Coraline is really one of those movies I can’t seem to get enough of: there’s always some minute detail that I see each time I re-watch it, from the technical to the artistic to the (un)intentional symbols that arise. For this article, I was inspired to revisit the opening title of Henry Selick’s Coraline after seeing this oddly engaging and grotesque film calledRabbit. Watching the stop-motion sequence, I noticed how incredibly macabre Selick framed and focused onto each detail, both foreshadowing the story yet to unfold and instantly setting the eery, non-Disney tone masterfully and originally depicted by Nail Gaiman. Here’s the video and following the cut is the scene dissection analysis (edit: seems that YouTube isn’t allowing me to upload the clip, which is rather unfortunate. I guess the screenshots will have to do; for those who would like to have a mood emulated, listen to this song – it’s what plays during the opening title):
Here, we see a doll floating into the window sill and two sharp, metal hands reaching out to grab and bring it inside. Already we know something’s odd: we do not see who is grabbing the doll, nonetheless why or how the doll is floating towards us to begin with. Many first viewers will not even notice that the doll is actually that of the previous child the Other Mother lured into her Other World; for veteran viewers, this is a clever ruse for catching the viewer’s attention, button eyes and all.
The doll is placed onto the middle of a board, various sharp tools on either side. The placement of the sharp tools is no mistake: it is very likely Selick wanted to evoke classic surgical horrors, where the appearance of surgical tools make us feel uneasy immediately. Additionally, the board is not sanitary white, and is instead matted and old-looking – obvious signs of many previous usages, thus adding additional unease.
The gross attention to the destruction and decomposition of the doll is the key macabre element of this entire opening sequence. There’s almost an disturbing obsession with what is being taken apart: the scissors ripping up the doll’s dress, framed to look like it is cutting up the spinal cord; the extreme close up focus upon the strands of hair being pulled out from the doll’s head, one stitch at a time; the surgical precision of removing both button eyes, a removal that is almost too quick and efficient; the grotesque focus on the doll’s mouth being ripped open, almost as if her cheeks are being slit open by a knife; the almost brutal removal of stuffing as if one were gutting an animal; and the quick, nearly mindless inversion of the doll inside out with a thrust of the needle hand leaves the now faceless doll hanging limp upside down, a moment almost too reminiscent of paintings depicting infanticide. We still do not see who is performing all of these actions, adding to the unease and unknown of everything we have seen thus far.
The focus of the sand being poured into the doll’s mouth is a notably macabre element, echoing from historical episodes of torture by pouring hot substances down or into one’s mouths (or other orifices). While we can construe the sand as “giving life and weight” to the doll, notably the needle hands are holding back the head, making it look like the doll is being forced to ingest something – almost as if it’s being tortured into drinking something it does not want.
Again, the doll is placed upon the surgical board, ready for the needle hands to do their bidding. Spread eagle, with both hands to the sides, the doll looks incredibly vulnerable, its abdomen spread wide and open in a sign of susceptibility. Placed next to the sharp tolls, there’s an eerie feeing that this doll is about to be poked and stabbed with some sharp things by needle hands. For those familiar with anatomical dissections, the doll is laid out in an appropriate position for such, again emphasizing the surgical horror elements of the sewing board. Selick’s focus on what needle hands is doing is grossly macabre for one strong reason: there’s always something sharp in frame, and we only see needle hands performing the tasks – no face, no figure, no nothing. From the threading of the needle to the threads going in and out of the doll (mouth, eyes), and even from the precise insertion of blue hair and the cutting and machine sewing of clothes – these aspects are focused in upon so closely that it’s even a bit violating to our senses: not many people pay attention to these kinds of details on a day-to-day basis, and there they are – projected right into our faces.
As the newly sewn doll is let go out of the window, there’s almost a relief to see the new doll intact after the deconstruction and reconstruction process; however, this relief is short lived, for as the doll floats away there is a eerie reminder that we have not seen the face or figure, and for first time viewers there’s a eerie disconcertion about the role of this unknown character. And as the window closes, first time viewers are left to ponder what exactly the story will entail; for veteran viewers, it’s a eery and macabre foreshadowing done well.
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!
