The Pointless Forest

Comments for Blog Post 12

2005-12-09T22:54:00.000-05:00

Blog Post 12- Things to Tantalize Your Brain: The Visual Stylings of the Nightmare Before Christmas

2005-12-07T22:52:00.000-05:00

I remember when The Nightmare Before Christmas first hit theaters back in '93, and even then I thought it was one of the coolest movies I'd ever seen (and that's a sentiment to which I still adhere). The story is quirky. For all their grotesque appearances, the cast is insanely engaging. And Danny Elfman's score lacks comparison. But on top of all this, I think what makes Nightmare such a stand-out is that there is nothing really like it out there. At the time its claim to fame was the fact that it was the first stop-motion animated feature. Looking at the film tonight (and after reapeated home-viewings) I think that part of why it is such a cogently made film has to do with its sense of style.

There are two fantasy worlds in The Nightmare Before Christmas: Halloween Town and Christmas Town, both of which have unique visual conceits that draw upon graphic elements world cinema and ultimately draw those elements into a cohesive whole. The land of Halloween, as far as its architecture is concerned, harks back to Geman films of the Weimar Republic (particularly the wild designs seen in Robert Weine's The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari) with their exaggerated, twisted, contorted, downright nightmarish forms; Expressionist cinema serves as a precursor to modern horror films where the visual motifs that defined this era of silent cinema became toned down over time, only to be re-realized in the cinema of Tim Burton. The range of color in this environment is kept to a bare minimum (blacks, grays, with accents of orange, red and sickly greens); the black-on-gray combination again calls to mind the look of silent film. Architecturally, it is an environment that compliments the intellectual nature of Jack's problem; the abstracted forms that compose the town lend the environment a cerebral quality, and as in German cinema, they generally hint towards a troubled, tortured inner-self.

Christmas Town also draws on another genre of film: the televised holiday cartoon. In conrast, the color palette is incredibly vivid with bright whites, reds, and greens. The way the characters are rendered, they are dumpy and squat, and lack the spider-like grace of personnages like Jack; they look, move and behave like the characters one is loath to encounter in standard Rankin/Bass Christmas fare. Architecturally, this environment is a mesh of Expressionist and Atomic age design; there is the gross exaggeration (i.e. the large looming houses) mixed with the plainer, though equally bold, line sensibilities seen in 1950's/early 1960s graphic design that are manifested in the Christmas specials produced during that period. So in this way, the two visual styles are subtly reconciled, and it isn't that visually jarring when Jack transitions from one environment to the next.

Comments for Blog Post 11

2005-12-02T22:10:00.000-05:00

Lauren V

Gabrielle

Blog Post 11- Why'd He Go Down in History?

2005-11-30T22:19:00.000-05:00

I just finished my annual viewing of the Rankin/Bass holiday classic: Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. As a kid I have very fond recollections of this film, and how, whenever the Christmas season would roll around, I’d scan the television schedule to find out when my cartoon specials would come on, and it would make me insanely happy to plop down in front of the television screen soaking them in. Now I’m 20 (though still prone to behave like I’m 12) and it’s always interesting to look back on these films of my childhood that I held in rose-tinted regard. This film, by all rights, is horrible. The animation is jerky and unrefined. Lip synch is virtually nonexistent. The script has more holes than a major roadway in West Virginia. The characters are far from engaging (maybe with the exception of Sam the Snowman; c’mon, it’s Burl Ives… “Big Daddy” from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof… as a SNOWMAN!). So what in the hell keeps this cartoon coming into our living rooms every year for the past 40-odd years?

When it comes to American popular culture (particularly American popular culture from the 50s and 60s) I firmly believe that almost anything can be labeled as being one of two things: tacky, or kitsch. Tacky is flat out bad taste. Kitsch is the best of bad taste, something so bad that it’s wonderful, something created to the point that it is self-referentially deprecating (case in point: does anyone remember the Batman TV. series/movie with Adam West and Burt Ward?). I firmly believe that Rudolph is a piece of kitsch.

The visual design of the film is great, in keeping with the perception I have of atomic age aesthetics: lots of bold lines and bright colors so that, in light of its shortcomings in plot, Rudolph is an attractive film to watch. The characters look like they could have hopped off a Macy’s float or out of a storefront display (or the It’s a Small World “amusement” ride… which, had it been known to Dante, he would have made it its own circle of Hell). They’re simple, but they have a charm all their own. Additionally, I was surprised at the very strategic use of color. For instance, in scenes like Santa’s workshop, the predominating colors are blue and pink (seen in the clothes of the elves) juxtaposed predominantly grey interiors. Similarly, in the exterior shots, there’s a lot of white, the trees tend to be a green-grey color, the sky an intense blue. What this achieves is that, when Rudolph bounces on the screen, he really stands out; the character, in its entirety, looks RED. The color of his fur, though brown like his quadruped compatriots, has red highlights and, by grace of his color palette, draws the viewer’s eye to him whenever he’s onscreen.

Then there’s the music. Spawned from the song immortalized by Gene Autry, we are presented with a holiday special that has given us some tunes that most radio stations will spin come the month of December. Christmas isn’t Christmas without hearing Ives belt out “Holly Jolly Christmas” or “Silver and Gold”; they’re flat out fun to listen to. The rest belongs in the kitsch category. Tunes like “We’re A Couple of Misfits”, “Jingle Jingle Jingle”, “There’s Always Tomorrow”,and the anthem of the Island of Misfit Toys are another matter. As with any piece of musical theater, the story rarely mounts a natural segue into these musical numbers (and the fact that a populous of rejected playthings are joyously singing about their plight is, well, odd). But, like the plot, they’re so bad they’ll make you laugh. Though you’re laughing at things that the creators probably didn’t want you to view with mirth, it’s an indication that something has entertainment value. Isn’t that worth something?

As lacking and bumbling as Rudolph may be on the whole, it is not without entertainment value. Yes, the bulk of the events therein are plodding and pointless and you spend a solid fifty minutes of your evening waiting for the final five where our beloved reindeer takes his famous flight. But why not take pleasure in laughing at narrative shortcomings, the blatant stock characters and the clichéd situations they find themselves in, the unconvincing antagonistic abominable snowman, woodland creatures who will randomly burst into song and decorate Christmas trees with ornaments that came from who knows where? So, for one night, forego any pretensions or erudite airs, and plop down in front of the television for some bad good fun.

Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey

2005-11-16T23:19:00.000-05:00

See the Sock Monkey.
See the Sock Monkey run.
Run, Sock Monkey, run!

Sorry 'bout the size; PhotoBucket refused to cooperate and automatically resized my image.

Comments for Blog Post 10

2005-11-11T13:55:00.000-05:00

Zeke

Lauren V.

Blog Post 10- The Snowman

2005-11-09T23:19:00.000-05:00

"[T]he whole point of illustration is that it is literary. If it is not, it remains a drawing only"

-Raymond Briggs

It's that time of year again. It's well before Thanksgiving, the American populous is being inundated with a smorgasborg of Chrsitmas ephemera, and a season of animated holiday entertainment is nigh. There are classics such as the Rankin/Bass niblets of pure, unadulterated kitsch that have become the canoncial Christmas cartoons (Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman, Little Drummer Boy, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, etc. etc.). There are the delightful old standbys like A Charlie Brown Christmas and the Garfield Christmas special. And there are those that will appear for a year or two and then slip off the radar; Will Vinton's Claymation Christmas Celebration is an INCREDIBLE peice of animation, particularly the visualization of "Joy to the World" (and has ANYBODY seen A Wish For Wings That Work, the TOKEN cartoon centered around the seminal 1980s comic stip, Bloom County?; it's supposed to be sharply written). However, in my opinion, one of the best offerings of holiday fare is Raymond Briggs' 1982 cartoon, The Snowman. It is a nontraditional cartoon for this time of year and it impacts its audience as powerfully as it does because it is expertly done in pantomime with a beautiful score to supplement the visuals.

Briggs had a background in painting in typography before he ultimately decided to write and illustrate children's books. He turned out several titles in the 1960s before coming into his distinctive style and format with the publication of Father Christmas in 1973 (which was also turned into another great animated short); the book resembled a comic strip in that there were individual frames communicating the story's action. After several Father Christmas sequels, another holiday story, The Snowman, appeared in 1982. Like its predecessors, the story was delivered via small illustrated panels and without any accompanying text.

The lack of dialogue was retained when the story was tranlated to film, and engages the audience like few films can; you are forced to use a little bit of intuition to decipher what is taking place onscreen. Additionally, what makes silence such a powerful device in this film, is that the range of emotions experienced by the characters is not pinned down by language; when you see the Snowman dance, lounge in a freezer, or fly through the air, those actions can mean different things to different viewers and you are not looking to the "everyman" character, James, to tell you what to think and feel, and hope that his sentiments reflect your own.

The story centers around a young boy, James, who constructs a Snowman that comes to life and together they have a series of adventures on Chrismas Eve, culminating in a flight to the Arctic Circle where the pair get to meet Santa Claus. Christmas Day the child goes out in his front yard, hoping his snowy friend is still there, only to find out that the Snowman has melted away. What is also intruiging about this cartoon is that it is a holiday story but it is not centered around Christmas; the season is simply a backdrop for the mise en scene. And, what's even more interesting is the sombre tone of the film, where most animations seen during this time of year are, by and large, odes to joy. The film plays off of a solemnity to the Christmas season that is often avoided. With Chritmas comes the death of the year, the earth is in remission, and there is an overall absence of life. The character of the Snowman represents the life cycle that draws to a close during that season; he is created, he lives, then dies.

Among it's other merits, The Snowman is beautifully animated, more than ably recreating the colored pencil drawings of the children's book. On top of that, there's Howard Blake's music, which is phenominal (and for some reason isn't available on CD in the US) and engages the audience's emotions just as much as the visuals.

The Snowman is one of the few films where I'll admit to tearing up a bit, and if you're looking for an incredible peice of animation that's different from the old Christmas sandbys in a million and one wonderful ways, I strongly suggest this.

Works Cited

http://www.thesnowman.co.uk/home.htm

Comments for Blog Post 9

2005-11-04T22:14:00.000-05:00

Lauren V

Mona Rafi

Blog Post 9- Stereotypes in Animation

2005-11-02T23:51:00.000-05:00

I hadn’t seen An American Tail in I don’t know how many years, and, viewing it as a young adult, I was amazed at how much “stuff” flew right over my head, particularly the historical references. Another element of this cartoon to which I was not keenly attuned (which was approached in tonight’s class discussion) was its use of stereotypes. As it was mentioned, the audience is presented with depictions of all sorts of nationalities: the Italian with the greased moustache, olive fur, jet black hair and boasting a thick Sicilian affectation; the lanky Irish mouse with red hair and a predisposition to manic depression and singing doleful ballads in a tenor akin to “Danny Boy”; Honest John, the other Irish mouse, who is riding high on alcohol during an Irish wake. To their credit, this audiovisual shorthand quickly and ably communicates information you need to know about these characters, especially considering the film at large concerns itself with immigration. Also, the film provides a saving grace with the charming scene between Fivel and Tiger wherein the two avow to work past their preconceived notions of one another and get along; the use of stereotyped figures becomes forgivable with the inclusion of this message of tolerance and not prejudging people. At the same time, animated situations like this begin to raise the question: when is “visual shorthand” a positive tool to use? At what point does it become derogatory and offensive?

Tackling issues of representing ethnicity is a thin line that modern animators must tread with caution. The element of exaggeration that is inherent in the art of cartooning (and thus animation) can raise many problems. For instance, I’d like to recall a Betty Boop cartoon we watched in class that featured Louis Armstrong, where a floating animated head morphs into live action footage of Armstrong and then back again. Armstrong’s animated “self” dons the large eyes and exaggerated lips that are rooted in an unfortunate visual tradition where such liberal takes on the human form were intended to denote blacks as being inferior, ignorant, or simply something to be laughed at based on the awkwardness of how they’re represented. Another example is Disney’s Peter Pan where Native Americans are featured. The way they are rendered, their skin is redder than a blushing lobster and their English is broken beyond repair (it brings to mind poor Jay Silverheels, television’s beloved Tonto, who had to deliver some of the worst dialogue ever); this is playing off the idea of the “red” man to a grievous tee and ideas of non whites being intellectually inferior that had been circulating in American culture for centuries. If shown today, yes certain exaggerations will imply a specific social group, but at the same time, some forms of representation have long standing definitively negative connotations that will also be brought to mind.

