Characters with Character

Oh dear. I've been tagged, it seems. An internet meme (some would say plague, but not I...) has been taking over the world of blogger, and that meme involves bloggers listing their 'favorite' movie characters. Greg over at Cinema Styles has tagged me so, if you find this painful, go over there and yell at him. Seriously, you have my blessing.

Characters are our emotional gateway into the themes a movie presents, so it's natural that there would be some who would strike a deep personal chord with us. We see something of ourselves in them, like a mirror in motion. I'm not going to pretend that this list represents my unequivocal favorites, but today, this is what feels right. So here ya go, in chronological order:

Emil Jannings as Hotelportier, The Last Laugh (1924, F.W. Murnau)

It's hard not to love a character who gets the last laugh, who rises out of the muck to join the prestigious ranks of the upper class, by sheer chance. The legend is that they forced Murnau to change the ending from what it originally was, which had the Hotelportier dying in the same washroom he was once the attendant of. Personally, I love the film, 'compromised' ending and all, and its delicious irony is part of the joy of it. The title The Last Laugh would be kinda irrelevant without that final scene, honestly.

Jacques Tati as Hulot

(Mr. Hulot's Holiday (1953), Mon Oncle (1958), Playtime (1967) & Trafic (1971), Jacques Tati)

Again, it's hard not to love Hulot. He's a bumbling, clumsy, accident proned observer of all of humanity's foibles. While the silent comedies from which Tati was inspired derived their laughs from the characters getting annoyed at the main character, Hulot never seems to inspire anger or outrage, no matter how badly he screws a situation up (though, in Mr. Hulot's Holiday, it seems that the characters are oblivious to the fact that he's the one who causes the mayhem). But the fact that he's funny is not why I love Hulot so much (though that's certainly part of it); it's because he is one of humanity's sharpest observers, always lurking in the background, observing us with an eye that is simultaneously loving, critical, and benevolent.

James Stewart as John 'Scottie' Feguson, Vertigo (1958, Alfred Hitchcock)

One of cinema's great tragic figures, Scottie Ferguson becomes enveloped by love that evolves (or regresses) into obsession. While most of us have never been pushed to the ends that Scottie finally is in the film's heartbreaking, soul-crushing final scene, I think most of us can still identify with not being able to get a person out of your head, no matter how hard you try. You see the person everywhere because they have, in effect, become part of you. His monologue to Kim Novak's character at the end is one of the most intense moments I've ever seen in any film--- his anger, heartbreak, and righteous indignation are all there for the audience to see. When she takes the final plunge, and the mystery woman is out of his life forever, he finds himself right back to where he started. As though she was never even there.

Frank Sinatra as Dave Hirsh in Some Came Running (1958, Vincente Minnelli)

Another tragic figure, this time played by ol' blue eyes in Vincente Minnelli's masterpiece-of-masterpieces, Some Came Running. I love this character because of the way his past literally explodes in his face, and he needs to come to terms with the friends and family he wronged before abandoing them. Along the way he gets mixed up with something of a bad crowd. It's an old and familiar story, but I don't think it's ever unfolded quite like it does in Minnelli's film. Also, here Sinatra plays against his friend, Dean Martin, in some of the finest acted scenes I've ever seen.

Jean-Pierre Leaud as Antoine Doinel

(The 400 Blows (1959), Antoine et Collette (1962) , Stolen Kisses (1968), Bed & Board (1970), Love on the Run (1979), Francois Truffaut)

Watching Antoine Doinel grow from petulant, misunderstood child to petulant, misunderstood young adult to somewhat petulant husband is one of the great joys film has to offer. Brought to life by French New-Wave icon Jean-Pierrre Leaud, the odyssey of Antoine Doinel is just about as enjoyable as it gets. But, like everyone else, it's the image of the directionless young boy alone on a beach that sticks with me to this day. I think we've all been there.

