Pixar – Its Legacy and Current State

I’ve been observing Pixar since 1995 when they released their first full-length film, Toy Story. I remember staring in awe at the movie screen, amazed by the characters and colors and comedy-drama that was a seamless, nonstop adventure. It was unprecedented, seeing this computerized style of animation: I’d gotten so use to Disney traditions of cell shading and musical numbers that to seeing Woody and Buzz bicker like a old married couple was an a fresh breath of air into my world of movies. 

Fifteen years later and I’ve seen Pixar progress from a studio that once rented a small rented complex in Point Richmond with half-built cubicles to the sleek, Apple-esque building commissioned by none other than Steve Jobs. I’ve seen the studio transition from A Bug’s Life to Monster’s, Inc. and missed seeing Finding Nemo in theaters (one of my biggest regrets). I’ve seen them tread lighter tides  in Cars to darker ones in The Incredibles. I’ve read and seen how Pixar and Disney’s relation strained and reconciled after Eisner’s handling of the studio’s creative assets essentially violated the artist’s code of honor. I’ve seen Brad Bird and Michael Arndt and, more recently, Gary Rydstrom and Brenda Chapman, join the Pixar Brain Trust which includes John Lasseter, Bob Peterson, Lee Unkrich, Pete Docter, and my favorite of all Andrew Stanton. One of my best friend’s brother works there as a computer programmer, and she’s been able to tour the studio and attend the San Francisco premiere of Wall•E in 2008, which was arguably the height of Pixar’s Golden originals, the last of the stories the original brain trust of Stanton, Lasseter, Docter and the late Joe Ranft brainstormed in 1994 at Hidden City Cafe, Point Richmond. 

Since Wall•E I’ve begun to observe Pixar’s current progression – their projects, their business dealings, their press, their critical reception – and, based on blogs (primarily The Pixar Blog), newspaper articles and interviews of animators, directors, and producers, I’ve noticed something: it’s possible that Pixar might be in creative limbo post-Wall•E. 

By creative limbo, I’m not talking about mediocrity; I’m speaking specifically about how their stories are constructed and what they thematically explore. Wall•E, The Incredibles and Ratatouille arguably present some of the more mature and adult thematics than their counterparts, which are inevitably appealing to general movie goers for their childhood charm and loving craftsmanship. 

Now with their two recent releases post-Hidden Cafe meeting, Up last year and Toy Story 3 this year, I’m beginning to see a certain pattern in their storytelling:

• Including Wall•E, Up and Toy Story 3 all present some serious thematics that are usually unexplored in stories that appeal to children (and in Pixar’s case, to adults as well). These themes include a dystopia resulting from destructive consumerism, the emotional pull of love and how death severs its reciprocation, and the difficulty of transitioning from an adolescent high schooler to a young college adult (as well as what it feels like to not change so much while everything else around changes – from the toys’ perspective, at least). 
• To not distraught viewers too much, Pixar writers pad out a secondary story in conjunction with the main thematic. This secondary story is usually less serious, more fun and more adventure-oriented; in a sense, it’s “fluff,” but it’s so well done that for the most part people don’t really care. The best example would be the Sunnyside portion of Toy Story 3, where the secondary story revolved around Woody and the gang breaking out of the dystopian daycare. This secondary story is easily stand alone from the more emotional and overarching thematic, which is Andy’s transition period from teenage adolescence to college life, and how he, Woody and the toys cope with their memories of one another and how things have changed since then. 
• However some viewers and critics have noted or been affected by the discrepancy in tone between the main thematics and secondary stories; for instance, Stephanie Zacharek disliked the second half of Wall•E because it was significantly less thematic and more “cartoon-y” than the first half; Roger Ebert felt that the toys in Toy Story 3 would be overwhelmingly traumatized by the ordeal they went through during the secondary story that was fleshed out during the middle arc; I personally think the opening of Up was pure brilliance, and right after the marriage montage ended the secondary story took over the rest of the movie, from the cute Korean-American kid Russell to dutiful Dug to Kevin the girl. 