At the same time, Italians and Irishmen have also been subjugated to visual sterotyping in American culture (look at advertising art from the late 19th/early 20th century; Americans are pretty indiscriminate in bashing ethnic groups be their skin a lighter or darker shade of brown). So why is it acceptable to lampoon certain segments of the population and not others?

So when are stereotypes "okay" to use? It's an issue that has always piqued my interest (and online resources seem to only delve into why sterotyping is a negative thing, and rightly so). If anyone has any articles/books/personal insight on the issue, I'd enjoy hearing from you.

For Fun... again...

2005-11-01T23:44:00.000-05:00

Poking about the internet I came across this archive of classic cartoons. They had the Betty Boop material we saw in class, as well as some Popeye material. So, for the few in the class who seem to enjoy vintage animation, dig in.

Classic Cartoon Archive

Comments for Blog Post 8

2005-10-26T23:23:00.000-04:00

Lauren V

Tom

Blog Post 8- Hell Hath No Fury Like A Man Cheated Out Of His "Snoopy Dance"

2005-10-26T22:41:00.000-04:00

I know that several people have already commented on the perennial Halloween classic, “It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown,” but I have a few cents to toss into the arena concerning its presentation on network television over the years. People, such as Lauren, have addressed the issue of censorship and an advised editorial process to which animated material should be subjected before it is to be presented to a general audience. But what about a situation where an animation is abbreviated for other, inexplicable, unforgivable reasons? This is the case with “It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown.” I watched the cartoon Tuesday night as I have done for many years and (as has been the case with this cartoon for the past several Halloweens) found that “the Snoopy dance” had been cut out. In the following, I would like to look at the editorial changes that this classic cartoon has undergone in its television airings, and venture (although definitive conclusions won’t be made short of me harassing the people at ABC) a guess as to why these changes have taken place.

The scene to which I am referring occurs in the throes of Violet’s Halloween party. Snoopy, after his psychological stint as a World War I flying ace who has been thwarted in aerial battle against the Red Barron, passes by Schroeder and his piano. The little virtuoso begins to play, Snoopy begins to dance, laugh, cry, and I am accustomed to being on the floor laughing (I think it has something to do with the sonority of that dog’s laughter; unless I’m that calloused and enjoy watching animated animals cry). As a child (and now young man with the sensibilities of a child) this was the highlight of the entire cartoon; it was silly, overdramatic, and it’s a great set piece for Snoopy, alongside the dogfight atop his doghouse. This footage has been removed and replaced with a sequence that I had never seen until they began the practice of removing “the Snoopy dance”.

Segments of the “Great Pumpkin” story revolve around the relationship between Linus and Lucy and the antagonism of the older sister toward her younger brother (from the expository sojourn into Linus’ prized pumpkin patch, to Lucy’s lacerating remarks as her brother goes to mail a letter to his mythological hero as well as their heated exchange before going out for trick-or-treating). For years I was under the impression that Lucy was a cold-hearted bitch whose goodness of character was not rectified until “A Charlie Brown Christmas” would air two months later (and this fact amplified the “Christmassy”-ness of the whole cartoon); every year my autumn months functioned around this “Charlie Brown continuum”. The only scene where Lucy was redeemed as a character was at the end when she takes Linus in from the cold and puts him to bed, but even then, the gesture works more to affirm that Lucy was right in matters concerning the Great Pumpkin, and her kindness is more a big-sister matter of course.

However, in recent years, a section of film footage has been aired on television that complicated my initial, long-held perspective on Lucy. It shows the Charlie Brown gang trick-or-treating and shows Lucy asking for candy to take home to Linus at the end of the night. How sweet! How benevolent! It’s the side of Lucy I never knew because the networks wouldn’t let me see it. Refreshing as it was, I sorely missed the comedy of Snoopy dancing (and his last hurrah in the film comes with the “Blech! My lips touched dog lips!” gag, which, while funny, has none of the hilariously maudlin drama of “the dance”).

In searching for "legitimate" materials that address the issue of the hack-n-slash attitude ABC has taken to this holiday classic, I instead came across a blog, lovingly titled The Red Baron Blog. This person has noted differences in the cartoon based on what network was airing it (be it CBS or ABC) and how this has affected the presentation (and the anonymous author also notes that another scene, which I honestly haven't seen a good LONG while, where Lucy pulls a football gag on Charlie Brown, has also been cut out). And apparently, home video releases have also varied in content. "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" appears to be a highly unstable text on par with Fritz Lang's Metropolis.

So you figure, at one point in time, this cartoon must have been aired in its entirety on network TV, fitting well within the half hour time slot. What happened? Has the rise of advertisments in between segments of a television program "necessitated" that some footage be ousted? Was it for the more noble cause of sanctifying Lucy? (Ok, so I seriously doubt that was the case...). Or perhaps this has to do with the advent of the DVD market; the only way people can access the complete cartoon is if they shell out the cash to purchase the handsome Charlie Brown holiday specials DVD set. As I said beforehand, all that I can provide here is speculation. Although the "extortion" answer seems awfully fitting.

Comments for Bolg Post 7

2005-10-19T20:59:00.000-04:00

Noah

Lauren V

Scott

Blog Post 7- Who's The Fairest One Of All?: The Women of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

2005-10-18T22:11:00.001-04:00

“You know, even as a kid I always went for the wrong women. I think that’s my problem. When my mother took me to see Snow White, everyone fell in love with Snow White. I immediately fell for the wicked queen…”

- Woody Allen as Alvy Singer, Annie Hall, 1977

In spite of its age, Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is still an entertaining and technically competent film. Its visuals still have the power to sweep you up and keep you glued to the screen. From the fair-skinned heroine’s frenzied flight through the woods to the wicked stepmother’s disturbing, self-mutilating transformation, this film holds its own among the powerful visuals of modern animation. However, in the discussion that followed, the issue of femininity and the representation of women in that film arose, where Snow White and the Queen’s respective characters were pigeon-holed into the stereotypical, socially backwards roles generally allotted to women in the 1930s (let alone women in the time period when the Grimm Brothers set the tale to paper). Reflecting on the film, and the original fairy tale, I argue that, although Snow White and her kindness-impaired step parent are essentially stock characters, they are deceptively simple and are due a little more credit.

