RPG Metanoia (2010)

RPG Metanoia (Luis Suarez, 2010)

Luis Suarez’s RPG Metanoia is the first Filipino-made 3D and CG-animated feature length film. Sadly, it seems that the distinction has overshadowed the film, which, even without the label that points out its historic significance, is quite a solid endeavor and must be seen, instead of read about, to be really enjoyed.

The film opens with a lengthy action sequence where Zero, a heroic kid who is quite adept with the yoyo as a weapon, makes his way through a horde of robots and defeats a three-headed monstrosity who looks like a cross between a hydra and a jack-in-the-box, revealing a prize, a mysterious mask that is supposed to give its wearer god-like powers. The computer hangs. The mother scolds. Zero is Nico (voiced by Zaijan Jaranilla), a frail kid who spends his days and nights leveling up his character in Metanoia, an online role-playing game where he can be everything he can’t be in real life.

The story’s less of a stretch than what can be expected from animated features. When it is not concerned with the plotline of an in-game character wreaking havoc on the real world via a virus that transmits images through the computer that effectively turns humans into gaming zombies, the film spends time exploring the domestic life of Nico, his intimate dinner conversations with his mother (voiced by Eugene Domingo), his webcam communications with his father (voiced by Aga Muhlach), who is working overseas, his blossoming crush with a girl next door, his role in his gaming troop, and his inefficiencies in sports and other physical activities. A bulk of what makes RPG Metanoia so charming is how it translates these relatable elements of living into gorgeous animation.

Thus, RPG Metanoia’s greatest asset is that it satisfies itself with telling its story with refreshing simplicity. The animation, unremarkable if compared to bigger-budgeted extravaganzas produced elsewhere, is lovely in a way that its imperfections and limitedness in terms of frames per second give the film the feel of a stop-motion animated feature, which is more organic, more human than anything done by the animation factories of Hollywood. Instead of belaboring the world of Metanoia with needless spectacles and ornaments, it focuses on creating an emotionally palpable feel for the film’s “real world.” It isn’t simply the comparably polished animation that contributes to the film’s modest powers. The script, written by Suarez with Jade Castro and Tey Clamor, is both far-reaching in its attempts at science fiction and beautifully intimate in its depictions of the joys and conflicts of growing up. The voice acting, most especially by Eugene Domingo as Nico’s mother and Aga Muhlach as Nico’s father, is consistently delightful. The musical score, by Ria Osorio and Gerard Salonga, complements the visuals with fanciful melodies and exciting rhythms.

Suarez and his team peppers the world of Metanoia with details. For example, the portal where the characters of players from the Philippines is replete with fantastic creations inspired from a wellspring of Filipino traditions and artifacts, from the robotic kalesas or horse-driven carriages that roam the cobblestone streets to the Vigan-inspired exteriors of the buildings. Moreover, in keeping true with the massiveness of the multiplayer online gaming experience that Metanoia is envisioned to be, the film introduces elements and characters that establish the fictional computer game’s reach and influence beyond Philippine shores, adding a multicultural flavor to the viewing experience.

There is of course a danger in putting such a game, whose popularity is limited to a specified niche, as the point of interest in the film. The mechanics of the MMORPG or Massively Multiplayer Online Role-playing Game which could be material to the appreciation of the niceties of the film may seem foreign to the demographic it seeks to market itself to. Thankfully, the film does not drown itself with the complexities of the gaming phenomenon and limits itself to its essence, which is basically the threat of living vicariously through the near-perfect lives of computer-created amplified personalities thriving in a world where rules can be bent. Instead of functioning merely as a reflection of what could be a passing fad in video-gaming as with almost all films adapted from video games, it explores the dynamics between gamer and game, and why such relationship, hardened by some symbiosis where both benefit from each other, thrives. In that sense, RPG Metanoia has the capacity to be timeless notwithstanding the possible and probable obsolescence of its thematic source.

(Cross-published in Twitch.)

Dayo (2008)

Dayo (Robert Quilao, 2008)

English Title: Wanderer

Robert Quilao's Dayo (Wanderer), the second fully-animated feature length Filipino film to be released this year (after Reggie Entienza's sorely disappointing Urduja), opens with the camera gliding past clouds and a computer-generated airplane on flight before finally landing in a school where, if we are to observe the festive decors and the joyous attitude of the students, some kind of event is transpiring. The opening sequence is supposed to visually astound. However, after seeing better-funded animated features by more established studios this year like Pixar (Andrew Stanton's WALL·E) and Dreamworks (Mark Osbourne & John Stevenson's Kung Fu Panda), it only succeeds to emphasize how far behind the Philippines is in terms of animation technology.

In fact, some of the better animated films released around this world this decade never relied on cutting edge animation to tell a genuinely good story. There's Lee Seong-kang's My Beautiful Girl, Mari (2002), a film about two boys who are transported to a magical place. There's also Toe Yuen's My Life as McDull (2001) and its sequel McDull, Prince de la Bun (2004), about the famous cartoon pig's adventures growing up in Hong Kong. Sadly, the third installment, Samson Chiu's McDull, The Alumni (2006), which splits animation and live action, isn't as successful for a number of different reasons. Other animated films released during the same period, films like Hironobu Sakaguchi and Moto Sakakibara's extremely awful Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within (2001) or Chris Wedge and Carlos Saldanha's terribly unfunny Robots (2005), rely on sheer spectacle to cover up for the lack of coherent material. Obviously, there's something more to animation than vivid colors, and fart jokes.

The animation of Dayo is consistently low-tech: traditionally animated characters are pasted on computer generated backgrounds. To those whose barometer for quality in animation relies on manufactured realism and astonishing smoothness of movement, Dayo may be awful, a sorry attempt to introduce an animation industry in a country that produces talented animators but could never produce the audience for locally-produced animated films. Fortunately, Dayo is able to sustain interest through sheer charm, the excellent voicework by veteran actors (Johnny Delgado, Laurice Guillen, Nova Villa and Noel Trinidad) and current comedians (Michael V., Pokwang, and Gabe Mercado), the gorgeous musical score composed by Jesse Lasaten, and the very effective sound design. Dayo isn't bad. It's actually quite good.

The story, written by Artemio Abad and Eric Cabahug, is simple. Bubuy (Nash Aguas) gets bullied in school during the day. At night, he is pampered by his adorable grandparents (Noel Trinidad and Nova Villa). When his grandparents are whisked away by hostile tree roots, Bubuy is forced to travel to Elementalia, the home of mythical beings like mananangals (whose upper portion of their bodies fly off at night to hunt for prey), tikbalangs (half-man, half-horse), nunos (little men who live in termite mounds), and kapres (giants who live in trees and vehemently smoke huge cigars). With the help of some of the residents of Elementalia like Anna (Katrina Legaspi), a young mananangal who seeks his father's understanding, and Narsi (Michael V.), an entertainingly narcissistic tikbalang, Bubuy tries to rescue his grandparents from the clutches of the film's vengeful botanical villain.

