For the Love of Animation – the Medium

Dear Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, 

If there is anything I’d like to see change in my lifetime, please for the love of Brad Bird, Sylvain Chomet, Satoshi Kon, Hayao Miyzaki, Nick Park, Andrew Stanton, Isao Takahata – please change that damn award category “Best Animated Picture” to “Best Animation for a Feature Length Film,” or even “Best Animation” for short. 

Why would I implore such a change, you ask? It’s simple really: I’m tired of everyone thinking animation is a genre – 

A distinctive type or category of literary composition, such as the epic, tragedy, comedy, novel, and short story, 

– and want desperately for people to regard it as a medium, 

Material used by an artist or designer to create a work.

The distinction couldn’t be clearer and more important. To regard animation as a genre implies that any narrative that animators bring to life automatically relinquishes any sense of seriousness or weight for adult sensitivities, instead caters to the attention span of ADD children coked up on glucose with horrendous retrofit 3D and the comic timing and intellect of cow manure. So when the Academy calls an award category “Best Animated Picture,” they are implying that somehow, by virtue of being animated, narratives told via animation rather than live action are diluted and dumbed down, stupid even. 

Oh Academy please, if you could look past your long history of Disney fare and see that beyond what an American animator and entrepreneur sold to the mass public there are artists out there frustrated by the restraints of big animation studios turning down quieter, smarter, darker scripts for interest of preserving their business – not creating, mind you, but preserving it. They ask themselves, “why risk it if the public wants cheese for cheese’s sake, packaged as kid-friendly because they’re animated?” There are artists out there outside of Pixar and Dreamworks, creating stories with the magic of animation that live action could never, ever come close to accomplishing. When I hear your presenters saying “Persepolis” is unusual because it’s animated but adult-oriented, a little part of me hits itself against an imaginary wall, hoping that this performance act stunt will shed some light on your own ignorance of what animation can accomplish beyond musical sashays and sassy side characters. 

When you say “Best Animated Picture,” you instantly stratify animated narratives into a separate cohort, a subcategory to live action regardless of the narrative’s quality or characteristics. You instantly say films like “Grave of the Fireflies” are the intellectual and narrative equivalent of “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs”; you assume the “The Illusionist” is as emotionally acute as “Madagascar”; worst yet, you bring films as politically charged as “Persepolis” or psychological subversive as “Paprika” down as the equivalent of stupidly written films like “Alpha and Omega” or “Shrek 4” – a virtue resultant of these narratives being animated rather filmed live, no doubt. 

So tell me, Academy, what’s it going to take for you to realize that animation is a medium and not a genre? How many more animated films are you going to see willingly that run contrary to your expectations of princesses singing about faux feministic independence while they wait on their prince from their domestic royal chamber? 

When people see the award category “Best Cinematography,” do they think the lighting is a designate genre? No. So why the same for “Best Animated Picture,” where most Academy voters consider animation as a genre despite animation being a highly, incredibly meticulous technical process? Cinematographers create the illusion of perfect lighting on every star in every shot, are masters of making people and sets look good; animators create the illusion of movement, drawing and redrawing and drawing again primary and secondary motions, facial expressions, and numerous other gestures that the everyday observer takes for granted in their perception of the world. Animation is just as technically important as cinematography, and vice versa – both are necessary components of creating a comprehensive narrative. It just so happens that people tend to notice the narrative contribution of animation more than that of cinematography, and too easily are influenced by Disney precursors into believing all animated narratives lie in the same narrative framework. It all falls back to most moviegoers believing that narratives told via animation has the narrative potential of cheese nips, oblivious to the fact that they are observing astute, detail oriented animators from all departments working tirelessly to create the same illusion cinematographers do in live action film. 

