The Simple Sweetness and Sincerity of Wallace and Gromit

Wallace and Gromit are arguably the two most delightful characters in the history of animation. Between the previous sentence and this one I paused thoughtfully and stared into space and thought of all of the other animated characters I have ever met, and I gave full points to Bugs Bunny and high marks to Little Nemo and a fond nod to Goofy, and returned to the page convinced that, yes, Wallace and Gromit are in a category of their own. To know them is to enter a universe of boundless optimism, in which two creatures who are perfectly suited to each other venture out every morning to make the world into a safer place for the gentle, the good and the funny.

– Roger Ebert in his review of Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit

If there was ever a series that was rare in its utter sincerity and sweetness, Nick Park’s Wallace and Gromit is one I couldn’t recommend enough to children and adults alike. 

My first encounter with the British stop-motion characters – Wallace the hapless inventor and Gromit the intelligent and silent dog – was back in 2005 when both starred in their first feature length film, Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. I went to see it with one of my best and closest friends at the local theater that specialized in independent, foreign, and non-wide release films that otherwise blared at other local complexes. Since it was before matinee, we happened to be the one of the older bunches in the theater as Park’s film reeled across the wide screen. 

From what I can remember, it was an absolute pleasure seeing Wallace and Gromit go about their usual business as the Were-Rabbit terrorized a town in its rabbit-like mannerisms. Not only was the stop-motion astounding, but the creativity and narrative were off the charts. The Rube Goldberg like contraption that tips Wallace from his bed into his trousers, followed by putting on sleeves, a vest, and buttering his toast – this was nothing other animation studios like Disney, Pixar, or Ghibli had ever imagined or even come close to depicting. This was Nick Park at full throttle with the creative bunch of Aardman Studios, and the entire lapse of remaining minutes was nothing short but a roller coaster of ingenuity, hilarity, and adventure. 

My memory of Were-Rabbit is fond not only because of the film itself, but because of the emotions I felt and how utterly enjoyable it was. I remember at one point, when Lady Tottington turned around with two watermelons held to her bosom and asks (a transforming) Wallace, “how to you like melons?” – we both burst out laughing like no other, so much that a kid asked their mom “mommy, why are those two laughing so much?” and she responded “just ignore them, honey.” In short: this pretty much summed up my first experience of Wallace and Gromit, and established Aardman Animations as one of my favorite animation studios to date for many, many reasons. 

What makes Wallace and Gromit so unique, so charming, so inventive, and so undeniably sweet? First, I think it’s important to classify the three major animation studios that are well-known in the American domestic and internationally:

• Disney has always been about the magic and the fantastical (any Disneyland veteran will instantly confirm this with anyone). Their most well-known and well-received films – which include the obvious Snow White and The Little Mermaid – have mostly been adaptations of classic fairy and folk tales from collections of the Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault, and Hans Christen Anderson. The core appeal of these films includes their happily-ever-after conclusions, musical numbers, bubbly side characters, and easily palatable animation aesthetics (good and evil are very distinct entities, and drawn in such a way that the audience can easily identify who to like and who to hate).
• Pixar broke away from Disney traditions by simply investing in high-quality, limit-pushing technical mastery and heartwarming, engaging stories. Arguably, their premiere film Toy Story cemented what the studio was all about from the very beginning: breakthrough, technique, direction, wide appeal, and story, story, story. After fifteen years it’s nice to see that the studio – up until this point – has favored originality and constant constructive criticism over conservatively safe creative stagnation. While this may change in the near future (and I surely hope not), I’ve always been fond of Pixar for their aspiration towards quality and the genuine belief in the public’s desire for greater expectations of film, and especially of animation. I just hope Lasseter and the rest of the gang are smart enough to not pull a Michael Eisner or a George Lucas in their future decisions. 
•  Hayao Miyazaki’s and Isao Takahata’s Studio Ghibli is world renown for films like Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away and arguably the most famous, My Neighbor Totoro. What all these films share is their directly non-Western narratives, depictions and aesthetics – almost the polar opposite of what their Disney contemporaries aspired towards. The greatest emphasis is on the details of the environment, and how almost everything – from a falling dragon to how two young girls react upon seeing a forest spirit – is drawn and inspired from how humans and nature can harmoniously coexist (recently, while watching bits from Ponyo, one of my brother’s friends commented, “everyone seems so at peace with what’s happening around them despite the events being completely unnatural. In fact, it’s almost as if they went ‘oh hey look, ancient sea creatures… ok.’”)

With these characteristics in mind, it’s easier to see why Nick Park (and by extension Aardman Studios) is so utterly unique in animation and storytelling. 

I’ve recently watched three Wallace and Gromit short films on Netflix – A Close Shave, A Grand Day Out, and most recently A Close Shave – in this order respectively, and now feel confident enough to say this: what is so striking about Park’s animation and directing style is his utter sincerity. There really isn’t anything fantastic or awe-inspiring or jaw-dropping – in fact, the most amazing thing about Wallace and Gromit is how un-amazing and quiet it is as a whole. Sure, you have the Goldberg like inventions, the inexplicable physical feats otherwise impossible in the real world as we know (speeding on a toy train while laying out toy train rails in front of you to make a path? Check!), the uniqueness of each frame and character look that results from careful and painstaking stop-motion clay animation, the dubious “antagonist” that, well, antagonizes with a specific plot point ('ello, Mr. Were-Rabbit) – but beyond all of that hullabulloo and pragmatic nonsense, at the end of the day Wallace and Gromit are just content to have themselves a nice cup of tea with some crackers and Wenslydale cheese. 

