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Oppenheimer (2023)
Oppenheimer: The Clarity of the Fractured Lens by Maria Elena Gutierrez
J. Robert Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy) is one of the most complex characters to grace the silver screen in many years. It is too easy to say that Christopher Nolan's monumental biopic "Oppenheimer" portrays him as a genius because, as his rival US government official Lewis Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.) observes: "Genius is no guarantee of wisdom. How could this man who saw so much be so blind?"
This difficult question lies at the very heart of "Oppenheimer." On the one hand, the film shows us a brilliant scientist who not only navigates the unfathomable realm of quantum physics, but learns Dutch in just six weeks in order to deliver a lecture on the subject. An incredible feat, about which Oppenheimer says simply: "I wanted to challenge myself."
Oppenheimer's genius brings him extraordinary insight into the workings of the universe. As his friend, literary professor Haakon Chevalier (Jefferson Hall), observes: "Robert, you see beyond the world we live in." For Oppenheimer, this lofty cosmic realm co-exists with his earthbound reality. Oppenheimer's real talent is that he is able to stand with a foot in each world, straddling the border between the two.
Christopher Nolan invites his audience to share Oppenheimer's supernatural vision by peppering the film with extraordinary images of exploding stars, spinning atoms and all manner of esoteric phenomena that dazzle the eyes while defying description. Is Oppenheimer's visionary ability a blessing or a curse? The jury is out. Oppenheimer is as likely to appear haunted by these cosmic phantoms as he is inspired by them.
Accompanying Oppenheimer's visions - and magnificently underpinning the entire film - is a gorgeous score by Ludwig Göransson. Shifting elegantly between lyrical strings and discordant synthesizers, it seems to take its cue from the words spoken by physicist Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh): "Algebra's like sheet music. The important thing isn't can you read music, it's can you hear it. Can you hear the music, Robert?" Oppenheimer's reply is, of course: "I can."
Nolan's use of visual and aural metaphor enables him to explore the contradictory aspects of Oppenheimer's personality. He is clearly passionate about the science that consumes his attention, yet it is a cold passion. Meanwhile, his wife, Kitty (Emily Blunt), is driven by a more fiery human passion that prompts her to throw glassware across the room. She is the one who rages while Oppenheimer sits quietly, nonreactive, floating through a world in which he is never entirely present.
Cillian Murphy consistently brings out this aspect of Oppenheimer's persona, creating a fluid, almost androgynous character who at times appears passive, yet who is driven by a ruthless determination to succeed. Although he appears easily dominated by authority figures such as President Truman (Gary Oldman) or Manhattan Project director Leslie Groves Jr. (Matt Damon), his steely conviction always prevails.
Oppenheimer's meeting with Truman sheds light on another contradictory aspect of his story. For all his genius, Oppenheimer is merely an enabler - the creator of this ultimate weapon, yes, but ultimately a tool of the politicians who have decided that such a weapon is necessary, and who provide the resources that allow it to be built. Oppenheimer himself tries to distance himself from the responsibility: "It was hardly my invention," he tells Truman. Yet, unwilling or not, it is Oppenheimer who will be forever regarded as the father of the atomic bomb.
Christopher Nolan's screenplay was based on the book "American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer" by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin. Like Prometheus in the original Greek myth, Oppenheimer ends up being hunted - in this case by the United States Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) who, in 1954, subjected Oppenheimer to a four-week hearing that resulted in his security clearance being revoked, but which has since been judged to be a "flawed process."
The Prometheus myth is directly referenced in the film's opening caption: "Prometheus Stole Fire from the Gods and Gave It to Man. For This, He Was Chained to a Rock and Tortured for Eternity." The mythical references continue in other ways, notably the moment when, upon witnessing the Trinity test at Los Alamos, Oppenheimer speaks a line from the sacred Hindu text "Bhagavad Gita," giving it a context that makes it arguably one of the most famous quotes of the 20th century: "Now I Am Become Death, The Destroyer Of Worlds."
This is the second time Oppenheimer utters these immortal words in the film. He first quotes the text in an earlier scene with psychiatrist Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh), just after they have made love. She takes the "Bhagavad Gita" from his bookshelf and challenges him to translate the Sanskrit text - which Oppenheimer does with ease.
Sexy, earthy and primordial, Tatlock appears in direct opposition to Kitty Oppenheimer, an intelligent woman who must conform to society expectations of the era. A dutiful housewife and mother, she is also an alcoholic with a quick temper. Both women are captivating in vividly different ways, with hidden strengths lurking beneath the skin. During the AEC hearing, Kitty reacts to the verbal attacks of prosecutor Roger Robb (Jason Clarke) with a feistiness that few of the male interviewees can match.
At the climax of "Oppenheimer," the film's mythic dimension is stunningly juxtaposed with the mundane. Throughout the film, Nolan presents the ongoing rivalry between Oppenheimer and Strauss, who constantly questions Oppenheimer's actions and intentions. Specifically, Strauss is convinced that Oppenheimer and Albert Einstein (Tom Conti) were bad-mouthing him during a conversation that Strauss witnessed from a distance, but did not hear. Recognizing this petty paranoia, a Senate aide (Alden Ehrenreich) suggests to Strauss: "Since nobody knows what they said to each other that day, is it possible they didn't talk about you at all?"
In the last moments of the film, Christopher Nolan reveals that this is indeed the case. During the conversation, Oppenheimer asks Einstein if he recalls their early concern that testing an atomic bomb might "start a chain reaction that would destroy the entire world." Einstein does indeed remember, and asks Oppenheimer: "What of it?" In one of the film's killer blows, Oppenheimer replies: "I believe we did."
Throughout the film, Oppenheimer associates this feared chain reaction with a simple image - splashing raindrops causing ripples to spread out across water. The raindrops first appear near the very beginning of the movie, in a montage that foreshadows all that is to come - including the dropping of the atomic bomb itself. It is a subtle and striking visual metaphor, notable both for its clarity and because of the way it uses natural beauty to portray man-made devastation.
Balancing Oppenheimer's fear of annihilation is his conviction that the atomic bomb represents the ultimate deterrent against conflict. "When the world learns the terrible secret of Los Alamos, our work will ensure a peace mankind has never seen," he tells his team at Los Alamos. Unfortunately, there is a catch: "They won't fear it until they understand it, and they won't understand it until they've used it."
This assertion of Oppenheimer's is yet another gut punch - and perhaps the clearest insight Nolan offers into his protagonist's conflicted heart. Oppenheimer believes the atomic bomb can be a force for good ... but only if you demonstrate its lethal efficiency first.
The film's closing scene between Oppenheimer and Einstein is as elegant as it is devastating. In it, Nolan demonstrates his mastery over cinematic structure. In particular, he reveals his ability to manipulate time - a skill that first became evident in his 2000 masterpiece "Memento." The subject matter of Oppenheimer's and Einstein's conversation becomes the film's "Rosebud," an essential truth that is kept from the audience until the very end. In this way, through a bravura demonstration of screenwriting, directing and editing skill, Nolan sets Strauss's small-minded obsessions against Oppenheimer's world-shaking passion, while expertly steering his audience through an ever-expanding labyrinth of narrative strands.
Nolan's ability to flip us back and forth through time and memory is more than just a cinematic trick - it speaks directly to the film's themes and also plays its part in conjuring the mood of the era. Oppenheimer's story plays out in the age of the avant-garde, of Pablo Picasso and T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land." This is a world of fragmentation, in which we see reality from multiple viewpoints simultaneously.
This is the greatest miracle of Christopher Nolan's "Oppenheimer." He shows us the endless complexity of the universe through a fractured lens. In doing so, we end up seeing the world with more clarity than we ever have before.
Nimona (2023)
FLUIDITY IS LIFE
Like its titular protagonist, Netflix's animated feature "Nimona" is not afraid to change shape before our eyes. More than that - the movie delights in shifting its form precisely when we least expect it. The result is a film that is charming, sassy, and constantly surprising.
The surprises are there from the very beginning. A prologue tells the story of Gloreth (Karen Ryan), a legendary heroine who once saved the kingdom from a ravening monster, through the medium of illuminated storybook pages. Immediately afterwards the film catapults us into a dazzling 'techno-medieval' future where swords and subways exist side by side.
The ruler of this future world is Queen Valerin (Lorraine Toussaint), who sanctions the idea that even common people can become knights of the realm. As a representative of the authoritarian status quo, the Director (Frances Conroy) promptly arranges to have Valerin killed. This unexpected death is followed by a classic cinematic fade-to-black, heralding the first appearance of Nimona (Chloë Grace Moretz) herself.
Nimona's entrance completes the process of subverting our expectations. Have they really killed off the queen in the first reel? What happened to the traditional fairy tale we were expecting? As Nimona tells us when we find her spraying graffiti on to a propaganda poster, "This ain't that kind of story." Later she mixes things up even more by stating, "It's time to rewrite this story."
Even though this is a story of queens and kingdoms, it is clear from the start that Nimona is not an old-school storybook princess. Her stocky stature immediately sets her apart from other female characters in the film, such as the Director - who possesses a beauty based more on classical ideals. Her physicality simultaneously identifies her as a powerful individual who knows her own mind and appears comfortable in her own skin.
Only when we discover what lies beneath Nimona's skin do we begin to appreciate her true nature. Nimona is a shapeshifter, capable of transforming her outward appearance in the blink of an eye. For many people, this makes her a monster - indeed, we soon learn that Nimona is the monster, the so-called 'Great Black Monster' vanquished by Gloreth centuries earlier. Fear of this monster has grown into a terror of anything regarded as 'other,' resulting in an isolated kingdom that hides behind a barrier wall and where people are taught to fear outsiders. Far from the usual fantasy realm with beautiful forests and golden spires, this is a sinister authoritarian state.
The concept of shapeshifting dips deep into the mythological well, and carries echoes of Ovid's "Metamorphoses" and other classical works. In "Nimona," shapeshifting is used as a way of undermining conventional ideas about gender. Here is a character whose physical appearance is fluid in space and time and who, when asked by her new companion Ballister Boldheart (Riz Ahmed) what her natural form is, can answer only by giving her name: "I'm Nimona." Her name is all she has, but her name is everything. Nimona's recognition of this fact - and her ability to state her name aloud - is an assertion that she is entirely herself, and not what others want her to be.
By opening a window into Nimona's heart, the film challenges our ideas about what a monster really is. Nimona is only a monster because Gloreth cast her in that role. Thanks to Gloreth's propaganda and the relentless weight of tradition, Nimona is doomed to be forever the outsider. She knows this and so, when a child tries to stab her simply because she is different, she says eloquently: "And I'm the monster?"
This is the truth that Ballister ultimately sees, when he says to Nimona: "I see you - you are not alone." Thanks to the empathy machine that is cinema, we the audience see it, too, in a moment of enlightenment that invites us to question what we perceive as 'otherness.' This applies not only to members of the LGBTQIA+ community, but to anyone perceived by society to be 'different.' At the same time, the diverse casting feels effortless, creating a kingdom whose population is diverse but never self-consciously so.
The great strength of "Nimona" is that it explores all these complex themes with tremendous wit and humor. As a character, Nimona is feisty and full of malevolent fun, with a quick-witted quip for every occasion. As such, she is the perfect foil to the anxious, introspective Ballister. The dynamic between these two characters - reminiscent of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza - creates a wonderful rhythm that sustains the film perfectly throughout its well-judged runtime. Countless pop culture references and a hip musical score make it easy for modern audiences to relate to the material - these characters might live in a fantasy world, but they enjoy pizza just like the rest of us.
