Tribute to Hayao Miyazaki
Music by Joe Hisaishi
- Made with Blender, Gimp, Octane and Natron.
by dono, 2015
Found via The Creators Project
hayao miyazaki
The Cat Returns (猫の恩返し）ー A Lovely, Absolutely Lovely Film
If you find yourself troubled by something mysterious or a problem that’s hard to solve, there’s a place you can go, a place where…
There are few movies that are so lovely, so absolutely lovely that you simply can’t find anything negative to say about them once the credits begin to roll in. Studio Ghibli’s The Cat Returns is such a film, and I recently had the good fortune of watching it after a tumultuous couple of days.
The Cat Returns is a unique feature in Ghibli’s filmography because it was neither directed by veterans Hayao Miyazaki (My Neighbor Totoro) nor Isao Takahata (Grave of the Fireflies), but by Hiroyuki Morita who began as a animator in the 1999 Ghibli film My Neighbors the Yamadas. Additionally, The Cat Returns is an indirect sequel to a previous Ghibli film, Whisper of the Heart, for a unique reason: in Whisper of the Heart, a girl writes and draws out a story about a cat named Baron Humbert von Gikkingen, a sophisticated feline who comes to the aid of those who need it, and his companion Muta, a large white cat who’s insatiable appetite is just as big (if not larger). Baron proved to be so popular that Ghibli was requested by a Japanese theme park to create a 20-minute short starring cats, and though the project was eventually canceled manga artist Aoi Hiiragi was commissioned and created the manga equivalent of the short, titled Baron: The Cat Returns (バロン 猫の男爵), featuring Miyazaki’s envisioned characters Baron and Muta, as well as a mysterious antique shop. The “Cat Project” was then used as testing grounds for future Ghibli directors, intended to be 45 minute short, and eventually Morita was chosen to proceed with the project. However, over the course of nine months Morita translated Hiiragi’s manga story into 525 pages of storyboard, thus influencing Miyazaki’s producer Toshio Suzuki to green light a theatrical length release mainly because Morita’s depiction of Hiiragi’s female protagonist, Haru, felt genuinely real and believable. This makes The Cat Returns the second theatrical Ghibli feature to be directed by someone other than Hayao Miyazaki or Isao Takahata, a definitively unique trait in Ghibli’s current filmography of eighteen completed films.
The premise is this: Haru, a young high school girl who periodically runs late to school and is undeniably unsure of herself, rescues an unusual cat from getting hit while it crosses the street. It turns out she saved the Cat Prince Lune of the Cat Kingdom, and finds herself bombarded by (unwanted) generosity from the Cat King and his subjects as they fill her yard with catnip, her locker with mice and arrange her marriage to Lune. Distraught, Haru seeks out the Cat Bureau after hearing a kind voice suggest so, and finds herself in the company of Muta the obese white cat, Toto the raven, and Baron Humbert von Gikkingen, owner of the Cat Bureau. With the help of Baron, Muta and Toto (as well as others who I won’t name here), Haru finds herself in the heart of the Cat Kingdom and a great escape from the Cat King’s castle before she permanently transforms into a cat.
Fanart by pinkfairywand on Deviantart
The story of The Cat Returns lends itself to such amicability and charm that it’s near impossible to feel miserable after watching seventy-five minutes of topnotch animation and beautifully harmonic music. Its primary appeal owes much to the protagonist Haru, whose uncertainty and insecurity ubiquitous to many high schoolers is animated so well and convincingly so that I’m sure many girls can easily identify with her minute quirks and mishaps, and the charming cat Baron, whose no-nonsense, straightforward and perfectly confident self could easily swoon anyone if he were any less anthropomorphized. Muta, of course, is the tubby sidekick with a snappy temper and gluttonous palate, seemingly selfish at first but soon revealed to be well-meaning at heart.