Wallace and Gromit is so quiet, so modest, and so simply sweet and sincere that no other popular animation studio – Disney, Pixar, Ghibli alike – has ever thought of pursuing. The closest analogy I could draw for those who are familiar with all three studios (not including Aardman) is this: imagine the little scene in Miyazaki’s My Neighbor Totoro where the two girls are fetching water from the stream. For a few seconds, the camera cuts to a part of the flowing water, where a discarded bottle has become lodged between a couple of small rocks. It’s the sort of attention to detail that many animators (for the sake of time) ignore or choose not to do – yet for those few seconds we see such a detail that says so little yet so much at the same time. Another scene (that I’m sure more are familiar with) is in Andrew Stanton’s Wall•E, where Wall•E picks up a ring holder, takes out the diamond ring – only to throw it away and play eagerly with the box it came in (when I was watching it in theaters, a woman behind me exclaimed “ooh!” before the little robot chucked it away). These small instances of extreme attention to minute details that on average, we take for granted everyday, is what Wallace and Gromit is all about. Stop and smell the roses –would probably be the best quote summation of Nick Park and Aardman studios as a whole. Most amazing is Nick Park’s utter humility and seemingly lacking desire to do more in Wallace and Gromit except more Wallace and Gromit: that is, he simply tiptoes away from the traps of repetitive sequels and creative stagnation that Dreamwork’s Shrek franchise ran into after its first sequel. There is a self-awareness that in spite of the series’ British domestic and international success, there is always something else greater outside the little bubble of the charming duo. 

Even though it is a precious and nostalgic collection and valuable to the company, in light of other tragedies, today isn’t a big deal.

– Nick Park responding to the resulting destruction of Aardman’s storage warehouse after a fire accidentally broke out in 2005. He is referencing the South Asian earthquake in his response.

One of the most touching moments out of the three short films I’ve seen recently is in A Grand Day Out, where Wallace and Gromit traverse via rocketship to a planet presumably made out of a cheese. The planet’s guardian, a box-like robot, wakes up to protect the natural environment and comes across the duo’s spread out picnic; collecting each item for its inventory, the robot comes across a travel magazine focusing on skiing. It becomes inspired, and desires to follow Wallace and Gromit back home to earth; however, due to a misunderstanding, the duo take off, and the robot is stranded on its planet with a few pieces of the rocket. 

In a sad yet sweet moment, the robot takes the pieces, mends them into makeshift skis, and makes due with the little cheese hills – thus accomplishing his little dream of skiing in the snowy alps of earth, albeit slightly modified. 

Comparatively, the two other films after Park’s first short film feature – A Close Shave and The Wrong Trousers – don’t quite hit this lightning-in-a-bottle mark of sad-sweetness, a sort of happy ending without the happily-ever-after, if you will. Don’t misinterpret me though: these two other films do wonders in mixing comedy gold and silliness with ace animation and unbelievably creative achievements while balancing a dubious (even menacing) antagonist whose eventual fate is actually quite satisfactory (and ironically humorous, for the matter); and if I recall correctly, this comedy gold mix was also prevalent in Were-Rabbit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was also present in the short film I’ve yet to see A Matter of Loaf and Death. I look forward to getting my hands on the short-short film compilation Cracking Contraptions and seeing episodes of the upcoming (or currently broadcasting?) series Wallace and Gromit’s World of Inventions (in fact, the premise of World of Inventions instantly got me sold on the series; one of my lifelong goals is to tie in science with art, animation and film, and seems like Nick Park (and even Henry Selick, for the matter) is ahead of me in the game already. Why does it seem like stop-motion animators always seem to be the most unique?)

As a closing to this entire tidbit, I will say this: the little robot skiing its way across hills on the desolate planet of cheese will forever be a memorable little scene in mind and memory of film and animation. 

Strangely though, after watching story – I’ve always got a strange craving for cheese. Specifically pub cheese. Coincidence? 

…

Additional Links

• Train chase scene in The Wrong Trousers – the audio dubbed for a college student’s project but you can see how inventive the animation and action is. 

• Opening of The Wrong Trousers – you can see the Rube Goldberg inspirations all over this. 

The Mythology of Neil Gaiman's "Coraline"

How can you walk away from something and then come towards it? 

If there was ever a modern narrative that truly captured the essence of classic fairy tales, Neil Gaiman’s Coraline is at the top of the list. 

Published in 2002 and adapted by esteemed animator and director Henry Selick in 2009, Coraline is a story that masterfully mixes elements of the Brothers Grimm, Lewis Carroll, and modern distinctions into a seamless, engaging story. Like Guillermo del Toro’s masterpiece Pan’s Labyrinth, which hauntingly and effectively mixed the forces of magical realism into the period of the Spanish civil war, Laika studio’s Coraline sews elements of intrigue, mystique, and unflinching horror into the American Northwest. Most striking of all is that the main character, Coraline, is not a typical American depiction of a young girl: she is feisty, spunky, sharp, restless, and astoundingly curious, yet still as emotionally vulnerable as anybody can relate to. This is a immaculately fleshed-out female protagonist, which is a rare gem in a majority films even in this day. 

Let’s start out with the plot: Coraline moves to the Pink Palace Apartments of Oregon with her parents, who are writers for a gardening magazine (ironically, neither of them seems particularly fond of getting muddy). Removed her from friends in Michigan, Coraline quickly becomes bored and disgruntled with her new, grey surroundings. And why shouldn’t she be? As a kid I had enough trouble being attentive if something wasn’t shiny enough; I can only imagine what it’s like to try and find something exciting in an environment where your neighbors include two retired (and slightly delusional) actresses, a extremely confident Russian acrobat who eats beets, samples cheeses, and trains mice, and a peer who gives you a doll that looks identically like you on your first day in town – well, to say the least it’s understandable how easily intrigued Coraline becomes when some kangaroo mice lead her into a mysterious doorway to another world, that of the Other Mother. 

