Animation

Moana: A Girl and a God on the High Seas

Jeremy BeckReviews
Dwayne Johnson and Auli’i Cravalho are on an adventure in Disney's "Moana"

Midway through Moana, the iridescent and irresistible new animated adventure from Walt Disney Studios, an observer sizes up the title character: “If you wear a dress and have an animal sidekick, you’re a princess.” The speaker is the demigod Maui, and along with his other impressive talents—shape-shifter, warrior, chest-thumper—you can add meta commentator. Disney is as much a cultural institution as a movie studio, and Maui’s blunt assessment of Moana’s effective nobility—she feebly objects that she’s the daughter of a chief, not a king—reflects the company’s evolving self-awareness. Now in its ninth decade, the Mouse House has churned out countless tales of feminine royalty, films that are, depending on whom you ask, either exciting and empowering or formulaic and stereotypic. Moana is, in one way or another, all of these things. Yes, it’s yet another journey of self-discovery, featuring yet another plucky heroine of high birth, one who follows in the well-trodden footsteps of Aurora, Ariel, and Anna. And so what? There are far worse blueprints to hew to, much less to subtly reengineer and reinvigorate. Winking commentary aside, Moana doesn’t reinvent the (spinning) wheel, but it does capably tweak and troubleshoot the Disney formula, resulting in a thoroughly enjoyable movie that’s by turns playful and poignant.

This incremental progress begins, of course, with the film’s setting. Long criticized for its emphatic whiteness, Disney has endeavored in recent years to diversify its universe, and Moana continues that trend, taking place in Polynesia. Whether this represents legitimate growth or mere tokenism is not for me to say; in any event, I am less interested in the political dimensions of this movie than its cinematic ones. And as a piece of storytelling, the opening act of Moana is pleasant but unremarkable. Moana (voiced by newcomer Auli’i Cravalho) is the restless daughter of a local chief, dutifully obeying her tribe’s customs but constantly feeling a silent tug from the Pacific. You know the drill: She feels unfulfilled with her routine, and she chafes at her father’s insistence that she never venture beyond their island’s barrier reef. In other words, she’s a lot like Ariel. Or Merida. Or Rapunzel. To paraphrase another famous Disney character who will be returning to theaters early next year: There must be more than this provincial fishing life! Read More

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Kubo and the Two Strings: In a Land of Magic, a Storyteller on the Run

Jeremy BeckReviews
In "Kubo and the Two Strings", three strange heroes on a quest

The opening voiceover of Kubo and the Two Strings admonishes viewers not to blink. Closing our eyes, we are told, will result in the death of the film’s hero. It’s a bold gambit that could potentially induce groans from the audience, were it not accompanied by a ravishing image: a woman and her baby in a tiny canoe, surging forward against a giant wave, as rain lashes down and the moon shines ominously. It’s an enthralling sight, one that renders the narrator’s warning superfluous—who could possibly look away from such a scene? But that narration, beyond establishing the life-or-death stakes, speaks to the movie’s larger purpose. Kubo and the Two Strings isn’t just a story about an artist. It’s about how artists tell stories.

The artist-in-chief of Kubo is Travis Knight, the CEO of Laika, a studio that occupies a unique space in the American cinematic landscape. Eschewing the digital wizardry of Pixar and DreamWorks, Laika instead makes movies via stop-motion animation, that laborious method of physically manipulating individual objects for illusive effect. (This playful scene illustrates just how mind-bogglingly arduous the technique is.) Its first three films—Coraline, ParaNorman, and The Boxtrolls—married this painstaking approach to an off-kilter weirdness, resulting in distinctly original pictures that were always interesting, if not quite astonishing. But Kubo and the Two Strings, which is Knight’s directorial debut, is the studio’s best movie yet, combining the doting meticulousness of its prior works with a sweeping, stirring narrative and richly drawn characters. The style may be new-fangled, but the storytelling is old-fashioned in the best ways. Read More

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Sausage Party: Imagine All the Foods, Losing Their Religion

Jeremy BeckReviews
Kristen Wiig, Seth Rogen, Edward Norton, and David Krumholtz as foods in "Sausage Party"

The community at the center of Sausage Party is a vibrant melting pot, a diverse cross-section of ethnic backgrounds and religious faiths. But this neighborhood is also unified in its theism—although it hosts a number of different sects, most of its residents believe in some higher power. Some sing hymns together, while others pass down oral histories of their divinities; virtually all of them contemplate the existence of life after death and hope one day to ascend to a spiritual plane. In essence, this bustling hub of worship exhibits the kind of cultural variety that you might find in any American metropolis, where people regularly attend churches, synagogues, or mosques. There’s just one small difference that distinguishes the characters of this movie: They’re all foods.