While the story’s subtext is one of personal and emotional growth, The Cat Returns is so unassuming, so self-assured and so charming that frankly, the take away message is probably the least of your concerns after it all ends. It’s a simple story, and marvelously so: very much in the vein of classic stories of knights and heroines, The Cat Returns unpretentiously lays out a engaging narrative from start to finish, never once hinting the possibility of despair and unhappy endings; it all ends well – not in the typically sappy or grotesquely self-indulgent sort, but in the feel-good, down-to-earth mannerism typical of many Ghibli films like My Neighbor Totoro. There’s also a distinct element of magical realism prevalent throughout The Cat Returns, very much like the mythos and magic of Spirited Away and gaming-meets-real-life of Scott Pilgrim vs. the World: in Morita’s film, there cats can go between their dimension and ours, and as Haru finds herself in a marital predicament she is invited and led to the slightly different albeit similar dimension of felines (it’s implied that portals can lead to and from human and cat dimensions, but not solely).
For audiophiles of classical or film music, The Cat Returns is a must-own. Composed by Yuji Nomi (who always wrote the music for the indirect prequel Whisper of the Heart), this beautiful symphonic arrangement supplies tracks that are easily stand alone from the film and one another and support the animation without overwhelming the screen (a perfect example of auditory overload would be Star Trek in 2009). Those familiar with the music from Whisper of the Heart may recognize some similar motifs, which is a nice musical wink and a skillful, subtle addition to an already superb soundtrack.
For animation enthusiasts, The Cat Returns delivers some of the finest to date. From the animalistic and anthropomorphic movement of felines to the subtle gestures, nods, twitches and shrugs of a young high schooler, it’s unsurprising that this film received the Excellence Prize at the 2002 Japan Media Arts Festival, an annual festival held by Japan’s Agency for Cultural Affairs since 1997. There are some anime conventions here and there (but isn’t this always the case for all anime?) but the technical mastery of movement and expression distinguish The Cat Returns as an anime film that rises above many biases against conventions and stereotypes of anime. Nothing is jerky, abrupt, or feels inorganic – it’s all very weighted in reality, with an mixture of equally believable (or at least emotionally and aesthetically fathomable) magical realism and spectacular sights animation can achieve that live-action can only dream of.
There really isn’t anything evil or malicious in this universe – plenty of monarchal misgivings, misjudgments and misunderstandings, but really which dynasty didn’t have their share? – so even in the moments of malice (and occasionally hilarity) The Cat Returns convinces us constantly that no matter what, everything will be okay. And indeed, the film delivers not only on its promise, but even more with its charm and inexplicable warmness that, in my case, washed away two days of troubles as if they never existed – the sort of gem that you’ll just have to experience for yourself.
Some Screenshots from the Film
Music Links
• I’m Back, I’m Back Home Now!
• Baron
• Become the Wind - a wonderful cover by icsk8grrl of the song originally sung by Ayano Tsuji for the ending of The Cat Returns
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.
Horus: Prince of the Sun - A Look into Studio Ghibli's Origins
After an incredibly optimistic writing session with Revolutionary Road, I decided I was in dire need of a mood lifter less I risk falling into a deep, brooding state that even a fluffy cat wouldn’t cure me of (unless it is the cat I am still without, but that is a different matter). So I perused the list of foreign films I’ve been wanting to see (thanks to various recommendations) and lo and behold – Horus: Prince of the Sun, as recommended by Allan Estrella, was exactly what I needed.
Horus is a 1968 anime movie and is the feature film debut of Isao Takahata, director of the classic and haunting Grave of the Fireflies in 1988. The film is about a boy, named Horus, who is entrusted with the Sword of the Sun after pulling it out from the ancient stone giant, Mogue. Before his father dies, Horus learns that he and his father were the last survivors of a sea village devastated by a wicked sorcerer named Grunwald, and thus sets off to avenge his village and stop Grunwald once and for all.
