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.
When Elliott found E.T. in his backyard 28 years ago, the world became spellbound with the magic and charm that Spielberg’s film radiated – the human desire for childish fantasies, for the extraordinary beyond the drum of everyday life, for the innocence of what was once ubiquitous during everyday childhood.
This classic parable – a boy and his little secret – encompasses such a desire, and has been reincarnated in other narratives such as Brad Bird’s “The Iron Giant” in 1999, and more recently Hayao Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” in 2008 (arguably, this narrative quality is what might’ve made the first half of Michael Bay’s “Transformers” in 2007 endurable when Sam comes into possession of Bumblebee). These boys were nothing spectacular – perhaps quirky here and there, but that’s not to say we all have our idiosyncrasies – yet by chance they came across marvelous discoveries, exceptional gems that they are blessed to even glance upon. These protagonists are who we all wish to be, to be chanced upon wondrous avenues that deviate from the limits of human life. However,
Does this story only apply to boys?
Hogarth and his robot from “The Iron Giant,” 1999.
Types of popular narrative are indicative of a society and its standards of normality, morality, ethics, and avenues of progress. As it stands, most nuanced narratives of children and adolescents belong to boys: from the quiet Sousuke in Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” to the wide-eyed Elliott in Spielberg’s “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,” portraitures of adolescent fancy has predominantly fancied boys over girls.
Are girls any less interesting, thoughtful, inquisitive? Of course not – simple observation instantly dispels such a notion. Are they more difficult to portray than their male counterpart? Again, no – girls are not much different than boys beyond interests and the social norms that may bind them to certain behaviors.
So what is it about popular narrative that seems to favor boys over girls?
It boils down to the type of society America and most other countries are – patriarchal. Thus by default, patriarchal qualities are valued more than matriarchal: what these terms encompass is defined solely by each society, but nonetheless these terms subconsciously deem what is more acceptable in the public spectrum.
This comes back to why boy narratives are more predominant and more nuanced than their girl counterparts: females are indoctrinated to set standards at an early age, standards that are arguably more restricted and less opportunistic than that of males; these notions are marketed heavily to children through various mediums and consumeristic products.
Girls get Barbie, Disney princesses, pink dresses, little toy baking sets, and an emphasis on the importance of shopping and fashion and make-up and all that jazz; boys get Nerf guns, Hotrod cars, little building sets, and an clear alleyway to getting muddy and dirty and matted and icky and all that fun romping business.
These are terribly gross generalizations, but they are necessary for consideration. At first glance it may seem that the qualities between boys and girls don’t seem any more restrictive than the other. But here’s the key difference:
Indoctrinated norms for girls are deeply domestic while indoctrinated norms for boys seem boundless and opportunistic.
It’s this key difference, this important deviation that subconsciously drives public acceptance for more nuanced narratives about boys than about girls. It may very well be the reason why it is difficult for more writers and creatives to depict nuanced girls beyond Cinderella daydreams and wedding planners and pink tutus at all – and it’s very well the reason why it’s even more important to advance beyond the princess narrative into a more sophisticated, a more engrossing and a much more gradated painting of young, adolescent girls.
Mei and Satsuki peering down the stream in “My Neighbor Totoro,” 1988.
Not to say that this challenge hasn’t been met and executed before. Hayao Miyazaki created two of the most subtle and sweet couple of sisters, 10-year-old Satsuki and 4-year-old Mei in “My Neighbor Totoro” back in 1988 and again in 1989 with the gifted and down-to-earth young witch, Kiki in “Kiki’s Delivery Service.” More recently, stop-motion animator Henry Selick adapted the prolific Neil Gaiman’s novel “Coraline” into a full-length feature, released in 2009.
“Coraline” is particularly notable because it is one of the few American film efforts (adapted from a British novel) to convey a nuanced girl as the main protagonist that did not involve princesses and princes or jolly Disney side-kicks to sashay into musical dance and joy.
Coraline is a strong and curious girl, displaying some traits of Alice from Wonderland but very distinctly sharper. Interestingly, this film – which was one of the best efforts to portray a non-Disney archetype girl – was met by most critics as a “fantastic” visual, few giving much thought to Coraline’s depiction; the few who did did so sparingly, tacitly and almost off-handedly. One of the most esteemed film critics, Roger Ebert, critiqued in his review,
“Even more rare is that Coraline Jones is not a nice little girl. She’s unpleasant, complains, has an attitude and makes friends reluctantly.”
On the surface – yeah, maybe she is, depending on where you’re coming from and what your experience (or expectation) of girls are. But not all girls are sweet, gentile, quiet, obedient, daydreaming, as Ebert clarifies in his review; more pressingly however (and something that he did not address or perhaps consider) is that Coraline is just as vulnerable as any other girl despite her no-nonsense mannerism. Beyond the surface of her (seemingly negative) attitude is a nuanced character that deserves more than just a “unpleasant” stamp on the head. More than anything she is something of a gem, a girl who refuses to be Disney-princess-ified or Barbied-up or stuck in the kitchen baking flowery cakes and goods.
She’s a girl, striking and unique, and one who speaks more to the female demographic than any social expectations of red lipstick and white minivans and great big suburban houses we’ve grown so familiar with.
So to answer the question posed earlier: does this story – one of finding something extraordinary or being lucky enough to encounter something marvelous – is it only conveying, convincing and moving with a boy protagonist?
I think Miyazaki already answered this question 22 years ago.