There are three key characters in Coraline that highlight Gaiman’s mastery of classic and modern storytelling: Coraline’s real mother, the Cat, and the Other Mother. Each character represents a certain element of storytelling that I think is interesting from a narrative point of view, and that these elements – due to changing social interests, values and philosophies – have become something like Easter Eggs or hidden gems: you have to look a bit harder and a bit differently to appreciate them. 

 

Coraline’s real mother is a terrific example of a modern narrative element that Gaiman combines so seamlessly with classic narrative elements in Coraline. Unlike the Other Mother, Coraline’s real mother does not go from one emotional extreme to the other; while she is (justifiably) irritable, she does not outright smother or reprimand Coraline. Instead, she is a mixture of characteristics seen in the Grimm’s birth and stepmother characters: while stern upfront, she still very much cares about Coraline’s well being (though these nuances of emotions are, for the most part, a bit difficult to infer from at first; subsequent readings and viewings more clearly reveal a softer and more vulnerable side of Coraline’s real mother). Most interestingly is that everyone in Coraline’s household responds and listens primarily to Coraline’s mother, establishing the matriarchal norm within the three member household. This is exceptionally modern: the dynamic between Coraline’s mother and father is not of equal authority, but of female dominance (which is likely where Coraline derives her self-substaining, independent and non-Disney-princess antics from). Ironically, this very modern characteristic is also shared by the Grimms stepmother-like Other Mother, who reigns supreme in her constructed universe (as I’ll explain in a bit). 

The Cat is probably the most obvious narrative element of the three, as Lewis Carroll fans will instantly see a distant cousin of the smiling Cheshire Cat, the mysterious character that aids Coraline for motives unknown other than he dislikes the Other Mother and he simply feels like it. And that’s just it: in life, there are always those random encounters with those individuals who for truest intentions unbeknownst to us, simply act in goodwill; there isn’t so much an explanation for it than at that moment in time, at that exact spot and proximity, they simply did what they did, and nothing more. In the Cat’s case, he simply assists because presumably, it’s just another deal in the day for him (it just so happens that he’s also not particularly fond of the Other Mother, though we can safely assume they’ve got quite a history of antagonism with one another). The Cat is also odd in his own sense, but not entirely unique foam other characters that randomly assist the main protagonist of a story: he takes full pride in his status as cat, believing that humans are a subservient species; the mere fact that he’s graciously taken some of his time to even converse with Coraline is, to him, a great act of beneficiary benevolence, and that he invariably knows something more than what he’s already revealed to Coraline and us. This is rather similar to other characters in classic stories that seem to randomly assist the main protagonist in their quest: the Cheshire Cat always spoke in cheerful riddles, coming and going as he very well pleased; and for many gamers, the assistant character somehow always knows what to do next for no other reason than to help us out (Though Navi’s “Hey Listen!” would drive anyone up the wall). I will say this – that Gaiman’s (and subsequently Selick’s) description and depiction of the Cat is one of the best interpretations of felines I’ve read and watched in quite some time (though I think it’s hard for any cat to beat the international appeal of ol’ Maru). 

The Other Mother represents an even more classic archetype in the vein of fairy tales – that of the rageful stepmother. While she isn’t Coraline’s stepmother persay, the Other Mother definitely possesses characteristics of stepmothers reminiscent of the Brother Grimm from a mythological point of view.

As I’ve mentioned before in a previous analysis, the Brother Grimms actually changed a lot of the original stories they collected to appeal to a wider audience. One of the biggest changes was the inclusion of the evil stepmothers in the second edition which, for the most part, did not exist in the original first edition. They made these changes because originally, the acts of many evil stepmothers were originally the actions of the birth mothers; however, because it was so disturbing they amended this detail in later editions. Scholars have analyzed the evil stepmother motif as a symbol of a psychological fear inherent to every child: that because we rely so heavily on the comfort and love of our mothers as children (while the father is typically the more disciplinary figure), we often harvest a in-the-back-of-the-head fear that for reasons unknown to us, she could change 180º in temperament and unleash absolute frustration and rage upon us. 

Given the historical context of the Brothers Grimm, it’s interesting to see that the Other Mother encompasses both the characteristics of the loving and wrathful maternal figure. In the beginning she is welcoming, warm, and inviting (almost too inviting, to say the least; it’s fortunate that Coraline is at least intuitive enough to pick up on something that’s wrong even after being awed by the pleasures of the Other World); however, once Coraline rejects her requests and desires, the Other Mother instantly changes in temperament, becoming cruel and sadistic. The black widow thematic is quite obvious, especially for those who’ve seen the movie and Selick’s masterful aesthetic in animation: like Pleasure Island of Pinocchio, the Other Mother entices her victims in with promises of desire, fun and pleasure, and when they fall her trap – bam! slam and shut, game over. More interesting though is what the Other Mother (and simultaneously Coraline’s real mother) present as a form of female empowerment: in both worlds – the real and Other – the maternal figures are the authority figures. In a strange sense, Gaiman’s story is one of female empowerment, of matriarchal status quo, of nonconformist girls, and of feminism rarely seen in many modern narratives.