So please, Academy, wake up and hear my cries that so many cinephiles and animation enthusiast have been screaming out for years – animation is not a genre, so stop treating it like so and change that damn award category to reflect this understanding. I’m tired of having to explain to people why “Grave of the Fireflies” is one of the greatest anti-war films to date, or why “The Triplets of Belleville” is a worthwhile example of superb animation despite rejecting Disney aesthetics of clean lines and bright colors, or why “Wall-E” was one of the greatest dares in modern narrative when it omitted syntactical dialogue for the first forty minutes, and why it deserved that “Best Picture” nomination over “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” period. 

I hope you’ll see that animation lends itself to potential live action could never, ever dream of tapping into, that under the hand of apt technicians like any other film production animation can dive into the deepest cores of our psyche, of hopes and dreams, and everything in between. 

Yours, 

Q. Le

Realistic films show the physical world; animation shows its essence.

- Roger Ebert, “Princess Mononoke”

“A Town Called Panic,” 2009

“Coraline,” 2009

“Cowboy Bebop: Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” 2001

“Fantastic Mr. Fox,” 2009

“Grave of the Fireflies,” 1988

“Mary & Max,” 2009

“Millennium Actress,” 2001

“My Neighbor Totoro,” 1988

“Perfect Blue,” 1998

“Paprika,” 2006

“Persepolis,” 2007

“Princess Mononoke,” 1997

“Ponyo,” 2008

“Spirited Away,” 2001

“The Cat Returns,” 2002

“The Illusionist,” 2010

“The Iron Giant,” 1999

“The Secret of Kells,” 2009

“The Thief and the Cobbler – Recobbled Edition,” 1993 (Note: I watched the fanmade “Recobbled” cut that was put together in the aftermath of the film being destroyed by its distributing studios, which you can read about here). 

“Tokyo Godfathers,” 2003

“The Triplets of Belleville,” 2003

“Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit,” 2005

“Watership Down,” 1978

“Whisper of the Heart,” 1995

Why Rated-G isn't an excuse for poor craftsmanship

Having just re-watched Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit, I was reminded that rated G films and programs do not need to entail idiotic gags that cater to the stupidest of stupid. Like Sesame Street, Classic Disney and more recently Pixar, Nick Park and Aardman Animation have proven again and again that just because you’re aiming for a G-rating doesn’t mean your jokes can’t be any less intelligent, the scares any less horrific, or the innuendos any less implied – it’s all in good taste, of course.

Why is Wallace and Gromit such a gem of a canon? Quite simply it makes no pretense of being anything more or less than it is – a lovely and adventure-filled universe with the ever inventing Wallace and the master of silent acting Gromit. As I’ve said before¹ Nick Park’s Wallace and Gromit universe is undeniably sweet and unimposing in its presentation, entirely grounded in the reality of the mundane amidst the spectacular. We see Wallace’s outrageous inventions, and he acts as if they’re perfectly normal even when they malfunction (the most he’ll do is shake his hands back and forth in front of his face and go “oh dear…!” if it gets really bad); and as per usual, good old Gromit is there to pick up the pieces after something goes haywire, or if Wallace simply wants some cheese and crackers. This is a universe untainted by true malice, the most negative of feelings arising solely from somebody after something not uncommon, and in the most hilarious manner as well (Victor and his toupee? Check!)

Throughout the entire movie I was laughing hard, amazed (and still am!) by the cleverness and subtle jokes Park and his production team snuck in that makes both children and adults will laugh at, and for very different reasons. This is what a good movie is all about!

So why is it that so many children’s films these days seem so content to sit and stagnate in a pool of screenplay mediocrity? It’s almost as if a majority of animation studios took a cue from Disney Channel, focusing on a false extraordinaire and always on the seeming verge of being prescribed Ritalin. Everyone wants to be Hannah Montana, shiny and bright and in-your-face fun! There needs to be drama, action, something to drive everyone on screen to constantly on a energy high as if the world will stop spinning if they’re not displaying the effects of a caffeine overdose. No one seems to be content with quieter aspects of childhood, the moments where we find a little caterpillar walking on slowly by and begin imagining just what it might be up to.