Watching the film was an interesting experience: there are a lot of Studio Ghibli thematics throughout – the enigmatic forces of nature, the strong female characters, the complexity of motivations and emotions – yet there are a lot of distinctly Disney thematics as well – the evil sorcerer, the bubbly side characters, clashing forces of good and evil, and so on. In a sense, Horus really establishes the distinct divide between the legacies of Disney and Ghibli regarding thematics, animation, aesthetics, and writing. The film is widely unknown outside of Japan because it only ran for 10 days in theaters (for business reasons I’ve yet to really understand) and at that point in time, most of popular culture and public awareness was overshadowed by student protests, civil rights movements and anti-war sentiments pervasive during worldwide political and social unrest. Here, I’ll be highlighting some distinct elements reminiscent of classic Western storytelling and classic Eastern storytelling that sets Horus apart from any prior and subsequent production by Disney and Ghibli, and why it’s quite a gem in the history of anime and animation.
Animation wise, Horus is topnotch for its time. There are only a few scenes where there is no animation but simply a panning/tilting of the camera with an audio track (a clear sign of budget issues) but besides that, Takahata directs some of the most awe-inspiring scenes that even some of recent animated features don’t come close to. For one, multiple framing types are used throughout the film:
High-angle shot
Low-angle shot
Establishing/master shot
There are also multiple fields of depth and focal points:
Grunwald is also holding the axe that Horus threw at him. The rope that holds the axe is blurred since Grunwald is the main focus.
Here, there are multiple depths of field, with Horus being the closest and Grumwald being the farthest – all indicated by their size relative to the screen.
These composition traits were severely missing from the Disney (chronicle) colleagues of Horus, The Aristocats in 1970 and Robin Hood in 1973, both which relied heavily on minimal dimensions (the majority of the film was mostly in a linear horizon, with the characters simply moving left and right with respect to the screen) and repetitious animation (there is a set amount of movements each character performs, resulting in a rather limited characterization and performance of the animated heroes and villains). With regards to animation, Horus outdoes The Aristocats and Robin Hood by a long-shot, and is even auteuristic in certain ways:
A technicolor-like effect was used in the Enchanted Forest sequence.
Mogue, the Rock Lord.
Grunwald’s Mammoth of Ice, fighting flames created by the villagers.
The sequence where the artists animated the reflection of sun on ice was visually astounding, notwithstanding Mogue’s epic entry into Grunwald’s lair.
Use of a soft focus on a particular person/object, further emphasizing the focus by blacking out everything surrounding the person/object.
Overlap of animation cels.
Snow-Ice Wolves flying down the mountainside; these reminded me of Haku in Miyazaki’s Spirited Away.
The Ice Mammoth and Mogue battle sequence reminded me a lot of the Forest Spirit from Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke.
I don’t think anyone can ever outdo the animation of Monstro from Disney’s Pinocchio, but the Pike sequence in Horus does an excellent job on a lot of levels; I liked this screenshot the most because of the field depth inferred from the unfocused branch/tree/rocks in the foreground with Horus and the Pike in the background and in focus.
Gorgeous yet frightening sequence where Hilda unleashes mice upon the village in an act of terror.
Hilda’s Owl reminded me of Archimedes from Disney’s The Sword in the Stone - except not funny, less floofy, and white. But back to my main point: evil characters are drawn menacingly, like this here owl (who is the less hilarious version of Archimedes)…
… and good characters are drawn with a charm! (also, they are floofy)
Comparatively, Disney animators used strikingly similar animation in both The Aristocats (right) and Robin Hood (left)
Technical aspects aside, Horus presents some interesting Western and Eastern thematics in its narrative as well. Set in Iron Age Scandinavia, the story is a classic Western fable rich with mystical powers of good and evil that tamper with humans. Foremost, Horus is a very pure and very pious protagonist: no evil thoughts cross his mind, and he’s the perfect archetype for the Western hero; in fact, the first scene revolves around him fighting a pack of vicious wolves, and he is only saved by the rock lord Mogue. Mogue’s first appearance is the classic set-up for such an adventure, the random encounter with a powerful entity who sets forth a goal for the protagonist to strive towards, and warns that there is an evil entity which Horus must be wary of. Additionally, the death of Horus’s father lends further momentum to the story and protagonist’s motivation: the same evil entity Mogue spoke of is who Horus must take his revenge upon. Good and evil are established very early in the film, and while we know Horus will persevere we also know he will encounter numerous barriers that may prevent him from attaining his ultimate goal. Horus includes song and dance like Disney films as well, though I felt that these were less like musical numbers and more like natural characteristics of a small village that has distinct customs and practices; also, singing is a distinct characteristic of Hilda, the main female protagonist, and this characteristic plays a role in how the plot progresses throughout the film, and is less of a classic depiction of femininity. There are also some side characters that are Disney-esque in their animation, but not quite to the extent of candy-covered nudnik that becomes so obnoxiously giddy and uplifting as to induce mental diabetes (I’m looking at you, Cinderella – and don’t think I won’t go and sic my cat that-I-am-still-without on your singing mice if they start messing with my pumpkins).
