Anthony Bourdain - World Citizen

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness – Mark Twain. 

image

Anthony Bourdain is one hell of a guy. 

Bone marrow, testicles, eyeballs, beating hearts – this is man who spits in the face of culinary reserve, a distinct individual who is unpretentious about what he likes or dislikes and wholly willing to look beyond preconceived notions. A classic world citizen. A revolutionary. 

Most travel hosts put on an act of advertisement. They go to a place, brief over some facts, find a glitzy place and bam – a show. And that’s what it is: a glossed over, boxed up product devoid of intellect or cultural empathy. Past their smiles and peppy personas and happy airs they are salesmen, milking money from human restlessness to traverse. They want you to go “oooo” and “aaah” and “woww” at their clipped version of life; they want you go desire something beyond what you already have, to escape to their white bread version of travel and culture. 

image

Not Bourdain. He grimaces, swears, smokes, drinks, insults without hesitation. He’s imperfect, flawed and unwilling to pretend otherwise. Comfort reserve is a foreign idea, and that’s what makes his show exceptional – the complete lack of ethnocentrism. 

When “No Reservations” first broadcasted in 2005, there was something immediately different about his presentation. Bourdain was the host, but he wasn’t the focus: the scenery, the people, the culture, and by God the cuisine – it’s shamelessly food porn, cinematography and all. Ingredients, preparation, technique – absolute desire. Scrumptious. Delicious. 

“No Reservations” is more of a documentary than a travel show. Bourdain makes no pretense of how he feels or who he is, something that so many travel hosts avoid. The “wow’!” and “amazing!” and “yum-o!” and “how bizarre!” – they’re nowhere to be uttered. He’s self-referential, self-aware of his own knowledge and lack thereof. 

image

Most importantly, he plays by the rules of the areas he visits. Breaking away from all comfort and familiarity, Bourdain dives into the heart of cultures: without the self-delusion of “exterior wisdom” he goes straight to what is true of the places he traverses to, to learn and narrate to us what is beyond our own notions of opulence. 

This is not a show – it’s an education, a grand execution in presentation and production, an unflinching look into normality that is specific to every culture and its respective history. 

It’s the kind of mentality that I, as an ethnic minority, can’t welcome enough. 

image

More than once I’ve encountered peers who express shock or disbelief at certain habits or tastes of mine. No shoes in the house? Different ways of preparing tofu? You don’t refer to parents by their first name? Sticky green rice and mung bean? Gigantic bowls of phở with meat bits and red with Sriracha chili sauce? Blasphemy! they’d say, or What the hell is that?!

It’s all fun and games, but when it comes to traveling and depicting different cultures, it’s this sort of reservation that renders international locales into caricatures, exotic freak shows that lure the otherwise apprehensive white bread loving individuals fortunate enough to even travel. By presenting what is normal and empathetic to others as something “bizarre” or “exotic,” the final product is invariably ethnocentric and shallow. 

I don’t watch Andrew Zimmern’s “Bizarre Foods” for this reason. The name and premise are big ethnocentric billboards, tag lines to entrance viewers into watching a “freak show” of ethnic cuisines and practices. Maybe he’s just trying to get viewers, maybe he’s just trying to make a name for himself, maybe he’s just trying to present different cultures with a different style – regardless, I can’t support a show that posits itself on such terms. 

image

Bourdain and his production team shares my sentiments, and it shows very clearly in how everything is shot and focused on. Bourdain is a narrator, a familiar voice that we come back to as the camera captures scenes of passing cars, working locals, colors of flora – a portrait of what we are unfamiliar with. The people, neighborhoods, cuisine – these are the stars of the show. In a sea of culture, history and emotions, Bourdain is no disconnected commentator nor guffawing, baffled visitor who “knows better” – he’s human, a individual who understands that these are people’s lives he’s presenting, that they too have incredibly human stories to tell and share. 

So toss out your nutrition labels and calories, your paved roads and air conditioning, your shopping plazas and towering malls, your PETA and McDonalds – in order to see beyond the familiar, you have to willingly disconnect yourself from the familiarity – the breaking point of ethnocentrism and gateway to world citizenship. It is the ultimate awakening to a greater understanding of our own mortal and universal condition of being human. 

image

Bravo, Mr. Bourdain, bravo. I’m sure you’ve Mark Twain quite a run for his money. 

Scene Dissection – Human Fundamentals (Why Visual Composition is not distinctly Western nor Eastern)

To a unexpected and pleasant surprise, Roger Ebert graciously tweeted my last article on visual composition. I received some wonderful feedback from some visitors, feedback that I can’t thank enough for. 