I’ve talked before about why Coraline is such a exceptional female character in modern narrative (especially the male-dominated world of film) and why the story is so progressive in this respect. More unique and less noticeable, I believe, is the classic and modern mythological elements of Neil Gaiman’s fanciful and quixotic story. My biggest disappointment is that the Academy Awards didn’t recognize the technical and narrative originality of the stop-motion animated film, instead going for safer grounds with the happier, more light-hearted and less complex film of well-established Pixar’s Up. That’s just how it goes I guess; still, the politics of it all will never detract away my admiration for the fairy tale, thematics and filmmaking mastery of Coraline. 

*Note: apologies for the very belated post. I became progressively more and more sick after Tuesday and was unable to write in time for Thursday since I wasn’t quite in the right state of mind. Presumably this would explain why this analysis is a lot shorter than I intended it to be. To be sure, though, Coraline will likely show up again in future articles, so hope prevails!

Pixar – Its Legacy and Current State

I’ve been observing Pixar since 1995 when they released their first full-length film, Toy Story. I remember staring in awe at the movie screen, amazed by the characters and colors and comedy-drama that was a seamless, nonstop adventure. It was unprecedented, seeing this computerized style of animation: I’d gotten so use to Disney traditions of cell shading and musical numbers that to seeing Woody and Buzz bicker like a old married couple was an a fresh breath of air into my world of movies. 

Fifteen years later and I’ve seen Pixar progress from a studio that once rented a small rented complex in Point Richmond with half-built cubicles to the sleek, Apple-esque building commissioned by none other than Steve Jobs. I’ve seen the studio transition from A Bug’s Life to Monster’s, Inc. and missed seeing Finding Nemo in theaters (one of my biggest regrets). I’ve seen them tread lighter tides  in Cars to darker ones in The Incredibles. I’ve read and seen how Pixar and Disney’s relation strained and reconciled after Eisner’s handling of the studio’s creative assets essentially violated the artist’s code of honor. I’ve seen Brad Bird and Michael Arndt and, more recently, Gary Rydstrom and Brenda Chapman, join the Pixar Brain Trust which includes John Lasseter, Bob Peterson, Lee Unkrich, Pete Docter, and my favorite of all Andrew Stanton. One of my best friend’s brother works there as a computer programmer, and she’s been able to tour the studio and attend the San Francisco premiere of Wall•E in 2008, which was arguably the height of Pixar’s Golden originals, the last of the stories the original brain trust of Stanton, Lasseter, Docter and the late Joe Ranft brainstormed in 1994 at Hidden City Cafe, Point Richmond. 

Since Wall•E I’ve begun to observe Pixar’s current progression – their projects, their business dealings, their press, their critical reception – and, based on blogs (primarily The Pixar Blog), newspaper articles and interviews of animators, directors, and producers, I’ve noticed something: it’s possible that Pixar might be in creative limbo post-Wall•E. 

By creative limbo, I’m not talking about mediocrity; I’m speaking specifically about how their stories are constructed and what they thematically explore. Wall•E, The Incredibles and Ratatouille arguably present some of the more mature and adult thematics than their counterparts, which are inevitably appealing to general movie goers for their childhood charm and loving craftsmanship. 

Now with their two recent releases post-Hidden Cafe meeting, Up last year and Toy Story 3 this year, I’m beginning to see a certain pattern in their storytelling:

• Including Wall•E, Up and Toy Story 3 all present some serious thematics that are usually unexplored in stories that appeal to children (and in Pixar’s case, to adults as well). These themes include a dystopia resulting from destructive consumerism, the emotional pull of love and how death severs its reciprocation, and the difficulty of transitioning from an adolescent high schooler to a young college adult (as well as what it feels like to not change so much while everything else around changes – from the toys’ perspective, at least). 
• To not distraught viewers too much, Pixar writers pad out a secondary story in conjunction with the main thematic. This secondary story is usually less serious, more fun and more adventure-oriented; in a sense, it’s “fluff,” but it’s so well done that for the most part people don’t really care. The best example would be the Sunnyside portion of Toy Story 3, where the secondary story revolved around Woody and the gang breaking out of the dystopian daycare. This secondary story is easily stand alone from the more emotional and overarching thematic, which is Andy’s transition period from teenage adolescence to college life, and how he, Woody and the toys cope with their memories of one another and how things have changed since then. 
• However some viewers and critics have noted or been affected by the discrepancy in tone between the main thematics and secondary stories; for instance, Stephanie Zacharek disliked the second half of Wall•E because it was significantly less thematic and more “cartoon-y” than the first half; Roger Ebert felt that the toys in Toy Story 3 would be overwhelmingly traumatized by the ordeal they went through during the secondary story that was fleshed out during the middle arc; I personally think the opening of Up was pure brilliance, and right after the marriage montage ended the secondary story took over the rest of the movie, from the cute Korean-American kid Russell to dutiful Dug to Kevin the girl. 

Pixar’s writing team has demonstrated in their three most recent films a interesting pattern of narration. Like Disney’s The Lion King, these three films – Wall•E, Up, and Toy Story 3 – pushed into more mature realms than most other Pixar films. Now it could easily be said that Brad Bird’s The Incredibles and Ratatouille also explored more mature themes as well, but the difference is that Bird’s films are allegorical – the former on social acceptability (with a subtext about adultery that Bird copped out on at the end) and the latter on criticism – and are, in a sense, narratively, emotionally and thematically seamless, while these three more recent films are, to an extent, inconsistent regarding these three characteristics. Like The Lion King, which intensely hailed of Hamlet’s drama up until the point of Hakuna Matata, Wall•E, Up and Toy Story 3 begin digging into exceptionally difficult themes but shy away just enough to make room for a secondary story that invariably pulls audiences in, though to varying degrees. For instance: 

