Magic, Old School...
I won't lie. I grew up during the Golden Age of cartoons, back when animated Disney movies were still good and overgrown mouse ears weren't synonymous with commercialized satanism. Sure there were schlock and drivel back then, just as there is now (half of Adult Swim's in house cartoons come to mind), but there were also serious animated films (SAMs?). I'm thinking in particular of such classics as The Hobbit, The Last Unicorn, Flight of Dragons, The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe, The Phantom Tollbooth (just to name a few), all of which used the medium's fluidity and versatility to their advantage.
And let's face it, had they gone the live action route, no one would remember them. Hell, I can barely recall the live action Narnia series, and they went whole hog on that one (much to Lewis' chagrin, no doubt). Remember, we're talking about the 80's and early 90's, back when synthesizers and filter effects were still cool. Industrial Light and Sound notwithstanding, special effects sucked (yes, even The Neverending Story is painful to watch--and I'll not waste space on the sequels).
So animation, logically, was a mainstay for anyone who dabbled in the fantastic or futuristic. It made perfect sense for Beagle to turn his book into an animated film, after all, who in his right mind would believe for an instant that a horse with a horn on its head was anything else? So instead we start with a unicorn in a forest who overhears two hunters saying that she's the last one and off she goes to find the rest. And just like that, we're in the story. Why? Because animation, like the paintings in Lascaux and the visual koans of the Zen masters, is a medium of the imagination. As such, it is an ideal environment for magic and marvels alike.
Is it any wonder that our love affair with CGI has yet to end? Even Disney, once the gold standard in animated films (from Snow White all the way to the Lion King), has publicly stated that it will no longer pursue hand-drawn films. Granted, with the success of the Shrek, Toy Story, and Monster's Inc brands, who can blame them? Still, there's something amiss with all three, and it's most evident in newer films such as Blue Sky Studio's Horton Hears a Who. Naturally, adaptations are a tricky business, as there will always be the old fans (myself included) who feel that the new work does not do justice to the original. There's also, in the case of contemporary CGI films, the tendency for them to become, as one friend put it, "Shrecked."
Horton's a peculiar case in that it looks almost like the original while sounding nothing like it. And perhaps, if half of Seuss weren't in the words, this wouldn't be a problem; but the fact remains that Seuss was as much a wordsmith as a xenobiologist (and if you've any doubt of that then go to a Geisel exhibit and examine his sculptures).
Looking back, I think that's why I've always been a fan of Burton's. Sure his works are as realistic as Dali's clocks are accurate (although I've no doubt that somewhere, in another dimension, they're as spot on and ours are the aberrant ones). Each time I watch one of his films, I feel as if I'm being invited into a private world of his own making, one that's a much a funhouse mirror reflection of ours as a projection of the warped and peculiar child that lives within him.
Yet the difference between his world and ours is not so much a product of supernatural possession as result of surrealistic diffusion (hence the allusion to Dali earlier). Strange things not only can happen, but do, and they are accepted as normal, or at least quasi-normal. Which is why his films always have a cartoonish (as in animation, not caricature) quality to them.
How ironic, then, that Disney should cling so tightly to his Nightmare materials, which are, in so many ways, unDisneyish (yes, the Mouse has shaped my childhood as much as FenFen has mutated...well, that analogy doesn't actually need o be completed, does it?). Unsurprisingly, Disney still invests heavily in foreign-produced, hand-drawn animations, as if to say, "we can't really be bothered with this, even though we know that when it's done well it's still better than Pixar." My first encounter with this phenomenon occurred when a roommate asked if I wanted to watch Princess Mononoke. I agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and was fairly entertained (then again, my introduction to Japanese animated films was Akira, which is akin to saying fuck the weed and give me the hardest stuff you've got). I was not, however, sold on the endeavor.
Not until Myazaki's Howl's Moving Castle, that is: here, I once again encountered the films of my youth. Like them, it's an adaptation, and, like them, it benefits from the simplicity of the medium. Whereas the book tends to bog down in details and side characters and odd twists and turns, the film sheds these embellishments in favor of a simple telling: the result is a delightful fable about two people who must either outgrow their circumstances or else remain forever trapped by them. The film also demonstrates the importance of realizing that magic is in the affect, not the effect.
My favorite scene, which occurs right after Sophie accidentally ruins Howl's vanity spells, illustrates this principle beautifully: in it, she enters his bedroom, carrying a glass of warm milk, and offers it to him. Like a petulant child, he shakes his head and goes "nhn nhn". And then there's a wonderful pause as Sophie, frustrated, looks about the room and realizes that it, too, is magical. After all, only a wizard could fill such a small space with so many devices and wards and toys and other childhood paraphernalia. Then we cut back to Sophie and Howl again, and there, in the corner of the scene, are two small and worn stuffed animals.