Jean-Paul Belomondo as Pierrot in Pierrot le Fou (1965, Jean-Luc Godard)

Poor Pierrot. As you can see, by the end of his story he gets himself into something of a desperate situation, painting his face a hideous shade of blue and preparing himself to strap dynamite around his cranium. But, can you really blame the guy? He lives a boring, tranquil life with bratty, aggravating children. But he's invited to start a life of crime with the irresistible Anna Karina, and that's when the self-fulfilling Bonnie & Clyde prophecy begins to pan itself out. He and Karina are really just playing out roles they'd seen in dozens of American pictures (notably Nick Ray's They Live By Night). From the moment the journey began, it had to end with Pierrot blowing himself to kingdom come. It just couldn't have gone any other way.

Douglas Rain as HAL 9000 in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968, Stanley Kubrick)

This will probably sound strange, but has there ever been a more human character in films than the immortal HAL 9000? Obviously, he's simply a high-functioning computer, but more profound questions on the nature of humanity have never been raised. The human beings we see in this film are more or less mechanical beings, relying on their technology to do their bidding. But HAL has a soul. He remembers his childhood. He remembers his first teacher. He knows all the words to "A Bicycle Built for Two". The scene where Dave removes his memory is one of the most heartbreaking moments in all of cinema. If humanity is indeed defined by our memories, both individual and collective, then HAL is about as human as they come.

William Finley as Winslow Leach/The Phantom in The Phantom of the Paradise
(1974, Brian De Palma)

A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy, Winslow Leach was just asking for trouble giving his cantata to the insidious Mr. Swan. He'd poured his heart and soul into a full rock-opera version of Faust that he handed over to the record producer Swan in hopes of notoriety, but Swan simply stole the sound and trashed it up and dumbed it down for mainstream consumption (without giving Winslow credit, no less). De Palma's film is one of the most critical takes on what industry does to art, the fundamental differences between the two enterprises; and the character of Winslow Leach is the ultimate sap who gets his life-worked scorned in the name of mainstream pap. It's like the lyrics to the Billy Joel song "The Entertainer"; You've heard my latest record/It's been on the radio/Ah, it took me years to write it/They were the best years of my life/It was a beautiful song/But it ran too long/If you're gonna have a hit/You gotta make it fit/So they cut it down to 3:05. Eventually, Winslow sets himself and everyone else free of Swan, but only by sacrificing himself. I find his death scene deeply moving, even in the context of this kind of goofy post-modern mash-up.

Woody Allen as Harry Block in Deconstructing Harry (1997, Woody Allen)

I probably could have littered this list with Woody Allen characters, but I settled on Harry Block because of the way he channels his life into his work. As Woody Allen says in the film, his character can't function in life, but in art. It's a more hard edged version of my favorite Francois Truffaut quote, "I have always preferred the reflection of life to life itself,". But Woody Allen's film is also about the wall that must be put up between the artist and humanity, in order to effectively capture it. Deconstructing Harry is as profound a rumination on the relationship between art and the artist as Fellini's 8 1/2, and with Woody's trademarked wit. Oh, and it's one of the most deliciously vulgar movies I've ever seen, with profanity elevated to poetry.

Jeff Bridges as the Dude in The Big Lebowski (1998, The Coen Brothers)

Sometimes....there's a man. And that man is The Dude. I know it's something of an obvious choice, and picking him makes me your typical 20-something-stoner-slacker, but that doesn't mean that I don't attempt to embody The Dude's spirit. Jeff Bridges really brings what could have been a cardboard cut-out character to life, and gives him a personality. Not to mention, he has a killer fashion sense.

Jude Law as Gigolo Joe in A.I. (2001, Steven Spielberg)

If anyone ever abandons me in the woods, I sincerely hope I run into a Gigolo Joe. He's just a class act, and he's a lady-killer if ever there was one. Not to mention, his head seems to be a juke-box which plays very romantic old-standards, which helps liven up the mood. I really want one of those. While it is indeed a fantastic character, it's Jude Law's performance that makes the character unforgettable; he carries himself with all the grace of a classic Hollywood icon, and he is consistently a joy to watch. A huge smile just envelops my face whenever he's on screen.