One response was particularly interesting and provided me with much food for thought: 

I enjoyed your analysis of stills from Fullmetal Alchemist and especially your sketches of how you would change the compositions so they would follow the 180º Rule and the Rule of Thirds.

However, I would not expect anime to necessarily follow either of these rules. Both are traditions of Western art history that were not widely followed by Japanese art prior to the 20th century. Film has Western origins, but Japanese films often apply Japanese aesthetics and cultural rules to still compositions.

In your first example, I believe a Japanese artist may have felt it necessary to show all three characters to cover the interactions between the group as a whole. Of course Ed is the main character, and he is nearest and takes up most of the picture plane. But the feelings of Ling and Lanfan in this scene are also important, as the feelings of an individual in Japanese society often change to reflect the attitude of the group as a whole. An Asian audience would be more focused on interactions *between* characters and the emotional temperature of the group as a whole than on just the protagonist or just the character currently speaking. This is not an *inferior* method of composition for not following Western rules, but a different one following a different set of rules.

-T.L. 

Before I can begin with my main points, a brief background is probably necessary:

If you Google my surname, you’d likely learn that I am Vietnamese; what some of you may not know is that I grew up in the States and that Vietnamese is my first language. I am fluent in English and can speak, read, and write conversational Vietnamese and Japanese, and am quite knowledgeable of Eastern and Western cultural distinctions and social norms. I strongly identify with my Eastern cultural roots and with the Western society which I was born into and grew up in. In short, I am very familiar with both Western and Eastern aesthetics. 

Background aside, I believe very strongly in considering differences in Western and Eastern cultural, social, political, historical, and narrative functions: I understand that these distinctions are necessary, given how the latter emphasizes the individual while the latter emphasizes the communal. Representations and depictions of particular subjects differ, and these differences are important in understanding the cultural distinctions which respectively make up the Eastern and Western hemispheres of thought. 

However, visual presentations are not bound by respective Western or Eastern conventions – the subject and its respective depiction are, but the visual compositions are not. We naturally intake information visually, so there are some basic rules on framing anything that are humanly universal. 

“Women diving for abalone” by Sangi Takamura, 1840s. 

The 180º and Thirds rules are not exclusively Western or an invention of the 20th century – visual presentation is strictly human, and to claim that a depiction that does not understand such fundamentals is actually “following different rules” illogically disclaims the movement of the human eye and how we focus on and intake visual information and displays. 

“Reading in a Bamboo Groove” by Tenshō Shūbun, 1446 AD. 

Many classical Japanese art works employed the thirds rule by simple visual cue: the human eye naturally looks for a focal point in any given frame, and this rule is a very basic outline for artists and critics to create and assess any work. Chinese, Korean, and other famous Asian art also employ this visual cue. How these focal points are utilized and where the subjects are placed creates a distinct ocular movement, resulting in a composition with a distinct visual dynamic. 

National Noh Theatre of Japan. 

Film is a medium. It may have created by Westerners, but the medium has its true origins in theatre: the first films were heavily composed with theatre conventions. With this in mind, anyone will agree that film has never been Western based – both Eastern and Western cultures have their respective theatrical aesthetics, their productions limited by the stage; and of course, the first films drew much from their respective theatre origins. 

That said, film conventions also arise from human visual comprehension: numerous film movements, directors and cinematographers, through trial and error and technological development, established visual aesthetics that are universally appealing to the human eye. 

七人の侍、"Seven Samurai" by Akira Kurosawa, 1954. 

Considered the Golden Age of Asian cinema, the 1950s had a great many Asian directors who not only maintained their cultural narrative roots but beautifully executed visual compositions that stem directly from Eastern art history – in fact, Japanese cinema was a main inspiration for the New Hollywood movement in the 1960s and ‘70s. Akira Kurosawa, one of the greatest Japanese directors of all time, distinctly employed the Thirds and 180º rules in all his films. 

乱、"Ran" by Akira Kurosawa, 1985. 

Framing anything is not about “following” rules: it’s about understanding them – their origins, their intentions, their effects – and knowing when to use or break the rules for any desired effect. There is no “inferiority” on subject or intention; there is, however, a distinct effect as to how one visually frames the subject, and how such a framing creates an effect that does or does not reflect the original intention. Visual composition rules are human-based and do not reside exclusively to either Eastern or Western aesthetics: these fundamentals are universal for us humans. 