Dayo has a certain feel, which isn't very different from the feeling of enchantment while watching Hayao Miyazaki's more accomplished films, that it attempts for. Unlike Urduja which banners (much to my dismay) Disney's tiring slogan of lovers living "happily ever after," Dayo is essentially a congenial coming-of-age tale, untainted by any need to depict fantasies of perfect romances. It is admittedly tainted with consumerism, what with the dozens of product placements spread throughout the film, some not as subtly placed as others. The narrative remains simplistic and the humor is undoubtedly populist, all due to the need to stay within commerciable bounds. The result however isn't idiotic or repulsive. Instead, the film comes off as noteworthy, especially with its sincere intention and innate ability to translate the noblest of childhood aspirations into inoffensive entertainment.

WALL·E (2008)

WALL·E (Andrew Stanton, 2008)

Andrew Stanton's WALL·E opens in outer space. The camera then zooms further, showing a familiar planet, our Earth, only this time, the emerald splendor that defined its continents has been replaced by a rusty gleam with the planet's surrounding space being dotted by useless satellites. Seven centuries into the future, our Earth has lost all of its former luster. That lasting image from outer space no longer evokes any sense of wonderment, but a foreboding query of what became of the lone planet in the galaxy that can support life? Stanton explores further, zooming in past the detritus and into Earth, giving us an aerial glimpse of the world. The view Stanton grants us is breathtaking. Advertisements showing character actor Fred Willard, playing the top honcho of global brand Buy-N-Large, perpetually air in a cityscape devoid of any of the consumers these ads once lured into buying.

Humanity has left Earth, which has been rendered uninhabitable due to the accumulation of trash and other pollutants over several centuries of unabated consumerism. The task of cleaning up Earth belongs to these robots called WALL·E, which is short for Waste Allocation Load Lifter - Earth-class. All of these WALL·E robots, save for one, have stopped from functioning, becoming permanent fixtures of the junk-filled world. Lined up with the untenanted skyscrapers are towers made from rubbish, processed into cubes and stacked to form those imposing yet majestic structures by the lone surviving WALL·E on Earth.

WALL·E is the last remnant of the humans that abandoned Earth centuries ago. His work ethic resembles that of a blue collar worker, where several centuries' worth of the routine that has characterized his daily existence. His nights are spent tending to the small human treasures like rubber duckies and other ornaments he unearthed from the rubbles, before capping his work day by viewing his favorite scene from Hello, Dolly! (Gene Kelly, 1969), where the two lovers from the movie hold hands while dreaming in singsong fashion of a world outside their little town of Yonkers.

With only an indestructible cockroach to keep him company, it is therefore unsurprising that when EVE, short for Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator, lands in Earth for an undisclosed directive, WALL·E tries his best to woo the seemingly hostile female robot into liking him, even to the point of utter desperation, as shown by the times when EVE is floating dormant causing WALL·E to patiently tend to his precious friend. When a spacecraft suddenly collects EVE from Earth, WALL·E is forced to follow her through space to Axiom, where humanity, ever since they left Earth, lived, bred, and evolved into immobile slobs who communicate with each other through computers and mindlessly travel to and from their destinations by hovercraft.

WALL·E, while essentially children's fare, contemplates on humanity, what it is, what it has become, and what it is capable of achieving. The story is deceptively simple: a love story between two robots separated by time, space, and their respective missions. The first forty minutes of the film is nearly wordless, where WALL·E, which is basically a rusty cube from which mechanized arms, wheels and a pair of binocular-like eyes jot out, traverse the rubbish-laden landscape, with the adorably curious antics inherited directly from the great Charlie Chaplin. WALL·E's Chaplin travels to Axiom, and becomes the impetus of humanity's delayed reunion with planet Earth. From that point, the film expands into a flagrant satire of the faults of modern life, with Stanton portraying the future of humanity as a severely bloated version of the present, where the excesses of contemporary living have been visualized into something that is disturbingly familiar. While WALL·E is undoubtedly a Pixar product with its dutiful mix of technical brilliance, graceful storytelling, and unabashed sentimentality, beneath that instructive use of the Pixar formula is a daring spirit, one that ultimately rewards any unassuming viewer who watches the film by sheer chance.

Urduja (2008)

Urduja (Reggie Entienza, 2008)

A cursory glance at the filmography of Reggie Entienza, writer and credited director of Urduja, which is purported by the film's marketers as the first Filipino full-length fully animated film (despite the fact that in 1997, Ibong Adarna (Adarna: The Mythical Bird, Gerry A. Garcia) was released in cinemas; In 1995, Isko: Adventures in Animasia (Gerry A. Garcia) was also released but that movie had portions that are live action), reveals an animator, exactly like the thousands of talented animators from the Philippines, who has been working under foreign producers and bringing to life stories that are connected to him only on a distinctly professional level. Entienza has mostly worked on direct-to-video cartoons which utilize the Disney-perfected formula of adapting public domain stories for the youth market. There is simply no doubt that Urduja, which is an adaptation of a Filipino story about a local princess during pre-colonial times, is a product of utter sincerity, at least for Entienza who has long suffered bringing to life foreign tales simply because no local producer is brave or moneyed enough to fund a local animated project. There is no question as to the movie's good intentions, but the biggest query remains to be "does it work?"

Unfortunately, my answer is a categorical no. Urduja reveals all the faults Entienza must have learned studying animation in a purely commercial perspective. In its effort to replicate the seamless flow of better-funded animated films from other countries, the movie more so showcases its crudeness, which in this case, turns out to be more of an annoyance than charm. Independent filmmaker Roxlee has long specialized in animation, creating gorgeous short films that are memorable precisely because of the fact that they are crude yet reminiscent works of art. His commissioned short for the Cinemanila Film Festival, which details a wooden idol transforming into a filmmaker, is an astoundingly simple yet beautiful work. Raya Martin's Maicling Pelicula Nañg Ysañg Indio Nacional (A Short Film About the Indio Nacional, 2005) and Now Showing (2008) have animated portions that despite their crudeness add character to the films. While the aspirations of Roxlee's shorts and Martin's films are hardly comparable to Urduja's, all i am saying is that Urduja has none of those films' simplistic and addictive charm and instead wallows in borrowed tedium.

Although, I would have opted to view Urduja for what it is (a long-delayed initial foray into animation as a legitimate film industry), I can't help but compare since Entienza has himself intentionally copycatted scenes from popular Disney movies, like a song number between a talking rat and a talking tarsier (voiced by local comedians Michael V. and Allan K., respectively) that is reminiscent of Hakuna Matata from Disney's The Lion King (Roger Allers & Rob Minkoff, 1994), or vine-clinging stunts by local tribesmen that do not have the same grace as Tarzan foot-skating from tree to tree in Disney's version (Chris Buck & Kevin Lima, 1999).