• Wall•E suffers from the differing tone between the first and second of the film, the difference solely being location – abandoned earth during the first, the AXIOM during the second. The Simpson’s-esque slapstick humor of the AXIOM contrasted sharply with the quieter moments of Wall•E and EVE together on earth (though to be fair, it’s always funny to poke fun at OCD germaphobes). 
• Up emotionally enraptures from its opening sequence until Eli’s death, which was one of the saddest death scenes I’ve seen in awhile. However, Carl’s road to emotional recovery is overshadowed by an adventure filled with cute (but alas, unnecessary) side characters that are cheerful and bubbly and everything the audience wants after something devastating. 
• Toy Story 3 tackles some of the least explored and most difficult thematics – the transition from childhood, feeling significant even though things have changed, and holding onto the memories that bind us all. However, the middle arc – which is exciting, thrilling and hilarious – by virtue of its length, muffled out some of the weight and emotional complexity of the main thematic, leaving some viewers (most who were not familiar with or were never attached to the original two movies and characters) feeling emotionally hollow by the time the credits rolled. 

Make no mistake – in no way do I think any of these mentioned films are bad (in fact, Wall•E happens to be on my list of personal favorites). They are entertaining, smart, moving, and lovingly crafted, which is a big deal given how so many productions – live and animated – fall through due to creative differences and other extenuating circumstances that could stretch out over a mile in qualms and complaints. 

Pixar is a superb animation studio, no doubt about that. They’ve always had the benefit of not following in Walt Disney’s footsteps: instead of relying on the same musical number format and adaptations of other stories (“distillations,” some might say), Pixar sprinted out with original stories and never depended on Alan Menken broadway sashays (though Randy Newman has been on board for a lot of Pixar films; I’m glad Michael Giacchino and Thomas Newman are also Pixar veterans in lieu of ol’ Randy singing about). And for awhile, besides the Toy Story franchise, Pixar avoided penning sequels that, to us embittered fans, echoed too resiliently of Michael Eisner’s infamous direct-to-video sequel reign and more recently, Dreamwork’s extension of the Shrek franchise (the first film was brilliant, but its successors effectively shut me off from being emotionally engaged with Shrek and Donkey and Fiona again). However, after hearing that Pixar is in production for Cars 2 and Monsters, Inc. 2, and even possibly looking at Finding Nemo 2 and 3 after a original story, Newt, was effectively shut down during production, I worry: is one of my favorite studios becoming too big too fast, and now too established to take more risks like before? 

I ask this because like any large, successful institution, there’s always an increasing pressure to take less risks since the stakes are higher – marketing, investors, employees, management, everything. When Pixar first started out in the little Point Richmond complex, they essentially had nothing to lose: the main focus was to write a great story and make a great movie, period. Fifteen years later and Pixar has essentially become a celebrity studio, ironically in the same vein of Disney animation; there are thousands of fans, and I assume there’s much more bureaucracy to be dealt with when getting a project greenlit. The safest bet is always to start from a established narrative that was successful, as there will always be fans of the original story who want to see another adventure in the same universe fleshed out. 

Maybe I’m worrying too much. Pixar may very well still be in its Golden age of originality, and at this very moment are concocting up a savory dish of films that I’m sure we’ll all love. Regardless, I think it’s important and interesting to consider where they currently are as a studio, and to see whether or not they continue creating films that are universally appealing or begin entering more mature grounds like The Iron Giant, Princess Mononoke or even Akira. Obviously imagining Pixar making a film as dark and adult as Akira is pushing it a bit, but it’s still an interesting gradient to consider – that is, how much more “mature” are they willing to push, and will they push for it without fluff? 

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. Here’s hoping for some more Pixarian quality, which I’m sure I won’t be disappointed by lack thereof. 

Additional Links/Readings

• Wall•E trailer released on 2007 – Shows a nice montage of how the original Pixar Brain Trust met at Hidden City Cafe and brainstormed out all their movies from A Bug’s Life to Wall•E. 

• Pixar Canada – a nice article about Pixar’s expansion to Vancouver, Canada. 

• Monkey Shines: Meet the Breakout Star of Toy Story 3 – a New York Times interview with a character from Lee Unkrich’s directorial debut (warning: it is awesome)

Backlash from the Past - A Look into Masculinity and the Stallonian Appeal

Awhile ago I wrote a bit on Scott Pilgrim and lamented how it performed poorly during its opening weekend after getting sandwiched by Eat, Pray, Love and The Expendables. A few weeks later and things haven’t looked up for the game-love, internet-meme-awesome film that seems to have been released at the wrong time. Some have theorized that the marketing led to the film’s box office failure, that failed to clearly present Scott Pilgrim as a “fighting film” instead of “Michael Cera gets the girl again, and this time we have gamers and asian stuff like anime and hello kitty.” The idea is that at this point in time, Americans are sick of hipsters taking the big screen and want something less nuanced, less subtle, and less slice-of-life. Chuck out shenanigan slinging Juno and in with Stallones and Rambos!–echoed the box office. 

I’m not going to reiterate my disappointment that things turned out the way they did for Scott Pilgrim. Instead, I’m going to talk about a current trend in films I’ve seen of late based off trailers that flash on the telly. These days, it seems like a majority of movies echo of ‘80s macho-nacho burly men killing everything in sight as a form of democratic negotiation, or hot teenage girls in tight clothing getting murdered and hacked to death in devilishly gruesome ways. This isn’t Tarantino paying over-the-top, eclectic stylization, or quiet reminiscences about similar social scenarios like in Adventureland – this is about balls out, The Expendables testosterone, Piranha 3D exploitation backlash from the '70s and '80s, the grindhouse days of cinema. 

