legacy of tradition, invention, creativity and courage.

Their greatness passed down like their magnificent facial hair

from generation to generation to generation.

Until this one.

- I so love being a Willoughby with you. - Oh, smoopsy buns. I'm so happy!

Let's jump ahead a few months,

when this loving and perfect marriage produced...

Well, you know.

- What is that? - Oh, dear.

I'm your father,

and that sweet woman that you insulted with your rude birth is Mother.

If you need love, I beg of you, find it elsewhere. Thank you.

Oh, you are Tim,

and you are a Willoughby.

Good day, sir.

His loving parents had no love left over for Tim.

All they gave him was his name.

Ooh!

Willoughby.

Oh. Willough...

...by.

Oh, and siblings.

A sister named Jane...

Our parents will hear you!

...and twin brothers, both named Barnaby. They're creepy.

- Thanks, Barnaby. - You're welcome, Barnaby.

Why are we staring at this wall?

Because, Jane, we are Willoughbys.

Okay, this Willoughby story is odd, all right?

But it's not all bad. At least they ate every family meal together.

And by "they," I mean these two.

- You like it spicy, don't you? - Oh, I don't just like it...

I loaf it.

They just forgot to share with their kids.

I do not predict leftovers.

But I'm so hungry I just want to eat my own tongue.

- Me, too. - Me, too.

Us, too.

What if we dress a Barnaby up like food...

- Bad idea. - Terrible idea.

No, Jane.

Okay, then, what if I go?

- Stop what if-ing! - Yeah.

No what-ifs.

I know you're hungry, but Willoughbys do not beg for food.

We wait.

Oh.

May we have food?

- Food? - We eat today's food.

You eat yesterday's food.

But you ate all of yesterday's food yesterday.

So there is no food left over for... Jane!

Huh? My name is Mother. Who is this Jane?

You call your mother names, and you expect us to feed you?

- No, no, no. - No?

I mean... Yes, Mother. Don't!

Don't?

You do not tell your mother what to do not do!

- You selfish boy. You ate it all. - No, I didn't!

Oh, Father, I'm going to starve.

It's that girl!

- She brought the small one. - They are creepy.

Hi, Mommy.

What are they doing here?

- Nothing. - Bye, Mommy!

- They're, uh, going... - Hungry.

These children, always wanting.

- We're fine. Jane! - The Barnabys could use another sweater.

- One's good. - We like one.

- Barnabys! - You want two.

Stop talking.

- Look at me, I'm fretting. - Dreadful.

- I'm all a-fret. - Appalling.

- I can't knit! - This is all your fault!

My fault? Wha...

Son, you insist on bothering us with your childish needs.

Go to the coal bin!

Good day, sir.

Poor Timothy.

That's a rotten place for a hairless kid in short trousers, innit?

Sometimes, I wish I wasn't a Willoughby.

We used to be great.

We were soldiers and scientists, kings and philosophers,

explorers and aviators, artists and poets!

We climbed the unclimbable,

and we always ate together... at tables, like a family,

where every Willoughby had a mustache, even the women.

We could be great again.

No...

We will be.

Against all odds, the Willoughby children still had determination...

- Nice job, Barnaby. - You, too, Barnaby.

Bye-bye, dirigible!

...imagination...

and hope.

- Quiet! - I can't knit!

She can't knit!

I will be free.

If she misses a stitch...

- I feel faint! - Oh, Mother, sweet.

Ugh!

Let's face it. This Willoughby family isn't great,

and by the looks of it, they never will be.

Not without a little help.

Maybe it was the dark and stormy night, maybe I've looked in one too many windows,

but this story got to me.

I know, narrators aren't supposed to get involved, but just a little nudge.

A well-timed cat's...

- Something's outside. - Definitely something outside.

- Jane. - There's something outside.

That's a yowl. A beastly yowl.

Wow! What a mystery. It's like we're in a book.

- Come on, Barnabys. - Bad book.

Scary book!

Shh! They're still awake.

Dance, dance for your papa.

What kind of a beast yowls like that?

I'm really scared. Are you scared, Barnabys? 'Cause I'm scared.

Maybe we shouldn't...

Do you remember that book about beasts with all the drawings

of teeth and claws and huge piles of half-eaten kids?

- Don't. - Stop talking.

It was a lot of blood, wasn't it, Barnabys?

- Blood is bad. - I'm gonna have a quick look

to see if it's dangerous.

If it is, run. Different directions, zigzaggy and stuff.

- So it can only eat one of you. - What's this feeling I'm feeling?

- Fear. Fear. - Definitely fear.

Remember, twins, zigzaggy.

Zigzag. Zigzag. Zigzag.

Stand back, Barnabys.

I know what you're thinking,

'cause I'm thinking exactly the same thing:

What's in the box?

And can we empty it so I can sit in it?

Hi, beast. I'm Jane.

I hope you're a nice beast because, um, we're nice.

Please don't eat our faces.

Father, I love the smell of fresh yarn in the morning.

Gah! Parents already up? Despicable!

Harvesting your mustache makes such lovely yarn.

Do it!

- Mmm-hmm. - Ugh. How am I gonna get by?

Keep going.

I knit, you provide. It's simple.

Was that always...

Oh! You want Mother to have yarn, don't you?

You must. You like the sweaters.

Oh, pretty!

There you go. Phew.

Huh?

Jane? Twins?

Great Uncle Edmund! Shh!

They'll hear you.

We must be quiet while Mother and Father are still...

Tim!

Here beastie, beastie, beastie.

- Jane! What are you... - Over there.

Catch it.

- Get it! - Get it!

Are you harboring a raccoon again?

Pfft. No.

That is something!

Is it more of a some or more of a thing?

- Get it! - What is that?

- Aw! - A baby!

- No thumping! - I can't knit!

Shh!

Where did you get that thing?

We found her outside, living in a box. She's an orphan.

- Smells like an orphan. - Looks like an orphan.

Got a box like an orphan.

We are getting rid of it at once.

Give me that!

- No! - Gimme! Gimme!

Jane! You know our parents hate children,

and babies are the most childish children of all!

Well, I love her and nobody's gonna take her away from me.

- Barnabys, bring it to me. - Yes, Tim.

Hey! Barnabys, give me back my orphan.

- You got it, Jane. - Barnabys, thing.

- Sorry, Tim. - Barnabys, orphan.