The rhythm is further enhanced by innovative variations in animation style. Old and new combine to create something fresh, fascinating and - like the storyline - filled with surprises. The character animation blends broad humor with subtle emotion, another kind of transformation that enables Nimona to switch from demonic cackle to the most subtle of heart-rending expressions, all in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, the storytelling shifts effortlessly from fully-rendered animation to the telling of Nimona's back-story through the charming medium of tiny wall tiles.
The meticulously-designed world of "Nimona" mixes illuminated manuscripts and golden armor with flying cars and cyberpunk. Production designer Aidan Sugano drew inspiration from modern-era illustrators like Eyvind Earle and Charley Harper, and audiences will surely spot nods to movie classics like "Blade Runner" and "The Matrix," and the futuristic visions of concept designer Syd Mead.
The colors pop off the screen. Most vivid of all is the fiery pink that is Nimona's signature hue. In addition, color defines both character and mood - contrast the institutional gold-and-white armor of Ambrosius Goldenloin (Eugene Lee Yang) with Ballister's greys and blacks. The same opposition is present in the environments, with the crisp, shiny castle contrasting dramatically with the soft warmth of Ballister's hideaway.
But it is in Nimona's shapeshifting ability that the movie's true power lies. It drives a number of joyful action sequences showcasing Nimona's rapid-fire transformations between animals including a rhino, a whale, a gorilla and - most memorable of all - a show-stopping shark. Nimona's ultimate transformation into the Great Black Monster even evokes memories of classic movie monsters like Godzilla.
Shapeshifting also powers some intensely emotional scenes. For example, when the Director appears to kill Ambrosius in cold blood, we are initially horrified - distraught at the idea that evil has triumphed over good. The consequent revelation that it was Nimona impersonating Ambrosius all along, that she is still alive and kicking, and that it was all a ploy to get the Director to confess to her crimes, is a true air-punch moment of triumph.
This clever bait-and-switch, with its lightning change of perspective, enables the viewer to be both actor and witness in turn. This circles all the way back to the film's central theme of gender dynamics, by inviting us to see the world through the eyes of the 'other.' The icing on the cake is that Nimona casually remarks to Ballister that she has never even taken an acting class. Far from robbing the moment of its drama, this meta-textual comment only makes us love her even more.
The film's greatest triumph is that we do love Nimona. We love her humor, her boundless energy, and her fluidity in a world where everyone is expected to remain static. Fluidity is movement, which means that fluidity is animation - in the truest sense of the word, derived as it is from the Latin 'anima,' meaning 'soul.'
When Ballister asks Nimona what would happen if she stopped shapeshifting, she tells him she would die. When he questions this, she says: "I wouldn't 'die' die. I just sure wouldn't be living." This, then, is Nimona's final word on the subject, steering us to an inevitable conclusion.
Fluidity is life.
Elemental (2023)
ELEMENTAL: TAKING BREATH, MAKING CONNECTION
Fire and water, earth and air. The four classical elements are familiar to any student of history, occurring as they do in ancient cultures from Greece, Egypt, India and beyond. For thousands of years philosophers used them to conceptualize the cosmos. The Greek physician Hippocrates even incorporated them into his theories about how the human body works, forging a profound connection between the natural world and our own lived experience.
In Disney and Pixar's "Elemental," director Peter Sohn welcomes us to Element City, where each of the four classical elements is embodied by a different kind of being. Within these fanciful surrounding, the film's theme of connection takes center stage when Fire Person Ember Lumen (Leah Lewis) falls in love Wade Ripple (Mamoudou Athie) from the Water community. Through the course of their forbidden courtship, these two youngsters challenge the rules of the society in which they live, and discover deep truths hidden inside their own hearts.
The film's opening sequence presents Element City as a bizarre wonderland filled with extraordinary life forms. At the same time it is instantly familiar. As the Lumen family arrives in the harbor, we are instantly reminded of the millions of immigrants who landed on Ellis Island during the first half of the 20th century. Thomas Newman's gorgeous score does an incredible job of echoing this association, built as it is on a rich tapestry of musical influences that uses instruments from India and China.
Like those Ellis Island immigrants, Ember and her parents are amazed at the spectacle of a shining new city filled with promise. Yet their hopes are soon undermined when they are forced to change their name because nobody understands their language. Later, when they set off in search of somewhere to live, doors are slammed in their faces. As Ember later reflects, "The city isn't made with Fire People in mind."
Fast-forward several years, and Ember's father, Bernie (Ronnie Del Carmen), has built a new life for his family, establishing a shop that caters to the local Fire Person community. Nobody can fault his work ethic, and by now he has learned enough of the language to speak a kind of pidgin English. His dream is that his hot-tempered daughter Ember will one day take over the shop and continue the tradition he has built from the ground up. However, we soon learn that what Bernie really wants is to be a better parent to Ember than his own father was to him.
In a moving flashback, Ember's mother, Cinder (Shila Ommi), relates how a terrible storm forced the family to leave their home in Fire Land, taking with them the last spark of a mystical blue flame that "connected everyone together through our traditions and family." For Bernie, the worst part came when he said goodbye to his disapproving father. When Bernie executed the "Bà Ksô," a ritual bow of respect and love, his father failed to respond, saying only, "If you leave Fire Land you will lose who you are."
At the beginning of the film, hot-headed Ember's primary motivation is to make her father happy. Later, after meeting Wade, she begins to question whether this is really what she wants. During dinner with Wade's family, she uses her fiery talents to remold a broken glass pitcher. This impresses Wade's mother, who suggests that Ember should pursue a career in glass-making, and sets up a conflict that Ember struggles to resolve. "Getting to do what you want is a luxury," she tells Wade, "and not for people like me." Indeed, she realizes that she has never asked herself what she really wants to do. "Deep down I knew it didn't matter."
As these layers of Ember's character are gradually peeled back, we finally understand that here is the source of Ember's temper. Conflicted between following the expectations of her family and culture, she has unknowingly suppressed her own secret desires. This theme of self-denial finds its ultimate expression in her growing relationship with Wade.
In contrast to Ember, Wade is a laid-back character who is also highly emotional. By coaxing Ember into connecting with her emotions, he releases the tension she has been carrying inside herself for so long. The turning point comes when he causes a single, impossible tear to roll down her red-hot cheek, simply by telling her that he wants to be near her.
When Ember and Wade finally make physical contact - in a beautiful scene where they cautiously touch hands before embracing - they defy not only the rules of the city, but also the laws of physics. As Wade puts it, "We changed each other's chemistry." In this moment, their love becomes the ultimate expression of connection, both physically and emotionally. Like Romeo and Juliet before them, Wade and Ember achieve a state of togetherness that transcends all that has come before, and defines all that is to come.
In support of this emotionally layered narrative, Peter Sohn and his team have created an extraordinary new fantasy realm in the form of Element City. Through clever world-building, the vast scale of the metropolis is beautifully balanced with small vignettes showing the realities of everyday life. Air people board a floating blimp, automatically filling the vessel with the gas it needs to fly. Water people travel in lumbering submarines. Everywhere we look, close encounters between the different races trigger a bewildering array of amusing reactions.
Meanwhile, the talented artists at Pixar have broken new ground by exploring a different visual style for each of the four races. The Fire People are rendered in sketchy fashion, with jagged outlines changing unpredictably in the manner of candle flames. In contrast, the Water People are soft and pliable. The people of Earth and Air are solid and nebulous respectively.
The races may be clearly defined, but that does not mean they are not complex and sometimes contradictory. Hot-headed Ember accidentally destroys things by setting them on fire, but she also creates beauty by using her powers to sculpt molten glass. Wade may be soft and emotional, but by transforming his transparent body into a lens he creates a burning beam of light. Indeed, the film's only real antagonist is the natural force of flood, the ultimate manifestation of "go with the flow" water as a destructive force.
"Elemental" takes our preconceptions about what a thing is, and turns them on their heads. It encourages us to see the world in a new way. Critically it invites us to see it from the point of view of another person, just like the star-crossed lovers Ember and Wade. This is what lies at the heart of "Elemental" - the power that lies in accepting diversity, in seeing every facet of a person. Through the strong empathy that great cinema so effortlessly allows, it allows us to experience things from a different perspective.
The film's final word on the subject of connection comes with Ember's ultimate revelation - that she can be honest about not wanting to run the shop without destroying her relationship with her father. The message is clear - if we open our hearts in truth and love, we have nothing to fear. Doing so will only bring us closer to people through mutual respect and understanding. All we need is the courage to follow Ember's own personal mantra: "Take breath, make connection."
The Super Mario Bros. Movie (2023)
Re-VIEW: 'The Super Mario Bros. Movie' - Simply a Delight
Any filmmakers who want to adapt a video game for the big screen face challenges that might seem insurmountable. How do you craft a linear story-line from source material that obeys a different set of narrative rules? How do you re-imagine much-loved original game content without transforming it beyond recognition?
With Universal Pictures' and Illumination Entertainment's The Super Mario Bros. Movie, directors Aaron Horvath and Michael Jelenic, and their co-directors Pierre Leduc and Fabien Polack, have achieved the impossible. Together they have crafted an entertaining family spectacle that will please not only fans of Nintendo's long-running series of Super Mario games, but also anybody ready to enjoy 90 minutes of action-packed escapism.
The script by Matthew Fogel relates the escapades of two brothers, Mario (Chris Pratt) and Luigi (Charlie Day), as they are whisked away from their everyday lives as Brooklyn plumbers to help the valiant Princess Peach (Anya Taylor-Joy) save the Mushroom Kingdom, one of several fanciful realms that exist in a far-flung corner of the cosmos. Peach's nemesis is Bowser (Jack Black), whose overriding ambition is to marry the Princess ... at all costs. With Mario's help, Peach forges an alliance with Cranky Kong (Fred Armisen) and his son Donkey Kong (Seth Rogen), leading to a final confrontation with Bowser and his ruthless Koopa army.
This deceptively straightforward narrative is one the film's greatest strengths, providing as it does a clean, unambiguous structure capable of supporting all the in-game references a Super Mario uber-fan could desire, without buckling under the weight. The result is a lively adventure that effortlessly follows its own surreal logic, with an affectionate combination of wit and warmth that draws from the Nintendo games and classic movie tropes in equal measure. In a "Rocky"-style montage of platform action and power-ups, Peach teaches Mario how to navigate her strange world. Mario's one-on-one fight with Donkey Kong has all the hallmarks of a classic gladiatorial smack-down. Scenes of the good guys speeding in their Karts along Rainbow Road jump off the screen like a psychedelic "Mad Max."
Transferring video game action to the big screen requires a special kind of alchemy - one that The Super Mario Bros. Movie has in abundance. These candy-colored visions are bold, but the artists at Illumination Studios in Paris have crafted them with a remarkable combination of subtlety and vigor. At every turn, the action is beautifully supported by Brian Tyler's wonderful score, which weaves in original Nintendo themes by Koji Kondo and a plethora of game-era hits including the Beastie Boys' No Sleep Till Brooklyn, Bonnie Tyler's Holding Out for a Hero and A-ha's Take on Me.
Dig deeper and you will find themes that follow the same rule of simplicity colored by subtle nuance. Early scenes show Mario and Luigi as part of an extended Italian family living in New York city. Following their dream - a version of the great American dream, of course - the brothers have just launched a commercial promoting their new plumbing business, in which they assert: "That's why the Super Mario brothers are here, to save Brooklyn."
