How can you walk away from something and then come towards it? 

If there was ever a modern narrative that truly captured the essence of classic fairy tales, Neil Gaiman’s Coraline is at the top of the list. 

Published in 2002 and adapted by esteemed animator and director Henry Selick in 2009, Coraline is a story that masterfully mixes elements of the Brothers Grimm, Lewis Carroll, and modern distinctions into a seamless, engaging story. Like Guillermo del Toro’s masterpiece Pan’s Labyrinth, which hauntingly and effectively mixed the forces of magical realism into the period of the Spanish civil war, Laika studio’s Coraline sews elements of intrigue, mystique, and unflinching horror into the American Northwest. Most striking of all is that the main character, Coraline, is not a typical American depiction of a young girl: she is feisty, spunky, sharp, restless, and astoundingly curious, yet still as emotionally vulnerable as anybody can relate to. This is a immaculately fleshed-out female protagonist, which is a rare gem in a majority films even in this day. 

Let’s start out with the plot: Coraline moves to the Pink Palace Apartments of Oregon with her parents, who are writers for a gardening magazine (ironically, neither of them seems particularly fond of getting muddy). Removed her from friends in Michigan, Coraline quickly becomes bored and disgruntled with her new, grey surroundings. And why shouldn’t she be? As a kid I had enough trouble being attentive if something wasn’t shiny enough; I can only imagine what it’s like to try and find something exciting in an environment where your neighbors include two retired (and slightly delusional) actresses, a extremely confident Russian acrobat who eats beets, samples cheeses, and trains mice, and a peer who gives you a doll that looks identically like you on your first day in town – well, to say the least it’s understandable how easily intrigued Coraline becomes when some kangaroo mice lead her into a mysterious doorway to another world, that of the Other Mother. 

There are three key characters in Coraline that highlight Gaiman’s mastery of classic and modern storytelling: Coraline’s real mother, the Cat, and the Other Mother. Each character represents a certain element of storytelling that I think is interesting from a narrative point of view, and that these elements – due to changing social interests, values and philosophies – have become something like Easter Eggs or hidden gems: you have to look a bit harder and a bit differently to appreciate them. 

 

Coraline’s real mother is a terrific example of a modern narrative element that Gaiman combines so seamlessly with classic narrative elements in Coraline. Unlike the Other Mother, Coraline’s real mother does not go from one emotional extreme to the other; while she is (justifiably) irritable, she does not outright smother or reprimand Coraline. Instead, she is a mixture of characteristics seen in the Grimm’s birth and stepmother characters: while stern upfront, she still very much cares about Coraline’s well being (though these nuances of emotions are, for the most part, a bit difficult to infer from at first; subsequent readings and viewings more clearly reveal a softer and more vulnerable side of Coraline’s real mother). Most interestingly is that everyone in Coraline’s household responds and listens primarily to Coraline’s mother, establishing the matriarchal norm within the three member household. This is exceptionally modern: the dynamic between Coraline’s mother and father is not of equal authority, but of female dominance (which is likely where Coraline derives her self-substaining, independent and non-Disney-princess antics from). Ironically, this very modern characteristic is also shared by the Grimms stepmother-like Other Mother, who reigns supreme in her constructed universe (as I’ll explain in a bit). 