I started noticing the trend in movies back in spring this year after hearing that The A–Team was getting a release this (past) summer; later, I saw the trailer for the upcoming Machete, which looked amazingly B-movie status despite its A-list cast. Then the list of movies started piling up: A Nightmare on Elm Street remake; MacGruber, a full-length adaptation of the SNL sketch that spoofed MacGyver; The Karate Kid, which I thought was a great remake despite its editing flaws; Jackass 3D, which looks amazingly stupid and awesome; Saw 3D, which means this serial is getting classier by the day; Burlesque, which looks like another case of cliche writing and a music video director not understanding how to create a musical montage; and lastly Tron: Legacy, which I need not say anything further. 

So what’s going on? Why does it seem like more and more ads that skitter across the screen are starting to sound like echoes of decades before? Theoretically, the digital generation should be at its peak: Kindles are ousting booksellers, Super Smash Brothers Brawl are tournaments, Facebook is getting a movie tribute, YouTube is what America’s Funniest Home Videos wanted to be but never could, having a cell phone that “only” makes a call is archaic, online classes are at a boom, information is just a Google away – whether or not you think this is fantastic or horrendous doesn’t matter except that right here and now, this digital generation – a product of the internet and video games genesis and evolution – is thriving, and vivaciously so. 

So why the '80s? Why does it seem that Hollywood studios are busting out penis-envy flicks that, for a time, we all thought were over after Terminator 2 ended, and most definitely when Schwarzenegger called it quits with Hollywood and started politics in the vein of Reagan. And even with Spielberg’s Indiana Jones 4 or Stallone’s reawakening in 2006 and 2008 with Rocky Balboa and Rambo, respectively, it didn’t seem as overwhelmingly in the public eye as 2010 films like his executive produced The Expendables or the more-than-obvious remakes like The A-Team, The Karate Kid and Tron: Legacy. It’s strange, though, putting these films in context with films that were only released a few years previously: Juno is the top of the list, detailing the snark and snips and shenanigans of a slang-slinging teenager with a sharp attitude and a smart personality; closely following Diablo Cody’s uncannily witty screenplay is The 40-year-old Virgin, which essentially began the slew of buddy bromance comedies like The Hangover and Pineapple Express; biting, honest and surprisingly sympathetic portraits of dysfunctional individuals that stray far from the picture perfect household like in Little Miss Sunshine and Up in the Air; or even surprisingly quiet and beautiful films that say the most in their silence such as Lost in Translation and Wall•E. So I’ll ask this again: what’s going on, and why the '80s? 

I commented in the Scott Pilgrim article that perhaps current American economics (the recession, for a starter) have invariably driven Hollywood studios to produce less creative, more box office safe® movies to keep themselves afloat, and considering what has been released this past year I’d say this isn’t too bad of a guess. Now to answer the second question (seriously, why the '80s?), I’ve drawn solely from observation alone, and theorize this: the '80s revival gives people a sense of absolutes in a time of uncertainties. 

Let’s look at the characteristics of Stallone’s most famous filmography, which are easy to dissect and boil down into one banally simple appeal: definitive masculinity. Absolute power. I got pecks, I got techs. Popping veins. Bulging biceps. Hulk smash kittens. This is Spartan. Etcetera. 

Now, in a time where political and social constructions are even less absolute – post-9/11 sentiment is one of secrecies, conspiracies, torture and corruption, and increasing awareness of the LGBT community makes those who worship traditional gender roles in an uncomfortable position – the subconscious of the American moviegoing public invariably desires the absolutes, a torchlight of ideals and ideas that they can strive towards and emulate. This is a time of uncertainty and instability, and the last thing the average American moviegoer wants is a film that portrays a honest, mirror-like depiction of a life they may be all too familiar with, or a life that is unexciting enough to kick-start them from the slump resultant of life’s stressors. This is a time where more than ever in the public eye, movies are escapism as opposed to artistic merit. 

This is the sentiment that doomed Scott Pilgrim in the shadow of The Expendables after numerous movies about (less than) average, scrawny adolescents released prior – Superbad, Garden State, (500) Days of Summer, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Knocked Up, Kick-Ass, The Last Kiss, I Love You Man, Shallow Hal, Adventureland, Zombieland – inadvertently saturated the market. I’d argue Scott Pilgrim is the best reflection of the digital generation, but that’s irrelevant to what box office numbers reflect: and in this case, they reflect changing, significant tides that are a result of political and social turmoil happening externally. The public doesn’t want any more Michael Cera’s stealing the hot chick that’s out of his league; they want good old fashioned fist-fighting, blood spitting lip splits that a “real man” has to endure if he ever wants to “earn” his woman. Exploitation films like Machete, Jackass 3D, Saw 3D and Piranha 3D relish on the extreme ends of this sentiment, which I can only assume is the geographical equivalent of Siberia. 

Marketing is one aspect – I agree that Scott Pilgrim could have been marketed a bit smarter to reach a larger demographic – but beneath the commercializing aspect there are deeper implications as to what is occurring outside of Hollywood and invariably driving studios’ decisions to green light or shelve screenplays and productions. In this case, these implications are that the American public currently relishes in the nostalgia of Reagan-era eighties, with the awesome neon tights and big hair and definitive gender roles. It’s a complete swing from the middle-grounded, level-headed and easy-going mentality to the action-packed, sweat-brimmed and iron-fisted mentality that I hate for numerous reasons. 

