But first, here’s the best online copy of Hedgehog in the fog that I could find, for your enjoyment.

So, what did I learn from Norstein?

Lesson 1: Animation is not literature

An idea can be formulated in words; the means of expression used in the visual arts are not indispensable here. But there may be something more which I may find difficult to put into words and which perhaps is not necessary for me. I have in mind the ideas composed of concrete pictures, of the artistic context in which these pictures exist, of colours, tones, some kind of flora, words, music, all those devices which can create something that cannot he translated into a language of words

Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? Yet almost every animated feature today uses dialog as a crutch. Dialog isn’t necessarily bad, but too much dependence on it kills the fun, at least for me. It also disrespects the power of the medium itself.

Lesson 2: Plot isn’t everything

a clearly formulated plot constitutes the deductive side of every film, a side followed attentively by every spectator. But if a film is reduced to the unequivocal content of its story, the content ceases to interest the public when they see it for the second or third time. I think that if a film is interesting, the spectator will always want to see it again, in order to follow not the plot itself but those elements that are connected with reality and have been expressed in a definite artistic language.

This echoes what Hitchcock said about the film medium in his interviews with Truffaut. In adapting Vertigo to the screen, Hitchcock deliberately revealed the “surprise ending” earlier on in the film. He said that he’d rather focus on the visceral tension than the intellectual puzzle, as the latter doesn’t hold up to repeat viewing but the former does. I know exactly how the plot of Rear Window unfolds, but I can’t pull myself away from that film everytime it happens to be on TCM. Hitch and Norstein concur: Go for the audience’s gut, not just their brain.

Lesson 3: Limitations are a good thing

I think that both objective and deliberate, conscious limitations are necessary in animated films.

Limitations can be great, whether external or self-imposed. They can compel us to come up with creative ways of doing things. Some of the most memorable animated shorts (including the one above) are actually stronger because of their limitations in style or scope. Here are just a few examples:

Lesson 4: Be your own audience

…I think mainly about myself. This may sound cynical. For me, however, this is the most objective evaluation of what I am doing…I think that this approach to creative work allows me to come nearer the absolute which exists in my imagination…I think that films for children can only be made by an artist who understands children. If he can play with three- or five-year olds, it means he can look at the world through their eyes and can make films for them.

It’s hard to know the mind of the crowd, and trying to please the critics is often futile. Be true to yourself, and tell stories that resonate with you first.

There’s more interesting stuff in the full article, so do read the whole piece. These are just a few of my observations and comments that I felt like writing down, to remind myself and share with you all.

I just got around to seeing UP; and despite the flood of reviews surrounding the film’s release, I made it a point not to read any. Here are my thoughts, fresh and unfiltered (some spoilers below).

Forced Emotions

Many friends who saw the movie had reported how it tugged at their heartstrings, or made them cry. Honestly, I can’t see why. I know audience reaction is pretty subjective, but I didn’t even come close to feeling anything like it. I did feel like I was being told how I should feel. The montage of Carl and Ellie’s life together is a clever piece of silent storytelling, and it might have evoked emotions in me if I had cared about the characters, but at that early point in the film, I didn’t (more on that later). The montage itself felt heavy-handed, and made me long for the more evocative storytelling in Kunio Kato’s “House of Small Cubes”, which had a somewhat similar sequence, but with a gentler touch that involved the audience’s imagination more.

Even the big turning point in Carl’s attitude upon reaching Paradise Falls felt too convenient. The conflict just didn’t feel strong enough. It might have been something if he actually struggled with his dilemma and gave up on going to Paradise Falls in order to save Kevin. At least we’d see him make a tough emotional decision, and maybe we’d feel more involved. Given Pixar’s past record of taking the audience on an emotional ride, the emotional changes in this film felt too sudden, almost forced, and I felt like a distant observer of somebody’s story unfolding. A big part of this was because I didn’t feel for the characters, which brings me to:

Shallow Characters

Charles Muntz is possibly the weakest villain I’ve seen of late, and his talking dogs seem almost pointless. But more significantly:

Who’s the most important character in this movie? Not Carl, but Ellie, whose memory motivates Carl to take his journey. No Ellie = no journey to Paradise Falls. We’re constantly reminded of how much she means to Carl even after her passing; yet, for such an important character, we know precious little about her! Too little to really care; and if we don’t care about her, we just have to take for granted what the filmmakers tell us about Carl’s devotion to her. That weakened my bond with Carl, the protagonist. Bye-bye, empathy.

Ellie’s bland design makes it worse. At least we have enough visual cues in Carl’s design to understand him quickly. Ellie doesn’t even have that going for her. With a generic design like that, she’d need a few more meaningful scenes to have the emotional thrust needed for this plot to take off.