Pixar’s writing team has demonstrated in their three most recent films a interesting pattern of narration. Like Disney’s The Lion King, these three films – Wall•E, Up, and Toy Story 3 – pushed into more mature realms than most other Pixar films. Now it could easily be said that Brad Bird’s The Incredibles and Ratatouille also explored more mature themes as well, but the difference is that Bird’s films are allegorical – the former on social acceptability (with a subtext about adultery that Bird copped out on at the end) and the latter on criticism – and are, in a sense, narratively, emotionally and thematically seamless, while these three more recent films are, to an extent, inconsistent regarding these three characteristics. Like The Lion King, which intensely hailed of Hamlet’s drama up until the point of Hakuna Matata, Wall•E, Up and Toy Story 3 begin digging into exceptionally difficult themes but shy away just enough to make room for a secondary story that invariably pulls audiences in, though to varying degrees. For instance: 

• Wall•E suffers from the differing tone between the first and second of the film, the difference solely being location – abandoned earth during the first, the AXIOM during the second. The Simpson’s-esque slapstick humor of the AXIOM contrasted sharply with the quieter moments of Wall•E and EVE together on earth (though to be fair, it’s always funny to poke fun at OCD germaphobes). 
• Up emotionally enraptures from its opening sequence until Eli’s death, which was one of the saddest death scenes I’ve seen in awhile. However, Carl’s road to emotional recovery is overshadowed by an adventure filled with cute (but alas, unnecessary) side characters that are cheerful and bubbly and everything the audience wants after something devastating. 
• Toy Story 3 tackles some of the least explored and most difficult thematics – the transition from childhood, feeling significant even though things have changed, and holding onto the memories that bind us all. However, the middle arc – which is exciting, thrilling and hilarious – by virtue of its length, muffled out some of the weight and emotional complexity of the main thematic, leaving some viewers (most who were not familiar with or were never attached to the original two movies and characters) feeling emotionally hollow by the time the credits rolled. 

Make no mistake – in no way do I think any of these mentioned films are bad (in fact, Wall•E happens to be on my list of personal favorites). They are entertaining, smart, moving, and lovingly crafted, which is a big deal given how so many productions – live and animated – fall through due to creative differences and other extenuating circumstances that could stretch out over a mile in qualms and complaints. 

Pixar is a superb animation studio, no doubt about that. They’ve always had the benefit of not following in Walt Disney’s footsteps: instead of relying on the same musical number format and adaptations of other stories (“distillations,” some might say), Pixar sprinted out with original stories and never depended on Alan Menken broadway sashays (though Randy Newman has been on board for a lot of Pixar films; I’m glad Michael Giacchino and Thomas Newman are also Pixar veterans in lieu of ol’ Randy singing about). And for awhile, besides the Toy Story franchise, Pixar avoided penning sequels that, to us embittered fans, echoed too resiliently of Michael Eisner’s infamous direct-to-video sequel reign and more recently, Dreamwork’s extension of the Shrek franchise (the first film was brilliant, but its successors effectively shut me off from being emotionally engaged with Shrek and Donkey and Fiona again). However, after hearing that Pixar is in production for Cars 2 and Monsters, Inc. 2, and even possibly looking at Finding Nemo 2 and 3 after a original story, Newt, was effectively shut down during production, I worry: is one of my favorite studios becoming too big too fast, and now too established to take more risks like before? 

I ask this because like any large, successful institution, there’s always an increasing pressure to take less risks since the stakes are higher – marketing, investors, employees, management, everything. When Pixar first started out in the little Point Richmond complex, they essentially had nothing to lose: the main focus was to write a great story and make a great movie, period. Fifteen years later and Pixar has essentially become a celebrity studio, ironically in the same vein of Disney animation; there are thousands of fans, and I assume there’s much more bureaucracy to be dealt with when getting a project greenlit. The safest bet is always to start from a established narrative that was successful, as there will always be fans of the original story who want to see another adventure in the same universe fleshed out. 