In 1987, when the Disney film enjoyed its 50^th anniversary and nation-wide theatrical re-release, New York Times columnist Janet Maslin commented on the film’s technical merits, but also makes the point that Snow White is a far cry from a feminist figure, and glorifies the stereotypes of feminine beauty and a woman’s “place” in the domestic world. Specifically, she criticizes the heroine, saying, “Aside from her great daintiness and her credentials as a fervent housekeeper, Snow White has no distinct personality. She exists only to be victimized by her wicked stepmother - a far more interesting character - and to wait for Mr. Right”, and she later makes a somewhat tongue-in-cheek lamentation that the film perpetuates antiquated notions of femininity to modern audiences. Maslin seems much more interested in the stepmother’s character, who, though gripping in her actions onscreen, also plays into the “need” to be beautiful, and isn’t the most socially progressive cartoon character to grace the screen.

This is not to entirely discredit these characters of dimensionality, and thus, further contemplation. In her introduction to the Grimm Brothers’ story, Maria Tartar, in addition to her own interpretations of the tale, refers to The Madwoman in the Attic, a book written by feminist literary critics Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar. Tartar argues that the story is an inverted oedipal plot, where the two women vie for the affections of the paternal figure, which in this case is the magic mirror (or the prince if one is to refer to the film). Gilbert and Gubar, on the other hand, “suggest that the tale mirrors our cultural division of femininity into two components, one that is writ large in our most popular version of the tale”, which is the Disney film. The audience is presented with characters who are polar opposites of each other. You have the sexual, jealous, aggressive, uncaring stepmother set against the innocent, passive, “dumb bunny” who’s an ace with housework, Snow White.

In the original tale, according to Tartar, the element of housework serves as Snow White’s transition from childhood to adulthood; the dwarves of the original tale are, in fact, rather tidy, and offer the young princess to live in their house on the condition that she maintain it. I argue that it is in her continued servitude as a domestic that Disney’s princess is a comparatively empowered figure. In the film, Snow White is a domestic maven on par with Martha Stewart (sans mass media modes of marketing). She grew up in a home where she was made to work, and, when she’s working, she is in her element. Granted, she becomes painfully giddy at thought that her domestic know-how will engender the sympathies of seven strangers, and the pleasure she takes in this stereotypical woman’s role has become, well, antiquated and consequently frowned upon.

At the same time, since she is operating in her element, she quickly marks and defends her territory; the house is hers and she will run it as she sees fit and there is no one who can talk her down. Take into consideration the scene where the dwarves get ready to sit down for dinner; Snow White (with a wry, “I’m not taking BS from anybody” smile on her face) asserts that if they don’t wash up, they don’t eat, and accentuates this point with a firm finger directing her seven-strong protectorate outdoors.

There’s also the scene where, after a night of revelry, Snow White sees the dwarves off to work where she gives each man a kiss on his head. The act, in and of itself, is innocent enough, however, the heroine also seems to exhibit a little sexual prowess. When Grumpy comes to the door, she refuses to let him pass until she gives him a peck, going so far as to take him by both the ears and force his noggin to her lips; the disgruntled dwarf immediately softens up. Then, there’s lovable little Dopey, who goes back for two kisses. Are these those “womanly wiles” that Grumpy had referred to earlier? Seems to be the case, because, let’s face it, this girl knows how to work a crowd; she has set up a domestic situation where she is entirely in control (in contrast to her living situation with her stepmother) and where the men are virtual putty in her hands when they come home at night.

Regard that scene against one much earlier in the film where Snow White and her prince first meet in the castle courtyard. Snow White, although innocent and air-headed at being approached by a man, behaves coquettishly and leads him on; she runs into the castle, primps herself up a bit, sends the prince a kiss via a dove, and then coyly stares at him while she draws her curtains closed. It’s a strange altercation between observer and observed where the character in controlling this innocently amorous encounter makes an interesting shift; the prince enters the courtyard, enamored by Snow White’s voice and appearances (he the observer and pursuer, she the observed and pursued), but when Snow White goes indoors, she controls how much of herself she allows to be seen and heard as she “reels” her prince in (she becomes the observer, the prince observed and pursued).

The Queen’s presence in this scene is interesting to note, and calls back to Gilbert and Gubar’s take on the story. She is the older and sexually experienced (she’s married, though her husband, Snow White’s biological father, goes sight unseen- dare we presume him dead?), and so she is, by “virtue” a more menacing presence to prince charming. Notice that while the prince is wooing Snow White, and Snow White is ardently listening, the Queen’s eyes are fixed on the young man, not her stepdaughter and recently-affirmed rival in beauteousness; it’s as if she realizes that she is “past her prime”, no longer desirable and unable to take part in the joys of life that are open to youthful Snow White. While she thus comes off as a more complex character (perhaps one that deserves a smidgeon, but no more, of sympathy), it’s a representation that caters to pre-feminist movement attitudes towards women where the “Mrs. Robinson” figure should not, could not and never will be fetishized.

And therein lay the plight of the evil Queen. Her transformation is this cruel, self-effacing antithesis to Botox where, at least on a subliminal level, she submits to the fact that she has “lost” her beauty and her means of acceptance is to augment the self-imposed notion of ugliness. She is akin to any young girl who watches Snow White (well, real-life Hollywood actress) and wishes she were thinner and fairer, and would go to any extremes to attain a socially desirable aesthetic.

The film is hardly a treatise on “How to Be Successful and Look Your Fairest”, but its characters are a far cry from being flat. Much ado is made about the ideal appearance of woman, but those attitudes fall flat on postmodern audiences, and we prefer to revel in the film’s striking visuals, it’s humor, it’s wonderful score. At the same time, one can not deny the social advantages of being pretty. How many princes casually tromping about in the forest are going to dismount and say, “Oh! Dead girl!”, dismount, and promptly give her a kiss? Very few. But there again, that sort of thing only happens in the movies.