So to be absolutely banal: viva el Scott Pilgrim, and screw you The Expendables – I’ve had my share of testosterone-filled idiots spewing out crap like entitlement and birth rights and that lot. I’d rather be a Holden Caulfield and a Juno MacGuff than a John Rambo or a Madonna. And if that makes me a nutcase, then that’s just pure and dandy. After all, the Fool was the only with any sense in his head during King Lear’s mental trip, and if I have to get me some double rainbows or pineappling expression to feel right at home, then that’s just fine by me. 

*Pardons for the day-late update: I’ve been moving boxes of books and clothing this past week, and only got settled down yesterday. On a plus side, I’ve got the Wii set up nicely, so now Netflix-ing on a whim isn’t as cumbersome as it used to be. 

Millennium Actress – A Fading Division between Dreams, Reality, and Memories

Sometimes when I watch movies, I have trouble remembering that what’s happening on screen isn’t real. Yes, the story itself is fictional to varying degrees, but the emotions, the drama, the comedy – there’s a distinct human connection to all of these movies that play on the big screen. Animated or live action, film is a unique medium that possesses the quality of storytelling and documenting what’s occurring, played back for us viewers to engage in and experience full throttle. It’s the same reason some people can’t stand horror films, violence, sex, social awkwardness, or any distinct characteristic of certain genres – it becomes too real to see it in playback, regardless of the reality that we occupy; it’s also the same reason why we sometimes live vicariously through the characters that grace the screen, becoming inspired to change, act differently, or even emulate certain characteristics that we admire so much. This second reason is what Satoshi Kon masterfully explores in Millennium Actress, released in 2001. 

If there was ever a film that demonstrated Satoshi Kon’s mastery of depicting dreams in conjunction with reality, I would argue Millennium Actress is one of the best examples in his filmography thus far. Compared to the exuberant and visually astounding sequences of inanity in Paprika and Paranoia Agent, Millennium Actress is more subdued, blurring the distinction between dreams and reality much more subtly and naturally and presenting stronger thematics and questions that result in a much more cohesive and moving story. 

The story focuses around Chiyoko Fujiwara, a retired and reclusive actress who details her life and career to director, Genya Tachibana, and a cameraman, Kyōji Ida. With Tachibana’s insistence and enthusiasm, Chiyoko opens up about her childhood, and the events that led her from the beginnings of a modest child actor to a Japanese film icon before, during, and after the years of WWII. Interestingly, Chiyoko does not directly tell her life as events that actually took place, but through her acting roles that coincided with the different time periods during the release of her films, respectively. Moreover, Genya and Kyōji are often featured in her flashbacks, with Genya prominently taking the roles of her self-sacrificing savior and Kyōji still filming the events with his camera, in normal attire and all. The one thread that holds all these different stories together is Chiyoko’s lifelong quest to find her first love, a young artist she helped hide from the police during the fascist government of 1930s Japan. He leaves her a key to his art supplies, which she keeps for her entire acting career until her very last movie, the point where she immediately retires and distances herself from society for reasons I will not reveal here. 

Millennium Actress, at its core, is a love story, but goes even further in exploring the blending of reality and fiction in films, the voyeuristic function of filming and watching these narratives, and how one may vicariously live through the very roles and characters they act out and watch on the reels of footage. Moreover Kon’s work is a masterful exploration of one’s hopes and dreams perpetuating their motivations and actions in real life, and the psychological effect of events in real life may simultaneously influence the universes of fiction. Most ingeniously, Kon never makes a active point of differentiating between dream and reality, leaving us to ponder about what is actually Chiyoko’s acting role and what is actually happening around her. 

Recurring figures pop up in Chiyoko’s life story, either in the form of acting roles, real life personalities, or both: at times, it’s difficult to tell if what’s happening is a recollection of Chiyoko’s filmography or real life situation, given how the film cuts from one event and film to the next. These cuts are simultaneously abrupt and seamless, creating further ambiguity at times as to whether or not what’s happening to Chiyoko is just a film role or something that actually happened. Chiyoko’s acting rival is simultaneously a maternal authority and jealous colleague; the scar-faced policeman who pursued the young artist in real life frequently comes back as a hard-faced and cruel antagonist; and an old woman near a spinning wheel taunts Chiyoko of her impending doom and suffering, claiming the actress is destined to pursue a love tied to loneliness and despair. These projections of Chiyoko have fictional and reality weight, echoing from her real life acquaintances and psychological troubles that drive her to act so emotionally and effectively in her film roles. In fact, Chiyoko’s first director advises her to act from the heart, to take real life counterparts and incorporate them into the characters she must act out: this sets the stage for the growing and continuous ambiguity of Chiyoko’s life and filmography, and whether or not she ever differentiated between what was happening in real time and on screen. 

This ambiguity is best demonstrated when Chiyoko is thrown into jail and interrogated by the police, only to be released when her true love is captured and proclaims he knows nothing about her; before she can see his face again, the police close the doors on her, locking her out from ever seeing him again. It’s a heartbreaking scene, like watching someone so close to their life dream suddenly having it swiped away from them in an instant of cold cruelty. This scene is one of the more difficult scenes to comprehend: her acting rival is present, condescending and blunt as per usual, and the scar-faced policeman is unkind as seen previously; however, she never sees the artist’s face, leading us to further question whether or not she was actually thrown into jail, acting out a part, or possibly knew what happened to her love but never wanted to admit it consciously. Additionally, Genya and Kyōji are in normal attire, and Genya is unusually uninvolved with what’s happening to Chiyoko in the flashback. 

At first, the cut to this jail scene seems like another jump to one of Chiyoko’s films, but after some time it becomes ambiguous: is what’s happening real or fiction? Or is it simply a emotional recollection of what happened to her in real life? It’s difficult to say what really happened, but the scene presents another question that I found interesting: that is, is there a logical consistency when we recollect and retell our memories and the events that affected us personally? 