Just like Gandalf, whose mere presence is otherworldly, and Schmendrick, whose spells are constantly warped by his insecurities, the fantastic elements in Howl's Moving Castle are shaped both by the characters and by the medium, and no amount of CGI wizardry or technological gadgetry will ever be able to substitute for the magic inherent in animation.
And let's face it, had they gone the live action route, no one would remember them. Hell, I can barely recall the live action Narnia series, and they went whole hog on that one (much to Lewis' chagrin, no doubt). Remember, we're talking about the 80's and early 90's, back when synthesizers and filter effects were still cool. Industrial Light and Sound notwithstanding, special effects sucked (yes, even The Neverending Story is painful to watch--and I'll not waste space on the sequels).
So animation, logically, was a mainstay for anyone who dabbled in the fantastic or futuristic. It made perfect sense for Beagle to turn his book into an animated film, after all, who in his right mind would believe for an instant that a horse with a horn on its head was anything else? So instead we start with a unicorn in a forest who overhears two hunters saying that she's the last one and off she goes to find the rest. And just like that, we're in the story. Why? Because animation, like the paintings in Lascaux and the visual koans of the Zen masters, is a medium of the imagination. As such, it is an ideal environment for magic and marvels alike.
Is it any wonder that our love affair with CGI has yet to end? Even Disney, once the gold standard in animated films (from Snow White all the way to the Lion King), has publicly stated that it will no longer pursue hand-drawn films. Granted, with the success of the Shrek, Toy Story, and Monster's Inc brands, who can blame them? Still, there's something amiss with all three, and it's most evident in newer films such as Blue Sky Studio's Horton Hears a Who. Naturally, adaptations are a tricky business, as there will always be the old fans (myself included) who feel that the new work does not do justice to the original. There's also, in the case of contemporary CGI films, the tendency for them to become, as one friend put it, "Shrecked."
Horton's a peculiar case in that it looks almost like the original while sounding nothing like it. And perhaps, if half of Seuss weren't in the words, this wouldn't be a problem; but the fact remains that Seuss was as much a wordsmith as a xenobiologist (and if you've any doubt of that then go to a Geisel exhibit and examine his sculptures).
Looking back, I think that's why I've always been a fan of Burton's. Sure his works are as realistic as Dali's clocks are accurate (although I've no doubt that somewhere, in another dimension, they're as spot on and ours are the aberrant ones). Each time I watch one of his films, I feel as if I'm being invited into a private world of his own making, one that's a much a funhouse mirror reflection of ours as a projection of the warped and peculiar child that lives within him.
Yet the difference between his world and ours is not so much a product of supernatural possession as result of surrealistic diffusion (hence the allusion to Dali earlier). Strange things not only can happen, but do, and they are accepted as normal, or at least quasi-normal. Which is why his films always have a cartoonish (as in animation, not caricature) quality to them.
How ironic, then, that Disney should cling so tightly to his Nightmare materials, which are, in so many ways, unDisneyish (yes, the Mouse has shaped my childhood as much as FenFen has mutated...well, that analogy doesn't actually need o be completed, does it?). Unsurprisingly, Disney still invests heavily in foreign-produced, hand-drawn animations, as if to say, "we can't really be bothered with this, even though we know that when it's done well it's still better than Pixar." My first encounter with this phenomenon occurred when a roommate asked if I wanted to watch Princess Mononoke. I agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and was fairly entertained (then again, my introduction to Japanese animated films was Akira, which is akin to saying fuck the weed and give me the hardest stuff you've got). I was not, however, sold on the endeavor.
Not until Myazaki's Howl's Moving Castle, that is: here, I once again encountered the films of my youth. Like them, it's an adaptation, and, like them, it benefits from the simplicity of the medium. Whereas the book tends to bog down in details and side characters and odd twists and turns, the film sheds these embellishments in favor of a simple telling: the result is a delightful fable about two people who must either outgrow their circumstances or else remain forever trapped by them. The film also demonstrates the importance of realizing that magic is in the affect, not the effect.
Just like Gandalf, whose mere presence is otherworldly, and Schmendrick, whose spells are constantly warped by his insecurities, the fantastic elements in Howl's Moving Castle are shaped both by the characters and by the medium, and no amount of CGI wizardry or technological gadgetry will ever be able to substitute for the magic inherent in animation.
