Brad Bird - The Individual

Animator and director Brad Bird wrote and created three movies that demonstrate something strongly inherent to the American spirit and philosophy: the individual. 

Premiering with The Iron Giant in 1999, Bird went on to Pixar with The Incredibles in 2004 and most recently Ratatouille in 2007; to date, he’s directing Mission Impossible IV with Tom Cruise, his first live-action film endeavor, and another mark in his unique characteristics of a director capable of both animation and live-action projects. In a rare feat he’s created three commercially (nix The Iron Giant, perhaps) and critically successful films that are all entertaining and incredibly smart: likely a product of working on The Simpsons, Bird has always managed to evenly mix entertainment value with sharp writing studded with significantly darker and more mature themes. 

So what makes Bird so intriguing? It could be that he was a child prodigy, drawing and completing an astounding fifteen-minute animated at age thirteen over the course of two years; or at age fourteen, he was mentored by one of Disney’s legendary Nine Old Men, Milt Kahl; or possibly that upon receiving a scholarship from Disney to attend CalArts, he met and befriended John Lasseter at age twenty-one. Whatever it may be, there’s no denying that Bird adds distinct flourishes to each frame and cleverly mixes in more adult, darker thematics that are pervasive throughout his entire filmography thus far. Most notably, however, is his distinct emphasis on the exceptional individual, the one who’s abilities supersede everyone else around them, and how this exceptionalism can both be celebrated and deterred by the very people surrounding it. 

Arguably, Bird’s emphasis on the exceptional individual may be a result of his own childhood and the time period he grew up in; however, I’m not here to speculate how Mr. Bird got to where he is today, but what his films explore, and most interestingly why he is such a notable progressive within the realm of animation. 

Iron Giant, Loving Heart

You can learn this, Hogart. That I can do anything I want, whenever I want if I feel it’s in the people’s best interest.

With the debut of The Iron Giant, Brad Bird demonstrated something unusually characteristic of his writing and directing style that we can see with his two subsequent films. Traditionally animated, the film takes place in the Golden Fifties, where McCarthyistic sentiment just begins to take hold of public sentiment. While it is a classic boy-and-his-alien/mystical-friend parable, what sets The Iron Giant apart from the likes of E.T. is how much emphasis there is on the Iron Giant’s other wordily abilities, and how it’s (his?) abilities set off a chain of positive and negative reaction from the people within proximity. Hogarth, the boy who finds him, balances out the Giant’s presence with a positive presence who is astounded by the robot, while Kent Mansley, the U.S. Government agent, serves as the negative presence who considers the robot as a threat. 

The contrast between the boy Hogarth and the government official Mansley is a strong one to consider: here we have the young, free-spirited boy who emphasizes with a amnesiac robot with no friends, and is able to appreciate the giant’s abilities and personality; conversely, we have a promotion-interested government agent who acts antagonistically to the giant’s presence, simply because he is driven to become more acknowledged by the democracy he serves. To put it simply, we’ve got the young boy symbolic of individualism and the official symbolic of collectivism: Hogarth acts simply because he’s interested in the Giant as a individual, and Mansley acts harshly because he’s interested in recognition from the collective democracy. 

Mansley’s characterization differs from those of the government in E.T. because it’s clear he has ulterior motives that are in self-interest, while officials in E.T. acted because wanted to study (and dissect) an unknown alien life form. Both The Iron Giant and E.T. frame government officials in a unfavorable light, but The Iron Giant goes further to highlight individual corruption within a collective that invariably hired such individuals to represent the collective. In Mansley’s case, his M.O. is a parable for those who feel threatened by an entity greater than they are, and react by finding means to drag down such exceptionalism to the level of mundanity and commonness. 

An Incredible Ability

Right now, honey, the world just wants us to fit in, and to fit in, we gotta be like everyone else.

With The Incredibles in 2004, Bird again explored the motif of the government bogging down exceptional individuals, and more explicitly so. Early in the film, it’s clear that the government acts on behalf of popular sentiment, in which case it’s that supers are a “menace” to society and rather than using their superpowers for civil service, should live as indiscriminately, inconspicuously and unspectacularly as everyone else – like “normal people." 

Here, the antagonism is less the government and more the collectivist fervor that, perhaps out of jealousy, fear, or both, deems exceptionalism as a threat and not a celebratory feat. More explicit than The Iron Giant is the theme that to be forced into "normalcy” effectively destroys any sense of individualism or uniqueness, and is even cruel for the matter. We see Mr. Incredible/Bob Parr forced into a tiny grey cubicle, his giant physique barely allotting him elbow room as he works within the stifling confines of an insurance company. While his insatiable good conscious drives a persistent twitch for doing good (his clients know every single loophole within the bureaucracy we know as bullsh*t paperwork), Bob isn’t happy. Not one bit. 