Maybe I’m worrying too much. Pixar may very well still be in its Golden age of originality, and at this very moment are concocting up a savory dish of films that I’m sure we’ll all love. Regardless, I think it’s important and interesting to consider where they currently are as a studio, and to see whether or not they continue creating films that are universally appealing or begin entering more mature grounds like The Iron Giant, Princess Mononoke or even Akira. Obviously imagining Pixar making a film as dark and adult as Akira is pushing it a bit, but it’s still an interesting gradient to consider – that is, how much more “mature” are they willing to push, and will they push for it without fluff? 

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. Here’s hoping for some more Pixarian quality, which I’m sure I won’t be disappointed by lack thereof. 

Additional Links/Readings

• Wall•E trailer released on 2007 – Shows a nice montage of how the original Pixar Brain Trust met at Hidden City Cafe and brainstormed out all their movies from A Bug’s Life to Wall•E. 

• Pixar Canada – a nice article about Pixar’s expansion to Vancouver, Canada. 

• Monkey Shines: Meet the Breakout Star of Toy Story 3 – a New York Times interview with a character from Lee Unkrich’s directorial debut (warning: it is awesome)

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

• A nice video comparison of Disney’s linear animation (also shows how some animation was recycled between Mr. Toad and The Jungle Book)

• 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

• Online resource for short stories in Grimm’s Fairy Tales, for those interested in the short stories I listed in this article

Pawns of the Dark

What is fear? 

When I was a child I used to sprint up the stairs after turning off all the lights downstairs. It was a routine: the kitchen, switch off, run to the telly area; the telly area, switch off, run to living room; the living room, switch off, sprint for dear life up those stairs. 

I believed a ghost would follow me if I stayed in the dark – in retrospect it resembled something like the pokemon Gengar – and irrational as it was, this fear held onto me strong for many years. I imagined its wide grin, spiky head and pointed fingers, round body as tall as me, simply staring with those big old eyes – always, always staring. 

I never could imagine what it would do if it caught me – I was too chicken for that. All I could muster up was that if this thing, this little devil, this ghost caught me – well that would be a very bad thing, wouldn’t it? And it was just enough to send me off sprinting, tripping on the stairs and jumping into bed as quickly as could. 

All of this drove my mother nuts, who was mostly annoyed with my shenanigans when I tussled up her bed (“you’ll break the springs the rate you’re pouncing on them!”). Now it’s all a memory, and a rather funny one too; still, to this day I habitually turn off the lights in the same manner before, and every once in awhile I’ll find myself walking up the stairs faster than usual once the lights are all out. 

So what is fear exactly?  

A good portion of our life is uncontrolled. Weather, disease, economics, death – we can map these out, react to them, possibly predict their course but ultimately we can never foresee the future. And that’s just it: what we cannot control, what is beyond us can be awe-inspiring and utterly terrifying. 

This lack of control is a slight to our own ego, our pride in existence; in a sense it makes us feel subservient to a greater force that is arguably unpredictable, a greater power per se. And that’s just it: here we are, proud humans, being tampered with with things outside of our control that essentially render us helpless. 

Of course, such things are to be expected. We can only stay in control to a certain extent – what we eat, what we wear, what we like, how we talk – but beyond that our natural instincts instruct us to expect and anticipate the unforeseeable and the unforeseen. It’s survival instinct at its finest, and it’s also how and why our fears can get the best of us – in real life and in fiction. 

Classic horror narratives and century old folklore play off these aspects of fear. From the Slit-mouth demon to the Hound of Baskerville to Sadako, these stories and their respective narrators played off our innate and subconscious characteristics, puppeteering the smallest of elements into grossly gripping disturbances to psychological peace. We know something is going to happen – just what it is is the real question, and perhaps the most maddening part. 

When we are put at suspense and dangled in wait, the built anxiety becomes stronger and stronger until suddenly it’s there – hand, a face, a cackle, a blur, a element. The element itself may not be wholly terrifying, but the wait, the anticipation is what triggers an instinctual fear. The longer it is, the more our imaginations take hold and by the time it reaches we can only pray its presence is only half as bad as we hope it to be. 

