The Karate Kid—always a difficult movie for me. Daniel's individualism of course makes a great protagonist against the collective brainwashing of Kobra Kai. But when they shout, in unison, "Failure!. . . Does not exist in this dojo!" (clearly the voice of evil) was I falling short of some ideal? One that only an evil collective could teach a young man to appreciate?

For all their bravado, when it comes to the big fight at the end, they shrink into little boys, sucking on the dry straw of each other's support. Daniel has only Miyagi, and Miyagi is distant. He offers tech support: Karate technique, and that miraculous sprain-healing touch. But the boys of Kobra Kai see themselves first as members of a community—of like-minded and similarly-able friends: their role is to push each other to forget their inertia. A cocky front allows this (and turns me off) but when push comes to shove, suddenly they need support from their chums. In the ring, however, each player is alone.

Daniel's position seems much more honest; his fear falls back on himself, the wise old teacher who believed in him, and his love. The faces of Kobra Kai seem more desparate. The explicit ideology of the film has by this point led us to feel that whatever the outcome, Daniel wins a moral victory, because he has fought honestly—but still we want him to win materially.

When The Karate Kid was a dimly glowing memory in my grown-up mind, my Ultimate Frisbee team called itself Kobra Kai (through no fault of my own); "Sweep the leg, Johnny!" was its battle cry. If the movie pits a self-reliant individualist against a collective army, it has good company with other stories Americans love. But these sick individuals—my team—identified not with Miyagi's call ("Crane technique: If done right, no can defend") but instead with Kobra Kai's mantra: success at any cost. Mazel tov, then.