What is most glaring and unforgivable is that Entienza also borrowed Disney's very liberal adaptation techniques: the bastardization of world literature for middlebrow American audiences. Urduja, from the hazy accounts of historian, is the female ruler of a pre-colonial (reputedly mythical) kingdom of Tawalisi. Her history is rich and draped with much mystery. The story of Entienza's Urduja is quite frankly a disservice to the fabled princess. The movie naively forwards a type of feminism that is still male-centric, as it encourages damsel-in-distress fantasies with its equation of the legendary Filipino heroine as one with Disney's roster of helpless princesses. On top of its botched sense of feminism, it insensitively portrays Filipinos in a bad light, turning Simakwel (voiced by Jay Manalo), into a treacherous villain, as it romances Urduja's infatuation with a Chinese pirate Limhang (voiced by Cesar Montano), a pirate who is chased by the Chinese for his thieving ways. The producers and director of Urduja might explain that the liberties taken were for purely commercial purposes (as history is rarely a box-office magnet) and that the target audience of the cartoon are children and not sensitive historians. I disagree. This unabashed and probably innocent Disney-fication is more harmful than helpful to the industry as it purports Western thinking in the minds of its gullible audiences.

Critics are often blinded by so-called cultural advancements, hence the unanimous A rating by the local Film Ratings Board. Urduja is technically apt, well voice-acted, and sometimes interesting. However, beyond it being the first (or second, or third, if you count the two tepid movies by Garcia) full length Filipino animated film, it is really nothing more than an example as to the direction Philippine commercial animation is going. As it turns out, despite Urduja being locally financed and produced, it still partakes of a way of thinking and doing business (although less pronounced) that I have detested ever since the animators at the Mickey Mouse studio had turned Kimba the White Lion (Eiichi Yamamoto, 1965-1967) into The Lion King, without crediting the former. As such, Urduja is a mishmash of many unsavory things: borrowed aesthetics, misplaced adaptations, and misaligned virtues. Thus, I'm still waiting for that true first Filipino full-length animated film since this one is as Filipino as Disney's Mulan (Tony Bancroft & Barry Cook, 1998) is Chinese.

Kung Fu Panda (2008)

Kung Fu Panda (Mark Osbourne & John Stevenson, 2008)

At the very soul of DreamWorks Animation's Kung Fu Panda is a quotation from the father (James Hong) of Po (Jack Black), the titular panda: "The secret ingredient to the secret ingredient soup is that there is no secret ingredient." The pot-bellied panda does not need decades of kung fu training or the secrets of the Dragon Scroll to defeat the deadly Tai Lung (Ian McShane), he only needs himself and his voracious appetite for food. As such, the soul of Kung Fu Panda is as generic as the quotations written on a Hallmark Card; and the same has been the perennial soul of almost every movie coming out of the mediocre animation studio: from the ogre who rescues both a princess and a kingdom despite his being an ogre; to the janitor fish who with the help of a vegetarian shark was able to survive a shark mafia; to the domesticated zoo animals who were able to adapt to the wild.

I guess in a market that is saturated with computer animated films, I desperately needed one with a secret ingredient and none of that "the secret ingredient is that there is no secret ingredient" crap. Luckily, Kung Fu Panda turns out to be a genuinely entertaining romp despite its unabashedly meager ambitions. The movie is funny most of the time (thanks mostly to Black's personable voicing). The action sequences are kinetic and at some moments exciting, despite them being animated, and despite the animation being computer generated.

It helps that the directors Mark Osbourne (who directed some episodes of the successful and hilarious Nickolodeon show Spongebob Squarepants) and John Stevenson have a bit of sense in their heads. Apart from the fact that the animation here ranges from serviceable to spectacular, the movie has a palpable personality. While Black leads the cast with his zany voice work, the rest of the cast (most especially Dustin Hoffman (as serious kung fu master Shifu), Randall Duk Kim (as grandfatherly Oogway) and Hong) provide ample star power and flavor. The five kung fu greats, Tigress (Angelina Jolie), Mantis (Seth Rogen), Viper (Lucy Liu), Monkey (Jackie Chan), and Crane (David Cross) don't get to do much, but they add a bit of variety to the romp. By shying away from easy laughs (fart jokes and other toilet-inspired humor) and mining the wealth of its basic idea of kung fu fighting animals in China, Osbourne and Stevenson were able to come up with something worthwhile, an unhealthy but tasty mix of Hong Kong influences and purely Hollywood commercial sensibilities.

Kung Fu Panda is a good start, at least for the young ones who might dig tales of underachievers going on to do great things. In fact, a bit of research for the movie's millions of viewers would open for them a treasure trove of forgotten gems that might provide longer lasting satisfaction than a summertime spectacle. If only to spark a genuine interest for the little ones to browse through the titles that are gathering dust in any video store's bargain bin, Kung Fu Panda is a definite recommendation (but of course, I would prefer people to just skip on this and munch on the classics).

Easier to find is Stephen Chow's Kung Fu Hustle (2005), where some of the gags and stunts are borrowed from, but let's really start with the influence for the panda which is the inimitable Sammo Hung who despite his physical heft, can kick ass like no digitized character can. Start with his The Magnificent Butcher (Sammo Hung & Yuen Woo-ping, 1979) or Close Encounters of the Spooky Kind (Sammo Hung, 1980). Then there's Jackie Chan's non-Hollywood flicks, most famous of which are his Drunken Master movies, where he plays a lad who trains in the art of the Drunken Fist (conveniently, since he loves his wine) to defeat an evil martial arts master. Further down history are the works of King Hu (Dragon Gate Inn (1966), A Touch of Zen (1969)), Chang Cheh (The One-Armed Swordsman (1967), Golden Swallow (1968)), and Liu Chia-Liang (Executioners from Shaolin (1977), The 36th Chamber of Shaolin (1978)). There's just a lot more in this world than hungry pandas and irate tigers.

Horton Hears a Who! (2008)

Horton Hears a Who! (Jimmy Hayward & Steve Martino, 2008)

Hollywood has been severely cruel to Theodor Geisel, more popularly known as Dr. Seuss. Ron Howard's adaptation of How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000), with Jim Carey as the infamous green loner, is the cinematic equivalent of regurgitated spinach. Bo Welch's The Cat in the Hat (2003) is much much worse. With Mike Myers as the titular character, the film felt like a neverending journey up a diarrheal rectum. Both movies are live-action kid movies, with Dr. Seuss' narrative padded to fill the running time requirements of a feature film (as if anyone would complain if they were shorter). Riddled with an uneasy mixture of modern-day shallowness and coarseness, Dr. Seuss' skeletal plotwork, and creative incompetence, the movies suffer from chronic lack of good taste.