The ersatz Italian accents they adopt for the commercial honor the original video game voice talent, but bear no resemblance to their normal speaking voices. Furthermore, Mario is shown to have low self-esteem, driven in part by his father's constant criticism - why did he leave a steady job, and why is he dragging his brother down with him? The father-son tension is neatly resolved at the end of the film when, having finally defeated Bowser, Mario is told by his father: "You are amazing."
Meanwhile, Jack Black achieves another kind of impossible by transforming Bowser from what might have been a conventionalevil megalomaniac into a tortured romantic with real dimension to his character. A scene where he pours out his heart in song, while accompanying himself on the piano, is an uproariously funny take on Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, made all the more amusing by Kevin Michael Richardson's voice performance as Bowser's sorcerer sidekick, Kamek, in which he appears to be channeling Peter Lorre.
The Super Mario Bros. Movie, may sound like a recipe for a simple summer movie but, as Steve Jobs famously said, simple is harder than complex. Given all the ingredients in the mixing bowl, a lesser group of filmmakers might have produced a movie that lacked flavor. What Aaron Horvath and Michael Jelenic have created with their immensely talented team is precisely the opposite. It is simply a delight.
Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 (2023)
Only by accepting others for who they are, can we truly see into the mind of God.
In, 2014, with the original Guardians of the Galaxy, writer and director James Gunn introduced movie audiences to a gang of intergalactic misfits operating on the wrong side of the law, but with hearts big enough to earn them the status of superheroes. The sequel, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, expanded the mythos by exploring the otherworldly origins of Peter Quill (Chris Pratt). The final film of the trilogy, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3, focuses on yet another backstory - that of the caustically lovable Rocket Raccoon (Bradley Cooper).
Gunn establishes Rocket's central role at the beginning of the film, when a devastating attack by Sovereign warrior Adam Warlock (Will Poulter) leaves the bellicose cyber-raccoon critically injured. When his companions discover a kill switch preventing them from treating Rocket's wounds, they embark on a desperate quest to disable it before their friend dies.
The quest for the kill switch code is a ticking time-bomb that drives the narrative forward at a relentless pace. What follows is an interstellar adventure filled with Gunn's characteristic blend of larger-than-life action, solid character interplay and quirky humor, as this group of much-loved characters strive to save their friend. Meanwhile, Rocket himself spends much of the film in a coma - a bold decision that pays off dramatically in a big way. As Rocket sleeps, he dreams, enabling Gunn to present his dark past via a series of highly emotional flashbacks.
These flashbacks tell the heart-rending story of Rocket's early life as a victim of vivisection, one of hundreds of unfortunate animals experimented on by the ruthless High Evolutionary (Chukwudi Iwuji), a scientist dedicated to creating a perfect world inhabited by perfect beings. Like Prometheus, the High Evolutionary's ambition is to mold life; like Victor Frankenstein, Mary Shelley's modern incarnation of the classical Greek god, he uses scientific methods that are both macabre and morally dubious.
Deep in the bowels of the High Evolutionary's laboratory complex, Rocket finds fellowship with three of his fellow 'Batch 89' test subjects - an otter called Lylla (Linda Cardellini), a rabbit called Floor (Mikaela Hoover), and a walrus called Teefs (Asim Chaudhry). The tragic story of this desperate band of survivors is truly heartbreaking. It ravages our hearts with images of animal cruelty, making us question our own ethics. Gunn expertly manages the levels of emotion in these scenes, drawing out tears from the audience without ever resorting to bathos. Furthermore, it sows the seeds of the 'found family' theme that runs through the entire Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy - for Rocket, his acceptance by his Batch 89 friends is a blueprint for the relationship he ultimately enjoys with Quill and the rest of the Guardians.
Rocket's acceptance by his fellow lab rats reinforces the film's central theme of tolerance and diversity - a theme that is neatly counterpointed by the High Evolutionary's obsessive quest for perfection. Like all families, the Guardians are plagued by faults, but the twist is that here is where their trues strength lies. The High Evolutionary's fundamental error is that he fails to recognize not only the inevitability of imperfection, but also its inherent value. Appropriately, it falls to Rocket to point out the High Evolutionary's mistake: "He didn't want to make things perfect. He just hated things the way they were."
Ultimately, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 invites us all to recognize and celebrate 'the way things are' - which is not always the way they seem to be. When Mantis (Pom Klementieff) communes with a trio of ravening squid-like giants called Abilisks, she discovers that these apparent monsters just want to be loved. As for the Guardians themselves, they are arguably the most diverse ensemble ever to grace the silver screen, comprising as they do a human whose father was a god, a cyber-enhanced raccoon, a walking tree, a pair of warring sisters, a musclebound vengeance-seeker and an alien with empathic powers.
The film's message of inclusivity extends even further during the climactic scenes, in which Rocket insists that everyone on board the High Evolutionary's disintegrating spaceship must be rescued ... including all the test subjects from the villain's experimentation chambers. The result is a spectacle verging on the Biblical, as thousands of liberated animals stampede to safety in a scene that would make Noah proud. As a metaphor for saving the planet this is hard to beat.
With his Guardians of the Galaxy films, James Gunn has crafted a universe in which everyone is welcome, despite their imperfections - or, perhaps, because of them. It is no coincidence that the Guardians have set up shop in Knowhere, whose population boasts every imaginable variation of species, genome, skin color, intellect - you name it. Why is Knowhere the perfect place for such a community? Because it exists inside the drifting severed head of an ancient celestial being, proving that James Gunn's message has been clear from the very beginning: only by accepting others for who they are, can we truly see into the mind of God.
Avatar: The Way of Water (2022)
Avatar: The Way of Water - A Miraculous Vision
In James Cameron's epic science fiction sequel Avatar: The Way of Water, Sam Worthington and Zoe Saldaña reprise their roles as Jake Sully and Neytiri, the young lovers who defied all odds to be together, even though they were literally from different worlds. Their passionate affair crossed not only cultural divides, but also the boundary between two species - human and Na'vi - and in doing so positioned the theme of diversity in the middle of Avatar's beautiful beating heart.
In this triumphant return to the exotic world of Pandora, Cameron once again puts the same theme front and center. Set fourteen years after the first film, Avatar: The Way of Water begins with a montage introducing Jake and Neytiri's family, which is unashamedly diverse. In addition to their three mixed-race children - Neteyam (Jamie Flatters), Lo'ak (Britain Dalton) and Tuktirey (Trinity Jo-Li Bliss) - they have also adopted Kiri (Sigourney Weaver), the teenage daughter of the avatar of Dr. Grace Augustine, Weaver's character in the original film. Completing the ensemble is the human boy Spider (Jack Champion), son of the villainous Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang), who accompanies Jake and Neytiri's kids wherever they go.
Life is good for the family in their jungle idyll. But all too soon a new human invasion forces them to flee their home. They eventually join the reef-dwelling Metkayina clan, only to meet with undisguised prejudice. As a human in a Na'vi body, Jake is regarded with suspicion and hostility, despite his status as 'Toruk Makto,' the noble warrior who led the Omaticaya clan to victory in the first film. His children are reviled as half-breeds.
But the prejudice goes deeper. They are all different here - even Neytiri, despite the fact she is a true native of Pandora. Their Omaticaya skin is deep blue, not the pale aquamarine of the Metkayina. They lack the deep chests, broad tails and fin-like limb extensions that allow the reef-dwellers to swim freely in Pandora's ocean. They are different. They do not fit in. They are other.
The fugitive family confront these prejudices head-on and gradually find acceptance in their new home, although the journey is not without its difficulties. As this particular strand of the story unfolds, the film's multi-layered approach to discrimination - human/Na'vi, Omaticaya/Metkayina - brings a creditable complexity and depth to the narrative.
Integration into the Metkayina clan brings new stability to the lives of Jake and his family. But the peace does not last. Resurrected into an avatar body, the ruthless Quaritch is determined to track down Jake and kill him. In order to do so, he requisitions one of the huge ocean vessels used by the humans to hunt Tulkun - intelligent ocean-dwelling giants resembling terrestrial whales.
Ultimately we learn the reason why the Tulkun are being hunted - they have glands that secrete a liquid called 'amrita,' which is said to stop human aging in its tracks. Amrita is highly prized - more precious than the gravity-defying 'unobtainium' mineral that drove humans to ravage Pandora in the original Avatar. Having abandoned their unobtainium mines, the human invaders now have no qualms in slaughtering the majestic Tulkun simply to secure a few tiny vials of priceless amrita.
In narrative terms, replacing unobtainium with amrita is a masterful move by Cameron. Exotic though it is, unobtainium is just an inert mineral. By harvesting amrita, the human antagonists of the new film are committing an act of violence against a sentient species, and Cameron pulls no punches as he shows us their ruthless methods in dreadful, bloody detail. This brings a profoundly emotional dimension to another of the film's central themes: the exploitation of the natural world.
Once more, this theme is multi-layered. To dial up the emotion still further, the Metkayina clan share a deep bond with the Tulkun - every individual in the clan has a Tulkun 'spirit-sibling.' When Jake's son Lo'ak befriends an outcast Tulkun called Payakan, the dreadful plight of these ocean giants becomes deeply personal to him and his family - and therefore to us, the audience.
The timely ecological message of Avatar: The Way of Water continues with glimpses of Kiri's growing bond with Eywa, the planet-spanning consciousness that connects all life on Pandora. Eywa brings to mind the Greek myth of Gaia, the Earth Mother, herself a variant of more primitive deities representing creation, fertility and the bounty of nature. Through Eywa, the Avatar films transport the most ancient of Earthly myths far out into the depths of space, where they find new life and meaning.
The third principle theme of Avatar: The Way of Water is family. Through the first half of the film, Cameron devotes himself to portraying the complex dynamics within Jake and Neytiri's family. All parents of teenagers will recognize the constant ebb and flow of devotion, rebellion and sibling rivalry that accompany these turbulent years. Jake's parenting is authoritative, no doubt shaped by his military background, but moderated by Neytiri's more rounded philosophies. Even the bad guy, Quaritch gets to explore the challenges of parenthood as he gradually gets to know his forgotten son, Spider.
Setting these underlying themes aside, Avatar: The Way of Waterbenefits from a simple narrative to drive the action - a narrative that recalls many of Cameron's most successful films. In his obsessive pursuit of Jake, Quaritch is as unstoppable as a T-1000 Terminator. The unrelenting action of the movie's spectacular third act pays homage to both The Abyss and Titanic. However, at no time does Cameron simply fall back on his playbook. Instead, the nods and homages establish a recognizable frame within which the filmmaker is free to paint the most extraordinary pictures. Let there be no doubt - Avatar: The Way of Water is truly gorgeous to behold.
Cameron begins work on his canvas by presenting the world of Pandora with deceptively simple broad strokes, before immersing the audience in this fully realized alien realm. The establishing scenes are slow and lyrical, with each shot revealing yet another glorious vista. The ocean sequences are dazzling and filled with endless detail, so that by the time we reach the spectacle of the final battle we feel that we are literally swimming in the waters of Pandora. Thanks to the innovative virtual production techniques, and the extraordinary talent of the visual effects team at Weta FX, Pandora and its inhabitants are never less than utterly convincing, and filled with true emotion.
As with the first film, audiences will undoubtedly leave the cinema with their minds and hearts filled with color. James Cameron's imaginary universe is so vibrant, so convincing, and so unforgettable, that we are reluctant to leave it behind and re-enter the drab reality of the real world.