What makes the element itself additionally terrifying is subjectively personal. For Bruce Wayne, it was bats; for Hamlet, it was his father’s ghost. The manifestations that trigger fear and subsequent horror have varying meanings and implications of our own subconscious and psychology, perhaps more than we can explain ourselves. I was fearful of the Gengar-like ghost because subconsciously, I was cautious of fickle classmates who in one moment were my best friend and in another moment mischievous and plotting; the ghost was my insecurity materialized, a devilish grinner who simply antagonized my imagination with its mischievous aura. I know this now, only may years later with extreme contemplation, and even then I’m not sure if I’ve hit it quite right. 

In film, the framing, pacing and sound (or lack of) of a uncontrollable element is essential to create any effective suspense and subsequent horror. From Dutch angles to extreme close-ups, the filmmaker is in total control of what we are able to see and hear, lending them masters of our expectations and the elements that trigger our instincts of fear. In the dark of the theatre we are helpless, subjected and subservient to what is unfolding on screen. We know not of the element and its effects until it occurs, and until then we are left to calculate algorithms of possibilities to prepare for such shock, ironically resulting in more stress and anxiety before element X even appears. Arguably, the less element X is seen the more suspenseful and terrifying the narrative becomes – for we are nearly always left in the dark, vulnerable and sensitive still to the sensation of such an wild card entity. And when it actually strikes down by God is it horrifying. 

Fear is instinct, anticipation, expectation – all together. It is essential for survival and stems from the inevitably of elements beyond our control that perhaps incept in our own insecurities as well. In a sense, fear lends itself solely to sensation in which we react to it immediately, commonly in the form of horror or flight. The psychological aspect, the subconscious angle is perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of it all, and perhaps something we may never fully understand despite decades of Freudian teachings. 

So what is fear? Perhaps we are destined to never know beyond its sensation of anticipation and elementalism. It may simply be instinctual, ingrained in our own existence. And by God, it surely is a fascinating and bewitching element to manipulate and study in narratives and storytelling – something that I hope to investigate with future articles. 

Anime – the Medium

Let’s get this straight: anime is a medium, not a genre. 

Specifically, anime is a style of animation, spearheaded by Japanese animators as early as 1917. The famous characteristics – large eyes, small mouths, sharp penciling, action lines, facial expressions – shot forward with work of Osamu Tezuka, creator of legendary series “Astro Boy” and “Metropolis.” With the advent of video cassettes and eventual internet revolution, anime became more and more well known outside of Japan and is possibly one of the most thriving and influential animation industries possible. Most notably, many recent American animated programs and films are showing signs that anime’s popularity is beginning to seep into the minds of American animators. 

From the directing to the composition to the art to the cutting, anime’s influence is profound and prolific in much of modern American animation. The opening of “Toy Story 3” had distinctly sharper cutting that was immediately reminiscent of anime action-cutting: the zoom ins and outs, the close ups and pan outs, the Dutch angles – it was interesting watching the film, seeing how Pixar was subtlety celebrating the anime boom in America. And only a couple of years ago with Dreamwork’s “Kung Fu Panda” did we also see the same techniques employed, where a visually fantastic and comedic effect swept over the film’s premise with sweeping camera movements and razor-sharp shots and cutting. 

Then there’s the most obvious influence – the art style. Big multi-colored eyes, spiked hairstyles, unusual body proportions, exaggerated/default expressions – this is what we think of when the term “anime” pops up in conversation. American animated series have transitioned towards this stylization, away from the Golden and Silver age of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd and towards projects like “Teen Titans” (2003–2006), “Totally Spies” (2001–2008), “The Animatrix” (2003), “Halo Legends” (2010), “Batman: Gotham Knight” (2008), the “Ben 10” franchise (2005 onwards), and most famously “Avatar: The Last Airbender” (2005–2008). 

Whether or not one considers these American productions as anime is up for debate – what is undebatable is that these productions were obviously influenced by anime in stylization and perhaps composition and directing. The influence is there, and you’d be hardpressed to believe any animator who’d claim otherwise. 