Trials of character, essential to Western lore, are also present: there’s a scene where Horus confronts a giant Pike terrorizing the fishing village that saved him after his front encounter with Grunwald, and it’s a scene that echoes of classic fairy and folktales of the Brothers Grimm where a hero/heroine must destroy a elemental force in order to restore natural order (i.e. The Twelve Brothers, The Seven Crows, The Glass Coffin, The Nix in the Pond, The Ball of Crystal). Characters of good are drawn in friendly manner while characters of evil are drawn in poor disposition – the good look good, the bad look bad (for instance, Grunwald’s henchmen wolves are drawn menacingly while Horus’s bear, Coro, is drawn amicably); in a sense, the extremities of morale are personified almost literally, just as Jiminy Cricket was animated as Pinocchio’s conscious in Disney’s 1940 film. Then there’s old Grunwald himself, who simply wants to eliminate all humans in his sight because he’s a pleasant fellow like that.
The villagers collectively decide how to deal with Grunwald’s antagonism.
However, there are distinctly Eastern elements to the story as well. Various elements of nature are personified into distinct personalities: Mogue, the rock lord, is booming and almost Ent-like from J.R.R. Tolkien’s universe; Grumwald, the sorcerer, specializes in ice magic and sends out spells of snow-ice wolves; the collective, not the individual, is necessary to accomplish any feat; the environment is distinctly beautiful, dangerous, and omnipresent, trumping over all human attempts of control (in fact, Hayao Miyazaki was responsible for “Scene Design” during production; his painters hand can easily be seen in his famous works, such as Spirited Away in 2002); and most important of all, not all characters are solely evil or good without motivation.
This last characteristic is particularly important and poignant in most of Studio Ghibli’s film to date (I say most because I haven’t seen all of them yet – I’ll get there soon though!) This is a sentiment I agree with very much so: I’m of the opinion that there’s no absolute good or evil without motive, and even then the term “absolute” is difficult for me to fully endorse at face value; instead, I usually try and analyze the narrative or psychological significance of moral extremes. Even then I feel that absolutes are much more common to Western narratives than Eastern narratives: Eastern stories commonly deal with undertones of actions rather than the actions themselves, and thus the stories often lend themselves to more nuanced (“grey”) characters regarding personalities of good and evil. In Horus, there’s a corrupt deputy named Drago who manipulates everyone so he can gain power and dispel of Horus; purportedly a spy for Grunwald, Drago is obviously not a “good guy,” but his motivations for power and prestige are very much human. Even more interesting than Drago is the character Hilda, who marks a very important thematic in Ghibli’s most famous productions – the strong, independent, and nuanced female character.
It took Disney 52 years to progress towards strong female characters, beginning in 1989 with The Little Mermaid after starting with the classic damsel-in-distress princess archetype with Snow White in 1937. Takahata included a strong female from the very start with his directorial debut in 1968 with Horus, a philosophy and tradition that has additionally spearheaded by his contemporary, Hayao Miyazaki, with many subsequent Ghibli films such as Nausicaa and Princess Mononoke. In Horus, this character is none other than the solemn and tormented Hilda: though she is initially under Grumwald’s control, it’s obvious that she’s neither pleased or happy with her choice for immortality; in fact, a good portion of the film focuses on Hilda alone (at one point I wondered if Horus had gone M.I.A. just for the heck of it), and generously fleshes out the internal conflict she feels when she’s ordered to wreak havoc upon and kill the very villagers she’s grown attached to. There might be a bit of the damsel-in-distress characteristics – the siren-like singing, her daisy-like physical appearance – but beyond looks Hilda is an mentally and emotionally strong individual, especially considering with the personal conflicts she deals with for almost the entire span of the movie. Comparing Takahata’s Hilda to her earlier Disney counterpart, Aurora/Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty, 1959), is like looking at two different eras of social progress – the former the more progressive advocate of gender equality and the latter bent on chivalry and perpetual D.I.D.s who like being swept off their heeled-toed feet.