It is thus surprising how Jimmy Hayward and Steve Martino's Horton Hears a Who! turned out. While still reveling in spectacle with several sequences that feature theme park kinetics and cotton candy aesthetics like most computer generated animated films, it maintains a consistent charm within the purely commercial framework. It's just that, a purely charming and entertaining CGI cartoon which is somewhat rare outside the confines of Pixar Studios. The movie survives despite the obligatory paddings to Dr. Seuss' rhymes since it maintains the comfortable simplicity of the source material, only adding extraneous characters or events without puncturing the core of the story's primary message that "a person's a person, no matter how small."

Of course, the Hollywood version of Horton Hears a Who! injects a bit of modern sensibility to the material. Substantially altering the role of the Who's, the filmmakers were able to infuse the very pertinent issue of climate change into the picture, much more reasonably and effectively than in the humorous but far too irreverent homage to Al Gore in The Simpsons Movie (David Silverman, 2007). The politics in Horton's homely jungle feels a tad too familiar with its authoritarian kangaroo (voiced with maternal severity by Carol Burnett) sending mobs of apes to destroy a community she neglects to believe to exist, echoing of course the sentiment in America's more than willful xenophobia and that xenophobia's more than disastrous effects in foreign communities. These observations are of course mere suggestions, making the viewing a lot more interesting than suffering through chains of toilet humor, visual jokes, and brainless action scenes.

The difficulty of having stars portray memorable literary characters is that there tends to be an imbalance of forces, of the personality of the celebrity and the fictional character. I believe this is what made How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Cat in the Hat triply infuriating: that underneath the fur and the prosthetics, you can still absolutely pinpoint the comedians portraying them. Horton Hears a Who!'s remarkable feat is that it was able to tame Carey's voice work (probably without the opportunity to make use of his malleable face, he was able to sufficiently sink into character), giving Horton a personality, although not totally independent from Carey's but distinct enough to work. Steve Carell lends his voice to the Mayor of Whoville quite adeptly, infusing the character with Carell's everyman characteristic. My favorite voice work however goes to Will Arnett, who voices Vlad the Vulture with impeccable reference to the great Bela Lugosi (the animators sufficiently doing their job by giving the ruthless vulture wings that move and flow like Dracula's infamous cape).

While I would still prefer hand-drawn, puppet, stop-motion animation to the very artificial aesthetics of computer-generated animation, I can't help but be pleased by Horton Hears a Who!'s pleasant look, which I thought aptly subscribes to Dr. Seuss' more simplistic sketchings. There's an amiable quality to the visual concept, where the bizarre is mixed with the cute, and photorealism is mixed with cartoon. Even the movement bears a notion of depth, which is very very important in a film that tackles cosmological relations of worlds, one deep inside a speck atop a clover flower and one wherein that clover flower is a mere item compared to its vastness. There are breaks to the consistent tone of the computer-generated aesthetics, such as when we are given a glance at Horton's wild imagination in two sequences that borrow Dr. Seuss' more familiar two-dimensional artwork and anime. Rather than amuse, these breaks connote needless gimmickry.

I saw the movie with my little sister, who mostly because of me has learned to suffer and inevitably enjoy everything from Miyazaki to Bollywood (which unfortunately includes some junkfood from Hollywood). She enjoyed herself. I tend to vocally disagree with her whenever she finds a film amusing, in the hope that she grows up with a veritable taste in film and an ability to defend her liking or hating a movie with much more dignity and defiance than the ordinary moviegoer. With Horton Hears a Who!, I just can't help but keep quiet and let her be in her state of euphoric joy since I too was satisfied. It's definitely not great animation, but it's surprisingly good.

Persepolis (2007)

Persepolis (Vincent Paronnaud & Marjane Satrapi, 2007)

Vincent Paronnaud and Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis is quite the delectable treat. The Cannes Jury Prize winner (the film has the distinction of being the first time an animated film won anything from the prestigious film festival since René Laloux's The Fantastic Planet in 1973) inhabits the same pulpy aesthetic as its graphic novel predecessor as well as the comic's deliciously subtle and playful heart.

The film, like Satrapi's graphic novels, plays like a moving memoir; it's nearly embarrassingly personal yet touches on that very universal need to rebel and rise above the norm. The film itself could've been done as a live action film, or a cuter, cuddlier and more beautiful version of the comic books, but to do that would lose the edgy charm the present film has to offer. As it is, Persepolis is a breath of fresh air most especially from recent animated films (computer generated or otherwise) produced by the Hollywood factory.

A plain-looking Marjane (in appropriately dull colors) awaits her scheduled flight to Tehran; as accustomed, she puts on her Muslim veil (fellow travelers in the restroom give her suspicious glances --- post-9/11 prejudice in cartoons feels a lot more ridiculous, a lot more enraging); but she's no typical Muslim as she's clearly unhappy with that bothersome veil and starts smoking a cigarette (another fellow traveler gives her the evil eye --- second hand smoke kills more efficiently than the one inhaled and exhaled by chain smokers). She is to go back to her motherland, yet it is clear that fear and worries overpower excitement and nostalgia.

Most of the film is told in flashbacks, where the colors of Marjane's contemporary experiences are filtered to give an ancient black and white aesthetic. Her personal history precedes the overthrowing of the Shah; we get a glimpse of her naive mind that addresses heroism by the number of years spent in jail, and patriotism by the person's pedigree (she starts a violent chase of a kid whose father is rumored to be a prison warden responsible for the torture and deaths of so many patriots). Marjane's family is composed of her very politically aware parents and a grandmother who espouses modernity amidst the claustrophobic cultural diminution of the new government. The lovely mix-up comprises a huge chunk of the film's charm, humor and heart.

Most delightful about Persepolis is how Paronnaud and Satrapi were able to capture the volatile imagination of a young girl living during hard times. I was enamored when Marjane's uncle's tales (which are really oft-told political stories with abundant backbiting and legalese) are turned into to become gorgeously crafted fairy tales visualized like the shadow puppets of the late great Lotte Reiniger; or how more violent sequences are filtered of the usual crimson of blood and severed limbs but retain the same horrifying factor that keeps us wary of mindless wars and battles.

There's a mature sense of political thinking in the film's rather simplistic manner of storytelling, and when Marjane's youth-inflected curiosity is exchanged with coming-of-age apathy, we still sense an overpowering air of her poor Persia suffering while she is battling her personal demons in a strange European land. Satrapi (and co-director Paronnaud) knows her own story too well, well enough to tell it resoundingly right.