Bill Murray as Steve Zissou in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
(2004, Wes Anderson)

Sometimes you see elements of yourself in a character. Sometimes, you almost feel like the person on the screen is you. And, sometimes, you see yourself and your parent in a character or characters, and in this case it's myself and my father. Steve Zissou being a man simultaneously in awe of the beauty of the world and embittered by his life experience is something I see very much in my father. And the way he gets re-acquainted with a child he'd never known only to have to say goodbye again so soon feels like it was almost transposed from my life, though in my case there wasn't death involved. As for his propensity for marijuana, alcohol, and films...well, yeah, that's me. There are also touches of Werner Herzog in Steve Zissou, his insatiable desire to go out, make films, in spite of the fact that common sense dictates that you should stop. But, as they say, 'this is an adventure'.

Sally Hawkins as Poppy in Happy Go Lucky (2008, Mike Leigh)

Shit, I realize at the end of this post: no women. While Sally Hawkins in last year's Happy-Go-Lucky doesn't necessarily embody strong feminist values, her attitude towards life is one I aspire to have, though in not quite such an outward way as she does it. Being 'happy' isn't something that just happens, it's a moment-to-moment attitude that you either embody or don't. Poppy doesn't let anything or anyone get her down, instead relating to the world in her own bubbly, humorous way. But by the end, she realizes the effect she has on people (both positive and negative) and the consequences of her actions and the actions of others. Poppy is made immortal by a fantastic performance from Sally Hawkins, who is a joy to watch in one of the best films of last year.

So, that's 13, but I don't feel like taking anyone off the list, so you're just gonna have to deal with it. I live by my own rules.

I tag Rob, Keith, Ali, Ted, & Jim. Not that any of you actually look at my blog, but if you did, you'd be tagged.

If Animation Has a Name, Then it Must Be Charles M. Jones

"I’m not particularly known throughout the world for being a conductor of oceans, but I bet I’m one of the best. "

Last week, TCM broadcast the original documentary Chuck Jones: Memories of Childhood, and it was one of the more illuminating half hours of television that I've recently seen. Using a technique similar to that of the recent Oscar nominated short I Met the Walrus and The Moon and the Son: An Imagined Conversation (the creators of the latter short made this film), the documentary animates the recollections of childhood that Jones describes, giving his stream of consciousness explanations of his life an added twinge of poignancy. Also, the cartoon figure that the film uses as a stand-in Jones as a child was drawn by Jones himself. It's a self-portrait in motion.

The film uses segments of an interview conducted with Jones before his death in 2002 to get to the core of his childhood, which helps illuminate why his characters have such universal appeal. They aren't just cartoon archetypes, they represent a portion of his psyche. This is why the Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies series have had such continuing impact; they aren't just strings of jokes and sight gags, the cartoons are representative of a world view that was shaped by experience.

"When I was two years old I think the event that occurred then probably had a great deal to do with my becoming an animator. Because I fell off a second story back porch on to a hunk of cement. I’m sure that it jostled my brain cells out of any hope that I would be a very logical child."

Watching Jones hand draw the Looney Tunes characters is one of the great joys of this documentary. It adds a personal touch to the characters we're all so familiar with. Jones talks about how these characters are, in essence, a part of the very fabric of his being.

"Pepe, he assumes immediately that he’s irresistible, so that’s actually the opposite of what I felt. I felt I was very resistible. People ask me about whether I’m some of the characters like Pepe. Of course I am, but I’m Daffy Duck, too."

It's this personal touch that separates Jones from the rest. Jones was so obsessive about his work that he believed that a single frame could make the difference between a good joke and a bad joke, and he would go through his films a frame at a time until they were just right. He treated his form like it was music, with every frame being a note in a comedic symphony. His films played with the synchronization of senses that Disney's Silly Symphonies had helped popularize, but I think the Warner Brothers shorts went even deeper with that core idea, because they played with that concept of image and its relation to music in unique, unexpected, and consistently hilarious ways.