And who could blame him? When you’re suddenly dragged, forced and stuffed into something artificially “normal,” it’s absolutely suffocating. You can’t breathe, think, live, and most importantly be yourself. It’s a cruel punishment, to feel smothered by what otherwise feels like an overwhelming mass of mediocrity that seems to find “new ways to celebrate mediocrity.”

Even worse is that Bob’s work superiors are not only unexceptional, but dishonest, petty, manipulative, and greedy – the very same characteristics he worked hard to curtail in his glory days. As many of us can attest to, there’s nothing worse than having an incompetent jackass of a boss looking over cubicle and giving you heads up about “fun tie fridays” then casually mentioning that you might want to consider getting a new shirt while you’re out getting a new tie (and I’m sure on more than one occasion we’ve all had the urge to chuck our jackass boss through a couple of walls and cubicles). His boss, however unlikable, shares the same exact mentality as the collective that put Bob and other supers into their current deteriorating state: be a nice cog that fits nicely into other cogs that make up a nice, working clock. 

Anyone Can Cook

Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.

Though Ratatouille wasn’t Bird’s original idea (that credit belongs to Jan Pinkava, director of the famous Pixar short Geri’s Game), his revision of Pinkava’s original story is in the very vein of his previous two movies. This time, the antagonistic element lies solely within the social structures developed and accepted by a specific culture, and how one unusual and uncannily skilled protagonist finds his way to overcoming such barriers. 

Remy, the rat with a nose for smell and taste, is the least likely chef and food enthusiast you could possibly imagine. But here he is, in the fur, and ready to rock and roll. Unfortunately, human perception of rats is unfavorable, and since he’s trying to become an exceptional chef by human standards well – seems like we’ve run into a problem now. 

The movie’s motto, anyone can cook, speaks volumes about exceptionalism coming from anywhere: not anyone can cook, but a great cook from come from anywhere – even a rat. Of course, it’s difficult to overcome and overlook presumptions and assumptions about social barriers and norms that otherwise block an unwitting talent from ever blooming to full potential, but nevertheless it takes a lot of courage to even acknowledge such a talent to begin with. 

Ratatouille’s ideological antagonism is less the collective and more about assumptions and views we may have regarding someone based off their background, race, upbringing (or in this case, species). It still celebrates the individual ability, but frames it so in a way that is less dismissive than The Incredibles and more about progressive open-mindedness and a dare to defend something novel, talented, and unusual. 

The Individual 

Like I said in the beginning, Bird’s driving thematic is the exceptional individual overcoming obstacles prevalent. Whether it be a corrupt government official or a illogically jealous and fearful community, or even the fact that you want to be an ace chef despite being non-human – well to hell with it all, we want these characters to rise above all!

This sentiment is all too familiar to Horatio Alger’s famous penny novels about poor souls pulling themselves up “by their own boot strings” to become rich and prosperous elites (notwithstanding the various barriers that barred about 99% of the population from ever achieving such a feat). Like Alger’s rags-to-riches stories, Bird’s ideological vein throughout his three movies rings and resonates so soundly with such an American dream, that the individual, through their own means, can overcome whatever barriers would otherwise shun those less capable or less exceptional of pursuing thus wise. 

In this sense, Brad Bird really does embody a distinctly American spirit, one that celebrates exceptionalism and individual achievement. While I don’t completely agree with this philosophy (I think there’s a value to the individual and the collective; to what degrees and variance I may elaborate on another day), I can understand where he’s coming from in this respect. 

To date, I think The Incredibles probably represents Bird the best, while Ratatouille highlights a more humane and optimistic sentiment. With his upcoming Mission Impossible IV, I look forward to seeing how Bird’s action direction in animation translates to live-action with Tom Cruise on board, and whether the qualities and limits of both animation and live-action will affect Bird’s directing abilities. For now, we’ll just have to see what he has up his sleeve, to wait and see what action-packed adventure Mr. Bird can savorily dish out for us next. 

I think I’m going to throw up too. I want to thank the Academy and my Jr. High guidance counselor. Where he said “what do you want to do with your life”. And I said “make movies.” And he said “what if there were no movies?” I said “I’ll make some.” We went on like this until we got sick of eachother. I realize that he gave me the best training for making films.

I want to thank my wife Liz and my kids. All the dreamers at Pixar and Disney….

And all the dreamers who are supporting a rat that dreams….

– Brad Bird at the 2008 Oscars

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.