The Simpsons Movie (2007)

The Simpsons Movie (David Silverman, 2007)

The biggest (and funniest) joke in The Simpsons Movie happens in the start of the movie. We see the typical Itchy and Scratchy routine (the cat and mouse are murderous astronauts with grave political ambitions), followed by the shadow of a grumpy Homer, as part of the audience of the cartoon movie within this cartoon movie, complaining about paying for a movie that is free on television. He then points at us, the audience; branding us as idiots for that exact reason. The punchline of the joke is this: Homer, the most recognizable dumb guy in American pop culture, has just passed the idiot torch to us.

That's basically my biggest gripe with this movie (and all other movies that sprouting from the successes of television series, like The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie (Stephen Hillenburg, 2004), all those Nickelodeon big-screen reincarnations, with the possible exception of South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut (Trey Parker, 1999)). The movie can be accurately described as an overblown, beautified version of an episode. The good thing here is that the film didn't lose a lot of what made the series funny and successful in the first place --- the visual wit, irreverent jokes, and farcical family humor. The bad thing is that I've seen countless episodes in the series' many years of existence that are funnier and wittier.

The town of Springfield finds itself inside a giant glass dome when the EPA chief deems it the most polluted town in America. At the center of the catastrophe is Homer and his newfound pal, a horridly adorable pig. His other family members have their own problems to bear: Marge is having second thoughts on her marriage with Homer; Bart is also having second thoughts on his being a son of Homer; and Lisa's found her sutiable boytoy, an environmentally Irish boy-next-door.

The Simpsons' bright yellow skin is a joy to watch in wide screen and decorated with the hand-drawn over computer-generated visuals. Their adventure, however, is much more a clever sketch than anything else. Part of the sketch are the much-advertised satirical goof-offs of the current, and the political: Schwarzenegger becomes a nit witted president of America (something that doesn't really deviate from the truth), Lisa emulates Al Gore to dazed and hungry Springfielders, and Grandpa gets a spiritual revelation while attending a pointless church service.

The satire however is too quick, too insignificant to really matter. The movie boils down to Homer's larger-than-life mission to rescue the town and win his family back. The movie rides on the investment of goodwill and pop culture legitimacy the animated sitcom has; it is also the film's burden. The sitcom has been less effective during the recent seasons (especially when more formidable and brasher adult-themed cartoons are populating television), and the movie seems to be the ideal cure to revive the faded popularity of the series and to re-introduce audiences to the hyperbolic middle American family. The movie's loaded with chuckle-inducing gags, but it's less monumental than something so many years in the making. I'd rank this movie 57th (or any other arbitrary number) among all The Simpsons episodes I've seen; it should've been number one.

Ratatouille (2007)

Ratatouille (Brad Bird, 2007)

Kitchens and rats: they are not exactly the key elements to a sumptuous dinner date. In Brad Bird's imagination though, they exactly are the ingredients, not only to a vibrantly colorful and equally tasty ratatouille (a peasant dish), but also to a lovely CGI-crafted film.

His dreamer of a rat Remy (Patton Oswalt) first discovers his heightened sense of smell which his rat colony uses to determine if the trash they're eating are poisoned or not. His dreams are bigger: armed with inspiration from chef Gusteau (Brad Garrett) and his recipe book aptly titled Anyone Can Cook, he finds his way to Paris and in the hands of talentless garbage boy Linguini (Lou Romano), who using his rodent pal, concocts delicious recipes that start bringing attention to their neglected restaurant.

The computer-manufactured visuals are spectacular. I've never thought pixels can be this mouth-watering and good enough to eat. Bird clearly takes his subject quite seriously. Food for him is not a mere gimmick (the same way fairy tales, automobiles, surfing, and the ice age are for similarly animated pics), but is one of the many cores of his film. The film's basic knowledge of the workings of a professional kitchen is more than adequate (I predict children would brush off the several classifications of chefs, and processes, and spices that the film's vocabulary is so familiar with, and just go along for the several well-directed rat rides through, under, and over the several kitchen implements). Mixed with Bird's fetish with mating the ordinary with the extraordinary (the same way he colors a kid's coming of age with the arrival of a giant robot, or suburban family woes with super powers and larger-than-life world-saving missions), Ratatouille comes out entirely magical (which makes it a far more satisfying celebration of Paris than the omnibus Paris, Je T'aime (2006)).

As with all of Bird's films, Ratatouille is clearly much more than jokes (which are almost entirely funny in the non-American sort of way; Bird's humor earns a more worthwhile laugh --- a bumbling idiot unable to declare love in front of his romantic interest is more inherently funny than any American pop culture reference) and spectacle. This film has a genuine heart. The simple yet fragile friendship between the gullible young chef and the rat is threatened by the chef's blossoming admiration for his strong-willed senior (Janeane Garofalo) and the rat's duties to his family and its natural inclinations for scavenging. Bird paints these whimsical links with gorgeous candor --- that nice brewing of pseudo-romantic fluff and Parisian wonder when the boy and his rat initiate their fated collaboration in the banks of the Seine is a sequence to behold; something that curiously belongs to the end of thousands of romances set in Paris but fits quite well in the middle of this family film.

The most poignant character, however, and the one with the most moving transformation is food critic Anton Ego (Peter O'Toole), who destroyed Gusteau's food empire with a relentless stroke of his heartless pen. Basically, he provides the film with the fuel that allowed it to transcend its genre. Instead of merely becoming a finely crafted Pixar film, Anton Ego grounds the film with a theme that is delivered in a speech (more accurately a read capsule review) emotionally delivered by O'Toole. Somehow, the fantabulously crafted relationships of the characters are overshadowed by the melting melancholy and instant coloration of the seemingly heartless critic. It took me by surprise; that accuracy (almost equal to Bird's acquired proficiency with the culinary arts) and deep understanding so succinctly spoken with admirable and timeless grace by O'Toole gives the oft-maligned critic (of all kinds, mind you) a formidable raison d'etre and a revealed heart.

I am very impressed with Bird. He is turning out to be America's best animation director. His three feature films prove that his storytelling isn't satisfied with fantastical plot outlines or characters drawn out of mere whim and blank imagination. There is always pertinent substance in his films; substance that aren't particular with social or cultural milieus (the Cold War-era America of The Iron Giant (1999) and the alternate universe corporate modernity of The Incredibles (2004)), but are completely universal. Ratatouille is an American film set in the French capital with characters ranging from an intellectual snob to a lowly sewer rat, yet its message cuts across all boundaries established by culture or species. Undoubtedly, this is the best thing that came out of this sequel-riddled and robot-infatuated summer.

Tales From Earthsea (2006)

Tales From Earthsea (Goro Miyazaki, 2006)
Japanese Title: Goro Senki

This tale from Earthsea (a fantasy world created by author Ursula Le Guin) starts with a seafaring ship under threat by a violent storm. The darkened skies divide to reveal feuding dragons who masterfully glide over the troubled ship. The film cuts to the capital city where the king is discussing the problems of the land with his ministers. The world seems to be losing its balance, as proved by the appearance of dragons who reside in another plane; the imbalance is the effect of the use of dark magic. The king goes to his chambers and is suddenly stabbed by his son Prince Arren, who steals his magic sword and escapes.