The tone that runs through the documentary is one of poignant melancholy. One gets the impression that Chuck Jones was one of those people who had it all figured out, and we were lucky to get a glimpse of that understanding through his work. Many of his films stand out as the very best of the Warner Brothers cartoon catalog, which would put them among the best films ever made, and he among the great film makers. It's incidental that his understanding of humanity took the form of slap-stick one reel cartoons, that's merely the way in which he related to the world. "If I can find the quirk to something, I think I can understand a little bit about it." Perhaps Jones was a forebearer to Wes Anderson in that sense.

Being the shameless self promoter I am, I'd like to use this post as a chance to formally announce what I hope will be a recurring series for Medfly Quarantine, the Looney Tunes Project; where myself, my darling co-curator (still waiting on a contribution from her...), and anyone who feels like contributing will write up a Looney Tunes or Merrie Melodies short. Be sure to check back for updates.

The Forest for the Trees: Watchmen

Zack Snyder may as well have filmed his adaptation of the seminal comic book Watchmen in a different language, as the ideas and deep humanism that writer Alan Moore and artist Dave Gibbons attempted to convey are unfortunately beyond his grasp as a film maker and artist. Rather, like a teenage groupie playing air-guitar to his favorite rock band, Snyder goes through the motions but robs the work of its essence. His strengths, assuming he has any at all, lie in different areas than crafting a story, working with actors, or conveying thematic ideas. Watchmen is a curious work of adaptation, in all of its attempts to stay true to the arranged sequence of events of the source material, it robs the work of its spirit and, ultimately, its point. Apparently imitation is not the highest form of flattery.

The failings of Watchmen are two-fold; by simply condensing the novel’s plot into a nearly three hour film, it fails to transpose the ideas that made the original work rise above the medium, so it fails as a work of adaptation. By making the material damn-near inaccessible for anyone who hasn’t read the comic, it fails as a stand-alone entity. What we’re left with is a strange exercise in the art of adaptation--- a movie that wasn’t adapted enough. The few changes Snyder makes to the original work are for logistical reasons as opposed to creative reasons, and they still reflect his desire to be as invisible an adapter as possible. The only unique stamp Snyder puts on the picture is that he pumps up the violence to his typical quasi-absurd levels, which actually distorts one of the key themes of the novel. Instead of getting to the heart and soul of the work, he simply transposes the surface across mediums.

Gone is the pulp and camp tonality that Gibbons and Moore established in their novel; rather, like 300, Snyder turns the film into a (mostly) humorless and ultra-serious affair, his unwillingness to differentiate himself from the novel stifling his creative choices. The movie preserves the least interesting thing about the comic book, the McGuffin, and makes the ordered sequence of events its sole emphasis. Its focus lies solely in the moment-to-moment pleasures of trying to solve the central mystery, the exact kind of shallow pleasures that the comic book challenged its readers to move past. In the comic, the McGuffin was the catalyst for its formal deconstruction and rumination on the iconography of comic books, but Snyder believes that’s all there is to it. It isn’t a case like Jackson and his Lord of the Rings films, where the removal of the literature’s thematic subtext gave way to a flawless embodiment of Hollywood genre filmmaking. Snyder isn’t a very competent movie maker.

After a deliriously paced and cleverly constructed opening scene (and a spectacular opening credits sequence), the film segues into being a re-creation of certain panels and certain text that Snyder seems to think are representative of the whole of the work. It plays like a “Best Of” compilation instead of a channeling of a work into a separate medium. The inability to differentiate the film from the source material isn’t because of any particular failing of the film; the movie doesn’t even attempt to be thought of as anything but a literal adaptation of the comic book. For Snyder, condensing Watchmen’s labyrinthine plot into a comprehensible film is the ultimate accomplishment (if nothing else, the film is at least comprehensible.) While it is admirable how many details from the novel are preserved for the screen adaptation, in the end it’s all vacuous posturing.