Yet, the real triumph of Avatar: The Way of Water is that the film reminds us that our world is not drab. In fact, the reverse is true. The forests and oceans of our own planet Earth are filled with just as many wonders as those of Pandora. Perhaps more. We live in a miracle, and the miracle is right in front of us. It has been here all the time. All we need to do is open our eyes and embrace our world with the Na'vi phrase of welcome and love: "I see you."
Lost Ollie (2022)
"Lost Ollie" - The Power of Memory by Maria Elena Gutierrez
Created and written by Shannon Tindle and directed by Peter Ramsey, the Netflix animated adventure Lost Ollie is based on the children's book Ollie's Odyssey by William Joyce. It tells the story of a toy rabbit called Ollie (Jonathan Groff) who, after finding himself abandoned in a thrift shop, sets out on an epic quest to find Billy (Kesler Talbot), the boy who was once his best friend.
Above all things, Lost Ollie is a story about memory. Rejected and alone, Ollie clings desperately to the pledge he once made with Billy - that they would never forget each other. Despite this Ollie feels desperate, because he fears that this is exactly what has happened - Billy has forgotten him.
When Ollie befriends the toy clown Zozo (Tim Blake Nelson), he realizes that memory itself is the key to finding Billy again. With Zozo's help, he re-creates the 'memory map' on Billy's bedroom wall - a scrapbook of images representing 'places we've been and places we hope to go.' By following this trail of memories, maybe Ollie can find his way home.
However, as Zozo warns Ollie: "Memories are funny - you gotta sneak up on them or they'll just disappear."
So begins the quest, with Ollie, Zozo and the feisty pink teddy bear Rosy (Mary J. Blige) puzzling out the clues that will lead them from location to location. Throughout the adventures of these brave lost toys, the narrative relies heavily on flashbacks to remind us that memories are not only 'funny' but also filled with emotions that are often heartwarming, but just as frequently haunting. Lost Ollie also teaches us that memories are unreliable, mercurial and fragile. In this respect, the map is the perfect metaphor - one gust of wind and it could be lost forever.
By using memory as a narrative device, Lost Ollie takes us all the way back to the origins of storytelling. Before humans learned to write, all stories were told by word of mouth. Mnemosyne, mother of the Greek Muses, could be described as the poster-girl for this oral tradition, and it is no coincidence that she was the goddess of memory, too. After all, what finer quality can a camp-fire storyteller possess than perfect recall?
Ollie's memory map - and the places it takes us to - gives Lost Ollie a powerful sense of place. Each new landmark is rich in American iconography, from the majestic riverboat that carries our heroes up the Ohio River, to the shining white towers of the city skyline, to the spooky abandoned fairground called Dreamland. Billy refers to a railroad train as a 'Mark Twain' - a clear reference to the classic novel that informs Lost Ollie's narrative: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. And all these visions of America are centered on the archetypal small town, where lies the home that Ollie so desperately seeks.
The flashback sequences in Lost Ollie tell a heartbreaking story of love and loss. Over the course of the show's four episodes, we gradually learn about the human catastrophe lying at the heart of Billy's family. Here looms the ever-present specter of death, the unspoken darkness that lurks under the skin of most great children's literature. The difficult topic of bullying is tackled here too, mirrored in Billy's difficulties at school and in Zozo's reaction to his own tale of lost love.
One of the great miracles of Lost Ollie is the skill and subtlety demonstrated by the animation and visual effects team at Industrial Light & Magic, who worked with puppeteers from Jim Henson's Creature Shop to bring Ollie and his friends to life. The animation shows impressive restraint - at all times the characters move with toy-like simplicity. Yet at the same time they communicate such a tremendous depth of emotion that we never doubt for a moment that they are real.
Just as beautiful is the world through which they journey. From the gorgeously-lit interior of the thrift shop, to the glorious vistas of the river, to the brooding rain-soaked fairground, Lost Ollie is filled with unforgettable imagery. Best of all, the visuals are always exquisitely matched to the mood. There is nothing gratuitous here - the world of Lost Ollie always looks exactly as it should.
While Lost Ollie is indeed about memory, its story is underpinned by a second theme that has equal or perhaps greater power - diversity. From the beginning, we are aware that Billy has a White father and a Polynesian mother, played by Jake Johnson and Gina Rodriguez. This is no big deal, nor is it presented as one. However, as the story reaches its climax - and especially when we learn that Ollie himself is a diverse creation, sewn together from disparate pieces of fabric - we understand the importance of diversity's rich power within this family, within Zozo's own story, and in the world as a whole.
As Zozo tells Ollie early on, the name Oliver means 'peace-bringer.' How well that name fits. Made as he is from scraps and love, Ollie is the glue that keeps everything together - Billy's family, and the surrogate family of forgotten toys that Ollie assembles when he is lost on the road. Time and again it is Ollie's kind, forgiving heart that saves the day - most frequently when he himself is at his lowest ebb.
All these things combine to make Lost Ollie truly unforgettable. I know that, long after viewing, the memory of this little lost rabbit will linger bright and clear, not just in my imagination but in my soul. To paraphrase the words of the poet W. S. Merwin, who provides the quote seen at the beginning of Lost Ollie: "Ollie's absence has gone through me like thread through a needle ... Everything I do is stitched with his color."
Lightyear (2022)
"Lightyear" - A Metatextual Odyssey
Pixar has never been afraid to push the boundaries of storytelling, and with Lightyear the studio has served up a narrative packed with metatextual flavors. This is a movie within a movie, the favorite film of Andy, the boy from Pixar's groundbreaking 1995 animated feature Toy Story. It is also a celebration of all the science fiction adventure movies beloved of its director Angus MacLane, who co-wrote the screenplay with Jason Headley.
Given this heritage, it is not a surprise the film is filled with references that not only embrace the legacy of its lead character, Space Ranger Buzz Lightyear (Chris Evans), but which also celebrate cinema through the ages. During its 100-minute run-time, it delights its audience with countless visual and audio echoes of sci-fi classics such as 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Empire Strikes Back, Aliens, Gravity and many more. It also sets up classic Toy Story character quirks, from establishing the back-story of the evil Zurg, to explaining Buzz's urge to narrate his every move into his wrist communicator.
But there is more to Lightyear than just referential amusement. No sooner has the film introduced its protagonist as the confident action hero we know and love, than it promptly subverts our expectations about what kind of space adventure this really is. When Buzz's arrogance leaves the 1,000-strong crew of his spaceship stranded on a hostile alien planet, he embarks on a series of high-velocity flight tests that unexpectedly catapult him into the future, step by step.
This is a predicament drawn directly out of classical Greek mythology. Like Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder up a mountain only to have it roll down again as punishment for his hubris, Buzz endures a kind of repetitive time-travel torture. In a moving montage sequence, we see his friend and loyal comrade Alisha Hawthorne (Uzo Aduba) grow progressively older until eventually she dies. Up to this point Buzz's gung-ho attitude has kept his spirits high - now he finally wakes up to the hard reality of his situation.
Through this clever use of time dilation - a phenomenon based on real science and employed to great dramatic effect in films such as Planet of the Apes and Interstellar - MacLane and his team elevate Lightyear from mere action-adventure to something more cerebral ... not to mention emotional. I defy anyone not to be moved by Buzz's distress as he listens to Alisha's final recorded goodbye message.
Action sequences tumble over each other in rapid succession, with Buzz and his companions bounding energetically from one crisis to the next. In conceiving and executing these high-energy set pieces, the animation team walks a subtle line between fluid realism and the snappy choreography of the original Toy Story. This is something else Pixar does supremely well, and we should not take it for granted - the ability to create characters who perform with all the exaggerated joy we hope for in an animated blockbuster, yet at the same time feel like living, breathing beings.
As he settles into his future world, Buzz joins forces with the Junior Zap Patrol, a group of misfits who challenge his expectations and ultimately teach him the value of teamwork. The ensemble of Alisha's grand-daughter Izzy Hawthorne (Keke Palmer), anxious underachiever Mo Morrison (Taika Waititi) and gruff parolee Darby Steel (Dale Soules) is briskly sketched and solidly performed. A special shout-out goes to Peter Sohn's performance as SOX, the amusing and ever-resourceful robot cat who regularly saves the day.
In recent interviews, Angus MacLane has talked about letting his camera tell the story. How true this is - as these characters battle their way across the surface of the planet, we are treated to a wealth of gorgeous visuals, from the constantly-evolving architecture of the planetary base to a host of colorful and imaginative environments. MacLane's camera lingers with extra care on the costumes, especially the many and varied spacesuits - inspired by a production visit to NASA - including the classic green-and-white Buzz Lightyear outfit. In short, Lightyear is a visual feast.
Lightyear should be celebrated for the gentle yet straightforward way in which it establishes Alisha Hawthorne as a gay character in a same-sex marriage. How wonderful it is to see representation handled in such an intelligent fashion. What better summer movie could we ask for than a nostalgic space adventure movie that also embraces contemporary issues, that succeeds in combining both with the lightest of touches, and that rejoices in the fulfillment of the task it has so enthusiastically taken on? Lightyear is that movie.
Turning Red (2022)
Turning Red - Embracing The Animal Spirit Within Us
In the latest Disney and Pixar hit directed by Domee Shi and produced by Lindsey Collins, Turning Red, a young girl called Meilin 'Mei' Lee (Rosalie Chiang) falls prey to a family curse - or is it a blessing? - that turns her into a giant red panda at moments of high emotion. When her mother Ming (Sandra Oh) tries to get rid of the panda, Mei must decide whether to accept the beast inside her, or reject it in order to truly come of age.
With its chunky-cute styling inspired by anime and other Asian influences, Turning Red shows us a side of Pixar we have not seen before. The fluid camerawork penetrates a series of beautifully designed spaces, bringing a unique perspective to a diverse cast of complex and lovable characters. At the same time, like so many Pixar movies before it, Turning Red also has the courage to tackle bold themes.
The first of these is perfectionism. Mei's mother is a control freak, but in reality her obsession with perfection hides a deep fragility. Like most perfectionists, the person Ming is most critical of is herself. As for Mei, she spends much of the film trying to find her own identity while at the same time mimicking elements of her mother's behavior. "Some of her moves are also my moves," she says. In a delicate way this shows how kids emulate their parents' behavior.
At the film's emotional climax Ming finally acknowledges the hard truth by admitting her mistakes and apologizing to her daughter: "You want to make everyone happy but you are so hard on yourself. I am sorry if I taught you that." She eventually finds words to express her deep love for her daughter and to let her go: "Don't hold back for anyone. The farther you'll go the prouder I'll be."
This message takes on special meaning in contemporary society. Obsessed with perfection, young people are constantly bombarded with idealized representations of themselves through media in general, and social media in particular. It takes courage to represent things the way they are and not as we would like them to be - even if that means embracing complexity and pain - and this something Pixar has always done so well: turning the light onto difficult questions in a very philosophical, yet accessible way.
Ming is also profoundly aware of her role as an Chinese immigrant in Toronto. As part of her daily routine she gives tours of the Chinese temple, opening up her culture to her neighbors and in turn to the global movie-going audience watching Turning Red on Disney+. In this way the filmmakers bring depth to the immigrant story by infusing it with rich layers of tradition, transforming the film into an open invitation for the world to open its eyes to Chinese culture, to analyze it, criticize it, and ultimately accept it.
However, the true power of Turning Red lies in its celebration of menstruation. By transforming this everyday reality into something divine, the story revisits the myth of Persephone, with Mei as the embodiment of the goddess. It challenges all those traditions by which women are excluded from temples and other sacred spaces because of their 'impure bodies.'