The murder of the king by Arren is of sensational importance, as the director Goro Miyazaki was disallowed by his legendary father, Hayao, from directing films. The younger Miyazaki proved to be insistent in his wishes and helms this adaptation of Le Guin's famous novels. Tales From Earthsea, although a Ghibli production, feels very alien to the animation studio's filmography. In a sense, it smells of subtle rebellion of the younger Miyazaki against his famous patriarch with themes that discuss estrangement between father and son, to the point of overt violence. The film's more pertinent themes are enveloped by this observable conflict, it draws away the interest from Le Guin's original material to the director's subconsciously volunteered personal stakes on his art.

As a stand-alone film, Tales From Earthsea is far from great. It badly needs the assured lightheartedness or the whimsicality of the works of Hayao Miyazaki or Isao Takahata. The material itself is burdened with settled narrative arcs and themes, that it is quite difficult to artistically divert from what is already written and loved by countless of Earthsea fans. It possesses a persistent somber mood that can be likened to dullness or impractical seriousness.

Consistent with the somber quality of the film are the characters: Arren is blank and impenetrable throughout the film, obviously torn between the forces of good and evil; his mentor and travelling companion Haitaka is torn between his mission as an arch-mage and the calling of a simple and mundane life with an ex-witch Tenar; Theru, a mysterious girl adopted by kind-hearted Tenar is also torn between her violent past life and her peaceful life with Tenar. The film lacks a catchy supporting characters (which populates Hayao Miyazaki or Isao Takahata's feature films like Calcifer in Howl's Moving Castle (2004), No-Face in Spirited Away (2001), or Totoro in My Neighbor Totoro (1988)). Instead, Goro Miyazaki settles with the drab personalities as is; mostly insufficiently complemented by the slapstick comedy of the cowardly guard leader.

Visually, the film is stunning. Goro Miyazaki has a gift for details. The metropolis visited by Arren and Haitaku is populated with diverse citizenry --- slaves, dishonest merchants, addicts, and mischievous peddlers. Interestingly, Tales of Earthsea looks more similar to the early works of Isao Takahata than Hayao Miyazaki. An early battle between Arren and a pack of wolves is borrowed from Takahata's pre-Ghibli film The Little Norse Prince (1968), which Miyazaki admits as his most favorite film. The animation here isn't as meticulously crafted as Ghibli's more recent features, but as it is, it is still quite magnificent. The hand-crafted scenery, from the gorgeous vistas, the castles, and the city landscapes, are all exquisite. It mostly reinforces the film's epic scope and unfortunately forces the focus to the flatness of the narrative and the characterization.

Despite its multiple problems, Tales From Earthsea is still a worthwhile picture. Its conflicted roots, Miyazaki's obvious learning curve (he is really not an animator, but a director of the Ghibli Museum, and trained in landscape), and the artistic limits of adaptation, are all ingredients of an interesting and utterly personal film. As mentioned, the film subtly fronts themes of father-son relationships (Arren and his father, Arren with surrogate father Haitaka). The covered yet more pertinent Earthsea themes of balance, the values of life and death, power, and immortality aren't as spelled out as wanted (to author Le Guin's disappointment who admits her books are better, and that Hayao Miyazaki's films are far greater).

Tales From Earthsea isn't the great addition to Ghibli Studio's illustrious filmography. What it is is an interesting start for Goro Miyazaki, who I presume will forever be haunted by his father's grand career. While I think that his decision to make his debut film with an adaptation of a popular novel is unwise, Goro Miyazaki has still provided us with an intriguing film, apparently flawed yet indisputably beautiful.

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This post is my contribution to Joe's Movie Corner: Ghiblog-a-thon.

Paprika (2006)

Paprika (Satoshi Kon, 2006)

From the realist-humanist comedy of Tokyo Godfathers (2003), anime director Satoshi Kon returns to the subject of weird, of the thin penetratable line that divides reality and dreams, which he explored previously. This time, Kon invades the world's collective nightmare with images that are found in the ordinary, the exotic, and the downright disturbing. Refrigerators containing boomboxes, japanese dolls and musical bands composed of frogs, freaks and creepy monsters --- these are the denizens of Kon's nightmarish dreamworld. Of course, at the center of everything is sprite-ish heroine Paprika who hops from one dream to another to cure the psychologically bothered.

Such is made possible by an invention called the DC-Mini (eerily sounds like the mp3 players being produced by Macintosh, which fascinatingly has similar attributes to the film's dream-sharing implement). Some DC-Mini's, which are still in its initial stages, have been stolen by so-called terrorists. The effects of the theft are tremendous; men are being trapped in a dream-state while still awake. This is caused by the inter-mixing of the dreams in the DC-Mini's master program, which collects all the dreams, supposedly for psychiatric uses.

Middle in the film, an interesting point is made --- that the internet is similar in aspects with the effects of the fictional DC-Mini. The allegations are actually disturbingly true. Through the internet's expansive reaches, ideas (which are basically as limitless as human dreams) are exchanged and molded into one massive and global phenomenon.

It's such a delicious concept --- sci-fi that only the Japanese can tell so perfectly without being drowned by insubstantial logic. To dig into the plot to uncover the glaring lapses in logic and the noticeable leaps in narrative consistency is obviously a disservice to the gargantuan "cool" that Kon serves us. Kon is a director that mixes the absurdism of Lynch with the freak-fetishism of Fellini, spiced up by traditional hentai kinkiness and gonzo science fiction (the same way he took a plot in Tokyo Godfathers that is essentially John Ford, and mixed it with the optimism and sentimentality of Capra, by way of something akin to the comic weirdness of neurotic Allen). Everything should be taken as they are; dream logic reigns supreme; and every scene engrosses and fascinates.

Is Paprika merely that, a delectable confection for the color-starved eyes and the realism-confined mind? Not exactly. There's sound philosophy underneath the gorgeous pandemonium. Pop-culture icon Paprika, described as everybody's dreamgirl, is in reality, a black haired scientist who dons black hair and clinically white lab gowns as opposed to Paprika's striking orange hair and mini-outfits. It is that glaring duality of humanity that becomes the root of the film's conflict --- of the insufficiency of the real world as compared to the boundless possibilities of human dreams; multiply those individual dreams by a thousand and the result are powers of god-like magnitude.