Hayao Miyazaki on the left, Isao Takahata on the right
I like to believe Horus: Prince of the Sun marks the beginning of Takahata’s (and Miyazaki’s) conscious effort to move away from traditional Disney fare, storytelling, and animation aesthetics; yet ironically Horus has numerous elements in vein with Disney productions, which makes it an interesting hybrid: a product highly influenced by Western endeavors while actively trying to establish distinctly Eastern foundations – all with regards to animating stories and the characters within. Horus may easily be one of the most exceptional and overlooked gems in the world of animated films, and it’s a film I can’t recommend enough to those interested in animation, anime, Studio Ghibli and Disney productions.
Additional Reading/Links for Those Interested
• Notes on Horus and its production history
• Opening credits of Disney’s Robin Hood: here you can see a prime example of linear animation in which the characters primarily move to the left or right, but not away or towards the screen to establish a sense of depth
• Peter Schneider and Don Hahn interview on Waking Sleeping Beauty, the documentary about Disney’s rise, fall, and comeback during the years 1984 to 1994
The Essential Critic (and why we need them)
Some months ago I attended a student documentary film event. The students were all undergraduates (edit on 7/23/10 – the filmmakers were mostly graduate students and staff… see some additional info below) and had taken a year-long course on filmmaking from a Public Health perspective, a new advent that has recently been spearheaded in the fields of Public Health, Journalism, Mass Media and Communications. Since a Q&A session was included, I was piqued enough to attend and watch what the students had come up with in their filmmaking.
Needless to say, I only found two out of the approximate fifteen or so short films exceptional; the rest were lacking in narrative, framing, ideas, expositions, and daresay originality. A great many footage was recycled – some of the footage was repeated in at least half of the documentaries – and the subjects were repetitive, boiling down to two ideas: 1) health care reform and 2) arts and health.
I don’t blame the students for their lacking, especially given how they were taking an introductory course in documentary filmmaking and had less than a year to compile footage from limited resources; my main critique, however, was the unoriginality of the driving ideas and argument behind their presented subjects, and by extension their frequent recycling of primary and secondary footage. Regardless, I held back in these critiques, and instead asked a couple of questions during two sessions of Q&A:
- (in respect to short films about the health care reform) Do you think it would have made your short film stronger if you had interviewed non-extremists (i.e. people not associated with the Tea Party) who were against health care reform instead of only interviewing those who were for such?
- (in respect to short films about arts and health) In a lot of the short films I saw that you only interviewed cultural leaders of African and Latino descent. I was just wondering if these were the only cultural leaders in the area, or if you had trouble getting interviewees from other cultural centers around, such as people of Asian or Middle Eastern descent?
In both instances, my questions were followed by crickets chirping in a room filled with approximately 50+ people. In due time (let’s say about 20 seconds of uncomfortable silence), both questions were answered, but not in particularly professional or adequate manners:
- (a student stands up and responds) Well, as a filmmaker, it’s my film, and since film is subjective I get to make it the way I want.
- (class adviser stands up and responds) Well, the students only had limited resources, so we had to make due with the footage we were able to film.
Needless to say, I’ve brought up this annotated anecdote because it highlights a growing concern of mine that good, legitimate criticism is becoming less and less appreciated in this growing day and age.
When I think of criticism I’m not looking for validation – I’m looking for something that makes me think differently. To see something in a new light, to look at a topic from the perspective of a different subject area, to emphasize a metaphor or analogy or symbolism or anything – anything to get me to see in the new. Whether or not I agree with the critique is irrelevant; what matters most is that I can take something away from it, that perhaps I can even learn something from it.