The only time the film shows a life of its own is in its inspired use of soundtrack. This gives the images a sense of urgency and is an effective way of using film’s relation to music to express ideas, and it’s the only time I got even the vaguest impression that I was actually watching a movie. The opening credits sequence sets Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are a-Changin’” to images of the Golden Age era superheroes, and while it seems like an obvious choice at first, it’s an effective way of relating Superhero mythology to folk-lore. Though the soundtrack is mostly well-known standards, these universal pop songs briefly evoke the cheeky post-modernist tone of the novel, and more importantly, the unique capabilities of cinema. When Snyder is forced to edit and time his shots to music, the effect is lyrical; it gives the images a sense of life (what Eisenstein called “synchronization of senses”) that the rest of the movie lacks. I can’t deny that I grinned giddily during one of Snyder’s bombastic pan outs—as the camera pulls back to reveal The Comedian’s trademarked smiley face permanently etched into the topography of Mars, Hendrix’s cover of “All Along the Watchtower” comes blasting in through the theater’s Dolby Digital speakers, serving as both an effective scene transition and an evocation of the apocalyptic narrative. It’s an image from the comic book--- but unlike most others in the film, it actually feels relevant to the movie as a whole. In these instances, Snyder’s sensibilities as a commercial/music video director are thrust to center stage, and he excels, making the material feel like his own. The only questionable soundtrack choices are a somewhat tacked on (thematically speaking) use of Mozart’s Requiem, as well as a My Chemical Romance cover of Dylan’s “Desolation Row”, which ends the movie on a sour note.

I’m willing to admit that Snyder has a certain movie sense; he understands how images flow into one another, and he uses these effects in clever ways. During action sequences, however, Snyder can’t stay away from his 300-esque antics, relishing in the same violence that Gibbons/Moore sought to deconstruct and ultimately transcend. He turns Rorschach’s childhood tragedy into an opportunistic cheap thrill—slowing down and zooming in to make sure we get a strong visceral sense of the violence— but not analyzing the emotional and psychological repercussions of it. It’s reminiscent of the testosterone-fueled adolescent aggression that made 300 such a deplorable piece of movie-making.

The film reverses Jean-Luc Godard’s principle of screen color; in Watchmen, it’s not red, it’s blood. The violence in the film is meant only to titillate and excite, whereas the original work was resoundingly anti-violence and forced you to comprehend the morality (or lack thereof) of masked vigilantism. The most fundamental of these misunderstandings occurs with the character of Rorschach, played on screen by Jackie Earl Haley. In the comic, Rorschach is a broken man whose personal tragedy rendered him unable to function in the world, instead channeling his psychological maladies into a contradictory concept of ‘justice’. The film hijacks this character and transforms him into your average run-of-the-mill badass, relishing in his acts of violence instead of questioning the morality of a person who murders as ‘justice’ to others and penance to himself. This microcosmic aspect of the film indicates where the entirety of it goes wrong.

Ultimately, the film adaptation of Watchmen isn’t as good as it should have been, but it also isn’t as bad as it could have been. It’s a mostly empty shell of a movie that shows a sense of life and personality in fleeting instances, but it’s a compromised vision. While Snyder may think that being as pure as possible to the original work is tantamount to effective adaptation, sanctity to text subverts originality and true expression in Watchmen. It’s so devoid of original thought that it doesn’t even fail on its own terms.

Cinema Overload!

I suppose the feeling of overload is something that everyone can identify with. School, work, life in general is just busy busy busy. Hell, this blog was supposed to be a team effort, but my cohort(s) have abandoned me and have left me flying solo, at least for now. So even the blog, a hobby, has become something that I'm lagging behind on and pushing aside. So now, I've started a diversionary post from the longer piece I've been working on, and blogging is in itself a diversion from lame things like obligations. Fuck that.

The point is (I think) that work can have us feeling overwhelmed, but us movie lovers know of a different kind of overload--- and that is cinematic overload. Admittedly, it's a more pleasurable form of stress than our day-to-day obligations, but it's no less daunting. Especially in our digital world, where film lovers have more access to the medium than ever before. Livin' in the future has its perks. But, again, it's also a daunting task. A friend of mine likened it a banquet which can never be depleted, no matter how much you stuff your face.