It is such corrupting effects of the limitless possibilities of human dreams that is juxtaposed with the same dreams' curative powers. Dreaming, in Kon's work, is a tool that perverses and mutates humanity the same way as it allows humanity to identify itself. It is that downplay of dualities that resonates as the film's thematic core. Can such dual natures co-exist in the realist frame; can reality allow the penetration of dream logic; can the limitless nature of dream invade the grim, dim, and gloomy inconveniences of real life? By film's end, it seems like Kon is suggesting that it may --- a romantic revelation ends with what feels like a dreamy fairy tale ending; and the film's troubled cop reunites with his cinematic passion.

It is for that reason why I prefer Kon to most of his anime peers (like Katsuhiro Otomo or Mamoru Oshii). Kon is more interested in the human aspect of science fiction (or everyday tales) rather than the obviously visceral or the subconsciously mind-boggling. His films are always rewarding despite the possibility that they might not always make perfect sense. Paprika offers that same kind of comfort --- that underneath the gratuitous excesses of Kon's wild imagination is a distinctly human heart, not mechanical or cartoonic.

Goshu the Cellist (1982)

Goshu the Cellist (Isao Takahata, 1982)
Japanese Title: Sero hiki no Gôshu

The first few scenes that director Isao Takahata allows us to see in Goshu the Cellist are beautiful portraits of nature and pastoral Japan. Takahata's patient eye can be appreciated as Ozu-like, allowing his audience to partake of the beauty of his animated compositions. Against the music of Ludwig van Beethoven's symphony, the scenes suddenly take a more familiar form, similar to those vignettes in Disney's Fantasia (1940) and the much more recent reincarnation Fantasia 2000 (1999).

The visuals follow the rhythm and the escalations of Beethoven's music. Then we see Takahata's orchestra fervently playing Beethoven's symphony. They are merged, flowed, and flown with the rest of the imagery; the orchestra members take part in the "visual storm" their music has produced. Then, the imagery dies down. The conductor tells Goshu, one of the two cello players, that he is not with the orchestra's rhythm. They try again. The conductor again stops the music, but instead of scolding Goshu, scolds another member. Finally, the conductor gives up and again points at Goshu, telling him that he knows the music, but plays it without any emotions. The conductor comedically leaves the room, the rest of the orchestra follows, leaving poor Goshu alone, and obviously bothered by his conductor's comments.

This gem of a film, made by Takahata long before the creation of the now-famous Ghibli Studio, is refreshing in its simplicity and sincerity. The plot, adapted from a novelette by Kenji Miyazawa, flows with admirable grace. Takahata doesn't merely tell the story of Goshu's dreamy involuntary training by several animal neighbors (a cat, a cuckoo, a racoon, and a mouse) but instead savors each unnatural and surprising encounter for all its worth. Goshu's encounter with the cat and the cuckoo are ripe with both overt physical humor and witticism. Goshu's encounter with the naive racoon and the mouse mother and child is gorgeously painted with subtle emotionality and cuteness (a common trait of all encounters).

Seeing Goshu the Cellist gives you a clue as to Takahata's growing talent in portraying humanity through animation. True, the characters aren't lifelike and the scenarios are mixtures of real events and fantasies. However, Takahata never detaches from the truthfulness of every scenario. For example, when Goshu is forced to play a solo piece as an encore in the concert. He doesn't decide to show-off by playing a gorgeous Beethoven tune. Instead, he is swelled by anger and decides to play a melody he used to torture the cat. That by itself betrays the supposed climax of the film but instead it shows that Takahata's characters aren't merely following the guidelines of artificial narratives. Instead, they breath and react like real human beings --- their needs, aspirations and failures in life are therefore given a greater cinematic weight than those produced by the machinations of a plot device.

Takahata of course improves on this much later on. In Grave of the Fireflies (1988), he livens the tale of two youngsters driven by the war to starvation. These youngsters are directed by their stubborn youthfulness and pride to the tragic result. In Pom Poko (1994), he turns mythical racoon creatures into a myriad of human personalities co-existing in a time of change and dire need. The two later films are gratifying exercises of Takahata's understanding of human psychology; all wrapped up in beautifully created imagery.

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This post is my contribution to Joe's Movie Corner: Ghiblog-a-thon.

Shrek the Third (2007)

Shrek the Third (Chris Miller & Raman Hui, 2007)

The summer of 2007 has finally dawned upon us and made its presence really felt. The days can't get any hotter and the people can't get any grumpier. It's also the time wherein Hollywood will unleash upon the world (voluntarily or involuntarily) its army of glossy, greasy and gargantuan cinematic productions. These films are mostly bereft of any intellectual or artistic value. Their reason for existence is mostly to milk people of their hard-earned cash. Any other merit can be considered as supplementary to the film's entertainment value.

Shrek the Third is a prime example of the 'summer film.' It is an extension of the profitability of the first film, which during its time, was original in its irreverence. Nowadays, irreverence is the norm. Almost every kid's movie made since the success of Shrek (Andrew Adamson, 2001; mostly the CGI-animated ones) bank on stabs at pop culture and fads. Shrek 2 (Andrew Adamson, 2004) is a spiraling mess whose main source of humor is ridiculing modern culture through visual gags and tired witticisms without saying anything else of pertinence; and to think that Shrek 2 is considered good at that, isn't saying much about the rest of these type of films.

So Shrek (Mike Myers) is back, and is being touted as the next king of Far Far Away (after being married to ogress Princess Fiona (Cameron Diaz)). Unready for the responsibility of keeping a kingdom in order, he goes on a trip with trustworthy sidekicks Donkey (Eddie Murphy) and Puss in Boots (Antonio Banderas) to find the other heir to the throne, Arthur (Justin Timberlake). Prince Charming (Rupert Everett), in an effort to reclaim his former glory, lures the villains of the fairy book world to take advantage of Shrek's absence, and invade the kingdom.

The premise is supposed to be funny, but it's really not. Shrek is entertaining because its premise was attached to a goal of ridiculing Disney and its tradition of fairy tale flicks. Shrek 2 and now Shrek the Third are merely extensions and thus the luster of that premise is lost. Moreover, Shrek the Third threw away a chunk of the fun irreverence of the first two films, and instead, opted to churn out something so generic, so safe, and so undeniably family-friendly, that adult viewers may completely lose interest midway. So let's see --- Shrek has turned into a mild-mannered father-to-be; Donkey, while still fast-talking and humorously annoying, is taken out of the limelight by the kindly ogre and the uninteresting "other" sidekick Puss in Boots, whose Latino charms are just lost in translation. Arthur is an uninteresting addition --- a Harry Potter-ish creation whose role in the film is mostly for moralistic value. If there's an Arthur, there must be a Merlin (voiced by Eric Idle), but the Merlin here is a tired reincarnation of bumbling fool --- clearly unhumorous and a mere padding to the rest of the hit-or-miss exercise of comedy.