Original panel from Fullmetal Alchemist by Hiromu Arakawa that was depicted here in episode 15 of the anime adaptation. 

Running back to my example on Fullmetal Alchemist, perhaps the storyboard artist wanted to incorporate both Ling and Lanfan’s emotions while establishing Ed as the main focus. Assuming that this was originally intended, Ling and Lanfan’s respective emotions can be framed much, much better. With a rudimentary planar composition, their emotional state – as inferred solely from the stills – is non-distinguishable, basic at best. You can easily incorporate both Ling and Lanfan but frame them differently to infer their same emotional states with differing visual effects. For instance: 

Dutch angle indicates something unusual/uncertain is occurring. There is a degree of control which is lost when the establishing horizon is tilted. 

In this scribble, the horizon (green) is skewed at an angle (the “dutch”, represented by the red arrowed-line). There is an unusual emotive effect since the horizon is not at its natural planar position. Note that Ed is still the focus even though Lanfan is in frame and in the foreground. Ling is still Mr. Happy-go-lucky while Lanfan is still Ms. Happy-go-knifing, as she is in the controlling foreground and Ling is in the less dominant background. 

Fish-eye lens creates a claustrophobic effect, filling out the frame with rounded ends – almost like trying to fit a circle inside a square. There is both a discomfort for the subjects depicted and the viewing audience.

 

Here, the horizon is a curvature. The camera is directly focused on Ed, but since the frame is curved as dictated by the curved horizon, there is facial and body distortion in conforming with the odd effect/framing. Everyone seems stuffed into frame, so there is a further discomfort emphasized by the situation. With this curvature, Lanfan’s kunai looks even more pressed up against Ed’s throat, highlighting her utmost seriousness in getting information from him. Ling is still the least claustrophobic in frame, again emphasizing his lightheartedness despite the tense (and claustrophobic, in this framing case) situation. 

The above examples and other types of shots, angles, and framing styles can easily be employed to the same scene and have vastly different effects/inferences for the viewer. 

Lastly, anime is a 20th century artistic establishment, a result of the film and animation media taking off. Anime is a style of animation, which in turn stems from the development of cinematic techniques – in short, anime origins trace back to the human aesthetics of visual presentation applied to moving pictures. Anime has never been exempt from these fundamentals, and it never will be: claiming that it “follows a different set of rules” is again a fallacy and ignores the cinematic origins of the medium. Some of the best anime masterfully employ the 180º and Thirds rules (among other human visual establishments) in creating distinctly anime stylizations and aesthetics universally appealing. Examples include: 

Cowboy Bebop, 1998. 


Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex 2nd Gig, 2004. 

Akira, 1988. 


Grave of the Fireflies, 1988. 


Samurai Champloo, 2004. 

What is distinct to either Eastern or Western aesthetics is the social-cultural depiction of a subject, and the historical significance behind such a depiction. For example, on the subject of mythical beings Western narratives maintain absolutes of good and evil while Eastern narratives maintain the unabsolutes of such entities. Classic examples of such distinctions would be Walt Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” and Hayao Miyazaki’s “Princess Mononoke." 

The evil Malificent and the good Fairies in Disney’s "Sleeping Beauty,” 1959 .

The magnificent and terrifying boar god Okkoto and wolf god Moro in Miyazaki’s “Princess Mononoke,” 1997. 

Both subjects involve mythical entities, yet their depiction vastly differ: Disney’s classic story beholds an absolutely evil Malificent and absolutely good fairy godmothers; conversely, Miyazaki’s story beholds fearsome forrest gods in their elemental supreme, extraordinary and terrifying at the same time. Excellent essays that further explain these distinctions have been written by the prolific Viet Le, who’s articles you can find by clicking here (on Miyazaki’s distinctly Eastern narrative) and here (on the differences between Western and Eastern mythology and theology).

Neither narrative depiction is wrong – the narrative structures simply reflect historical and social-cultural differences between the established Eastern and Western hemispheres of thought. Both do, however, employ the same visual composition rules that adhere to human eye movement. 

Love 'em, hate 'em – however you feel, understanding these rules about visual composition is key. Once you do, you can use or break them – your choice. Regardless of who the audience is, we’re all human, and we all like our eye candy and ocular diabetes.

Scene Dissection - Thirds and 180º Rule (Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood, Episode 15)

The following screenshots are from the series 鋼の錬金術師 Fullmetal Alchemist, episode 15 – 東方の使者, Emissary from the East. 