Indeed transformation lies at the heart of Turning Red - this is a coming-of-age story, an intensely female bildungsroman. Nowhere is the theme of transformation tackled more compassionately than in the sequences set in the bamboo forest, the sacred dimension where Mei confronts the circular portal through which she must pass if she wants to rid herself of her red panda alter-ego.
The domain of the goddess Sun Yee, the bamboo forest is visually enchanting. Its soothing green beauty provides the perfect backdrop from which these tiny human characters contemplate the immensity of the cosmos. The truth it embodies is as old as the world - the knowledge that the time must come when you break away from all you have known to become your own person and accept yourself. To grow up. This is what Mei's mother, with her stern, non-negotiable ideals, is urging her daughter to do by rejecting the panda that lives inside her.
If only it were so easy. Like Ovid, the poet of the metamorphoses, the fleeting world that connects humans, gods and beasts, Mei understands the power of ambiguity. She knows that discarding the panda means denying her innate power of creativity and all that is wild. The challenge for Mei - as for every human being who ever drew breath - is to achieve the transformation from child to adult without rejecting the good savage in her soul. As the setting for this rite of passage, the bamboo forest is therefore a space dedicated to the forces of nature and transformation. It reminds us that, with her devotion to all things ecological, Mei is the embodiment of Sun Yee in the modern world.
The device through which transformation is achieved is the circular magic portal that exists amid the bamboo shoots. In Chinese culture - as in so many cultures around the world -the circle represents infinity. The use of a circle as a visual metaphor for coming-of-age reminded me powerfully of the circular dance at the end of Federico Fellini's 8½, or the moment in The Catcher in the Rye when Holden Caulfield finally conquers his fear of getting old by joining his sister Phoebe on the carousel. The circle also symbolizes repetition and rebirth. Only when Mei finds Ming restored to youth in the bamboo forest does she finally understand her mother. In this heart-wrenching scene, she achieves the empathy that we then share as the movie-going audience.
The magic portal's liquid surface gives it additional symbolic qualities. Water represents both life and femininity, and the portal's mirror-like quality is a memorable example of the way the film plays with reflections. When Grandma (Wai Ching Ho) first arrives at the temple we see Mei reflected in her glasses. Mei constantly sees herself through the eyes of others, and she talks to herself in the mirror whenever she is engaged in some great internal debate. The idea of reflection comes full circle when Mei finally accepts herself for who she is - she literally learns to see herself and to accept her true self.
During the red panda ritual, when all the women gather in a circle to invoke the power of Sun Yee, this geometric perfection unites ancient tradition with the modern world. The circle's powerful presence dominates the film's spectacular final act, when all the main characters converge at a rock concert being given by the boy band 4*Town. A visual tour de force, the concert positions Mei firmly at the junction of old and new, illustrated by the blending of traditional Chinese singing and 4*Town's pop music, a magical alignment that brings to mind Bruce Chatwin's book The Songlines, which explores the way in which aboriginal people sing the world into creation, making meaning through their voices.
For all the film's depth and complexity, it is also a wonderful opportunity for Pixar to indulge in its playful side and dial up the humor. There are lots of Easter eggs here to please the fans - I spotted a fish that looked suspiciously like Nemo lurking in a koi carp pond, and the rabbit from Burrowadorns Mei's notepad. Meanwhile the recurring images of dumplings surely allude to Domee Shi's animated short film Bao.
Indeed, the filmmakers' love of cinema is clear throughout the film. There are plentiful references to Isao Takahata and Hayao Miyazaki, the Japanese masters of animation, with echoes of the bamboo forest from The Tale of Princess Kaguya and the shape-shifting Japanese raccoon dogs from Pom Poko. When the kids are excited their eyes enlarge like the eyes of anime characters, and when Ming transforms into a gigantic kaiju-panda and gatecrashes the concert, we understand why Grandma had announced the arrival of 'Mingzilla.'
The overall cinematic language is remarkably beautiful, especially when it comes to the film's use of color. The story takes place in the spring, giving the filmmakers ample scope to paint the landscapes in glorious hues of feminine pink and purple. We see flowers everywhere, both growing and represented in fabric.
Most important of all, of course, is the color red. Not only is red a symbol of passion and menstruation but also - as Mei's father points out - of good fortune in Chinese culture. Mei's red shoes and red pin show her allegiance to this color, but she wears a green pin too - the color preferred by Ming and Miryam who wear green clothing and shoes. If Mei is Persephone then it would follow that Ming is Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. Just as Persephone defied her mother by eating the red pomegranate seeds, so Mei defied her mother by going to the concert.
As for the film's ultimate message - to find this we need look no further than the title, Turning Red. In the English language to 'turn' is also to change. Seasons turn, years turn and, as the Americans say, whole lives can turn on a dime. This truly is a story built on the power of transformation, a story that invites every audience member to look at themselves in the mirror and wonder: "What animal do I secretly carry inside?" Following the Shamanistic dimension of this story, this is indeed a fundamental question for all of us.
Vivo (2021)
"Vivo" - The Magic of the Mambo A Re-VIEW by Maria Elena Gutierrez
In Vivo, the animated musical adventure from Sony Pictures Animation and Netflix, a music-loving kinkajou called Vivo (Lin-Manuel Miranda) sets out to deliver a song written by his friend Andrés (Juan de Marcos González) to his long-lost love Marta (Gloria Estefan). Along the way, Vivo befriends an energetic young girl called Gabi (Ynairaly Simo) who helps him in his quest.
The title Vivo - which also happens to be the name of the cute kinkajou hero - tells you everything you need to know about this film's intention. In Spanish, 'vivo' means 'alive,' and this is what this movie is all about. It is a celebration of life.
Vivo's sense of life is expressed most powerfully through its use of music and dance. Together, these bring boundless energy and a powerful sensuality. Fueled by a cascade of original songs written by Miranda, this is not merely a musical - this is a film that is in every possible way about music.
Riding on this glorious wave of music, and creating a thread that runs through Vivo from beginning to end, is the tender love story of Andrés and Marta. This story of two people who have grown old, yet who have stayed in love despite their separation, is timeless in its simplicity and, like everything else in Vivo, is at its most meaningful when expressed through music and dance.
Take the uplifting Mambo Cabana, which Andrés sings as he tries to convince Vivo to let go of his fear and accompany him to Miami. When Andrés starts singing and moving to the rhythm of the mambo, he demonstrates the importance of dance and sensuality in Latin American culture, regardless of age. When you dance, you are ageless. When you fall in love, you are ageless. This idea is expressed beautifully in the song's repeating refrain, "It's not too late," and supported visually when Andrés' collection of musical instruments starts glowing with a life of its own.
Through the universal language of music, Vivo celebrates the whole of Latin American culture. But the music does not stop there. The rhythms of the mambo and salsa sprang from the Caribbean, from the hearts of the Black slaves who brought their music to the Americas, however, they are also heard in Florida in the United States, where the precocious Gabi dances to her own hip-hop beat - a style of music rooted just as deeply in the Black experience.
Just as Vivo's journey transforms him from fearful kinkajou to brave hero, the music travels with him and is itself transformed, from Cuban mambo to streetwise hip-hop. Lin-Manuel Miranda's integration of these musical styles, which sound so different yet are so closely related, is masterful. Their relationship is expressed most clearly in the scenes where Vivo and Gabi make music together - a true collaboration of cultures.
Gabi herself is filled with youthful energy, which forms a charming counterpoint to the film's underlying theme of love between elders. She even changes the visual language of the film, notably during her spectacular solo number "My Own Drum." Just like Katie, the protagonist of Sony Pictures Animation's previous animated feature The Mitchells vs. The Machines, Gabi gives the filmmakers license to fill the screen with vibrant imagery carefully designed to appeal to a younger audience.
At the same time, Vivo recalls the earliest days of animation. The performances of the animated characters are driven directly by the music, just as they were in Walt Disney's Silly Symphonies or Max Fleischer's musically-inspired short films. The terrifying python Lutador owes an undeniable debt to Kaa from The Jungle Book, and the amorous spoonbills Dancarino and Valentina would not look out of place in a Disney feature from the 1940s.
So, Vivo is a story of music and of life. It is a story about old age and youth, and about the things that connect them. Most of all, it is a story of love. The love that endures between Andrés and Marta, and especially the deep bond that exists between Vivo and Andrés. It is Vivo's love for Andreas that allows the kinkajou to overcome his fear and fulfill his mission. Their relationship is like that of father and son, or master and student, and the most beautiful songs in the film are those that speak of their profound love for each other. This love, of course, is expressed through music, as encapsulated by the unsung song that Vivo finally delivers to Marta, during the film's heartfelt climax in Miami.
In the film's rousing finale - during which the whole cast sings the aptly titled "Grande Finale" - the familiar mambo rhythm returns in all its glory. Everyone dances, and what can we do as an audience except dance along, too? As a Latin American myself, I know I did. What choice did I have? I was taught to participate by dancing - it is an integral part of every Latin American person's cultural identity. Through dance, everyone becomes the protagonist. It is fundamental. In the end, we are all part of the dance.
Luca (2021)
The Fabulous Journey of LUCA
A Re-VIEW by Maria Elena Gutierrez
In Disney and Pixar's LUCA, a shy young sea monster named Luca emerges from the sea to discover that above the waves there exists a world of unexpected wonders. His guides are Alberto, an adventurous sea monster whose cockiness conceals an essential fragility, and Giulia, a spirited human girl with a fascination for stargazing. Banding together as the 'Underdogs,' they compete with the local town bully Ercole to win the coveted Portorosso Cup Race.
Directed by Enrico Casarosa and produced by Andrea Warren, LUCA is a heart-warming celebration of friendship. If we look past the apparent simplicity of its themes, however, we find a complexity as deep as the ocean itself.
Near the beginning of the film, bored with his life as a goatfish herder, a disillusioned Luca blows a bubble in the water and contemplates his own face reflected in the shimmering sphere. Later, Luca studies his surroundings through the bottom of a glass tumbler. When he uses the glass to frame a gramophone at a distance, immediately the object becomes enchanted. In these scenes - throughout the entire film, in fact - we are invited to see the world, and experience the story, through Luca's eyes.
By viewing reality through the limitations of a lens - a bubble, a tumbler, or the lens of cinema itself - we immediately gain a different perspective. Perhaps even a fantastical one. When Luca first emerges from the water and sees the beautiful green landscape of the Italian Riviera, the blue sky, the warm sunshine, the fluffy clouds, the birds - it is a revelation. The upper world is stunningly beautiful and, in sharing Luca's eyes, we also share his sense of awe. Through Luca, we rediscover the magic in the everyday.
The film's emphasis on viewpoint is reminiscent of the work of Japanese filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki. In Studio Ghibli's My Neighbor Totoro, for example, there is a scene in which we see the young girl Mei looking at the world through a hole in a can. There are many such moments in Luca, when we as an audience are invited to rediscover reality by changing the angle from which we look at things. This is what all art does. It invites us to consider the world from a new perspective. In doing so, we are given an opportunity to do what Picasso strived for his whole life - to see through the eyes of a child. Since Enrico Casarosa is a self-professed Miyazaki disciple, it is no surprise that we find references to Miyazaki's work everywhere in LUCA - the use of simple forms and compositions, the discovery of wonder in nature, a perennial fascination with flight. Even the name of the town - Portorosso - brings to mind Miyazaki's film Porco Rosso. However, by bringing his distinctly Italian approach to story, setting and character, Casarosa succeeds in creating his own powerful artistic style.