When the student responded to my first question (I’ll dub him student A), he was telling me something I already knew, arguably something everyone knew: film is subjective, he is the filmmaker, he’ll film and frame it the way he wants. This is nothing new, this is conventional knowledge. What I had asked was whether or not approaching the topic of health care reform from a different angle would have strengthened their overall argument, that would perhaps recede away from a “all pro-reform” stance to a much more holistic presentation; this was something that was not approached by any of the students, and I felt that it was a legitimate critique because it was not a attack or appraisal of their work – it was an idea through a different lens.
More troubling was that student A was rather indignant at my question, his answer almost resonating a “well who are you to say what’s right or wrong? Who are you to say why my film wasn’t good?” sentiment. I’d hurt his ego, his parade of “good jobs!” and “what a moving short film!” and “wow, you’re a great filmmaker!” comments; I’d been the thundering storm cloud on his sunshine, and I’d ruin his big event. And after the equally awkward hush following my second question, I began wondering if Q&A session actually meant “tell all the students what an awesome job they did so they feel great about themselves!” and not “ask them some questions that could stem discussion, debate and some reflection on their work.” I was an unwelcome guest, the unwanted critic who ruined everyone’s good fun.
The sad part was that I actually held back – big time. I could have asked the specific logistics of health care reform, where they fell on the whole money distribution, on the efficiency of current social programs, and so on; how they felt arts actually played into community health and if there were actual statistics that proved otherwise; I could have hammered them badly, but I didn’t because I knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair because the event was about filmmaking, and in turn I only inferred about basic principles of documentary filmmaking that I believed they should have learned during their course, yet as seen in their final presentations these principles were lacking. This, I believed, was fair game. Unfortunately it seemed the students were unprepared for this sort of query, that in their spotlight they didn’t expect anyone to ask questions that were the least bit dissenting or thought-provoking – in short, constructive criticism.
Obviously the student filmmakers didn’t agree with my assessment – their answers reflected that clearly – but what was more distressing is that they clearly didn’t appreciate a different perspective on their work, a perspective that didn’t necessarily eulogize what they’d worked hard at for little less than a year. For the most part, they mostly seemed unreceptive to anything short of praise, even irked by potential variance from their own vision (I say this because besides the two people who answered my questions, no one seemed willing to stand up and establish their viewpoint in a much more holistic light). Clearly they wanted to be validated, and criticism did not meet their needs.
I will only validate something when I believe it has done something right, and even then there’s a likelihood that I believe could be improved upon or approached differently (in execution or discussion). Common attitude is that critics are like vultures, ready to pounce upon and tear up the hard work of any aspiring artist. I believe otherwise: to criticize is to think, and it is an art that is becoming less and less appreciated in a world that emphasizes an immediate “feel-good” mentality over anything intellectual substantial. The prolific Todd McCarthy, a film critic of amazing knowledge in cinema and its history, was recently let go by the once prestigious Variety, a decision that clearly reflect society’s turning tides – film critics are less and less valuable than the Tomatometer, Metacritic, Yahoo polls or quips and blurps about “how awesome this movie was!” or “how crappy this movie was!” Everyone wants feel-good validation for their opinion – and real critics don’t offer that.
Critics defend their arguments and their decisions for such. Oftentimes a critic will bring attention to a newcomer whose work they feel praiseworthy and deserving of notice. Roger Ebert saw the potential of Martin Scorsese very early in the filmmaker’s career, and has continued to this day in consistently commending Scorsese’s work with film’s like GoodFellas and more recently with The Departed; Ebert has also consistently lauded Werner Herzog for his auteur vision in films like Encounters at the End of the World, Roger Altman for his naturalism in films like A Prairie Home Companion, and Hayao Miyazaki for his attention to creative detail in films like Spirited Away. This is not necessarily what a critic is required to do, but it is the sort of appraisement that oftentimes critics feel is deserving of artists they greatly admire. Equally so is the driving force to lambast works they find distasteful and dismaying, in which they feel the audience may deserve better (or at least, that they did and felt unfortunate enough to endure the ordeal). No opinion is outwardly right or wrong – what matters more is the thought that goes behind such an opinion, and why a critic chooses so to support or decry such a body of work. As summarized best by Anton Ego in Brad Bird’s 2007 Pixar film “Ratatouille” :
In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations, the new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.