Memory is always a difficult thing account for, especially with regards to accuracy. How can we be for sure that the events that happened to us previously actually happened 100%? The answer: we can’t. There are details missed, or mis-remembered, or purposely forgotten for our own psychological sake. Memories cannot be accounted for logically; they can, however, be accounted for emotionally, which is what Kon demonstrates so profoundly and sympathetically when Chiyoko recounts her life and filmography, and the ambiguity in between these two distinctions. 

Like the key she keeps as a torchlight to her first love, Chiyoko’s emotions are what bind together everything that happens in Millennium Actress. The sudden leaps between scenes, the curious blur between fact and fiction – the only thing keep her, Genya, Kyōji and us in the loop is how strongly emotional Chiyoko is about everything that as happened to her, and most strongly her love for a man that she never saw again in her earthly lifetime. And as we peek into and document her memories, there is essentially a voyeuristic aspect that is inherent to all narratives, documentaries, retellings and biographies; that by coming out of reclusion and revealing a bit of herself in the most emotionally honest sense, Chiyoko highlights the voyeuristic quality of human curiosity and our desire to explores lives outside of our own. This is the genius of Satosi Kon’s tragic and beautifully sympathetic film, Millennium Actress. 

*Note: I found out today while writing this that Satoshi Kon suddenly passed away at the age of 47 46 on August 23rd 24th, 2010. I’m shocked and extremely saddened by this news, as he was slowly becoming a favorite director and writer of mine, and I was really looking forward to his upcoming film The Dream Machine. He had a thirteen year career in anime, animating, writing and directing a total of nine films and television series, which include Paprika, Perfect Blue, Tokyo Godfathers, and Paranoia Agent. My greatest condolences go out to him; he was a fine director and visionary who explored the maddening and enlightening aspects of psychology, dreams, and the blur between reality and fiction, and more so created strong female leads and characters consistently in all the works I’ve seen so far. It’s always sad to hear a relatively young and exceptional visionary die so suddenly; I can only hope his work will demonstrate for future generations his ingenuity and originality that made him such a distinctive presence in anime and film. 

A Visual Progression of Millennium Actress and some explanations

Genya and Kyōji within Chiyoko’s recollection, breaking the fourth wall and demonstrating the voyeuristic aspects of filming and narratives, fact or fiction. The fourth wall is frequently broken with Genya’s and Kyōji’s presence, which can be seen in subsequent images…

This sequence is one of the earlier demonstrations of Chiyoko’s real life events blending into her acting roles, given how the scene in the above images transitions abruptly and seamlessly into the scene into the last image…

Genya is frequently Chiyoko’s self-sacrificing persona in her recollections, as demonstrated here. Kyōji is still himself, attire and camera and all.

Genya and Chiyoko acting out the scene in real life, much to Kyōji’s chagrin. 

The scar-faced police officer frequents Chiyoko’s recollections as a cruel and unkind persona. He’s always looking for a man she helped in real life or in film. 

Eiko, Chiyoko’s acting rival, also frequents the recollections as a maternal-like authority who is more worldly, condescending, and jealous of Chiyoko’s youth and naivety. 

The pinnacle scene that really emphasizes the ambiguity between fact and fiction: we’re never quite sure if what happened here is a film role, a real life event, or both. 

The old woman at the spinning wheel recurs as a proselytizing entity that foretells of Chiyoko’s emotional suffering. I wondered if Kon consciously referenced Sleeping Beauty for the spinning motif, or if it has some other literary or symbolic significance. The other likely reference is that to Buddhism, which philosophizes that patterns of humor behavior are like a wheel with eight levels, and to reach enlightenment you must break the wheel and overcome the eight levels of materialistic desires and earthly values. 

One of the best demonstrations of Chiyoko’s projection of Eiko being an extension of her own mother, as the above image transitions suddenly into the below image…

The old woman again, who haunts Chiyoko as potentially the elderly appearance and future of the actress. 

Genya as a young man on set, and as himself in real life. At this point, it becomes obvious that Genya’s projections into Chiyoko’s recollections very much have real life foundations, as we’ll see soon…

The above three images demonstrate Kon’s blurring of reality and memory, and again reiterates how documenting and watching such a personal story is voyeuristic on our part. 

Genya’s recollection, paired up with that of Chiyoko’s, further demonstrates his outside knowledge of Chiyoko’s memories, and what he knows that she doesn’t. The first image is an older Genya looking back at his younger self, as depicted in second image of this pair of screenshots. 

The train incident happens again, which we saw previously in an earlier recollection of Chiyoko’s. Even the framing is distinctly similar (see above images of a younger Chiyoko on a train if you’d like to see the similarities)

The above images are a fantastic sequence that really demonstrate Kon’s mastery of blending memory, fiction and fact into a illogical yet cohesive progression. It’s really quite an extraordinary feat, given how everything is tied together my Chiyoko’s emotional conviction. Genya makes another appearance, this time as an extension of his real emotions for her in real life. 

The real life event where Genya saved Chiyoko from an earthquake accident, thereby establishing his previous projections with an real life foundation as the self-sacrificing savior. 

The recurring old woman that Chiyoko sees, proclaiming her final taunt that drives Chiyoko to retire from acting. 

Genya’s and Chiyoko’s recollections converging into present day, where she remembers him as the young man who saved her from the earthquake accident. 

The last sequence that blurs Chiyoko’s reality and memories into a last farewell, where she believes she’ll continue looking for her love in the next life. This is a sad and beautiful ending to a mesmerizing story, with numerous other thematics I’m sure I’ve yet to explore with subsequent viewings.