There continue to be, and always has been, a finite number of methods with which to view a film. In the olden days, films could only be seen at the theaters. Then television came about. Then home video. Now, cinephiles can watch movies in a multitude of ways; we can watch them through the constantly expanding library of available DVDs, on the computer, or even on a fucking phone.

So, allow me to count the ways that I get exposed to film. First, there's ol' faithful, the movie theaters. Movie theaters have a serious attitude problem. They try to tell me when I can or can't watch something, demanding that I fashion my schedule to THEIR convenience. Un-fuggin'-believable. The nerve of that guy.

Then, of course, there's television broadcasts. Like a movie theater's kid brother, it also demands that you arrange your life around when they're broadcasting something. Though it's attitude is less severe, as television doesn't demand that you make a special trip out of your nice, comfortable home to go see it. Though, with the exception of TCM, watching a movie on television can be a painful experience for movie lovers. Not only do we have to contend with commercials structuring a film like a television show (though it seems some movies are structured with the commercial break in mind!), but more often than not the movie is cropped to fit television's aspect ratio. In addition to that, since television knows how stupid we are it feels the need to not only remind us what channel we're watching, but also what movie we're watching and what inane, vacuous program comes on later (David Bordwell discusses the history of bugs here).

Then, of course, there's home video. This is undoubtedly where the great majority of us see most of the films we watch, which is a bit of a double edged sword. The difference between seeing a good film projected versus on a television is the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it (to avoid using a more, shall we say, grotesque analogy), but home video has given us unprecedented access to the medium. Whereas in the past, film watchers had to make due with what was out in first-run, second-run, or revival; we're now all in the fortunate position of being able to decide what we watch and when we watch it. Services like Netflix and Blockbuster Online have only made it that much easier. So, if I'm so inclined, I can have a double feature of Bambi and Cannibal Holocaust.

But the concept of home video has been extended in the last few years. Home video was created out of people's desire to have things accessible at their convenience, and now technology is helping to facilitate this. Netflix, at no extra charge, offers an 'instant watch' service whereby DVD quality films can be streamed over the internet. They expanded this concept with a box from Roku, that streams films over the internet directly into your television.

I'm in no way complaining, but all these venues with which to see films can get a little overwhelming! My DVR teeters between 80 and 90 percent full virtually constantly, as I probably have about 35-40 movies recorded off TCM on it at any given time (many of which aren't available on DVD. Have I mentioned how I love these people so?). Between my postage queue and my instant queue on Netflix, I'm waiting on nearly 500 movies (and those are just the movies I've had the time to add). It feels like there's never enough time to catch something in the theater (due to the market being geared more towards home video, some film's literally get a 'blink-and-you-miss-it' theatrical release), and I'm sure we can all relate to the feeling of having a stack of unwatched DVDs. There simply aren't enough hours in the day (nor enough days in a lifetime, but that is much too depressing a thought).

So how do we prioritize? Is it even something we consciously think about? What we watch, and when we watch it, seems to be precipitated by circumstance as much as anything. Case in point: as I sat down to start this post the other day, I got caught up in Jules Dassin's Brute Force on TCM. I was familiar with the name but had never seen one of his films before, and immediately found myself turning away from and ignoring the computer all together, completely riveted by the film. I had turned on TCM because I knew Budd Boetticher's Ride Lonesome was going to be broadcast, and I wanted to catch that one again. But Brute Force was not on my immediate radar (though I see Film Forum in Manhattan has an upcoming Jules Dassin tribute, which I'll try to catch some of), but it kind of chose me, and I'm all the more enriched because of it. I guess it's something you just have to take as it comes.