Works Cited

Grimm, Jacob and Willhelm. Maria Tartar. Ed. The Annotated Classic Fairy Tales. New York: Norton, 2002.

Maslin, Janet. “Snow White is No Feminist”. The New York Times. 19 Jul. 1987.

Also of note, if you surf the New York Times website, there is a 1938 review of Snow White, as well as another review written in 1987, but this one done by a male writer; it’s interesting to see what different writers tend to focus on.

Comments for Blog Post 6

2005-10-12T15:43:00.000-04:00

Lauren V

Lauren L

Blog Post 6- What's The Point of "Cheap" Animation?

2005-10-12T13:02:00.000-04:00

In his chapter on Paul Terry and the “Terrytoons”, Leonard Maltin constantly refers to the crude styling of the animated sequences, the lackluster scripts, and the fact that the company made its honest dollar via lampooning what successful animation studios were producing. Maltin really only credits the animator with being a “survivor” of the industry, and being able to make money on his product. Aside from that, there seems to be little point to the studio’s canon of low budget cartoons. However, this is far from saying that even animations that may be lacking in the technical merits that one might see in a Disney, Don Bluth or Max Fleischer cartoon are without value. Although there are several worthy candidates available for this topic of discussion (most notably the wonderfully written Rocky and Bullwinkle), I’d like to bring to light what may be a lesser-known cartoon: The Point.

Originally aired as an ABC movie of the week, this hour-plus cartoon was a realization of an album written and recorded by Harry Nillson (who may be best noted as the guy who sang the theme song to Midnight Cowboy). In a nutshell, it is the story about a boy, Oblio, who, in a village where all persons are endowed with points atop their heads, is born round-headed. Being a genetic anomaly, he and his dog Arrow are banished and they go on an enriching journey through the surrounding forest, and ultimately learn that everything has purpose if you take the time to acknowledge it.

From a technical standpoint, it’s about as advanced as the Schoolhouse Rock animated shorts that used to air on television, while at the same time it employs psychedelic visuals akin to the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. The coloration in the backgrounds and on some of the characters is strange; translucent paints seem to have been used, and the uneven brush strokes used to color in those areas undulate with the animation- although on one level it looks crude, it’s a visual style that has a vivacity that I can’t say I’ve seen elsewhere. As a musical, it’s even more of an oddity. Nillson admitted that this tale was the end product of an acid trip, and that fact begins to show up from time to time. While the music itself is excellent unadulterated early seventies pop, the numbers themselves sometimes don’t have the most direct correlation to the action (and in many cases, the characters aren’t even involved in the visuals accompanying the music).

What makes this a stand-out film is the writing and how the language of the story interacts with the visuals. To begin with, this movie has to be the world’s longest pun in how it keeps playing upon the multiple meanings of the word “point”. There are also instances of fantastic interplay between language and visuals; for instance, when the rounded characters have more pointed pieces of advice to offer, while those with physical points on their person are more or less useless to our heroes. And then there’s the animation done on Arrow; unable to speak, he has a lot of character. His eyes can shoot a wickedly sarcastic look at the screen, matched with a wonderful grin, while at other times he can smile and have his tongue loving lag about; for low-tech animation, he is an amazingly engaging character.

Oblio (right) and Arrow

On the whole, it is a well-crafted piece of “children’s” entertainment. I place “children’s” in quotes because, as is the case with Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, and St. Exupery’s The Little Prince, this work has layers of meaning, and complete understanding of what the film is communicating by an adult audience. Children’s lit has sustains its power through the art of the metaphor; a visual embodiment of a certain concept that directly conveys meaning to the mind of a child, but to an adult mind, that visual can acquire different connotations that may expand on the meaning of an initial text. (Brief example: the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood is read on a literal level by a child- it’s an animal, but, an adult mind knows wolf to also mean an adult male sexual predator, and this shift in meaning allows for a different take on the beloved tale).

For me, this has been the case with The Point. As a child, I always understood it as a tale of acceptance of others, no matter how different they may be; this point is made explicit several times throughout the course of the film. However, it is only as a young adult that I am able to wrap my head around the metaphorical meanings of the characters Oblio and Arrow encounter in the Pointless Forest (and even with repeated viewings I can’t quite seem to pinpoint exactly what these things mean), seeing them as more than creatures of pure eccentricity. For example, there is the Pointed Man, who is endowed with points and appendages that point in every direction (but, as he himself notes, “a point in every direction is the same as no point at all”). This strange, omnipotent character seems to embody “the man” “the establishment”, the all-knowing, all-controlling system of power and control that we encounter in our own society that tries to steer us in the ways that it sees fit. Armed with an interpretation like this, the Pointed Man is more than a befuddled character with contradictory niblets of “advice” to offer Oblio; he becomes an antagonistic figure who tries to direct and misdirect the pointless little boy.

With its excellent writing, images both boggling and thematically complex, fun music and a message whose potency is never lost on the viewer no matter what their age, I strongly reccomend a viewing of The Point.

A subtle jab at Disney? This Mickey-Donald freak of nature is one of those images that keeps my mind boggled. It appears during a song titled the “POV Waltz” which asserts the necessity of making oneself aware of different points of view (yes… I think I understand that song correctly…). Is this making a broad comment on what one deems to be “quality” animation? Considering the nostalgic reference to the Fleischer “bouncing ball” cartoons (pictured below), commentary on the animation industry doesn’t seem to be outside the realm of reason.

All images are from the 2004 DVD release of The Point.

Maltin, Leonard. Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Plume Books, 1987.

For Fun...

2005-10-05T23:45:00.000-04:00

I'm too cheap to pay for cable and as the Saturday morning cartoons currently on network television leave something to be desired, I take to the internet to get my animation fix. Here are a couple of sites that y'all may enjoy.

The Library of Congress is a great place to visit, on and off the web. The Motion Pictures department has some early animated films posted here (click on the "Alphabetical Title List" or "Chronological Title List" to access the film titles).

Another site that I frequent is the 30 Second Bunny Theater. The name kinda explains it all. Take classics of modern cinema. Reduce the plot down to 30 seconds. Replace people with flash-animated bunnies. Mix well and you have some humorous niblets of animation.

Aardman Animations gave us Wallace and Gromit and Chicken Run, and their website has a nice offering of their short subject films. More of their work (and other cool animations) can be found if you have the time to poke around on the Atom Films website (I'll forewarn you and say that with my experience with Atom Films, movies may or may not successfully load for reasons I can only attribute to something being off with cosmic balance as any logical explanation eludes me).

Finally, I willingly admit to enjoying senseless animal violence (I suppose there's something cathartic about it... but that's a debatable topic for another time...). Imagine the Happy Tree Friends as a cross between Care Bears and Quentin Tarrantino. If you like the former but not the latter, avoid the site. If you like the latter and/or the former, have at it. If you enjoy neither... well... the site may still cause you to laugh. The short "Eye Candy" is my personal favorite.

If anyone else has some fun hubs of internet cartoons that you find yourself visiting time and time again, I'd enjoy hearing from you.

Comments for Blog Post 5

2005-10-05T23:25:00.000-04:00

Lauren V

Phillip Thomas

Blog Post 5- Anime: For What It's Worth

2005-10-05T23:07:00.000-04:00

It’s all the rage and I seem to be the one out of the loop. Come Saturday morning I remember my Dad grumbling about “cheap animation” on the TV. In the past couple of years, the art form has boomed to the extent that it seems to have dwarfed televised domestic animation and is carving considerable niches for itself in the realm of cinema (and the corresponding element of merchandising). Yes, I’m referring to anime. I’m far from having jumped on the bandwagon, but I think it’s an art form worth analyzing for its elements of style, if not for its current pop culture value alone.

I haven’t seen an exorbitant amount of anime films, but what I have viewed has been anywhere between excellent to downright poor (as is the case with all aspects of cinema). I’ve always thought the staples of Saturday morning to be stiffly animated, with the characters’ movements inanely repetitive, facial expressions (to quote Dorothy Parker) “run the gamut from A to B”, plot lines silly at best; in short, it was pretty unengaging stuff (*cough cough* Pokemon *cough cough*). However, I do remember a anime from my childhood that I fondly remember, not for the animation (which was pretty low-grade), but for the storytelling element. It was an adaptation of The Little Mermaid (and it came out at the time when the Disney film of the same name was THE movie, usurping the status long held by The Land Before Time amongst the preschool/kindergartener segment of the population). This retelling of the Hans Christian Andersen tale was much darker than the perky Disney flick; the mermaid’s suicide was reinstated (yes, ‘tis true, prince not-so-charming spurns her and she takes her life) and I remember the color scheme revolving around these foreboding shades of blue, so the tone of the film was, visually and textually, more in keeping with the original story.

As I got older, I was exposed to feature length anime films. Around my freshman year in high school, a friend lent me Macross Plus, which amazed me with the fluidity of its animation, and an engaging “love triangle” plot. Spirited Away fascinated me as the story of Chihirro played like a modern fairy tale decked out with the classical trimmings that I love nearly and dearly (sprites, spirits, the supernatural… all that wonderful stuff). Additionally, the animation quality of that film is superb; the entire film was animated by hand, and yet the characters’ movements are no natural, and even the tiniest gestures are rendered. Osamu Tezuka’s Metropolis is a mixed bag; supposedly an adaptation of a classic manga (done by the same artist who gave us Astro Boy), it’s more a direct lift off the 1927 Fritz Lang film (and yet no credit to him or the classic sci-fi flick appears… hmm…). As far as animation style goes, it’s an often jarring hodge-podge of 2D and computer generated graphics; one element never integrates seamlessly with the other. Just the same, the film has its moments of visual beauty that make it worth watching.

At the same time, I grow tired watching a great deal of these films for one reason: so many of them are centered on action. I’m the kind of person who enjoys a well laid-out drama (even melodrama… I need a good laugh every now and then…). But the crux of so many of these films seems to be: “how many things can beat up in as many inventive ways as I can?” Film itself rests on the concept of suspension of disbelief, but here, I find my abilities of suspension to be tested. Attempts at awe-inspiring violence end up coming off as downright silly, and I have little patience for it.

However, the rendering of the characters in all these films is very strange to me: they all have an American esthetic. For animation done in Japan, I would expect, well, characters that looked Asian in origin. But with the materials that I’ve come across, this doesn’t seem to be the case (Vampire Hunter D is an excellent example where everyone is tall, slender and WASP-ish in appearance). What does this say about foreign animation? Are overseas animators simply looking to market any product they can push out to an American audience, and in doing so, forsaking visual conventions inherent in their respective culture? Is American popular culture so bombastic that the only way for foreign competitors to fare well in our markets is to sell us mirror images of ourselves?

Comments for Blog Post 4

2005-09-28T20:37:00.000-04:00

Lisa Hargrove

Kristy Manas

Blog Post 4- Dead or Alive: The Perseverence of Stop-Motion Animation

2005-09-28T01:20:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, a friend and I made a pilgrimage out to the Lee Highway Cineplex in order to see Tim Burton’s The Corpse Bride. He’s a filmmaker I’ve grown to love over the years, and my first encounter with his work was 1993’s The Nightmare Before Christmas (and in a nostalgic sense, I was hoping his second full-length animated feature would recreate that same sense of awe, wonder, and inexplicable deep-rooted joy that came from watching a film- I’ll get into this point later). Before the main program started, there is (as has become the norm, in lieu of animated shorts and newsreels) a barrage of trailers for coming attractions. It was interesting to note that, among these previews two cartoons were featured: one was Disney’s Chicken Little (and, in not seeing the Pixar moniker, I was filled with concern) and DreamWorks’ Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were Rabbit (which had me grinning from ear to ear as I love the trio of animated shorts from the late 80s/early 90s). In addition to considering the nature of the film I was about to see, I began to wonder: how do stop-motion films compare (and compete) with the state-of-the-art computer generated animations that have become standard in animated entertainment?

The September 23^rd issue of the Washington Times carried an article, Animation Has a Slower Pace: Stop-motion On Comeback, that addresses the viability of stop-motion animated features in the modern market. The article’s author, David Germain, made the observation that between 1993 and the present, only a handful of these movies have graced the movie theaters: The Nightmare Before Christmas, James and the Giant Peach, Chicken Run, and now The Corpse Bride and Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were Rabbit. From a marketing standpoint, this creates scarcity: these films will always bear a novelty value that computer animation had when Toy Story came out, but has dissipated as it becomes the norm.