In this episode, there are two scenes I believe to be examples of poor storyboarding. There is a general lack of creativity stemming from lackluster framing that creates little movement or aesthetic weight, thus resulting in unimpressive scene overall. Specifically, the storyboard artist greatly fails to understand how to create a focal point/point of focus for the audience, likely stemming from little/no concrete knowledge of the Thirds Rule

The black lines divide the vertical into thirds, the blue lines divide the horizontal into thirds, and the red dots are the points of intersection of both black and blue lines. The red dots are, respectively, where the focal point of any framing/composition should be – whether it be photography, cinematography or animation, this general rule applies if one wishes to create an effective point of focus in any scene. 

Additionally, in framing multiple bodies in any scene, it is important to maintain a sense of visual movement even if there isn’t any immediate action occurring per say. Thus, understanding the 180º Rule is quite pertinent in this respect: 

Note that the subjects and camera are depicted from an aerial point of view. 

For instance, in the above diagram, the camera position (indicated by the blue line) establishes that subject 1 (purple) is on the left and that subject 2 (yellow) is on the right. The camera can move along this 180 degree axis (indicated by the blue dotted line) without violating the established positions of either subjects – that is, subject 1 will always be on the left and subject 2 on the right. However, should the camera be placed beyond this 180º axis (indicated by the red arrows), the subjects’ respective positions will be switched, thus violating the 180º rule. 

Taking these two basic ideas into mind, it is now easy to see what the storyboard artist did wrong in two separate scenes, and perhaps how one may remedy/redraw the scenes to create a more effective depiction. 

Ling, Ed, and Lanfan are all in frame, yet it is only Ling and Ed who are speaking – thus, Lanfan does not need to be in frame. This three body framing has no focal point – based off a screenshot alone, it’s difficult to tell who the storyboard artist intended to have the audience focus on – and is instead clustered, claustrophobic even. Instead, one might opt for a framing like this: 

The scribble above no longer involves Lanfan, and her presence is only hinted by her hand holding the kunai on the bottom right. Ed is now the focal point of the scene as he intersects a focal point (blue) that correlates to the thirds rule (lines scribbled in red). Ling is now in the background, but is still very much a part of the scene since the viewer’s eye will naturally traverse back and forth between Ed and Ling when they converse. Also note that Ling and Ed are still in their respective positions – Ling on the left, Ed on the right – so the 180º rule is not broken. 

Here is another scene, this time with Lanfan, Ling and Fu in frame. Again, the storyboard artist mistakenly incorporates a full-body shot of Lanfan while she conversationally contributes nothing to the scene. The thirds rule obviously mis- (or not at all) understood by the storyboard artist, it is again difficult to pinpoint a specific focal point or focus in the scene. Ultimately, the framing is lackluster, uncreative, and boring. Alternatively, one could visualize the scene like so: 

In this depiction, there are two points of intersection – Ling and Fu. However, both points of intersections are at a diagonal, so the viewers eyes will naturally flow initially from Fu to Ling (as depicted by the blue lines). Lanfan is also included, but she is a secondary subject and is only seen in the background, away from the focal convergence on Ling (note that she too is also near a focal point, an intersection of the lines depicted by the thirds rule). Had I drawn this better it could be presumed that Ling is in between Fu and Lanfan, but otherwise no distinct position has been changed – Fu on the far right, Lanfan on the far left with respect to the original camera position – so the 180º rule still holds true. 

What I’ve drawn is far from perfect: both scribbles are only two possible examples as to how one may redraw/reframe any scene that is particularly weak in conveying narrative and visual aesthetics. It must be noted that above all, understanding fundamentals like the thirds and 180º rules are crucial should one wish to artistically and competently frame subjects in any medium. 

Note: this series is a prime excuse to exercise my hobby of doodling/drawing and utilizing a tablet.

Fun times!

(Visit the official Funimation website or Hulu for full episodes. Copyright © Hiromu Arakawa, Studio Bones, Square Enix, Sony Music, Bandai and Aniplex)

Thoughts on "Departures"

image

Compassion should be unbiased and based on the recognition that others have the right to happiness, just like yourself – Dalai Lama

Forgiveness: the action or process of forgiving or being forgiven. 

A uniquely human characteristic, forgiveness is an action of kindness, a selflessness that reflects on the forgiver and relief on the forgiven –  indications and thematics that are presented and explored in the 2008 Japanese film, おくりびと, translated “Departures." 

image

Daigo Kobayashi is a conflicted man. Once an aspiring cellist, he is forced to give up his aspirations after the cruel pangs of reality sink in: his Tokyo orchestra disbands, and he cannot afford the cello he just purchased without discussing the cost to his wife, Mika. Deeper though is an undying resentment for his father, who abandoned him and his mother when he was only six years old. 

"Departures” explores Daigo’s transformation as he begins work as a nōkan, a person who prepares dead bodies for funeral and burial ceremonies. Initially, he hides his new occupation from his wife and friends, ashamed of the stigma attached to one of the most taboo subjects in Japan. However, he eventually comes to accept his new profession, taking pride in the care and delicacy of a ceremonious practice with origins, weight and meaning long lost to the modern tides of Japanese society. 

Daigo’s transcendence as a nōkan highlights multiple veins of resentment and forgiveness including himself, Mika, his boss Shōei Sasaki, and his co-worker Yuriko Uemura. These are people who just like us, are conflicted by personal qualms and a desire to continue living on for the sake of themselves and for whom they care deeply about. At what cost, however, is the main question. 

image

To forgive, in a sense, is to forget the pangs of resentment. The memories of the cause, of what happened still remain, but for the sake of continuing onwards the act of forgiveness is simultaneously an act for both the forgiven and the forgiver – an act in the pursuit of happiness and closure, and the right to such. 

Forgiveness, however, is easier said than done. For how could we ever forget the pain, the anger, the grief the compiles into the burning resentment for the one who wronged us so badly? 

Resentment, though differing in magnitude between individuals and dependent on the cause, always creates empty voids within our souls – voids that stem desires for vengeance or ongoing turmoils of despair and anger. These voids ferment over time, creating a toxicity that torments the soul endlessly, a ailing condition that can only be solved with the step towards forgiving the cause of resentment and of oneself for letting go of such memories. 

image

In the climatic scene of “Departures,” Daigo learns that his father just died. Initially unwilling to see the man who left him behind, Daigo is urged by his co-worker Yuriko to see him. He vehemently answers no, to which she discloses that long ago, she too abandoned her six year old son to run off with a lover; since then, she has been unable to return to her hometown and see her son despite her desire to. 

Through Yuriko’s, Mika’s and Shōei’s persuasion, Daigo is able to see his father and finally able to forgive everything: his father for all those years of abandonment, and more pressingly himself – for failing as a cellist, for initially disappointing his wife, for taking his place as a skilled and professional nōkan, and most importantly all those years of resentment for himself as a son to his mother and father. 

image

Simultaneously, Yuriko’s sudden insistence for Daigo to see his father in turn reflects her last hope at redemption for her past actions. Despite her desires, she does not feel worthy to first approach her own son: the shame of her actions bind her from initiating the act of forgiveness, and it is only through the will of her son to first approach her can she finally be at peace. It is this greatest hope that she imposes on Daigo: if he is capable of approaching his father after all these years, there is still a hope that her own son may approach her as well, and only then can she find it possible to forgive herself, to come to terms with the resentment she has for herself. 

“Departures” highlights the difficulty of letting go the resentment built over time, and how such bitterness can only be remedied and healed through the greatest act of compassion: 

Forgiveness. 

Though our desire for rightful indignation may cause us to maintain years of resentment, the desire for closures even stronger, and only through the gateway of letting go will we ever hope to leave chains of hurt for the right of happiness. 

image

After all, as finite beings we all deserve the right to happiness – in life and in death. 

Pink Hammers, Blue Tutus

When Elliott found E.T. in his backyard 28 years ago, the world became spellbound with the magic and charm that Spielberg’s film radiated – the human desire for childish fantasies, for the extraordinary beyond the drum of everyday life, for the innocence of what was once ubiquitous during everyday childhood. 

This classic parable – a boy and his little secret – encompasses such a desire, and has been reincarnated in other narratives such as Brad Bird’s “The Iron Giant” in 1999, and more recently Hayao Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” in 2008 (arguably, this narrative quality is what might’ve made the first half of Michael Bay’s “Transformers” in 2007 endurable when Sam comes into possession of Bumblebee). These boys were nothing spectacular – perhaps quirky here and there, but that’s not to say we all have our idiosyncrasies – yet by chance they came across marvelous discoveries, exceptional gems that they are blessed to even glance upon. These protagonists are who we all wish to be, to be chanced upon wondrous avenues that deviate from the limits of human life. However, 

Does this story only apply to boys? 

Hogarth and his robot from “The Iron Giant,” 1999. 