A Real Good Pal of Mine: Coraline

Imagination lives 240 times a second, in three dimensions, in Henry Selick’s Coraline. Selick’s film goes deeper with the theme’s presented in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, as well as consolidating the technique of everyone through Jan Svankmajer, The Brothers Quay, Tim Burton, Steven Spielberg and Wes Anderson (how’s that for a diverse group of influences?). Coraline is a remarkable film because it acknowledges that visual expression and thematic richness go hand in hand; the content and the form are inseparable. Coraline expands perception of our world by way of alternate ones; “Give us our eyes, and our souls will be free”, Coraline understands art’s power as a unifier and a vital part of the human experience.

Like Alice in Wonderland, and its infinite riffs in pop culture, Coraline concerns a young girl’s quest to escape her dreary existence through the most effective means, fantasy. However, Coraline doesn’t fatuously accept the concept of utopia as the answer to psychological transgression. Whereas Del Toro’s literal minded allegory Pan’s Labyrinth amounted merely to shallow wish-fulfillment, Coraline analyzes the psychological implications of a utopian fantasy world; the Orwellian dangers inherent in a society so blatantly manufactured. Coraline dares to ask profound questions on the nature of existence while simultaneously connecting these existential queries with childhood, the only time in life when this sense of mystery could come off as palpable as it does.

And in terms of of connecting with that central mystery of childhood, Coraline does it as effectively as anything in the filmography of Steven Spielberg. The brilliant, subtle use of 3D invites the observer to become a partner in a kind of cinematic dance, and the visual 'cues' highlight the psychological state of our main character. Her evolution from self absorbed, whiny child to enlightened, rational young adult is flawlessly conveyed by the film's visual language. In the beginning of the film she finds nothing excitable about her ho-hum existence, and thus the world is painted in grays and muted colors. Her first descent into the alternate world is so visually extravagant and colorfully eye-popping that it's literally overpowering--- however, the subversive creepiness of the other world is highlighted immediately, and slowly builds with each passing descent. By the end, the language has been inverted; the fantasy world is a nightmare, and suddenly you find yourself yearning for the real world, where (comparatively speaking) things make sense. Sure, you can't go play in the mud and eat cookies for dinner, but at least your mom doesn't turn into a giant spider and try to sew buttons into your eye socket.

Whether Coraline’s ‘other’ world is real or otherwise isn’t a central issue of the film, as it was with Pan’s Labyrinth; rather, in Coraline these two seemingly separate but concurrent universes are two sides of the same coin, opposing polarities of the id. Coraline charts the emotional growth of its titular character, and her rejection (and conquering) of her utopian dystopia is a reflection of the strong sense of moral values that the film conveys, as well as the high price it puts on individuality. She has the option of living in a world where her wants and needs are catered to, all she has to do is give up her eyes--- her windows to the world, the eyes through which she has garnered her unique perspective. Coraline, both the character and the film, puts a strong emphasis on the eyes being the key to our souls, the catalyst for understanding and illumination. The film's constant allusions to classic works of art (from The Birth of Venus to Starry Night) brilliantly underscore this point.

In addition to its artful recapitulation of traditional storytelling technique, Coraline displays what is easily the most effective use of the 3D process yet. Rather than having objects being thrown into the screen for the audience to relish in the simple pleasures of having shit thrown at them, Coraline’s use of 3D is never distracting or gimmicky; it effectively highlights the visual transcendence of the fantasy world, and the more morose nature of the real world. It is unquestionably the most inventive use of the process yet, an ingrained part of the way the story is told instead of an extraneous device to make the unappealing seem more appealing. Rather than tacking on the technique for a contrived sense of excitement, Coraline’s visual invention opens up its thematic expression.

Coraline avoids placating and cuts to a core emotional truth of childhood; the world we inhabit may not be perfect, but at least it’s real. Through the hardships experienced in the fantasy world, Coraline learns to appreciate and understand that while the world is not something that is going to cater to one's desires at every passing moment, it still beats the fraudulence of a manufactured society where individuality is suffocated. The film's brilliant final sequence highlights the maturity and new found appreciation of life Coraline experiences. After illustrating how nightmarish our dreams can be, the real world suddenly feels a lot more beautiful, warts and all.