Real critics are not like Ben Lyons, who infamously said that that I Am Legend (2007) was one of the “greatest movies ever made” and gave Charlie Kaufman’s Synechdoche, New York (2008) a thumbs down because it was “difficult to understand.” Lyons works for E! Entertainment Network, a network that is not particularly notorious for in-depth analysis of anything meaningful (presumably its own name is a dead giveaway); usually, I do my best to ignore associations-by-institutions and to look at the work itself, but Lyons did nothing of the sort to redeem himself in this light. He is not a film critic, he is a quote generator for television ads. He’s one of those few strangling comments you see attached to universally-panned films that say “this movie is GREAT!” without any substance to back it up. He’s the type who’ll do anything to get a picture with a celebrity, to get some sort of acknowledgement that he is, indeed, on the telly and getting air-time with a in-the-spotlight actor. This is not a film critic – this is a publicity turbine devoid of anything worthwhile.
What real critics offer is an area of mental dissonance, of thoughtful discussion. David Edelstein was in the negative when he detracted against The Dark Knight in 2008, and angry fans (many who hadn’t seen the movie at the time of his article’s publishing) lambasted him as “a pretentious prick” and someone trying to get “hits for his site.” Very rarely did anyone discuss what he actually said in his review, which was thoughtful and well laid-out. I don’t agree with Edelstein on all his points and issues, but there is a validity to his opinion and he is entitled to it; obviously Nolan’s take on the Batman lore is not his cup of tea, and I’ll respect him for that. For one, he notes that the tone is significantly darker, sadistic even, and was probably disturbed by such; frankly, this same reason is why I extolled Nolan’s work so vicariously with my first and subsequent viewings, so arguably this is a difference in taste (and perhaps a generation difference).
I have yet to see Nolan’s recent work, Inception, which has been in the critical debate for quite a bit since its release, lauded by equally rabid fans and pummeled by equally rabid detractors. Even some my favorite critics have been in the mix: A.O. Scott, a man who’s style, prose and analysis I admire greatly, was not particularly moved by Nolan’s dreamscape vision, citing Nolan’s unwillingness to dive into the subversiveness and inanity of a Freudian symbols and insanity was his greatest downfall; in contrast, an early review by Anne Thompson of Indiewire praised Nolan of delivering a Kubrickian phantasm with an enduring emotive pull. Editor of Roger Ebert’s site and famed film blogger Jim Emerson commented afterwards about similarities between Nolan’s and Shyamalan’s filmmaking, and even quoted Matt Zoller Seitz: “A filmmaker as prosaic and left-brained and non-visual as Nolan should not be making a film about dreams and dreaming."
Do I agree with Emerson’s assessment? Not entirely, but I think there’s a truth to his observations. Nolan approaches his work from a strictly rationalist’s precision, and that to expect otherwise from him is to expect Alfred Hitchcock to make a Cinderella movie without a dead Cinderella. And while I have yet to see Inception there’s an inkling that in admiring all of Nolan’s previous works (the exception being Following and Insomnia, both which I’ve yet to see) I may very well enjoy is latest cinematic installment, though this time around I may be more inclined to consider the film from both the left- and right-brained spectrums, and even perhaps the intermediate if manageable. After all, criticism is also about tastes: what floats my boat may just as well sink yours, and vice versa. Regardless, I’d rather read a articulate disapproval than a blurb-fest appraisal of any work despite where my sentiments lie.
