Stuck at home taking care of a sick cat, my partner and I were in the market for some light viewing when we discovered that “The NeverEnding Story” was streaming for free. It had been about twenty years since I’d watched the 1984 fantasy epic, and I was giddy at the prospect of reminiscing with the life-size puppets and miniature set pieces that had ignited my childhood imagination and stalked my nightmares.  But beneath the thrill of scratching that ever-present itch of nostalgia was an underlying anxiety: What if this movie that occupied such a halcyon realm in my early memories didn’t hold up? Would a rewatch uncover previously overlooked racism (à la “Lady and the Tramp”)? I could hardly recall a theme or moral—what if the whole thing was incoherent or worse, cringingly saccharine?