Types of popular narrative are indicative of a society and its standards of normality, morality, ethics, and avenues of progress. As it stands, most nuanced narratives of children and adolescents belong to boys: from the quiet Sousuke in Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” to the wide-eyed Elliott in Spielberg’s “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,” portraitures of adolescent fancy has predominantly fancied boys over girls. 

Are girls any less interesting, thoughtful, inquisitive? Of course not – simple observation instantly dispels such a notion. Are they more difficult to portray than their male counterpart? Again, no – girls are not much different than boys beyond interests and the social norms that may bind them to certain behaviors. 

So what is it about popular narrative that seems to favor boys over girls? 

It boils down to the type of society America and most other countries are – patriarchal. Thus by default, patriarchal qualities are valued more than matriarchal: what these terms encompass is defined solely by each society, but nonetheless these terms subconsciously deem what is more acceptable in the public spectrum. 

This comes back to why boy narratives are more predominant and more nuanced than their girl counterparts: females are indoctrinated to set standards at an early age, standards that are arguably more restricted and less opportunistic than that of males; these notions are marketed heavily to children through various mediums and consumeristic products. 

Girls get Barbie, Disney princesses, pink dresses, little toy baking sets, and an emphasis on the importance of shopping and fashion and make-up and all that jazz; boys get Nerf guns, Hotrod cars, little building sets, and an clear alleyway to getting muddy and dirty and matted and icky and all that fun romping business.

These are terribly gross generalizations, but they are necessary for consideration. At first glance it may seem that the qualities between boys and girls don’t seem any more restrictive than the other. But here’s the key difference: 

Indoctrinated norms for girls are deeply domestic while indoctrinated norms for boys seem boundless and opportunistic. 

It’s this key difference, this important deviation that subconsciously drives public acceptance for more nuanced narratives about boys than about girls. It may very well be the reason why it is difficult for more writers and creatives to depict nuanced girls beyond Cinderella daydreams and wedding planners and pink tutus at all – and it’s very well the reason why it’s even more important to advance beyond the princess narrative into a more sophisticated, a more engrossing and a much more gradated painting of young, adolescent girls. 

Mei and Satsuki peering down the stream in “My Neighbor Totoro,” 1988. 

Not to say that this challenge hasn’t been met and executed before. Hayao Miyazaki created two of the most subtle and sweet couple of sisters, 10-year-old Satsuki and 4-year-old Mei in “My Neighbor Totoro” back in 1988 and again in 1989 with the gifted and down-to-earth young witch, Kiki in “Kiki’s Delivery Service.” More recently, stop-motion animator Henry Selick adapted the prolific Neil Gaiman’s novel “Coraline” into a full-length feature, released in 2009. 

“Coraline” is particularly notable because it is one of the few American film efforts (adapted from a British novel) to convey a nuanced girl as the main protagonist that did not involve princesses and princes or jolly Disney side-kicks to sashay into musical dance and joy. 

Coraline is a strong and curious girl, displaying some traits of Alice from Wonderland but very distinctly sharper. Interestingly, this film – which was one of the best efforts to portray a non-Disney archetype girl – was met by most critics as a “fantastic” visual, few giving much thought to Coraline’s depiction; the few who did did so sparingly, tacitly and almost off-handedly. One of the most esteemed film critics, Roger Ebert, critiqued in his review

“Even more rare is that Coraline Jones is not a nice little girl. She’s unpleasant, complains, has an attitude and makes friends reluctantly.”

On the surface – yeah, maybe she is, depending on where you’re coming from and what your experience (or expectation) of girls are. But not all girls are sweet, gentile, quiet, obedient, daydreaming, as Ebert clarifies in his review; more pressingly however (and something that he did not address or perhaps consider) is that Coraline is just as vulnerable as any other girl despite her no-nonsense mannerism. Beyond the surface of her (seemingly negative) attitude is a nuanced character that deserves more than just a “unpleasant” stamp on the head. More than anything she is something of a gem, a girl who refuses to be Disney-princess-ified or Barbied-up or stuck in the kitchen baking flowery cakes and goods. 

She’s a girl, striking and unique, and one who speaks more to the female demographic than any social expectations of red lipstick and white minivans and great big suburban houses we’ve grown so familiar with. 

So to answer the question posed earlier: does this story – one of finding something extraordinary or being lucky enough to encounter something marvelous – is it only conveying, convincing and moving with a boy protagonist?

I think Miyazaki already answered this question 22 years ago.