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. 

Pink Hammers, Blue Tutus

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.