The Cat is probably the most obvious narrative element of the three, as Lewis Carroll fans will instantly see a distant cousin of the smiling Cheshire Cat, the mysterious character that aids Coraline for motives unknown other than he dislikes the Other Mother and he simply feels like it. And that’s just it: in life, there are always those random encounters with those individuals who for truest intentions unbeknownst to us, simply act in goodwill; there isn’t so much an explanation for it than at that moment in time, at that exact spot and proximity, they simply did what they did, and nothing more. In the Cat’s case, he simply assists because presumably, it’s just another deal in the day for him (it just so happens that he’s also not particularly fond of the Other Mother, though we can safely assume they’ve got quite a history of antagonism with one another). The Cat is also odd in his own sense, but not entirely unique foam other characters that randomly assist the main protagonist of a story: he takes full pride in his status as cat, believing that humans are a subservient species; the mere fact that he’s graciously taken some of his time to even converse with Coraline is, to him, a great act of beneficiary benevolence, and that he invariably knows something more than what he’s already revealed to Coraline and us. This is rather similar to other characters in classic stories that seem to randomly assist the main protagonist in their quest: the Cheshire Cat always spoke in cheerful riddles, coming and going as he very well pleased; and for many gamers, the assistant character somehow always knows what to do next for no other reason than to help us out (Though Navi’s “Hey Listen!” would drive anyone up the wall). I will say this – that Gaiman’s (and subsequently Selick’s) description and depiction of the Cat is one of the best interpretations of felines I’ve read and watched in quite some time (though I think it’s hard for any cat to beat the international appeal of ol’ Maru). 

The Other Mother represents an even more classic archetype in the vein of fairy tales – that of the rageful stepmother. While she isn’t Coraline’s stepmother persay, the Other Mother definitely possesses characteristics of stepmothers reminiscent of the Brother Grimm from a mythological point of view.

As I’ve mentioned before in a previous analysis, the Brother Grimms actually changed a lot of the original stories they collected to appeal to a wider audience. One of the biggest changes was the inclusion of the evil stepmothers in the second edition which, for the most part, did not exist in the original first edition. They made these changes because originally, the acts of many evil stepmothers were originally the actions of the birth mothers; however, because it was so disturbing they amended this detail in later editions. Scholars have analyzed the evil stepmother motif as a symbol of a psychological fear inherent to every child: that because we rely so heavily on the comfort and love of our mothers as children (while the father is typically the more disciplinary figure), we often harvest a in-the-back-of-the-head fear that for reasons unknown to us, she could change 180º in temperament and unleash absolute frustration and rage upon us. 

Given the historical context of the Brothers Grimm, it’s interesting to see that the Other Mother encompasses both the characteristics of the loving and wrathful maternal figure. In the beginning she is welcoming, warm, and inviting (almost too inviting, to say the least; it’s fortunate that Coraline is at least intuitive enough to pick up on something that’s wrong even after being awed by the pleasures of the Other World); however, once Coraline rejects her requests and desires, the Other Mother instantly changes in temperament, becoming cruel and sadistic. The black widow thematic is quite obvious, especially for those who’ve seen the movie and Selick’s masterful aesthetic in animation: like Pleasure Island of Pinocchio, the Other Mother entices her victims in with promises of desire, fun and pleasure, and when they fall her trap – bam! slam and shut, game over. More interesting though is what the Other Mother (and simultaneously Coraline’s real mother) present as a form of female empowerment: in both worlds – the real and Other – the maternal figures are the authority figures. In a strange sense, Gaiman’s story is one of female empowerment, of matriarchal status quo, of nonconformist girls, and of feminism rarely seen in many modern narratives.

I’ve talked before about why Coraline is such a exceptional female character in modern narrative (especially the male-dominated world of film) and why the story is so progressive in this respect. More unique and less noticeable, I believe, is the classic and modern mythological elements of Neil Gaiman’s fanciful and quixotic story. My biggest disappointment is that the Academy Awards didn’t recognize the technical and narrative originality of the stop-motion animated film, instead going for safer grounds with the happier, more light-hearted and less complex film of well-established Pixar’s Up. That’s just how it goes I guess; still, the politics of it all will never detract away my admiration for the fairy tale, thematics and filmmaking mastery of Coraline. 

*Note: apologies for the very belated post. I became progressively more and more sick after Tuesday and was unable to write in time for Thursday since I wasn’t quite in the right state of mind. Presumably this would explain why this analysis is a lot shorter than I intended it to be. To be sure, though, Coraline will likely show up again in future articles, so hope prevails!