The premise of Sausage Party, which was co-written by longtime best buds Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, sounds like an idea that they cooked up while getting stoned on the set of This Is the End, their woozy apocalyptic hangout comedy. (Virtually the entire voice cast of Sausage Party appeared in that film, while Kyle Hunter and Ariel Shaffir, who both executive-produced it, also receive screenwriting credits here.) That movie used the Rapture as scaffolding for a thoughtful investigation of male friendship and insecurity, and Sausage Party features an even crazier concept that masks an even more provocative study of human behavior. Curiously, it’s the latter that leaves a mark. A self-professed work of “adult animation”, Sausage Party is frequently funny and persistently filthy, but its commitment to excess suffers from diminishing returns. It’s the skewering of organized religion that really stings. Read More

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Finding Dory: Remember, Remember, the Fish Blue and Tender

Jeremy BeckReviews
In "Finding Dory", Marlin the clownfish and Dory the tang are back for another adventure

One of the many running jokes in 2003’s Finding Nemo—that magnificent maritime adventure from Pixar Animation Studios—was that its main character, Marlin (voiced by Albert Brooks), was a clownfish but was spectacularly unfunny. In fact, Marlin was a neurotic grump, far more prone to panic than humor. He’s still grousing about anything and everything in Finding Dory, but one of his complaints stands out. “Crossing the entire ocean is something you should only do once,” he grumbles. It’s a gripe that might as well be chum to metaphor-hungry film critics—not that I have anyone in mind—looking to compare this sequel to Finding Nemo, which remains one of Pixar’s greatest achievements. The computer-animation pioneer is renowned for many things—breathtaking visuals, witty dialogue, mature themes smuggled inside kid-friendly packages—but perhaps its defining trait is its commitment to originality. This is, after all, the studio that has told tales of culinarily gifted rats, silent robots, and anthropomorphized emotions. Which brings us back to Marlin’s gloomy, profound question: Is it really worth crossing the ocean twice? That is, can a straightforward sequel really be worthy of joining the animation giant’s formidable canon?

Yes and no. What, you were expecting a straight answer? Fine, I’ll be blunt: Finding Dory is not as good as Finding Nemo. Yet even that seemingly straightforward assessment comes with a caveat, namely: so what? Comparing sequels to their originals is a reductive way of evaluating them on their own merits; that’s especially true when said original is one of the best movies of the prior decade. Finding Dory may, er, swim in the shadow of its progenitor, but that shouldn’t preclude us from weighing its standalone value as a movie. Read More

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Zootopia: Sly Fox and Smart Bunny Solve a Caper, Teach a Lesson

Jeremy BeckReviews
Jason Bateman as a sly fox and Ginnifer Goodwin as an earnest bunny in "Zootopia"

The cliché about modern animated movies is that they satisfy both kids and adults. In reality, they tend to satisfy kids or adults, with specific elements aimed exclusively at each demographic; kids are entertained by talking animals and scatological humor, while parents are placated by wry sarcasm and the sporadic literary or cinematic reference. Disney’s Zootopia isn’t entirely immune to this kind of bifurcation—there are broad gags about genitalia (groan), and there are subtle jabs like a group of critters who work at Lemming Brothers Bank (ha!)—but for the most part, it avoids the trap of pandering to its audience. This doesn’t mean it has nothing to say; on the contrary, Zootopia targets its younger viewers with a message that is familiar but also well-meaning and even resonant. It’s a kids’ movie made by adults.

The surprising power of that message is initially obscured by the film’s brisk setup and lively visuals. As the punny title suggests—this is presumably the first animated movie that will inspire parents to teach their children about the writings of Thomas More—Zootopia takes place in a universe populated by anthropomorphic animals who live in apparent harmony. Our heroine is Judy Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin), a perky bunny rabbit with big ears and a bigger heart who aspires to become the metropolis’s first cotton-tailed police officer. Judy may be small in stature, but her will is indomitable, and what she lacks in size she compensates for with quickness and guile. That’s an awfully familiar trope, and Judy’s quest for self-fulfillment results in the predictable recitation of trite platitudes found so often in children’s literature. Be yourself! Never give up! Follow your dreams! Read More

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