What makes Wallace and Gromit so exemplary is in addition to the series outright rejecting the A.D.D. mentality that is endemic to most recent American children’s productions, it is inherently good-natured and calm. No one gets too excited, too sad, too angry, too – well, anything. The characters take it all in stride – from being dragged underground by a giant rabbit to two dogs having a aerial dogfight, or even the fact that everyone has over-the-top security for their precious vegetables – nothing quite seems to push anyone into the realm of clichéd or hopeless desperation: we all know it’s going to be all right in the end, just you watch! (also, could you make some tea and crackers while you’re at it?)

The narrative structure of Wallace and Gromit is one of adventure, balancing a Looney Tune’s cartoon spectacle with characters who at most will say “oh dear” when something goes haywire. There are feats only imaginable in the realm of animation (stop-motion animation, for the matter) that defy logic so unapologetically without so much of a wink – well, you’ll just have to accept that Wallace insists on contraptions and machines to perform the most menial of tasks, and that two dogs will take a moment to shuffle through their coin pouches while they’re fighting over a plane ride, because at the end of the day you know they’ll all be sitting down for cheese and crackers.

The only other director-animators I know who are completely at peace with being unspectacular are Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata of Studio Ghibli, and Sylvain Chomet who made The Triplets of Belleville and the upcoming The Illusionist. There’s a distinct calmness to Miyazaki’s, Takahata’s and Chomet’s works that refuses to indulge in instant anything, and refuses even more to cue us into how we should be feeling. The musical scores are not composed to elicit a specific emotion, but beautifully supplement what happens on screen at a given time; there are, at times, when minimalism and silence are the most important sounds for a given scene. Nick Park takes this distinct calmness a step further by framing something otherwise amazing and fantastic into something almost regular, expected and humorously mundane even. Park’s directing technique is not dissimilar to that of Joel and Ethan Coen’s, especially in the duo’s exemplary Fargo in which a intense kidnapping and series of gruesome murders tied to a extensive extortion scheme are somehow hilarious and really, really uncool (the word “yeahhh” will never be the same for me again). 

Rated G doesn’t need to be dumbed down. Classic Disney films like Pinocchio and Snow White are as rated G as they come, and there are still scenes that I find traumatizing and disturbing (to date, the donkey transformation scene in Pinocchio still gives me chills)². Pixar has inexplicably established themselves as an institution open to challenge and change³, where the creative process is inherently tied to feedback, feedback, and more feedback. Even Sesame Street has demonstrated exemplary intelligence in broadcasting to primarily children: the PBS programming has repeatedly shown themselves to be updated, intelligent, and sensible in communicating sociocultural, political, and even pop culture aspects with children (the Old Spice spoof⁴ is one of my favorites parodies to date).

I can only hope this sugar-high mentality that many recent children’s films will have at least diluted a bit by the time I end up raising a kid, and hope even more that this stupid 3D enthusiasm will have kicked the bucket. We need smarter, better writers for children, writers who are sensitive enough to know what strikes a chord in both kids and adults alike, and timelessly so. In television, we’ve had Sesame Street, Animaniacs, Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends (Craig McCracken), and old Spongebob Squarepants (when Stehen Hillenburg was still involved); in film, we’ve got classic Disney, Pixar, Sylvain Chomet, Hayao Miyazaki, Isao Takahata, Henry Selick and Nick Park; in books, we’ve got Lewis Carroll, Beatrix Potter, J.M. Barrie, Dr. Seuss, Roald Dahl, Beverly Cleary, Avi, and now J.K. Rowling – so, anyone else up for the challenge?

Referenced and Recommended Reading/Links

¹The Simple Sweetness and Sincerity of Wallace and Gromit

²The Mythology of Classic Disney

³”It Gets Better,” Love Pixar

⁴Smell Like a Monster

…

• Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit – review by Roger Ebert

• Cookie Monster audition tape for SNL

• Ricky Gervais and Elmo – off camera bantering

• The Kid’s are All Right: Ramona and Beezus – by Dennis Cozzalio

The Impossible Panacea

One of the things I worry about is the idea that a single technological innovation will save the world from all our troubles. Not too long ago Roger Ebert posted an interesting video about Solar Roadways, a project which essentially replaces all traditional asphalt with solar panels in order to generate and meet energy needs. 