There is also the issue of visual quality. Tim Burton was quoted as saying, “There’s just something visceral about moving a puppet frame by frame… There’s a magical quality about it. Maybe you can get smoother simulation with computers, but there’s a dimension and emotional quality to this kind of animation that fits these characters and this story.” And from there, Germain states that the nature of the story being told dictates how it is to be animated; the slick stylings of computer generated graphics are appropriate for the sarcastic, modern humor of films like Shrek, whereas the wry, dryer wit of characters like Wallace and Gromit is better conveyed with the bulkier, not-so-hip-yet-no-less-endearing renderings.

Now, to (gracelessly) move into a critique of The Corpse Bride…

No bones about it, I had a lot of fun watching this movie. Visually, it was a delightful hodge-podge of the Victorian airs you find in the art of Edward Gorey, the expressionistic design from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (silent film… worth seeing if you enjoy art film… or early psychological thrillers…), with a little bit of New Orleans Mardi Gras thrown in. The animation itself was incredible; much smoother than Nightmare Before Christmas (not that this should reflect poorly on the older film; the clunkier animation, in my opinion, added an appropriate sense of surrealism to the movie). The talking maggot with the visage of Peter Lorre was a personal favorite (especially as that character allows for some sequences of black humor involving references to schizophrenia). The storyline and dialogue were well done and incredibly funny (replete with a Gone With the Wind reference that was funny… though a bit awkward).

Danny Elfman’s music was not as memorable as his work for Nightmare (with the sweeping orchestral scoring, and songs that were both catchy and so emotionally fraught you’d have to be dead inside to not sympathize with these walking, talking puppets). The music was appropriate, worked well within a given scene, and effectively conveyed plot (and back-story), but I wasn’t walking out of the theater humming the tunes (kinda like the music from 1776… but that’s a tangent for another time…). That minor quibble aside, I left the auditorium vowing to pre-order it on Amazon. Can’t remember the last time I felt that way about a computer animated film.

Germain, David. Animation Has Slower Pace: Stop-Motion On Comeback. The Washington Post. Friday, September 23, 2005.

Comments for Blog Post 3

2005-09-21T22:37:00.000-04:00

Kristy Manas

Lisa Hargrove

Bonnie Tuff

Blog Post 3- Animation: A Vital Appendage of Modern Filmmaking

2005-09-16T18:02:00.000-04:00

In the text, Leonard Maltin makes reference to Disney’s early short films, in particular, the Alice series. He makes the point that, in addition to the novelty of an audience viewing drawings in motion, there was live action footage integrated within the animation. We are also given other examples such as Bobby Bumps, Felix the Cat, and Koko the Klown who interact with human counterparts. However, in the years since these films were made, this integration of cartoons and live footage has evolved beyond novelty status and animation has become an integral element of modern filmmaking.

As I’ve mentioned here (and in a previous posting) animation within live action sequences was either an accent piece, or a means of conveying the abstract or supernatural. In Nosferatu (1922) doors open and coffins close themselves by forces sight-unseen thanks to stop motion animation. In Die Nibelungen there is the dream sequence, in another Fritz Lang film, Metropolis (1927), a bustling futuristic city is conveyed through stop motion animation as well as through meticulously rendered hand-drawn animated sequences. While these segments are certainly helpful to the narrative as a whole and are visually incredible in their own right, they are not vital to the story as a whole (the animation during the robot’s transformation sequence in Metropolis, however, is another story, but I digress). By 1933, however, we have the figure of King Kong gracing the movie screen, and he is no more than a (still highly impressive) piece of stop motion animation. And, let’s face it, the film would have been a bit of a bust without the giant gorilla.

More examples of this integration of animation and live action crop up. Who would remember Jason and the Argonauts if it weren’t for that kickass (yes it’s a technical term) scene where the skeletons rise up from the earth and engage our hero in heated combat? Maltin points out Disney’s infamous Song of the South as well as the more favorably remembered Mary Poppins and Pete’s Dragon. One unfortunately ill-remembered film is Disney’s Return to Oz (1985) which finds Dorothy at odds with a race of underground people (more affectionately known as Nomes) and their king. The Nome King and his minions are done entirely through clay animation and it is incredibly fun to watch these fantastical creatures emanate from the walls, morph into other shapes, or see ominous hands appear out of nowhere to hew out a doorway. (Side Note: the sequences were done by Will Vinton who is probably better remembered for his California Raisins ads, but if you haven’t I strongly suggest you view his cartoon Claymation Christmas- it’s a certifiable work of art).

With the advent of computer technology, filmmaking has become increasingly reliant on animation. Tron (1982) aside (though it is a wonderful piece of pure, unadulterated kitsch), there are films such as Alice in Wonderland (1999 TV version), Minority Report, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, and George Lucas’ “Travesty Trilogy” (publicly released as Episodes I, II and III) that are completely reliant their animated characters and computer generated landscapes to tell a story (with some doing so more competently than others). Computer-generated animation has opened doors, not only with rendering backgrounds and special effects, but also with what kinds of characters can be represented on screen to realistically interact with human counterparts. We have moved well beyond the realm of novelty; animation is now a viable alternative to live action actors.

The Nome King (Nicol Willimson- anyone remember Merlin from the film Excalibur?)
Image taken from the 2004 Disney DVD release of Return to Oz

Live action combined where Dorothy (a pre-Waterboy Fairuza Balk)converses with the clay-animated figure

Works Cited

Maltin, Leonard. Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Plume Books, 1987.

Comments

2005-09-14T20:16:00.000-04:00

Comments made for Blog Post 1

Kristy Manas

Bonnie Tuff

Michael Perry

Comments made for Blog Post 2

Kristy Manas

Lisa Hargrove

Blog Post 2- Define "Classic"

2005-09-13T18:55:00.000-04:00

What was intersting about Maltin's chapter on Walt Disney is his more or less even handed approach towards the work of this animation innovator. Growing up, I had always had this perception that Disney's cartoons were the "creme de la creme" of animation, each and every one a critically acclaimed classic (or so the videocassette packaging lead me to beleive). Not so much. While Maltin extols the virtues of Disney animation, he doesn't fail to note the films where the narrative structure is lacking, or the characters with whom any self respecting audience fails to empathize. Another intersting take on the Disney canon is Cristopher Finch, who is an even harsher critic in the course of his The Art of Walt Disney. From his perspective, everything that the Disney studios put out is lackluster, with the exceptions of Snow White, Pinocchio, and Cinderella. Although he too appreciates how Disney advanced the art of animation, he argues that these works, when held in regard against the rest of the film industry, are not the most cogent works of cinema. So, I begin to wonder, how great are these films?