Luca's experience of the upper world is presented in glorious detail. The texture of the stone walls is hyper-real. Close-ups of the sea washing on the shore are uncannily 'realistic.' Vivid colors and atmospheric lighting bring an extraordinary sense of texture, volume and sensuality. You can feel the sensation of walking on pebbles and almost taste the ice-cream being served up in the town's piazza! Seen through Luca's eyes, our familiar world becomes a place of miracles. Everything becomes an adventure.
But, this is not just beauty for beauty's sake. Casarosa's careful use of light and color constantly enhances the mood, and deepens our understanding of the characters. The pivotal scene where Luca betrays Alberto takes place before a stunning sunset, with sea and sky blending into a stunning tapestry. The color palette is dominated by hot oranges and reds - the colors of Mars, the Roman god of war - and so perfectly communicates the anger of the confrontation. Later, a night-time scene on the roof of the boys' hideout is barely illuminated by dim coals, adding to the profound melancholy of the moment.
Such moments are the result of confident creative choices, and reveal the complexity hidden inside the film's deceptive simplicity. By creating a series of powerful emotional resonances, they let us not only share these characters' experiences, but also look into their souls.
Just as powerful is the sense of place. From the moment when we first spy the lush green coastal slopes of Liguria, there is no doubt we are in Italy. Every detail, every flourish is exactly right, from the shape of Portorosso's quaint piazza to the way the light shines through the clothes hanging on the washing lines. The Italian vibe pervades the whole film, from locations to language, to the evocative soundtrack featuring popular songs from the 1950s and operatic arias such as Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro. The iconic Vespa holds center stage as an object of desire - perhaps even a divine presence - while the photograph jammed between the handlebars of Alberto's motorcycle is a portrait of Marcello Mastroianni, Italy's most famous actor of the period.
The Mastroianni photograph is just one of many movie references scattered throughout the film, part of a meta-language used by Casarosa to celebrate cinema in all its forms. The name of the fishing boat in the opening sequence is Gelsomina, which also happens to be the name of the protagonist in Federico Fellini's La Strada, a delicate film about self-discovery set against the backdrop of rural Italy. The walls of Portorosso are adorned with posters paying homage to the cinema of the 1950s. Fellini's La Strada makes another appearance here, as does William Wyler's Roman Holiday - famous for its shots of Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck speeding through Rome on a Vespa - and Disney's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, based on the science fiction novel by Jules Verne and presenting a highly romanticized vision of the underwater world.
This is the Italy remembered by the post-war generation as a land where imagination and innocence still lingered, in defiance of the inexorable advance of modernity. The march of progress is symbolized not only by the Vespa, but also by the motor boats which the humans have begun to favor, and also by the train that carries Luca away at the end of the film.
Adhering to a cinematic trope that evokes classic farewell scenes from a hundred different movies, the train departure scene delivers what is undoubtedly the emotional climax of the film. Here is the moment when Luca fulfils his dream and sets off with Giulia on his way to school, when he says goodbye to his best friend, and Alberto in his turn accepts that he must let Luca go. It is intensely sad, but at the same time uplifting. Before our eyes, we see the two boys coming of age and learning what love truly means. When Luca looks across the ocean and sees a ray of light illuminating the island where he and Alberto had so many adventures, he knows he is leaving his childhood behind. The moment is bittersweet, yet filled with hope, and surely inspired by Enrico Casarosa's own youthful journey across the ocean from Italy to study animation in the United States.
Anyone who has ever left someone or something behind to follow their dreams will empathize with Luca as he boards that train. Luca's own journey is driven by a thirst for knowledge, and an insatiable curiosity about the cosmos - an inner fire whose flames are fanned by the equally enthusiastic Giulia. Like every Italian child before her, Giulia has no doubt learned the lines from Canto 26 of Dante's Inferno, spoken by Ulysses as he urges his crew to voyage with him into the unknown: "You were not made to live for brutish ignorance, but to pursue virtue and knowledge. Consider your humanity." The lines might have been written for Luca himself.
Earlier in the film, we see Luca's secret desires encapsulated in a literal dream, one of several fantasy sequences that employ an exaggerated visual language to catapult the audience into the boy's imagination. In this dream, a Leonardo da Vinci flying machine carries Luca and Giulia to Rome, where they fly over the Coliseum. Art, science and history collide in this scholarly flight of fancy, and literature makes its appearance, too, when they spot the wooden boy Pinocchio strolling below them. References to Carlo Collodi's Pinocchio are pervasive in this film.
Giulia has a small Pinocchio sculpture in her bedroom. The Pinocchio-inspired song Il Gatto e la Volpe by Edoardo Bennato plays on the soundtrack during a montage of the two boys cementing their friendship on the island. When Luca takes his first steps on dry land, his clumsiness evokes the awkward stumblings of the stringless puppet in Disney's 1940 animated feature. When Luca dreams of going to school, is he not really dreaming about becoming a real boy, just like Pinocchio? Surely he is.
In leaving behind his underwater home, Luca ultimately comes full circle, just like any hero following the classic journey outlined by Joseph Campbell. As the train leaves the station, the rain causes both Luca and Alberto to transform from human back into their original sea monster forms. We have seen this metamorphosis many times already in the film- a subtle and expressive feat of technical animation, by the way - but only now do we recognizethat the transformation does not represent the otherness that so many of the film's characters fear. Rather, it represents unity. Luca is neither human nor sea monster. He is both. He is, simply, Luca.
And so, in that moment, we are returned to the beginning of the film, by way of a framing device we did not even notice was there, but which is evident now as we recall the opening shots of LUCA. In a clear visual nod to Casarosa's short film La Luna, these show the fishing boat Gelsomina journeying
through moonlit waves. All is dark and mysterious, with nothing to differentiate between sky and sea. The surroundings are primordial. We are in the realm of fable.
Love, Death & Robots (2019)
Love, Death, Robots + Revelation - Re-VIEW by Maria Elena Gutierrez
In Volume 2 of the Netflix animated anthology Love, Death + Robots, creator Tim Miller and supervising director Jennifer Yuh Nelson bring us eight tales of science fiction, fantasy and horror, adapted from stories by leading writers in the field, including some real heavyweights like J. G. Ballard, John Scalzi and Harlan Ellison. Each episode tells a unique story and celebrates a different animation style - from hyper-real 3D to crisp 2D graphics to stop-motion.
Thematically, the season effortlessly delivers on the promise of its title, serving up stories of love, death and robots in roughly equal measure. But its true success lies deeper. Like all art, Love, Death + Robots seeks to open doors leading outward into the imagination. By passing through these doors, we embark on a journey toward our unconscious selves. What we find there is revelation.
The concluding episode of the season, The Drowned Giant is a masterpiece. It's a power and profound reflection on the cycle of life and death. In it, scientist Steven Pacey narrates the mysterious appearance of a perfectly-proportioned human giant on a beach near a fishing village, followed by its gradual decay and dismemberment.
Like many of the stories in Love, Death + Robots, The Drowned Giant takes as its theme the tension between mortality and immortality, rendering the process of decay as a scene of ever-changing beauty. The image of the giant's headless torso clearly echoes the paintings of Spanish surrealist Salvador Dali - and the placing of the enormous body on the beach brings to mind the metaphysical and enigmatic compositions of Italian artist Giorgio de Chirico.
The Drowned Giant is also rich in symbolic mythological language, not least in the way it portrays the dismemberment of a godlike figure. In Greek mythology, Zeus' son Dionysus- sometimes conflated with Zagreus - is dismembered by the Titans. The implication here is that, before death, the beached giant was not only alive, but perhaps even divine. After death, the logos becomes flesh, then meat, then finally a rack of bones lingering on the shore - another image from myth that speaks to the all-powerful tide of time. So, we conclude that to be alive is to be fragile, yet in fragility there is also beauty and wonder.
Equally beautiful is Ice, a tale of brotherhood set on a frigid colony world far out in space. This
episode's stylish imagery - which could be straight out of a graphic novel - carries echoes of Russian cubism and the avant-garde. The moon hanging in the night sky paints the dire alien landscape with stark chiaroscuro lines. Its light brings meaning, if not hope, promising a warmth that is unattainable to the humans who prowl the colony's gloomy streets, taking performance-enhancing drugs in their quest to achieve godlike strength.
The machines used by the colonists to plunder the alien landscape are massive and mysterious. So, too, are the whales who swim beneath the surface of a vast ice floe. When these whales finally break through the ice, we are witness to a life-affirming magic, and yet another revelation - here lies a world of hidden majesty that calls into question the wisdom of the 'modded' humans who paint their streets with graffiti. Once more, in the form of the breaching whales, we are afforded a fleeting glimpse of the divine.
Visual style is integral to Automated Customer Service, which shows us a glossy future world in which everything shines with perfection - except for the humans who live in it. In contrast to the sleek robots who care for them, these people are flabby and old, their features caricatured to the point of ugliness and beyond. This absurdity is played for laughs - indeed, the only character that looks remotely human is the dog!
In Automated Customer Service, the desire of humans for immortality is represented by their the worship of technology. When their robots turn on their creators, this dream is shown to be ultimately cold. Immortality, technology and coldness are even more clearly aligned in Pop Squad, where the inhabitants of a future city pursue the dream of eternal life from the apparent utopia of their skyscrapers, which are, in truth, devoid of warmth. While these privileged immortals amuse themselves with opera, the real emotional life is taking place in the dystopian streets below, where the subjugated lower classes watch in horror as their 'unregistered offspring' are terminated by child-killing patrols.
The dark side of technology is even more apparent in Life Hutch, in which a stranded astronaut gains the sanctuary of an emergency pod, only to find that its mechanised servant has turned killer. Here, as in The Drowned Giant, we see living flesh turned to meat, when the rogue robot treads on the astronaut's hand, mangling his fingers.
But not all machines are bad. In Snow in the Desert, the robot turns out to be the savior. Immortality is at the forefront again, in the form of Snow himself, an undying albino on the run from bounty hunters on a remote arid planet.
Snow in the Desert brings with it a rich, warm aesthetic, a stark contrast to the harsh metallic confines of Life Hutch. This suits a story that relies on us connecting emotionally with the characters. As for the savior robot herself, she is more human than human, and profoundly sensual - even her inner workings, stripped bare, are eroticised. No surprise that she takes up with the immortal Snow, a man who clearly appreciates sensuality. Even though he is on the run, he takes the time to acquire a rare batch of fresh strawberries from an alien vendor, relishing their taste and texture by the light of the setting sun. In this context, it is worth noting the symbolic properties of the humble strawberry. Like the pomegranate in the Hebrew culture, this seed-filled fruit can be seen to represent fertility and abundance. In Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal, two actors offer strawberries to the errant knight Antonius Block, in a scene that establishes them as the embodiment of innocence and uncorrupt perfection.
The imaginary world of Snow in the Desert is established with remarkable economy. The story may be short, but its highly cinematic setting is built for the big screen. Alongside the visual grandeur, however, there is beauty to be found in simplicity. One moment that lingers is a shot of the albino Snow lying back on his bed, his white hair rendered to perfection on the white pillow, with a single ray of light further enhancing the composition. Very sophisticated, and utterly gorgeous.
There is beauty in the grotesque, as well. In Volume 2 of Love, Death + Robots, two cautionary horror stories transport us to a universe of terrifying possibilities. In The Tall Grass, a man disembarks from a train only to become trapped in a field filled with the living dead. In All Through the House, two children discover that Santa Claus is not the jovial gentlemen they had always imagined. Both stories plant an uncanny element into conventional reality, revealing the existence of monsters in our everyday world. The monsters themselves are grotesque in the extreme, and ultimately they represent the same fear of death that haunts all the stories in this season.