I commented about the potential problems the project might have – from individual circuits within each panel to maintenance and so on – and received a response from another who stated that as a working scientist, they truly believed that solar energy was the only way to go in order to solve the world’s problems from energy to even famine (for some odd reason, our comments are no longer visible, so this recap is purely from memory from over a month ago). 

Hearing comments like these worries me because it entails a myopic understanding of technology and its inner workings. For centuries, humans have aspired towards the one remedy, the one cure, the one anything that would solve all of our problems, and invariably these brilliant innovations had their share of additional, unforeseen problems as well (may of which I’ve previously talked about here). 

Not to say that we shouldn’t be optimistic about human tenacity and innovation, but there’s a need to be realistic as well. These days, I spend my time around too many engineers to not think about how something new might have some issues, and how those issues could (or couldn’t) be resolved with what technology currently allows us to address. 

Say, for instance, the solar road takes off (and I surely hope it does) – what could possibly happen? Given that each panel has complex circuitry, that means that there’s a higher chance for something to wrong by virtue of problems/issues being a function of complexity (for math nerds, we could even write this as FCUK(complexity)*). This also means that road workers will require extra training, which could possibly be more expensive for companies and contractors specializing in road work (or even the government, which would mean tax dollars). One of the nice things regarding asphalt is that road maintenance is relatively easy since it’s a durable-enough material; sure you’ll get the occasional pot holes and fun stuff, but you only need to re-lay asphalt every few years or so. 

To point being is that no single piece of technology or scientific innovation can truly be without its trouble and be 100% guaranteed to completely change how the world turns and functions. In a ideal world, I’d love to agree with the sentiment that solar power can possibly solve at least 95% of the world’s problems somehow. Solar power cars, solar power roof tiles, solar power generators, solar power laptops… the possibilities seem endless, right? 

The only downfall to this is that unfortunately, a subset of the world’s population lives in weather conditions to Seattle, where it rains at least 90% of the year (hyperbole not guaranteed) or likewise areas where the sun doesn’t shine like the golden coast Katy Perry seems to enjoy popping about so much these days. Not to mention infrastructures that may not even allow for nice ol’ contractors to go in and blow up, given cultural sensitivities and sacred buildings and all that jazz. Personally, I don’t think someone would be all too ecstatic that their famine issue might be resolved if you blow up their sacred burial ground for your solar power project. 

The slightly hyperbolized example set aside, we have to be realistic whenever something new comes up, and it is not realistic to say “this ___ will solve all our problems, if only ____!” Everything is a collective, singular components making up the whole and whole producing the singular components, and so on. We can’t realistically proclaim a something will cure everything simply because everything consists of many somethings. Watson Crick’s belief that genetics determine everything ignores all environmental conditions that may bar a prodigy from ever reaching their full potential (or even living long enough for the matter); Raymond Kurzweil, as well as other Singularity movement enthusiasts, believe that a select few of technological geniuses can affect nations without getting into politics at all; and so many other innovators who believed they held the key to solving everything – and I mean everything – with the utter confidence that tomorrow would have few to no problems at all. 

We have to be realistic: problems exist because it is the physical construct of our world, from atoms to electron to energy to mass – there’s no absolute good or bad without the other; that is to say – if we didn’t have problems, how could we know what we had was actually good to begin with? 

Perhaps it’s the human condition to continuously try to overcome limits and barriers that come our way. Pessimists will unrealistically proclaim it’s all pointless; optimists will unrealistically elicit it’ll all be over soon; and pragmatist will acknowledge it’s just another step at a time, towards a different future than what we have at the moment. 

*I really hope a dyslexic child doesn’t read this sentence.