Now after writing the article “FacePainting,” I got a lot of responses that claimed the original series “Avatar: The Last Airbender” was racist in itself because Americans were taking an Asian convention (anime) and using it themselves, and had therefore created a whitewashed version of anime into a American storyline. 

It must be reiterated thoroughly that anime is a medium, not a genre. So while it is a product of Japanese animation and invention it is still a means for which a story can be told and visually presented. What is distinctly Western or Eastern is the narrative intent and driving force of a story. 

In fact, some of the best and most well-known Japanese anime are either inherently Western in narrative or borrow several elements from Western lore. Shinichirō Watanabe’s “Cowboy Bebop” (1998) frequently alluded to American jazz and bebop culture, taking numerous narrative and characterization cues from classic film noir, pulp fiction, westerns and crime stories. Naoki Urasawa’s “Monster” (2004–2005) takes place in Eastern Europe in which a Dr. Kenzō Tenma pursues a sociopath/psychopath he saved years ago. “Gunslinger Girl” (2003–2004) takes place in modern-day Italy in which a Social Welfare Agency exploits its rehabbed patients and turns the girls into counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism killing machines. And Hayao Miyazaki’s “Kiki’s Delivery Service” (1989) takes place in a northern Europe-inspired universe where the young witch, Kiki, deals with misconceptions and prejudices while trying to establish herself as a successful witch. 

I find it hard to call these listed anime productions “yellow washing” because at their core, each narrative either strongly understands or alludes to distinctly Western culture and aesthetics. “Cowboy Bebop” is about as American as it gets, and its entire production team was Japanese – director, producers, composer, animators, voice actors, and so on. “Kiki’s Delivery Service” borrowed heavily from northern European environment, from its Mediterranean-like coast towns to its forrest enclosed cottages, and it too had an entirely Japanese production within the doors of Studio Ghibli. 

So with regards to “Avatar: The Last Airbender”: the anime-inspired style and Eastern influences in the developed Avatar universe – outfits, traditions, implied ethnicities, philosophies, etc – are an American production team’s homage to “Avatar’s” aesthetic roots. Claiming that it is “racist” because it is an American “whitewashed” anime version implies that anime is exclusive to Japanese animators while in reality, art styles are not bound solely by race or ethnicity. If this were the case, modern graffiti would have stayed where it was originally born – the ancient Greek city Ephesus (or modern-day Turkey). 

Anime is a style, and while it is prolific in Japan the stylization is not exclusive to Japanese animators. “Avatar” was animated in this style and vein primarily due to the series creators Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko drawing heavily from Hayao Miyazaki’s “My Neighbor Totoro,” (1988) “Spirited Away” (2002) and “Princess Mononoke” (1997), Shinichirō Watanabe’s “Cowboy Bebop” and “Samurai Champloo” (2004), and Gainax’s “FLCL” (2000), as well as other studios like Production I.G. (“Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex”) and Studio 4ºC (“Transformers Animated”). 

What matters most in the debate of “racist or not?” is the narrative function and presentation, not the animation or drawing style itself. For instance, Belgian artist Georges Rémi’s series “The Adventures of Tintin,” while drawn in a graphic friendly style, is arguably racist by modern standards because of how non-European/Caucasian ethnicities were presented in narration: their narrative function was generally secondary, arguably even caricatured and ignorant. 

Stories are a crucial component of society. Fictions indirectly and nonfictions directly reflect various shades and hues of social and technical constructions at any given time. They are told through various media of choice – writing, photography, film, music, sculptures, poetry, animation – and though each medium offers its unique narrative characteristics of strengths and shortcomings it is essential to focus on the core components of a narrative and what it entails – directly or indirectly so.

By focusing on style over substance, you invariably lose focus and detract away from the bigger issues at hand whether it be racism, sexism, politics or religion. So while narration and its implications employs a style in a medium, style is not bound to reciprocate this back. 

Anime is a style. It has never been a narrative genre, and it never will be. 

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.