The inquisitive children of All Through the House gain revelation by looking upon a forbidden sight. This is not the only episode of Love, Death + Robots to reference the power of the gaze, nor to play with meaning through the manipulation of perspective. In The Drowned Giant, when we see the narrator reflected in the dead giant's crystallised eye, we experience the disturbing sensation that he is inside the eye looking out at us. At the same time we become aware of our own status as spectators - it is an unsettling, uncanny moment. Similar moments occur elsewhere. In Ice, we observe the boy Sedgwick spying on his family through a door. In Pop Squad, when Detective Briggs finally tracks down the unlicensed mother Eve, she changes his world-view by describing the gift of seeing the world through her daughter's eyes.
This shift of perspective is the ultimate goal of all art, and all storytelling. It is a goal that Love, Death + Robots reaches with beauty and sophistication. By opening multiple doors on to countless worlds of revelation, it permits us to see reality through new eyes. It encourages us to be curious and to let ourselves be surprised. It shows us beauty and death, and the intimate connection between the two. Above all, it invites us to be human.
Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. She holds a Ph. D. from Stanford University and a BA from the University of California Santa Cruz. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing a diversity of voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects, and games.
The Mitchells vs the Machines (2021)
"The Mitchells vs. The Machines" - Using Art to Save the World Maria Elena Gutierrez"The Mitchells vs. The Machines" - Using Art to Save the World by Maria Elena Gutierrez
The Mitchells vs. The Machines sends a dysfunctional family on a road trip across the United States, then almost immediately plunges them into a cataclysmic robot uprising. Bursting with comedic energy, the film plays with mixed media and a sketchy animation style, artfully subverting expectations about what an animated feature should look like.
Expectations are further upended by the storyline. In the current round of mainstream Hollywood movies, we are bombarded by stories about "perfect" superheroes. Such films present their creators with a difficult challenge: how to make their superpowered characters relatable to an audience of ordinary people who will never in their lives be able to leap over tall buildings or fly faster than a bullet.
With The Mitchells vs. The Machines, however, writer-directors Mike Rianda and Jeff Rowe have channelled a different kind of superpower: their own understanding that, in the real world, misfits are far more commonplace than superheroes. Celebrating "weirdos," Rianda and Rowe have chosen as their protagonists a group of ordinary people. The heroism of Katie Mitchell and her quirky family lies in the everyday dimension. It is their very imperfection that makes them relatable, and we as an audience find their flaws endearing because ultimately we all feel that we ourselves are flawed.
Of course, the very goofiness of the Mitchell family also provides an endless source of entertainment - rightly so, since this is, after all, a family comedy. The filmmakers exploit the humor of bathos and hyperbole, permitting their characters to note with dry comic timing that, while some families are grappling with organising their family photo albums, or dealing with picky eaters, the Mitchells have to manage a robot apocalypse. Pop culture references abound, from youth-friendly commentary on the politics of social media, to evocations of classic movies that are sure to please the more mature crowd -
In Pal's geometric core there are echo's of Stanley Kubrick's monolith from from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Hidden beneath this sense of fun is a simple but profound message of reassurance: that it is okay to be odd. This idea is supported by the circular nature of the Mitchell family's strange odyssey, which begins with the suggestion that their weirdness is something that sets them apart. At the end of the film, however, as we listen to young Katie Mitchell's speech about why humanity should be saved, we see how this family of misfits has transformed itself into something special and magical. This shows us that the magic exist in our every day lives. We just have to look at it through the right lens. "Weirdness," it seems,
is what makes us unique.
Turning our attention to the Mitchells' neighbours - an image-obsessed superhero family call the Poseys - we might even detect echoes of an everyday cultural struggle in which working class people live in passive envy of their apparently perfect upper class counterparts. Social media addicts derive pleasure from both watching and being watched, and so the relationship between 'weird' mother Linda Mitchell and her 'perfect' counterpart Hailey Posey can be read as a model of mimetic desire. The relationship endures to the end - when Hailey finally demonstrates her new-found acceptance of Linda by allowing the Mitchell mother to follow her on Instagram, the irony of this gracious gesture is all too apparent.
This particular dynamic delivers its own share of entertainment to an audience that knows what it is to be the underdog. Watching the film, we experience a certain sado-masochistic pleasure not only in seeing the Mitchells triumph over their adversaries, but also in sharing the various torments they endure themselves.
Yet The Mitchells vs. The Machines also presents us with another juxtaposition: that of a natural world built on love and human values, in contrast to the technological realm of Silicon Valley and social media, where people are caught up in endless images of themselves, not who they really are.
In their own different ways, therefore, the individual members of the Mitchell family are battling not only to defeat the robots, but also to find their true selves. One such route to self-discovery lies in the space of memory - presented in vibrant form throughout the film. By immersing ourselves in the past, we discover a state of being that is more genuine than the cultural state in which we find ourselves today, and within which we can ultimately achieve enlightenment.
The Pater familias (father of the family), Rick Mitchell, seeks such knowledge through his love of nature. A modern-day Luddite, he advises his movie-obsessed daughter, Katie, to look at the world not through her camera lens but with her own eyes, which he describes as 'nature's camera.' And so Rick's world view aligns closely with the film's assertion that technology in the wrong hands can be lethal. At the same time, it portrays the tension between father and daughter. Fearful as he is, Rick wants only to protect Katie - part of his journey is learning that the best way to do this is to let her go.
Through all this, it is Katie's philosophy that ultimately prevails. From her position at the heart of the story, this young girl instantly presents herself as a storyteller, as she attempts to escape reality through the medium of cinema. Katie's youthful enthusiasm for zany imagery and crazy ideas is mirrored in the dynamic visual style of The Mitchells vs The Machines. Is she in fact the alter ego of the film's directors? It is hard to argue against the idea.
Katie's agency in the story is further reinforced by her status as an openly gay character. With seemingly effortless ease, The Mitchells vs The Machines succeeds in broadcasting and celebrating her sexuality - often through simple visual devices such as the rainbow button she wears - while at the same time never drawing undue attention to it. It is rare for the LGBQT community to be represented so naturally in a Hollywood film - especially an animated feature - and this subtle balancing act is to be applauded.
As the robots threaten to overwhelm the planet, it is Katie's passion for art - and her father's eventual recognition of arts value - that saves the day. From the beginning, the film demonstrates that Katie's way of knowing herself and understanding reality is through her art - which she perceives as an expression of her weirdness. And so, it is Katie who teaches us the lesson that lies at the heart of The Mitchells vs The Machines: that art will not only save us in the end, but it will heal us, too.
Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing a diversity of voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects and games.
If Anything Happens I Love You (2020)
Re-VIEW If Anything Happens I Love You by Maria Elena Gutierrez
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?"
William Shakespeare, King John, Act III, Scene 4
The classic American animated film typically embraces one of two genres: comedy or adventure. But this is merely a convention; it does not need to be so. Filmmakers can and do use cinematic tools to tell many kinds of stories, not just the pleasant ones, and some of these stories can best be told through the medium of animation. As many directors have declared: "Animation is not a genre - I'm just making films."
Thanks to this convention, animated films usually refrain from exploring the deepest dimensions of the human psyche, especially the tragedies and the radical grief. The splendid Netflix animated short film If Anything Happens I Love You has no such inhibitions. By tackling subject matter that many people would consider "difficult," it dares to push the envelope and, in doing so, has earned itself 15 film festival awards and an Oscar nomination.
Directors Michael Govier and Will McCormack, who are also both professional actors and screenwriters, spent a year perfecting the script for this 12-minute film, which depicts the anger, sorrow, denial and - finally - the acceptance of grief experienced by two parents who have lost a child. Anyone who has buried a child knows the mute grief bound up in this action.
In the film, each parent's individual grief is represented as a shadow-self, untethered and disconnected from the character. The woman's shadow argues with the man's, but why? We know these people are in agony, but only gradually does the reason for their conflict become apparent.
The revelation is made through a series of animated drawings that are barren and lean; in their style they are as lonely and devastating as grief itself. By adopting this minimal approach, the directors give you nothing to focus on but the emotion of pain. There is no dialog, only a sense of incommunicability and distance between the parents. Inside themselves they are frozen in time - a kind of "stasis in darkness," to quote Sylvia Plath. They do not experience time; instead they are suspended like shadows in limbo. As the audience, we perceive the passing of time only externally, in the seasons and in the singing of birds. We learn that the parents are internalizing grief and recognize that we do this, too.
However, thanks to the unexpected discovery of an enchanted object - a blue t-shirt embodying the young girl - the parents begin to remember their child through the grief. We see a gallery of photos on the girl's bedroom wall that portray key moments in her brief life. As the grieving parents recall a family trip to the grand canyon, the day of her birth, her tenth-year birthday party, playing soccer with her dad in the yard, we the audience fall in love with her, as well. By sharing with her parents this process of remembering, we too enter the space of memory.
And so the parents' sudden loss becomes ours. It is dramatic and heartbreaking.
Eventually the film takes us where we do not want to go, even though we know we must go there: the final day of this child's lost life. We want to join the grief-shadows as they try to keep her from taking that final, fateful step into the school where she will die. No music plays as we hear vividly the sound of her footsteps one after another. The school bell rings. Then we hear the sound of gunshots. The screen goes dark. We are suspended in time and space. Language breaks down. The words "If anything happens I love you" appear on the screen of her phone. They dissolve, taking the shape of tears, or rain, or bullets.
If Anything Happens I Love You resounds with timeless messages. In this time of both multiple tragedies and opportunities for hope, this most beautiful of films is especially powerful and relevant. Why? Because all the memories it portrays are represented through the powerful lens of love. At the end of the film the parents find themselves transformed by their deep love for their child, and are able at last to mourn her through a celebration of her life.
Ultimately, then, this is a film about hope. When the parents listen to their daughter's favorite song, they open themselves fully to the lyrics - hearing them, perhaps, for the first time: "I hope that you are happy with me in your life," the song says. "I will keep on waiting for your love." As new hope begins to heal their hearts, the miracle of the film becomes clear: it has the power to heal us, too.
The healing power of hope is presented visually, too. The film opens and closes with the same image: an aerial view of the neighborhood where this story began and ended. It depicts a perfect circle, giving closure to this poignant story of universal grief.
Watch our in-depth interview with the Directors of If Anything Happens I Love You: Will McCormack & Michael Govier on the VIEW Conference YouTube channel. Subscribe there to get notified of upcoming releases.
Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. She holds a Ph. D from Stanford University and a B. A from the University of California Santa Cruz. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing a diversity of voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects and games.
Soul (2020)
SOUL and the Cinematic Empathy Machine by Maria Elena Gutierrez
In Disney and Pixar's Soul, jazz pianist and music teacher Joe Gardner finds himself transported to The Great Before, a fantastic realm where unborn souls are prepared for life on Earth. Coming to terms with his new existence as a disembodied entity, Joe becomes mentor to another soul known only as '22.' Together they return to Earth on a quest to discover just what it is that makes life meaningful.
Pete Docter, who directed Soul alongside co-directorKemp Powers, has frequently used cinema as a way of exploring metaphysical questions. Soul, which explicitly asks where human personalities come from, is the next fascinating step along this investigative path.
Docter and Powers join a tradition of filmmakers who have examined such philosophical ground. Members of the 1950s French movement known as La Nouvelle Vague were haunted by deep and difficult questions, as were Italian directors such as Michelangelo Antonioni, Liliana Cavani and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Alfred Hitchcock built his career on the psychological thriller and, through more recent years, Christopher Nolan continues to thrill audiences with his uniquely mind-expanding movies.