Then you have the special brew of Armond White. Clearly he’s a very intelligent man: a Master’s of Fine Arts degree from Columbia University’s School of the Arts; a member of the New York Film Critics Circle, the National Society of Film Critics, and the New York Film Critics Online; and currently a film and music critic for the New York Press. Yet he is dubbed as the infamous spoil sport on RottenTomatoes, the ”contrarian for the sake of being contrary.“ There’s even an online petition trying to get him banned from RottenTomatoes, citing that he is a bane to film criticism and simply trying to get hits on his site. Even more annoying is his lack of respect for films and subjects he doesn’t agree with, as dissected beautifully by Paul Brunick on White’s critique of the beloved "Toy Story 3.” Ultimately, my greatest problem is that he essentially lacks any logical consistency in his reviews, and openly sneers at the very audience he writes to:
- The Dark Knight, 2008 – The generation of consumers who swallow this pessimistic sentiment can’t see past the product to its debased morality. Instead, their excitement about The Dark Knight’s dread (that teenage thrall with subversion) inspires their fealty to product.
- Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, 2009 – Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is more proof [Bay] has a great eye for scale and a gift for visceral amazement.
Let’s break this down: White disliked “The Dark Knight” for its debased morality, yet failed to see the same issues with “Transformers 2” and its flaunting of gratuitous explosions, overlooked death count and blatant sexism? On the latter fold, he admired “Transformers 2” for its visceral amazement, yet failed to see what Nolan and his team achieved in the revamped and film noir-esque Gotham city of the Batman universe? The man makes no sense.
A flowchart of Armond White’s likes and dislikes in recent films, first brought to my attention by Wes Lawson of the RottenTomatoes community.
If I had the patience I would actually take the time and read other articles; after all, he’s an intelligent individual, and amidst his angry waves of bullying misdirection and rhetorical lapses he offers up interesting ideas that are easily overlooked in regards to the films he reviews. However, I am not a patient person when it comes to such individuals, and find that my time is often better spent reading those who have the dignity to stay consistent to what they themselves had said, or are at least wiling to admit their own hypocrisy. What Armond White is, in Roger Ebert’s words, “a troll; a smart and knowing one, but a troll.” And I, for one, am not the type to indulge in trolls.
Criticism is essential: without it, we are destined to perpetuate in an endless cycle of softhearted sentimentalism, doomed to be infantile without hope or chance of maturing into critical and honest thought. Argument is not about right or wrong, winning or losing – it’s about ideas, presentation, and prose. It is never absolute, and it never will be; instead, it is bound to be continuously repeated and revised, bounced back and forth until the end of human consciousness. We need it for our own sake, and we need it more than ever in this increasingly feel-good mentality that society seems more and more inclined to retract into these days. And for God’s sake, let me keep my hopes up and assume producers are more intelligent than to cast nincompoops like Ben Lyons as “film critics” – how about Kim Morgan or Grace Wang, to name a few.
Additional reading: Roger’s Little Rule Book by Roger Ebert. And yes, he clarifies that the subject of his commentary is, indeed, Ben Lyons.
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Edit: To clarify in lieu of a comment – Yes, I have read some of White’s reviews (The Dark Knight, District 9, Transformers 2, and some of Toy Story 3) and have generally found them, as I said, to be logically inconsistent in thought, and overtly condescending to his readers. Perhaps that is style; I respect that. But not enough to garner up enough patience to plow through more of his reviews for such tone and inconsistency. I’ll stick to my cup of tea of Roger Ebert, A. O. Scott, Michael Phillips, Todd McCarthy, James Berardinelli, and whomever strikes my interest in the future.
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Edit on 7/23/10: I was alerted by a friend of mine who took the course in filmmaking; he informed me that the class mostly consisted of graduate students and staff (only two undergraduate students total), and that this was the first time the course was offered. I have already sent him my suggestions for improving the course for future students, and my apologies for not remembering this information correctly (as I’d also lost the flier).
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Edit on 7/26/10: Seems there’s a glitch in Disqus where the original comments aren’t showing up for some reason (though I suspect it has something to do with tumblr performing maintenance not too long ago). This is just to clarify that I have not deleted original comments – they are still sitting in my moderator inbox, and theoretically should be showing up (but such is the fate of faulty programming, I suppose). Apologies to the disgruntled, for you have not been omitted.