Plot holes

Okay, I know Pixar’s earlier films aren’t perfectly plotted either, but at least their tight pacing and more endearing characters made us overlook their narrative flaws. This movie had neither, so I was left staring at some giant holes one could fly a Zeppelin through. I leave it up to you to find them, if you’re interested.

There were some good ideas here; they aren’t supported by a strong storyline though. Reminds me of this image (thanks for the tweet, Keith).

Nice lighting!

Hey, at least I liked something. Great job on the clouds, and the light filtering through the balloons. Dreamy.

Why Animation?

All right, may be you can help me on this one. Is there any reason this story had to be told through animation? Wouldn’t live action with VFX do the trick? They wouldn’t even need to animate the mouths on the dogs; the talking collar gimmick would have saved them a ton of money!
Please let me know in the comments if you can think of any good reason.

Do I sense a pattern?

Am I the only one who’s getting tired of the “Exposition through newsreel/tv footage” idea in Pixar’s films? I think it may have started with “The Incredibles” (correct me if I’m wrong), but “Ratatouille” had it, “Wall-E” had a variation of it, and “Up” begins with a newsreel too.

At what point does a studio start to see the patterns they’ve set themselves into?

Parting thoughts

I have to say, I enjoyed “Partly Cloudy”, the short that played with “Up”. It’s simple and to-the-point. Though it’s set in the clouds, it feels fairly anchored and balanced. “Up”, on the other hand, feels like a balloon aimlessly drifting away on the whims of too many ideas.

The trouble, then, lies with the story. And it’s a shame, because it’s the only thing keeping Ponyo from perfection.

Let me clarify: I have a very flexible notion of what a story is, and I’m not bound to Hollywood’s tight, narrow definition of narrative so much that Miyazaki’s simple, free stories fall outside my palate. It’s quite the opposite, actually. I love his child-like and unapologetically simple films like My Neighbor Totoro, Princess Mononoke, and the relatively elaborate but still unpretentious Howl’s Moving Castle. In fact, it’s because of my fondness for Miyazaki’s approach to story that I felt even more disappointed. Which brings me to the main point:

I felt that in Ponyo, the story tries to say too many things, but fails to tie them together.

Earlier this year, Kevin Koch wrote a critical review of Wall-E titled Wall-E: when Theme and Plot get out of sync. Well, the trouble with Ponyo is that the theme and plot(s) get disconnected. It happens early on in the movie, and in my opinion, they never really meet again.

*Warning: Spoilers below!*
A running theme in Miyazaki’s films has been the relationship between Man and Nature. Another one has been the purity and inner strength found only in children. In Ponyo, the second theme is beautifully and intimately tied in to Sosuke and Ponyo’s relationship; the first theme, however, gets fragmented and cluttered. Only at the beginning of the movie do we see Fujimoto’s anger and apprehension at the pollution of the sea by humans. As Fujimito’s plot progresses, the references to this theme get somewhat far-fetched and tenuous: I’m talking about the ticking-time-bomb cliché about the moon getting closer to the earth, and the declaration by Ponyo’s mother that if Sosuke accepts Ponyo as she is, the balance will be restored and everything will be fine. The link between this part of the plot and the pollution theme feels like a stretch. They could have found a simpler, more direct way to connect the two plots, and left the moon out of the story, resulting in a simpler, leaner story.

How?

Here’s one idea, suggested by my wife Ya Nan. Instead of the second act crisis being the separation of the family by the flood (which was predictable), they could have put Ponyo in a situation that weakened her or mader her fall ill. Then, Sosuke, with his determination and pure heart could bring her back to health — consequently restoring the balance between humans and Nature. It would tie in nicely with the Man/Nature theme, it would maintain the “children are pure and wise” mantra, and it would help streamline the plot and eliminate redundant dialog.

Which brings me to the other imbalance in the story: the two main plots are treated very differently. The plot involving the children is pure, fun, and heartwarming. It brings a sensitivity and depth of character animation that we rarely see on screen. The main character, Ponyo, is bound to steal your heart, and the dynamic between Ponyo and Sosuke has the kind of maturity that many adult-centric dramas fail to achieve.

By contrast, most adult characters in the film (except Sosuke’s mother Lisa) are somewhat one-dimensional, and their parts of the story are relatively colder and more talky. It’s an interesting quirk, and you’ve probably noticed it in Miyazaki’s other movies. It could be his well-known fascination with children that drives him to put his heart and soul into his young stars. Ponyo is no exception.

If my criticism of the story seems like a minor quibble, it probably is, in the larger context of the film. Despite the narrative issues, Ponyo is a joy to watch. It made me wish I lived in one of Hayao Miyazaki’s imagined worlds, where magic makes its way into daily life in the quietest and most surprising ways. Unlike the films of a certain large studio here that uses “Magic” as little more than a marketing mantra.

If you disagree, please leave me a comment and let me know; I welcome a good debate, and you could help me see things I might be missing.