Nor is it any surprise that the medium of animation has become a potent tool in the quest to find answers to these questions. Sophisticated animation techniques, evident in Soul's seductive blend of 'real world' imagery and its surreal visualisation of TheGreat Before, allow filmmakers to present extraordinary visions of outrageous worlds and concepts. These same techniques allow Soul's engaging cast of characters - especially Joe - to express emotion with such a remarkable level of subtlety that the audience is afforded a glimpse into their innermost hearts - into their very souls, in fact.
The film's two visual styles prove that modern animation is a vibrant, ever-evolving art form. In contrast to the brightly-lit three-dimensional reality of Soul's New York City sequences, The Great Before boldly mixes in characters that are uncompromisingly two-dimensional, in the form of the ethereal Counselors. The lighting design varies dramatically from the fluffy softness of TheGreat Before's central Zone, to the nightmarish Astral Plane where Lost Souls roam, to the stark interstellar escalator that carries newly departed souls to the Great Beyond.
The music of Soul, which combines jazz songs by Jon Batiste with a new-age score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, plays a big part in defining the two worlds. By its very nature, music has the capacity to move away from the binary access of rational language and transport the listener into a space of emotions. In this respect, music itself is a representation of the soul and, indeed, the most beautiful sequences in Soul are those where the music comes front and center, especially the epiphany sequence where Joe sits at his piano and reflects on all the mundane miracles of his life on Earth.
The simple ordinariness of Joe's epiphany is what gives Soul its power. By leaving the story open, Docter and Powers invite the audience to ponder their own life choices. By putting themselves in Joe's shoes, they gain the confidence to ask themselves the same question that inspired the directors to make Soul in the first place. Do I have a path? Am I living a meaningful life? In this way, Soul forges a emotional link between storyteller and spectator, proving that the medium of cinema remains exactly what it has always been - an empathy machine.
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WolfWalkers (2020)
Wolfwalkers - Odyssey of the Senses By Maria Elena Gutierrez
In Wolfwalkers, a young English girl called Robyn Goodfellowe escapes Kilkenny, the Irish town to which she has been brought by her father, in order to explore the wonders of the surrounding forest. In doing so, she turns her back on the world of human beings and opens herself to the world of wolves.
At this fundamental level, Wolfwalkers can be seen as a story of the conflict between civilization and nature. To this end, directors Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart employ two distinct visual styles. The town of Kilkenny is rendered in flat geometric shapes and dark colors. It is oppressive, solid like a block. Thematically this represents the English Puritanical religious views of 1650, and the embodiment of this is the Lord Protector. When he first shows up, the frame is almost devoid of color: his suit and headgear are black and white, with only a splash of red in the emblem on his flag, which symbolizes the violence and killing of the wolves.
In contrast, the world of the forest is an enchanted paradise. It looks like a three-dimensional watercolor painting - it's fluid and loose, filled with energy and life. When we see the wolves running through the trees, they move like liquid. All of this tells us that nature is the space of creativity, the space of liberation. Indeed, Mebh openly tells Robyn: "Come and be free in the forest. Come and play."
While the design of the town draws on woodcut illustrations from the period, the forest owes a clear debt to the highly decorative manuscripts produced by Irish and British monks between 700-1,000 AD, known as "insular illumination" and perhaps best represented by the wonderful Book of Kells. This artistic tradition used sophisticated interlacing and zoomorphic decoration to represent the complexity of nature, its deep interconnectedness, and its organic wholeness. In a luscious visual vegetation, images grow one into the other while animals lurk enigmatically in the background. Not surprisingly, this form of art is an ideal match for a story where nature plays a central role. Sometimes, the visual complexity and the dynamism of images in Wolfwalkers is so exuberant that we have the impression of entering a new visual world resembling that of the Viennese Secession, best exemplified by the work of Gustav Klimt.
Having passed from the hard, geometric world of the town into the fluid space of the forest, Robyn meets Mebh, a girl about her age who is the embodiment of the natural world. This contrast between town and countryside is echoed in the design of these two protagonists. Look at Mebh, and you will see that the shape of her hair resembles a leaf; her face is round like a heart. But Robyn, who desperately wants to be a hunter, has a face shaped like an arrow; in certain sequences her cape takes the shape of an arrow, too.
The world of nature has yet another aspect, because it is also a space of magic and ritual. We first see evidence of this in the inscriptions on the walls of the cave where Mebh resides with her mother and the wolves. These markings immediately transport us back to a time when human beings first felt the need to represent sacred beings through drawing. In this way the cave represents our relationship to the divine world and reminds us that, in order to forge the future, we must first explore the past.
Venturing deeper into the cave, we discover Mebh's mother represented in a way that evokes ideas of a Mother Earth Goddess. This returns us to the sacred moment when humans and animals lived in symbiosis, and again we see this story recounted on the walls of the cave. As we absorb the ancient narrative, we realise we are in the presence of the divine.
Even the shape of the cave is suggestive and full of meaning, resembling as it does female anatomy. In this and many other ways, the movie is a celebration of woman.
For example, Robyn is an archetype of the woman standing against the oppressive authority of men, just like Antigone, stood against her uncle Creon in order to honor paganism and the oral laws of the gods. There are clear echoes of Antigone's story in Wolfwalkers, where the townspeople are told repeatedly that terrible things will to happen if they cut down the trees. At one point, the woodcutter explains to Robyn's father that Saint Patrick made a pact with the pagan god. As for the Wolfwalkers themselves- they are the magical gods, the divinities who have existed in the forest since primordial times, since before history began.
Wolfwalkers is also a celebration of the senses. When Robyn passes from the hard, geometric world of the town into the fluid space of the forest - and in particular when she transforms into a wolf - Mebh tells her not to rely on her eyes. Instead, Robyn must learn to use her other senses - her sense of smell, or the feel of the earth beneath her paws. Mebh is there to guide her - and also us, the audience - into this sensory world.
In addition, beyond even the power of the senses, Mebh possesses the healing power of magic. Yet she cannot cure her mother alone. In order to do that she needs help. She needs the pack, the community, the collective. The power of the family. Even this heroine, this girl with superhero powers, cannot succeed alone. The ultimate message of Wolfwalkers, therefore, stands in defiance of individualism. If we as human beings are going to heal nature, we need each other.
Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing a diversity of voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects and games.
SparkShorts: Burrow (2020)
Pixar's Sparkshorts "BURROW" - Review By Maria Elena Gutierrez
"Burrow" is a fast-paced laugh-out-loud funny 2020 addition to Pixar's growing collection of stellar SparkShorts, short form animated films that showcase new directors and techniques. Rarely I have I fallen in love with a leading character so quickly - from her first moments on the screen, our leading bunny is a wonderful combination of naïve idealism and derring-do. The story is universal - an aspiring homeowner who starts with a dream and a plan (the crudely drawn plan, replete with "Bath / Disco?" notation over the tub, provides the first of many hilarious and endearing moments in this richly entertaining short), and finds that actually building a home is far more difficult than sketching the plan. As our leading bunny encounters setback upon setback, her response is to go it alone - to literally dig deeper into her own growing frustration and anxiety, so that she doesn't have to stoop to the humiliating (to her) position of simply stopping and asking for help.
In a film filled with surprises, the first is the production design and style - no traditional Pixar 3D uber-sophistication here - "BURROW" feels more like a hand animated favorite old-time storybook. That style decision creates an interesting lens through which to discuss the film. Aside from the practical considerations of cost and production time, this storybook look lends an accessibility and warmth that is well developed throughout the film. The illustration style allows for a wide variety of supporting animals, from studious frogs to a restaurant for ants to the alpha badger whose powerful roar calls the entire underground colony to action.
Every film is a social commentary - whether explicitly or implicitly. Perhaps the biggest and most wonderful fantasy in "BURROW" is the how well everyone gets along. Our bunny accidently breaks into the warm home of what look like gophers, and is she chased away or eaten? No, she is offered fresh baked cookies! Every underground twist and turn in her search for a place to dig her burrow results in a spectacular incursion into another animal family's burrow, and the responses are mostly good-natured and downright welcoming (except for the horrified restaurant of ants - some of them fainted). In the end, the entire harmonious colony of inter-connected multi-species homes is saved by a lightning-fast combined rescue effort by all the characters.
"BURROW" was written and directed by erstwhile storyboard artist Madeline Sharafian, an exuberant 28 year Pixar team member. If the goal of the SparkShorts program is to identify young artists who have directing potential, then "BURROW" was an overwhelming success. We are looking for great things from this young talent. Stay tuned!
Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing women's voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects and games.
Bombay Rose (2019)
"Bombay Rose" - VIEWpoint and Vision by Maria Elena Gutierrez
There is an idea posited by many philosophers that women think through their bodies. Filmmaker Gitanjali Rao explores this idea and others in her debut animated feature, Bombay Rose, which tells a story of forbidden love between young dancer Kamala and Salim, a Kashmiri orphan on the streets of Bombay.
The power of the female gaze is evident throughout the film, and it is this that enables Rao to represent the mechanics of the world from a sensual, feminist perspective. For example, when Salim is bathing or dancing, we are aware that we are seeing him through Kamala's watching eyes. Rao plays constantly with point of view, notably when she tells her story from the perspective of a rose - which itself represents Kamala, thematically.
Bombay Rose offers not only multiple viewpoints, but also a complex vision of reality itself through the hybrid use of different visual styles. Further, it fragments time, taking us from the linear reality of the everyday world into a space of dreams - into a stream of consciousness, you could say. Anything can happen in this realm of myth. Most critically, it is the one place where Kamala and Salim are able to express their love.
Through its rich visuals, the film reminds us that reality is vibrant and complex - in particular the city of Bombay, with its busy markets filled with intense colors. Bombay Rosefurther explores the plurality of India. On the surface, the film shows how women have been traditionally considered as commercial transactions between men - Kamala was sold in marriage, for example. When we dig deeper, however, we realize that Kamala, Tara and Miss D'Souza - three generations of resourceful, powerful, imaginative women - are the characters who actually advance the story of Bombay Rose. These are Indian women who have agency, and who have a voice.
Rao adds yet another layer of richness through her careful and effective use of music, most memorably when the story culminates in a tragic and sacrificial death, accompanied by the heart-wrenching Mexican song Cucurrucucú paloma - a song guaranteed to reduce me to tears at the best of times!
Above all, Bombay Rose deals with people in poverty. However, when tackling this subject, Gitanjali Rao refuses to adopt a nihilistic stance, unlike many other filmmakers. In Luis Buñuel's Los Olvidados, for example, or in a lot of Neorealist cinema, there is no redemption, only tragedy. Poverty brings fragility - it is part of being poor, a tragic dimension that you cannot escape from. But, even though Bombay Rose presents have-not characters from the poorest parts of the city, the film ultimately delivers a wonderful catharsis - a moment of rebirth, really. The final images are of an emancipated Kamala striding towards the camera, powerful and beautiful and assertive.
The Brazilian author Jorge Amado wrote: "Sadness is a plant which is omnipresent in the garden of the poor." There is sadness in Bombay Rose, but the film's greatest strength is that, even in the face of death, it exists in celebration of life.
Bombay Rose is released on Netflix on March 8, 2021, International Women's Day. Dr. Maria Elena Gutierrez is the CEO and executive director of VIEW Conference, Italy's premiere annual digital media conference. VIEW Conference is committed to bringing women's voices to the forefront in animation, visual effects and games. For more information about the VIEW 2021 program of events, visit the official website: