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)

Backlash from the Past - A Look into Masculinity and the Stallonian Appeal

Awhile ago I wrote a bit on Scott Pilgrim and lamented how it performed poorly during its opening weekend after getting sandwiched by Eat, Pray, Love and The Expendables. A few weeks later and things haven’t looked up for the game-love, internet-meme-awesome film that seems to have been released at the wrong time. Some have theorized that the marketing led to the film’s box office failure, that failed to clearly present Scott Pilgrim as a “fighting film” instead of “Michael Cera gets the girl again, and this time we have gamers and asian stuff like anime and hello kitty.” The idea is that at this point in time, Americans are sick of hipsters taking the big screen and want something less nuanced, less subtle, and less slice-of-life. Chuck out shenanigan slinging Juno and in with Stallones and Rambos!–echoed the box office. 

I’m not going to reiterate my disappointment that things turned out the way they did for Scott Pilgrim. Instead, I’m going to talk about a current trend in films I’ve seen of late based off trailers that flash on the telly. These days, it seems like a majority of movies echo of ‘80s macho-nacho burly men killing everything in sight as a form of democratic negotiation, or hot teenage girls in tight clothing getting murdered and hacked to death in devilishly gruesome ways. This isn’t Tarantino paying over-the-top, eclectic stylization, or quiet reminiscences about similar social scenarios like in Adventureland – this is about balls out, The Expendables testosterone, Piranha 3D exploitation backlash from the '70s and '80s, the grindhouse days of cinema. 

I started noticing the trend in movies back in spring this year after hearing that The A–Team was getting a release this (past) summer; later, I saw the trailer for the upcoming Machete, which looked amazingly B-movie status despite its A-list cast. Then the list of movies started piling up: A Nightmare on Elm Street remake; MacGruber, a full-length adaptation of the SNL sketch that spoofed MacGyver; The Karate Kid, which I thought was a great remake despite its editing flaws; Jackass 3D, which looks amazingly stupid and awesome; Saw 3D, which means this serial is getting classier by the day; Burlesque, which looks like another case of cliche writing and a music video director not understanding how to create a musical montage; and lastly Tron: Legacy, which I need not say anything further. 

So what’s going on? Why does it seem like more and more ads that skitter across the screen are starting to sound like echoes of decades before? Theoretically, the digital generation should be at its peak: Kindles are ousting booksellers, Super Smash Brothers Brawl are tournaments, Facebook is getting a movie tribute, YouTube is what America’s Funniest Home Videos wanted to be but never could, having a cell phone that “only” makes a call is archaic, online classes are at a boom, information is just a Google away – whether or not you think this is fantastic or horrendous doesn’t matter except that right here and now, this digital generation – a product of the internet and video games genesis and evolution – is thriving, and vivaciously so. 

So why the '80s? Why does it seem that Hollywood studios are busting out penis-envy flicks that, for a time, we all thought were over after Terminator 2 ended, and most definitely when Schwarzenegger called it quits with Hollywood and started politics in the vein of Reagan. And even with Spielberg’s Indiana Jones 4 or Stallone’s reawakening in 2006 and 2008 with Rocky Balboa and Rambo, respectively, it didn’t seem as overwhelmingly in the public eye as 2010 films like his executive produced The Expendables or the more-than-obvious remakes like The A-Team, The Karate Kid and Tron: Legacy. It’s strange, though, putting these films in context with films that were only released a few years previously: Juno is the top of the list, detailing the snark and snips and shenanigans of a slang-slinging teenager with a sharp attitude and a smart personality; closely following Diablo Cody’s uncannily witty screenplay is The 40-year-old Virgin, which essentially began the slew of buddy bromance comedies like The Hangover and Pineapple Express; biting, honest and surprisingly sympathetic portraits of dysfunctional individuals that stray far from the picture perfect household like in Little Miss Sunshine and Up in the Air; or even surprisingly quiet and beautiful films that say the most in their silence such as Lost in Translation and Wall•E. So I’ll ask this again: what’s going on, and why the '80s? 

I commented in the Scott Pilgrim article that perhaps current American economics (the recession, for a starter) have invariably driven Hollywood studios to produce less creative, more box office safe® movies to keep themselves afloat, and considering what has been released this past year I’d say this isn’t too bad of a guess. Now to answer the second question (seriously, why the '80s?), I’ve drawn solely from observation alone, and theorize this: the '80s revival gives people a sense of absolutes in a time of uncertainties. 

Let’s look at the characteristics of Stallone’s most famous filmography, which are easy to dissect and boil down into one banally simple appeal: definitive masculinity. Absolute power. I got pecks, I got techs. Popping veins. Bulging biceps. Hulk smash kittens. This is Spartan. Etcetera. 

Now, in a time where political and social constructions are even less absolute – post-9/11 sentiment is one of secrecies, conspiracies, torture and corruption, and increasing awareness of the LGBT community makes those who worship traditional gender roles in an uncomfortable position – the subconscious of the American moviegoing public invariably desires the absolutes, a torchlight of ideals and ideas that they can strive towards and emulate. This is a time of uncertainty and instability, and the last thing the average American moviegoer wants is a film that portrays a honest, mirror-like depiction of a life they may be all too familiar with, or a life that is unexciting enough to kick-start them from the slump resultant of life’s stressors. This is a time where more than ever in the public eye, movies are escapism as opposed to artistic merit. 

This is the sentiment that doomed Scott Pilgrim in the shadow of The Expendables after numerous movies about (less than) average, scrawny adolescents released prior – Superbad, Garden State, (500) Days of Summer, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Knocked Up, Kick-Ass, The Last Kiss, I Love You Man, Shallow Hal, Adventureland, Zombieland – inadvertently saturated the market. I’d argue Scott Pilgrim is the best reflection of the digital generation, but that’s irrelevant to what box office numbers reflect: and in this case, they reflect changing, significant tides that are a result of political and social turmoil happening externally. The public doesn’t want any more Michael Cera’s stealing the hot chick that’s out of his league; they want good old fashioned fist-fighting, blood spitting lip splits that a “real man” has to endure if he ever wants to “earn” his woman. Exploitation films like Machete, Jackass 3D, Saw 3D and Piranha 3D relish on the extreme ends of this sentiment, which I can only assume is the geographical equivalent of Siberia. 

Marketing is one aspect – I agree that Scott Pilgrim could have been marketed a bit smarter to reach a larger demographic – but beneath the commercializing aspect there are deeper implications as to what is occurring outside of Hollywood and invariably driving studios’ decisions to green light or shelve screenplays and productions. In this case, these implications are that the American public currently relishes in the nostalgia of Reagan-era eighties, with the awesome neon tights and big hair and definitive gender roles. It’s a complete swing from the middle-grounded, level-headed and easy-going mentality to the action-packed, sweat-brimmed and iron-fisted mentality that I hate for numerous reasons. 

So to be absolutely banal: viva el Scott Pilgrim, and screw you The Expendables – I’ve had my share of testosterone-filled idiots spewing out crap like entitlement and birth rights and that lot. I’d rather be a Holden Caulfield and a Juno MacGuff than a John Rambo or a Madonna. And if that makes me a nutcase, then that’s just pure and dandy. After all, the Fool was the only with any sense in his head during King Lear’s mental trip, and if I have to get me some double rainbows or pineappling expression to feel right at home, then that’s just fine by me. 

*Pardons for the day-late update: I’ve been moving boxes of books and clothing this past week, and only got settled down yesterday. On a plus side, I’ve got the Wii set up nicely, so now Netflix-ing on a whim isn’t as cumbersome as it used to be. 

Millennium Actress – A Fading Division between Dreams, Reality, and Memories

Sometimes when I watch movies, I have trouble remembering that what’s happening on screen isn’t real. Yes, the story itself is fictional to varying degrees, but the emotions, the drama, the comedy – there’s a distinct human connection to all of these movies that play on the big screen. Animated or live action, film is a unique medium that possesses the quality of storytelling and documenting what’s occurring, played back for us viewers to engage in and experience full throttle. It’s the same reason some people can’t stand horror films, violence, sex, social awkwardness, or any distinct characteristic of certain genres – it becomes too real to see it in playback, regardless of the reality that we occupy; it’s also the same reason why we sometimes live vicariously through the characters that grace the screen, becoming inspired to change, act differently, or even emulate certain characteristics that we admire so much. This second reason is what Satoshi Kon masterfully explores in Millennium Actress, released in 2001. 

If there was ever a film that demonstrated Satoshi Kon’s mastery of depicting dreams in conjunction with reality, I would argue Millennium Actress is one of the best examples in his filmography thus far. Compared to the exuberant and visually astounding sequences of inanity in Paprika and Paranoia Agent, Millennium Actress is more subdued, blurring the distinction between dreams and reality much more subtly and naturally and presenting stronger thematics and questions that result in a much more cohesive and moving story. 

The story focuses around Chiyoko Fujiwara, a retired and reclusive actress who details her life and career to director, Genya Tachibana, and a cameraman, Kyōji Ida. With Tachibana’s insistence and enthusiasm, Chiyoko opens up about her childhood, and the events that led her from the beginnings of a modest child actor to a Japanese film icon before, during, and after the years of WWII. Interestingly, Chiyoko does not directly tell her life as events that actually took place, but through her acting roles that coincided with the different time periods during the release of her films, respectively. Moreover, Genya and Kyōji are often featured in her flashbacks, with Genya prominently taking the roles of her self-sacrificing savior and Kyōji still filming the events with his camera, in normal attire and all. The one thread that holds all these different stories together is Chiyoko’s lifelong quest to find her first love, a young artist she helped hide from the police during the fascist government of 1930s Japan. He leaves her a key to his art supplies, which she keeps for her entire acting career until her very last movie, the point where she immediately retires and distances herself from society for reasons I will not reveal here. 

Millennium Actress, at its core, is a love story, but goes even further in exploring the blending of reality and fiction in films, the voyeuristic function of filming and watching these narratives, and how one may vicariously live through the very roles and characters they act out and watch on the reels of footage. Moreover Kon’s work is a masterful exploration of one’s hopes and dreams perpetuating their motivations and actions in real life, and the psychological effect of events in real life may simultaneously influence the universes of fiction. Most ingeniously, Kon never makes a active point of differentiating between dream and reality, leaving us to ponder about what is actually Chiyoko’s acting role and what is actually happening around her. 

Recurring figures pop up in Chiyoko’s life story, either in the form of acting roles, real life personalities, or both: at times, it’s difficult to tell if what’s happening is a recollection of Chiyoko’s filmography or real life situation, given how the film cuts from one event and film to the next. These cuts are simultaneously abrupt and seamless, creating further ambiguity at times as to whether or not what’s happening to Chiyoko is just a film role or something that actually happened. Chiyoko’s acting rival is simultaneously a maternal authority and jealous colleague; the scar-faced policeman who pursued the young artist in real life frequently comes back as a hard-faced and cruel antagonist; and an old woman near a spinning wheel taunts Chiyoko of her impending doom and suffering, claiming the actress is destined to pursue a love tied to loneliness and despair. These projections of Chiyoko have fictional and reality weight, echoing from her real life acquaintances and psychological troubles that drive her to act so emotionally and effectively in her film roles. In fact, Chiyoko’s first director advises her to act from the heart, to take real life counterparts and incorporate them into the characters she must act out: this sets the stage for the growing and continuous ambiguity of Chiyoko’s life and filmography, and whether or not she ever differentiated between what was happening in real time and on screen. 

This ambiguity is best demonstrated when Chiyoko is thrown into jail and interrogated by the police, only to be released when her true love is captured and proclaims he knows nothing about her; before she can see his face again, the police close the doors on her, locking her out from ever seeing him again. It’s a heartbreaking scene, like watching someone so close to their life dream suddenly having it swiped away from them in an instant of cold cruelty. This scene is one of the more difficult scenes to comprehend: her acting rival is present, condescending and blunt as per usual, and the scar-faced policeman is unkind as seen previously; however, she never sees the artist’s face, leading us to further question whether or not she was actually thrown into jail, acting out a part, or possibly knew what happened to her love but never wanted to admit it consciously. Additionally, Genya and Kyōji are in normal attire, and Genya is unusually uninvolved with what’s happening to Chiyoko in the flashback. 

At first, the cut to this jail scene seems like another jump to one of Chiyoko’s films, but after some time it becomes ambiguous: is what’s happening real or fiction? Or is it simply a emotional recollection of what happened to her in real life? It’s difficult to say what really happened, but the scene presents another question that I found interesting: that is, is there a logical consistency when we recollect and retell our memories and the events that affected us personally? 

Memory is always a difficult thing account for, especially with regards to accuracy. How can we be for sure that the events that happened to us previously actually happened 100%? The answer: we can’t. There are details missed, or mis-remembered, or purposely forgotten for our own psychological sake. Memories cannot be accounted for logically; they can, however, be accounted for emotionally, which is what Kon demonstrates so profoundly and sympathetically when Chiyoko recounts her life and filmography, and the ambiguity in between these two distinctions. 

Like the key she keeps as a torchlight to her first love, Chiyoko’s emotions are what bind together everything that happens in Millennium Actress. The sudden leaps between scenes, the curious blur between fact and fiction – the only thing keep her, Genya, Kyōji and us in the loop is how strongly emotional Chiyoko is about everything that as happened to her, and most strongly her love for a man that she never saw again in her earthly lifetime. And as we peek into and document her memories, there is essentially a voyeuristic aspect that is inherent to all narratives, documentaries, retellings and biographies; that by coming out of reclusion and revealing a bit of herself in the most emotionally honest sense, Chiyoko highlights the voyeuristic quality of human curiosity and our desire to explores lives outside of our own. This is the genius of Satosi Kon’s tragic and beautifully sympathetic film, Millennium Actress. 

*Note: I found out today while writing this that Satoshi Kon suddenly passed away at the age of 47 46 on August 23rd 24th, 2010. I’m shocked and extremely saddened by this news, as he was slowly becoming a favorite director and writer of mine, and I was really looking forward to his upcoming film The Dream Machine. He had a thirteen year career in anime, animating, writing and directing a total of nine films and television series, which include Paprika, Perfect Blue, Tokyo Godfathers, and Paranoia Agent. My greatest condolences go out to him; he was a fine director and visionary who explored the maddening and enlightening aspects of psychology, dreams, and the blur between reality and fiction, and more so created strong female leads and characters consistently in all the works I’ve seen so far. It’s always sad to hear a relatively young and exceptional visionary die so suddenly; I can only hope his work will demonstrate for future generations his ingenuity and originality that made him such a distinctive presence in anime and film. 

A Visual Progression of Millennium Actress and some explanations

Genya and Kyōji within Chiyoko’s recollection, breaking the fourth wall and demonstrating the voyeuristic aspects of filming and narratives, fact or fiction. The fourth wall is frequently broken with Genya’s and Kyōji’s presence, which can be seen in subsequent images…

This sequence is one of the earlier demonstrations of Chiyoko’s real life events blending into her acting roles, given how the scene in the above images transitions abruptly and seamlessly into the scene into the last image…

Genya is frequently Chiyoko’s self-sacrificing persona in her recollections, as demonstrated here. Kyōji is still himself, attire and camera and all.

Genya and Chiyoko acting out the scene in real life, much to Kyōji’s chagrin. 

The scar-faced police officer frequents Chiyoko’s recollections as a cruel and unkind persona. He’s always looking for a man she helped in real life or in film. 

Eiko, Chiyoko’s acting rival, also frequents the recollections as a maternal-like authority who is more worldly, condescending, and jealous of Chiyoko’s youth and naivety. 

The pinnacle scene that really emphasizes the ambiguity between fact and fiction: we’re never quite sure if what happened here is a film role, a real life event, or both. 

The old woman at the spinning wheel recurs as a proselytizing entity that foretells of Chiyoko’s emotional suffering. I wondered if Kon consciously referenced Sleeping Beauty for the spinning motif, or if it has some other literary or symbolic significance. The other likely reference is that to Buddhism, which philosophizes that patterns of humor behavior are like a wheel with eight levels, and to reach enlightenment you must break the wheel and overcome the eight levels of materialistic desires and earthly values. 

One of the best demonstrations of Chiyoko’s projection of Eiko being an extension of her own mother, as the above image transitions suddenly into the below image…

The old woman again, who haunts Chiyoko as potentially the elderly appearance and future of the actress. 

Genya as a young man on set, and as himself in real life. At this point, it becomes obvious that Genya’s projections into Chiyoko’s recollections very much have real life foundations, as we’ll see soon…

The above three images demonstrate Kon’s blurring of reality and memory, and again reiterates how documenting and watching such a personal story is voyeuristic on our part. 

Genya’s recollection, paired up with that of Chiyoko’s, further demonstrates his outside knowledge of Chiyoko’s memories, and what he knows that she doesn’t. The first image is an older Genya looking back at his younger self, as depicted in second image of this pair of screenshots. 

The train incident happens again, which we saw previously in an earlier recollection of Chiyoko’s. Even the framing is distinctly similar (see above images of a younger Chiyoko on a train if you’d like to see the similarities)

The above images are a fantastic sequence that really demonstrate Kon’s mastery of blending memory, fiction and fact into a illogical yet cohesive progression. It’s really quite an extraordinary feat, given how everything is tied together my Chiyoko’s emotional conviction. Genya makes another appearance, this time as an extension of his real emotions for her in real life. 

The real life event where Genya saved Chiyoko from an earthquake accident, thereby establishing his previous projections with an real life foundation as the self-sacrificing savior. 

The recurring old woman that Chiyoko sees, proclaiming her final taunt that drives Chiyoko to retire from acting. 

Genya’s and Chiyoko’s recollections converging into present day, where she remembers him as the young man who saved her from the earthquake accident. 

The last sequence that blurs Chiyoko’s reality and memories into a last farewell, where she believes she’ll continue looking for her love in the next life. This is a sad and beautiful ending to a mesmerizing story, with numerous other thematics I’m sure I’ve yet to explore with subsequent viewings. 

Artistic Integrity vs. Marketing Ploys

I recently read a article on Cinematical.com titled Lucas Didn’t Kill Han Solo Because of the ‘Star Wars’ Toys by Erik Davis. The short piece basically summarizes how producer Gary Kurtz split from George Lucas after the Star Wars imagineer changed the originally planned ending for the happier version we’re all so familiar with today: 

The original ending was supposed to include Luke walking off alone “like Clint Eastwood in the spaghetti westerns”, leaving a somewhat frazzled and grieving Leia to pick up the pieces and take on her new duties as queen. Kurtz disagreed with all of Lucas’ changes – including his insistence on putting in a second Death Star (because it’d be too similar to the original film, he thought), and, fed up, Kurtz and Lucas parted ways.

Davis’s blog ends with the question, “Do you think George Lucas 'sold out’ by changing Jedi, or was he just making smart business decisions?”

I mulled over this a few days, and after some consideration decided the idea of marketability versus artistic integrity would be an interesting topic to approach to several examples of popular media and creative entrepreneurs with this question: at what point does one lose artistic credibility if they choose to participate in marketing and commercializing their artistic product? 

To begin with, I think there are a few gradients of the artistic integrity versus marketing scale, and can be generalized to these four types: 

1. Those who outright refuse to market their creation. 
2. Those who take an existing canon and reinvent/create a new adaptation. 
3. Those who create a new canon and choose to market it for greater exposure or profit. 
4. Those who sacrifice artistic vision and taste for purely marketing choices. 

I’ll start with a famous cartoonist who I admire greatly, Bill Watterson. Watterson created the legendary series “Calvin and Hobbes,” which I grew up reading (and still do on occasion), and famously left the American cartooning industry after tiring of the constant pressure from publishers to merchandise his work. He felt that selling mugs, stickers and T-shirts with spiky-haired Calvin and orange-black-striped Hobbes slapped onto them cheapened the characters and their personalities. Even after his retirement on November 9, 1995, Watterson refuses to sign autographs or license his characters – a resolve I completely respect. 

In his absolute refusal to license the self-centered, smart alec Calvin and the sensible, proud Hobbes, Watterson essentially spat in the face of the modern capitalist system: he refused to market his creation, believing that his stance was the only way to maintain his integrity and ideals. His ideals were a direct and polar opposite response to Jim Davis’s approach to “Garfield,” a cartoon that at its popularity leaked out into so many marketing alleyways – television shows, T-shirts, stickers, bookmarks, movies, etc. – that now, during its decline, Davis’s cartoon is less of a cartoon and more of a marketing logo. 

Watteron’s resolve to maintain artistic integrity never ceases to amaze me – the paneling and wit of his cartoons have been timeless ever since I started reading them over ten years ago (click on the picture for the full comic)

I believe Watterson’s front against marketing is what makes “Calvin and Hobbes” so much more appealing than most products. Yes, we all would like a stuffed animal of Hobbes, or a mug of Calvin and his shenanigans, but if it’s against the creators wishes isn’t it completely counterintuitive and disrespectful to go against so? Additionally, the lack of marketing and consumerist product added a sort of purity to the canon, that Watterson wasn’t selling out at all despite pressure from publishers and continued to cartoon out hilarity, wit and philosophy for the sake of integrity and quality. If anything, Watterson is the prime and rare example of a artist who fits the description of category one; the unfortunate reality, though, is that Watterson’s idealism would likely kill the potential of any creative project from taking off and finding an audience in today’s economic conditions: marketing is almost inevitable, and I’ve yet to see any widespread artistic property that doesn’t have any sort of commercialism attached to it. 

Then you have those who take an existing canon and adapt it into a newer story that resonates more soundly with the current generation. With numerous remakes flooding the Hollywood blockbuster market – Hulk, James Bond, Star Trek, Iron Man – Christopher Nolan’s take on the Batman universe is arguably the prime zeitgeist of them all. Dark, brooding, and full of implications that echo of pre- and post-September 11th sentiments and increasing suspicions of political and corporate authorities, Nolan’s revamp of Batman in 2005 and 2008 essentially made him the Godfather of superhero lore in movies (he’s even been commissioned to oversee the upcoming Superman project by Warner Bros). 

Adapting an existing canon puts you in an interesting position because regardless of your creative vision, the final product is still prone to marketing which is beyond your control. What matters here is how you reimagine the adaptation, and what elements you want to keep or discard while attempting to appeal to a certain demographic that includes fans of the canon and (potentially) those who would be interested regardless of the canon’s universe. In Christopher Nolan’s case, he successfully appealed to a wide demographic that includes Batman fans and those simply want to enjoy a popular and good film (The Dark Knight is an excellent example of films that are commercially and/or critically successfully, which I previously discussed here; interestingly enough, Nolan’s success with his second Batman installment established another demographic – Nolan fans). 

Nolan’s adaptations are significantly darker and less cheerful than Tim Burton’s famous films, Batman in 1989 and Batman Returns in 1992. Burton’s films were highly popular at the time, critically and commercially successful during their theater runs. Some Burton fans were thrown off by Nolan’s take on the Batman lore; some even felt that Nolan celebrated moral depravity, lamenting that the current generation had become too pessimistic and disillusioned. Personally, I prefer Nolan’s aesthetic over Burton’s, but this is simply a matter of tastes: Heath Ledger even said that he would’ve outright refused to taken the part of the Joker if had Nolan envisioned the character along the same vein of Jack Nicholson’s famous interpretation (between the two, I believe Ledger’s performance was tenfold more haunting, disturbing, and memorable – a definite movie icon for decades to come, I’m sure). 

Then there are those who completely throw out all artistic integrity in order to squeeze out every drop of marketing potential they can. If you haven’t already guessed, I’m referring specifically to Joel Schumacher, director of the horrendous 1997 film Batman & Robin.

Remember the Batsuit nipples? How about those awesome Mr. Freeze lines? Or the tight rubber suits with molded muscles? And let’s not forget those awesome toys you could get with your McDonald’s happy meals, or how Six Flags debuted roller coasters themed to Schumacher’s film! (Let’s be fair – Alicia Silverstone in tight Batgirl leather was probably the best aspect of the entire movie). 

If anything, Schumacher effectively killed the Batman franchise until Nolan’s breath-of-fresh-air revival in 2005 eight years later. Schumacher himself has admitted that the film was made with the intention kid-friendly marketability, stating that he was under heavy pressure from Warner Bros to do so. Regardless, Schumacher still did it, and at least has the dignity to take full responsibility for his directorial decisions. 

Cases like Batman & Robin really present major questions as to how far one relinquishes taste in lieu of product marketing. Schumacher’s film is an extreme example of the marketing versus integrity argument, but nevertheless an important one to consider: would the film have been better if he didn’t try to create something that had so many gimmicks or accessories that are otherwise superfluous, useless, and tasteless? I believe yes – marginally so, but very possibly yes: Schumacher’s film could have been much better if he didn’t throw away cinematic vision and taste in pursuit of creating a toyetic product. More important, though, is how this decision affected his reputation: a majority of his post-Batman films have been received poorly in the critical circles (though I did enjoy the thrill ride of Phone Booth in 2003), and some have even subtly spoofed Schumacher’s infamous Batman film. Schumacher’s Batman & Robin is a worst-case scenario when someone completely gives up tastes in favor of marketability – in which case the film will likely fail critically, and very possibly tarnish the reputation of the person responsible. 

So now we come all the way back to George Lucas, the pinnacle of the marketing versus integrity debate. He essentially helped create the Hollywood blockbuster; adjusting for inflation, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope is still number one in the United States since 1977 – the same year of its release. 

Star Wars was an incredible hit. From there, Lucas created two more films, though these sequels were nowhere near as jawdroppingly awing compared to the premiere of the film that started it all. While most critics and fans were equally (if not more) astounded and exhilarated with the second installment, The Empire Strikes Back, they were less so with the final arc of the original trilogy, Return of the Jedi – unsurprisingly, the most common criticism involved the Ewoks (Gene Siskel even expressed his dislike for the closing scenes that included the fluffy bouncy Ewoks, and numerous comedians have joked about the un-defeatable Death Star 2.0 being taken down by teddy bears). 

To backtrack a bit, George Lucas was heavily influenced by American mythologist, writer and lecturer Joseph Campbell, who’s most famous work is probably The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Lucas was the first Hollywood filmmaker to credit Campbell’s influence, deriving the famous Star Wars characters and plot structures from classic archetypes and narratives (i.e. Han Solo is the anti-hero; Luke Skywalker’s entry into the tavern is the hero’s first step into something less innocent before progressing upon his journey; Darth Vader’s famous “Luke, I am your father” scene is the classic forces of evil appealing to forces of good). Arguably, Lucas’s first three films were incredibly successful commercially and critically because he adhered so closely to classic motifs of storytelling that have gone back from thousands of years. 

So what happened with the third movie? It’s well known that oftentimes, the third part of a trilogy rarely outshines or delivers on the same level as the first (or even second) films. In Lucas’s case with the first three Star Wars films, The Return of the Jedi’s somewhat disappointing (but not unsuccessful) premiere highlighted a major question of artistic integrity versus business strategy – in changing the story and ending of episode VI, did he sell out? Was it a smart business move? Or did Lucas simply want a happier ending that simply didn’t satisfy the palate of his viewers? 

I believe there are three possible scenarios that led to his decision: 

1. Lucas felt a happier ending was more appropriate simply from a narrative standpoint, regardless of how the Star Wars franchise and market was doing worldwide. 
2. Upon seeing how popular Han Solo was, Lucas changed the story from its original, darker version to the one we’re all familiar with now, hoping that his decision would please (rather than upset) fans. 
3. Based on how high toy sales were, Lucas changed the story to appease what he believed his fans wanted – that all the principle characters be alive. 

The first scenario is simply a creative motivation, in which case I disagree with Lucas’s decision but still respect his resignation to artistic integrity. The second and third scenarios are similar, but slightly different in one distinct way: the second scenario is a measure of popular opinion that may or may not include toy sales (i.e. polls of favorite characters in the Star Wars universe) while the third scenario is a direct measure of popular opinion based directly off of toy sales. 

If the second case is true, then I’m less inclined to respect Lucas’s decision, but not to the extent of calling him a sell-out. However, if the third scenario is what actually happened, then yes – I believe George Lucas sold out. If making “smart business decisions” leads you to completely change your story, you have invariably skewed in favor of marketing over artistic integrity: what matters to critical and commercial reception is the final product, not the process, and if Lucas felt that changing the narrative of Star Wars was appropriate based off toy sales, then he invariably sold out regardless of his intention. 

We’ll probably never quite know what went through George Lucas’s mind when he decided to rewrite Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi. And with the release of more recent prequels starring Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman, disappointed fans have casted their frustrations at the director in a recent documentary titled The People vs. George Lucas, and Skywalker enterprises might be responding with their own documentary to defend the namesake. Whatever the reasons or reactions or fandoms, Lucas has demonstrated one of the trickier aspects of creative endeavors on the large scale – of balancing artistic integrity in lie of pragmatic marketing economics. 

My love for you is like a lovely river of loving, love! (click on the picture for the full comic by Scott Rasoomair)

Recommended Reading, Articles and Links: 

• Superheroes for Sale – David Bordwell on recent adaptations of superhero canons (specifically regarding Nolan’s approach to the Batman universe)

• Stop, Nolan, Stop! – James Berardinelli’s commentary on the curse of third film disappointments in trilogies

• Great Movies: Star Wars Episode IV, A New Hope – by Roger Ebert

• The People vs. George Lucas – Gerardo Valero’s commentary on the whole business of disgruntled Star Wars fans and implications for George Lucas

• Gritty Superhero Reboot – Spoof by CollegeHumor on recent Hollywood reboots of franchises

• The Power of Myth – A PBS documentary comprised of six one-hour long conversations between Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers. Five of the six episodes were filmed on Skywalker ranch, and Campbell comments on numerous Star Wars clips

Scott Pilgrim – A Tribute to Arcades, 32-Bit, and A.D.D.

If there was ever a movie that truly captured the essence of the digital generation, Scott Pilgrim vs. The World is the pinnacle of it all. Movies that have targeted this generation include Superbad, Juno, Pineapple Express, Knocked Up, The Hangover, The 40-year-old Virgin, Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, Garden State, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, (500) Days of Summer, Shrek – these comedy films collectively broke away from ‘80s archetypes of macho-nacho Arnolds and sexy-smexy Sharons. At the core, these films aimed to create more honest, more vulnerable characters on screen, presented either naturalistically, stylistically, or slang-slinging snarkily – regardless, they are all hilarious in their own right. Most of these films’ soundtracks are compilations of songs, each a flavorful (and invariably) pop culture tribute that listeners will catch here and there, further adding to the slice-of-life, down-to-earth susceptibility (or diabolically manic attitude) that these likewise movies try to depict. However, Scott Pilgrim goes where no movie of late has successfully gone before: to take every aspect of arcades, video games, internet memes, hackers and trolls alike, and throw it up on the big screen for everyone to see it in its ultimate glory. 

From here, I think it’s necessary to backtrack a bit – before Scott Pilgrim, before Facebook, before Wikipedia, before Google, before AOL, before MIDIs, before Windows '98 – the beginning of what we know as the digital generation. 

My dad is a hard drive engineer, and has been since I can remember when I started remembering. His occupation invariably resulted in me and my brothers having very early exposure to the desktop computer, which he had brought home from work. There wasn’t any word processing, media center, internet, anything what we would call absolute standard today: it was DOS, and I remember asking and learning how to log into the main screen (“dad-day, what do I type in a-gain?”) My brothers and I would fight over the computer so we could play some of those awesome games like SkiFree, Minesweeper, that submarine game I can’t remember, some Mickey Mouse game I can’t remember either – we fought and clawed at one another just to play a simple 32-bit games that were rather difficult (that damn Yeti would always murder us in SkiFree, and only recently have I learned how to overcome this obstacle. Blast!) My brothers and I remember our dad using those giant floppy disks that were “uber cool,” and that the concept of a portable computer, the laptop, was “way futuristic dude.”

We also remember the Nintendo NES and the subsequent Super Nintendo NES, and how we watched in awe as our friends played Mario on the non-flat, antenna-crowned television (“watch the turtle thing!”); how we were early observers of video sharing when my dad’s friends recorded multiple movies onto a tape (“keep rewinding – Beauty and the Beast is the second one on this video tape”); how much we begged our mom to let us buy and share one Gameboy mini (despite our desolate puppy eyes, we were rather unsuccessful on this front with our mother; however, my younger sibling managed to get away with it somehow and secluded himself with black and white Mario – I suspect my dad or his friend had a hand in this scheme); how addicting and costly it was to play your way through the entirety of a arcade game (one time, my brothers and I spent at least an hour playing this Simpsons game, and I suspect we dished out at least twenty dollars worth of change to stay alive and get our names on the hall of fame); when anime suddenly became mainstream pop culture when Pokemon hit the scene, with the trading cards and anime and movies and all (my old AP History teacher in high school compared the Pokemon trading cards to the stock market crash that caused the Great Depression, and boy was he right – I must have driven my mom crazy when I told her my card collection was over after months of trading and buying like the proper model consumerist); when the N64 duked it out the Playstation before the Xbox came into play; when getting on the internet involved jacking your phone line and annoying everyone in your family who needed to make a important phone call (“DUDE, get off the internet! Don’t make me phone jack you!”); when Nokia was still its own telecommunications company, and that everyone had a Nokia phone with customizable face plates (“mine has flowers because I am HIP like that”); and how it turned out that typing in queries with an added dot-com didn’t exactly get you to where you wanted (“let’s look up the white house – I’ll type in whitehouse.com and… AW GOD NO!”)

My brothers, my friends and I remember that transition period too, of cable television taking off; when pedestrian web designing became available (I remember being in awe of my friend when she managed to upload clips of Pokemon onto a website: “DUDE HOW DID YOU DO THAT?!”); when floppy disks were phased out by CDs; when MIDIs were not the only thing possible anymore when it came to streaming music on the internet; when flash and javascript started ousting html (and ultimately deterred me from pursuing web designing as an occupation); when mp3 players started showing up, years before Apple’s iPod launched; when DVDs started selling in Costco, modestly placed next to the aisles and stacks of video tapes; when our teachers started telling us to use Google instead of Metacrawler and the like (“it’s educational!”); and when the digital age became defined by the digitalization at hand, from games to encyclopedias to music to film to communication, everything. I can’t pinpoint an exact year when it happened, but at some point it did, and with a tour de force. Here is when the digital generation took off. 

What do I mean by the digital generation? I believe it to be inclusive of the generation that grew up with the early and current development of the world wide web and video games – essentially the generation that saw the transition from VCRs to DVDs, CDs to mp3s, newspapers to times online, and so on. Individuals of this generation don’t necessarily have to be involved with video games or the internet; rather, what I mean is that the digitalization of technology – of games and information – allowed this generation to research and look up infinite amounts of information at their very fingertips, and that this availability has, in a sense, caused an acceleration of intellect and A.D.D.-like symptoms – there’s just too much information to learn. 

This acceleration of intellect and A.D.D. compounds into an interesting mix: there’s almost a manic desire to prove oneself on the net, where your physical identity dilutes down into the avatar you choose, the style and language with which you write, and the subjects and discussions that you habitually gravitate towards. There’s snark, there’s trolling, there’s administration, there’s moderating, there’s polemic-ing, there’s wit, there’s extremism, there’s thoughtfulness, there’s intellect, there’s meme-ing – essentially anything is possible on the net, and you can define a anonymous identity simply by choosing which characteristics of the net to display, ignore, or engage in. 

This is where Scott Pilgrim comes in. If there’s one thing this movie does right, it’s paying tribute to the genesis of the digital generation: all the way back from SkiFree to Super Nintendo NES to Arcades to the manic identities of the internet, Scott Pilgrim is a celebration of all these qualities which define this particular generation – everything that makes the internet and video games awesome and stupid at the same time. 

You’re pretentious, this club sucks, I have beef. Let’s fight.

Talk to the cleaning lady on Monday. Because you’ll be dust by Monday. Because you’ll be pulverized in two seconds. The cleaning lady? She cleans up… dust. She dusts.

Scott Pilgrim is jumpy, bouncy, shiny, punchy, quirky – all in a glorious bundle of gaming honor and back-and-forth internet-style quips that critics bemoan as the downfall of intelligent and meaningful discussion. It’s like 4chan come to life, barfing up Pedobear and Philosoraptor into the vein of these characters as they duke it out in arcade-style arenas and consequences (in fact, some of the aesthetic reminded me of the glory days of Street Fighter and more recently Tatsunoko vs. Capcom). Vegans have psychic powers, music creates ferocious beasts, defeated opponents give you tokens, girls pull giant hammers out of their teeny-tiny purses, swords pop out of your chest – none of this makes sense, and trying to decipher their symbolic meanings is as pointless as a snuggie. You simply have to let everything explode around you in its fireworks display of green hair and ninjas, absorbing and digesting it all into a chyme of caramel popcorn and deep-fried twinkles. And hell, what a chyme it is. 

The film makes no attempt to argue whether or not video games are art (this is a wise choice, given how much flack Ebert received for claiming they are not). Instead, the film is a grand celebration of the frenetic energy that compels players to participate in the fun, the vigor and enthusiasm that results in rapid-fire remarks that can be uncannily hilarious or sarcastic or both. Scott Pilgrim celebrates everything that makes the internet great and terrible, intelligent and dumb, moralizing and demoralizing, and everything in between. Moreover, director Edgar Wright makes an effort to depict these gamer and snark characteristics in the positive – that while these characters are engaging in what judgmental critics deem as immature, insubstantial and trivial, they are still very much human and transitioning from the limbo of adolescence into something less immature, less insubstantial, and less trivial – or at least trying to. 

I don’t know how to explain this film except to say it truly is a great tribute to the digital generation, and that trying to understand the film logically is utterly useless. It’s a fervent display of colors and emotions, magnificently game-like and A.D.D. in its aesthetic. It’s an incredibly inventive film on multiple levels, and has established Edgar Wright as a favorite director of mine (his credits include Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz). Michael Cera plays Michael Cera again, but at this point his less of an actor and more of a presence on screen that will either draw us to or drive us away from the film itself. Regardless, I enjoyed it thoroughly and was able to ignore Michael Cera being Michael Cera (reportedly he was portraying Scott Pilgrim; now I have not read the original comic books, but there’s a sneaking suspicion that this Scott Pilgrim is incredibly similar to George Michael from Arrested Development, Evan from Superbad, and Paulie Bleeker from Juno – but I may be projecting in this case). 

So imagine my dismay when I heard that Scott Pilgrim was deprived of the weekend box office success after getting sandwiched by two very gendered films: The Expendables and Eat, Pray, Love. It’s like a repercussion attack from the '80s and '90s– the macho-nacho Stallones rambling up the screen with He-man guns and explosions of the '80s, and the self-righteousness of faux feminists that the '90s otherwise defended as “female empowerment” when really, the movie-character of Elizabeth Gilbert could easily be one of the most unlikable characters to date (let’s be frank: do you really think you can reach a lifetime of enlightenment by simply taking meditation 101 for only three months, and then mosey off to some other paradise and have a bloody blastastic time?) The respective characteristics of these two decades that the digital generation actively rejects and departs from are, ironically, the same characteristics that crushed Scott Pilgrim from a successful opening weekend run. 

Of course I’m disappointed. There’s a slight bitterness as to how things turned out: I wanted – no, expected – Scott Pilgrim to succeed, yet the '80s and '90s are still a haunting force that drives demographics to decide upon which movies to see or not. In this case, it seems that the digital generation isn’t strong enough to empower its cinematic representative, even in the prime age of digitalization. And with '80s remakes like The A-Team, I’m beginning to wonder if current political, economic and social constructions are starting to sway in favor of a decade that resulted in my university tuition being raised and financial aid being slashed, a decade which envisioned a trickle-down theory that has invariably failed on so many levels. 

I wonder these things with a slightly bitter heart, mostly because this digital generation – my generation – is still getting the axe from older generations. Scott Pilgrim celebrates the disco and bellbottoms of the digital generation, the meditation bongs of the internet and the folk songs of video games – not equivalently, but certainly analogous. So in a illogical, emotional way, the lackluster box office of Scott Pilgrim feels like the digital generation still isn’t getting the respect or recognition from moviegoers who’d rather see Sylvester Stallone blow up more stuff or Julia Roberts eat and consummate her way to happiness. 

I’ll fling all the RAGEEEE!!! and FUUUUUU!!! I want, but box office numbers are going to be the way they are. I can appreciate what Wright does with Scott Pilgrim, lavish in the memes and hax0rs of the digital generation, and find someone to borrow off the six graphic novels so I can start reading them in my spare time if case A.D.D. bounces me away from my current reading list of Anna Karenin and The Catcher in the Rye. However, when I see renown critics like A.O. Scott syntactically jumping up and down with glee in their beaming reviews of films that represent the digital generation, I can’t help but smile and feel a little bit validated. Just a bit, but just enough to feel just peachy whenever I feel like picking up the Wii to play some good ol’ Super Smash Brothers Brawl. 

…

Recommended Readings

• Two articles by Erich Kuersten on his criticism and defense of Scott Pilgrim (and Michael Cera)

• Scott Pilgrim vs. The World Review by Emanuel Levy

• Scott Pilgrim vs. The World Review by A.O. Scott