As a child, I was fortunate enough to grow up during the Katzenberg era of Disney animation, that glorious second golden age that produced The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and The Lion King. Shoot, the first film I ever saw in a movie theater was the 1987 theatrical re-release of Snow White. Additionally, the aid of a VCR allowed me immediate access to the multitudinous installments in the Disney cannon, so suffice to say, I have some pretty vivid memories of growing up with these films. When Katzenberg departed to start Dreamworks, the Disney studio began a tradition of producing lackluster films (be they straight to theaters or home video) whose only saving grace was (and still is) the innovative animation of Pixar. Bemoaning what this fondly remembered studio was pumping out, I got nostalgic for the old films that were made while Mr. Disney was still alive. I mean, all the spines of the VHS clamshell cases don the moniker “Classic” or “Masterpiece”; I had grown up wholeheartedly believing that these cartoons were all solid pieces of cinema.

After reading Finch’s book (I’ll grant you it was the condensed version of the 1970’s edition of the book; it’s been revised since then) I went through the collection of Disney videocassettes and started giving these films another viewing (most for the first time since I was in elementary school). As cogent works of film with the ability to hold its own against live action movies, the Katzenberg cartoons still hold their own as do the earliest of Disney movies, Snow White and Pinocchio. Snow White, dopey as the heroine may be (pardon the pun), is visually engaging, a well constructed piece of musical theater (as opposed to the current Disney tradition of plopping musical numbers in their animations simply as a matter of course), and contains morbid bits of material that Disney wouldn’t place before its modern, younger viewers. Pinocchio still contains, hands down, some of the most disturbing sequences in film I’ve come across. Fantasia is an art film in the purest sense of the concept, providing the audience with animation ranging from the highly abstract, to the realistic, to the fantastic, to the delightfully cartoony; it’s like an ideal platter of hors d’oeuvres where, if you don’t like one segment, there’s bound to be something in that film to pique your interest.

But there are other films that I don’t think hold up as well. I watched Cinderella keeping in mind Finch’s praise, but thought the animation and story were both flat (excepting one scene with “singing bubbles” that was rather impressive and a few genuinely funny bits of slapstick). On top of that I was weirded out by the first scene where our oppressed heroine, who I’d always taken to be something of a self-respecting housekeeper, singing with rats and other assorted vermin for the first ten minutes of film. But I digress.

The point I’m trying to make is that the work of Disney is truly a mixed bag. What films may have advanced the medium of animation technically may not themselves be exemplary works of cinema, and what has been labeled as “classic” material is more an element of marketing than anything else.

Works Cited

Finch, Christopher. The Art of Walt Disney. New York: Abrams, 1975.

Maltin, Leonard. Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Plume Books, 1987.

Blog Post 1: Animation and Storytelling

2005-09-06T19:19:00.000-04:00

In the “Silent Era” chapter of our text, I enjoyed how Maltin gives a sense of how the art of storytelling through animation underwent an evolution from a vaudeville novelty act to cartoons with a more congealed narrative structure. At the same time, when you think about how a narrative is conveyed to an audience, it’s strange to think about viewing silent cartoons. In modern film, we rely on vocal cues to understand what an animated character is thinking or feeling. In silent live action films, the well-laid (albeit exaggerated- though the concept of subtle acting on film begins to sink in towards the end of the silent era) gesticulations of the actor’s body, down to the movements of eyes and fingers, works as a means of characterization and to convey emotion, with intertitle cards filling in gaps that can’t be depicted on film (like dialogue). I readily admit that I’ve seen very little from this time period, but the way Maltin describes the appearance of word bubbles during cartoons to convey dialogue (just like a comic strip in motion), I imagine that would be visually jarring. Additionally, animated characters (as meticulously drawn as they were) are not physically articulate enough to express emotion as a human actor would. Were all these cartoons riding off their novelty value until the advent of sound, or were these drawings in motion ever seen as another means of telling a story on par with live action movie making?

A personal interest of mine is Weimar Republic film, and one, Fritz Lang’s Die Nibelungen, weaves an animated sequence into the film to effectively convey concepts that, if depicted by other means, might not be as effective. As the story goes, Kriemhild (good, hearty name for a lady) foresees the death of her husband in a dream and is recounting the events of this vision to her mother. As opposed to describing the dream textually (via title cards) or through a continuation of live action photography, Lang inserts a fifteen minute animated segment. The “cartoon” begins with three shapeless forms, two black and one white, deftly moving across the screen, eventually assuming the forms of birds; the black birds kill the white one, and the animation ends.

This sequence fascinates me because the surrealistic/expressionistic rendering beautifully lends an abstract concept physical form. Additionally, it’s interesting as it provides information pertinent to the narrative as a whole without the use of words. Working with basic color symbolism (where black equals bad and white equals good) and given the context of preceding events in the story (which I won’t take space to bore you with here), the audience is able to derive meaning; a character is going to undergo a personal downfall. On top of that, the way the birds are drawn, how they move, and the music that accompanies their movement instills in the viewer a feeling of foreboding to compliment the literal understanding of things to come. In my opinion, this is where a visual media is at its most potent- when, relying on the competence of its own visual information, it is able to communicate with its audience.

***Addendum as of 9/7/05, 8:39 PM

Nothing like trying to describe abstract art without pictures. Hopefully these pics will serve better than me trying to describe the animation verbally. To give credit where it is due, the sequence was animated by Walter Ruttmann, and these screen caps are taken from the Kino DVD release of Die Nibelungen

Works Cited

Maltin, Leonard. Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Plume Books, 1987.

Testing

2005-09-02T01:58:00.000-04:00

Testing... *taps mic*... testing 1... 2... 3...