For an animated film that has a star-studded voice cast, Shrek the Third sounds relatively uninteresting. Myers' Irish-ogrish accent is wasted by the melodramatic set-ups. Timberlake is boringly goody-goody and his efforts in translating his showbiz cool to his animated character is deflated by flat characterization. Banderas sounds bored as Diaz sounds boring. Murphy shines, but not as much as in the first two films. The only person who seemed to be having fun was John Cleese, who in his shortened role, turned a frog-king into a bad of riotous laughter. Unfortunately, Julie Andrews, is merely wallpaper in the film as the not-so-famous voice actors (who voiced for the other fairy tale creatures) were much more fun. Everett is as sly and enjoyable as ever.

The screenplay is also clearly at fault. There are gems of ideas that were wasted (the Broadway finale, I thought was a nice stab at Disney's efforts in turning their fairy tale movies into musicales) because the film didn't want to push forward the first film's promise. Andrew Adamson (who withdrew from directing the film to concentrate his efforts on the Narnia sequel) is replaced by Chris Miller (his credits include Madagascar (2005)) and Raman Hui --- their efforts, I thought, were satisfactory since the film does look beautiful. However, an explainable air of drabness looms throughout the film. Inconsistent pacing, inconsistent voice acting, and inconsistent effectivity of the inflicted humor betrays the technical efforts.

The Adventures of Prince Achmed (1926)

The Adventures of Prince Achmed (Lotte Reiniger, 1926)
German Title: Die Abenteuer des Prinzen Achmed

It's quite funny actually how today's animators and their crew of thousands of techno-wizards spend months and millions of dollars just to perfect the movement of each individual hair strand of an animated character. The animated films being made today have forgotten the reason why they are animated and not live action; the animation facilitates the burst of the imagination. By giving so much away, you take away room for participation, interpretation, or even creation from the viewers. Nowadays, watching those CGI-flicks (wherein everything looks so perfect and beautiful, you suddenly get the urge of doubting whether your movie date is real) have become mere perfunctory tasks, with you just sitting in that darkened room with your skull pre-emptied for a dose of glossy visuals, bombastic sound effects and a lot of fart jokes.

The Adventures of Prince Achmed is the oldest surviving feature length animated film. Made by Lotte Reiniger (with the help of husband Carl Koch, who did the photography in most of her films) in 1926, the film made use of shadow puppets (very complex, multi-jointed puppets) to create an intoxicating and always engrossing tale based from the Arabian Nights. The puppets themselves are very lovely. Made from cardboard cut-outs, there's a painstaking detailry that impressed me. The elaborate dress worn by the princess Dinarsade, or the delicate strands of hairs or tiny fingers are all intricately crafted. The workmanship here is tremendously beautiful, from the individual puppets, to the simple yet evocative backdrops.

There's always that sense of magic that pervades while watching the film. Beginning from the curious conjurations of the African wizard wherein hideous shapes form from blurry smokes, there's already an attention-grabbing awe that is at once established. Reiniger continues to astound with her next set-up: the birthday of the caliph, with dozens of entertainers, trumpet-players and where we first get to see the exquisite beauty of the princess, and the heroic posture of Prince Achmed.

Set-up after set-up, Reiniger never seems to run out of creative juices. She mixes adventurism with a tinge of eroticism when Achmed first lands in the fairy land of Wak-Wak. Dashing Achmed finds a harem full of lustful female attendants, all of them wanting a taste from probably the first male human being they've seen in their entire lives. It's something I thought was ahead of its time --- it's a naughty, undeniably funny scene only topped by the next set-up. Achmed lands in a nearby island where he witnesses the fairy princess Pari Banu bathing with her other female companions. There's a thrilling sense of voyeurism (despite the fact that all we see are shadows of what I imagine is a perfectly beautiful female form), of repressed testosterone and other hormones boiling to unbearable levels. Once Pari Banu sees Achmed viewing her from underneath tropical plants, the voyeurist mood turns into something more playful; a lively chase between a hapless lover and his enchanter, evolving into a lovely romantic interlude amidst the graceful slopes of Chinese mountains.

And quite predictably, it gets better. Pari Banu gets spirited away by the African magician, who masters the art of transfiguration. A good (yet surprisingly un-beautified) witch introduces herself as the magician's arch-enemy, aiding the good guys along the way. Action scenes as tense and as marvelous as any done by Rudolph Valentino are staged with precision. Otherworldly monsters make appearances and are defeated with eye-popping gusto. Seriously, unbelievable as it may seem, these puppets do make quite brilliant heroes; Achmed jumps, swings his cutlass, and shoots arrows with intense fervor. Moreover, there's a magic duel between the wizard and the witch that is just so good, my meager description fails to do justice: it's a battle of transforming magic experts --- every moment they transfigure into an animal or an abomination of nature, each transformation more tremendous than before.

Then there's that final battle, which makes the huge, larger-than-life battles of George Lucas, Peter Jackson, and Ridley Scott pale in creativity. The jealous demons of Wak-Wak versus the good guys, with the help of nebulous white good spirits. Those thinking that since Reiniger's animation method is mere shadow puppetry, thus limited and flat, would be overwhelmed because the presumption is simply untrue. In that final showdown between the forces of good and evil, while the heroes are fighting it out to save the fairy princess from a monstrosity, the background is kept busy by hordes of demons and good spirits in tumultuous battle.

Of course, the experience of viewing The Adventures of Prince Achmed can only be as rich and fulfilling as one's ability and openness to imagine. In my case, each lovely movement by a puppet is enunciated by me imagining the more specific gestures (the facial expressions, that sorrowful tear of despair by Aladdin when his magic palace and his love is snatched in the course of one night). Reiniger merely transports me to that fantastic land of caliphs, demons, witches and fairies with her marvelous artistry and craftsmanship. Especially with the moving and rousing score specifically composed by Wolfgang Zeller for the film, my experience in viewing this stunning work is what I can vividly describe as the complete cinematic experience --- wherein just enough is contributed by the filmmaker to rouse each viewer's ability to visualize fantastic worlds and tense and daring moments. Hopefully, humanity hasn't lost that ability.

TMNT (2007)

TMNT (Kevin Munroe, 2007)

When the fast food restaurants peddling Colonel Sander's finger lickin' good fried chicken changed their name from Kentucky Fried Chicken to KFC, rumors figuring out why arose. The most interesting rumor is that the food corporation has mastered the dark arts of genetic mutation and food processing; that what they serve aren't really chicken, but chicken parts grown without bodies. The name change is due to ethical considerations. There's actually no chicken in the fried chicken, just mutated parts.

Now, those beloved shelled green heroes, who from being mere illustrations in a semi-popular comic book became television celebrities and soon after movie celebrities, are back. Instead of utilizing their nominal catch phrase (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) as the title of their come-back film, it was decided that the film be called TMNT --- befitting the age of acronyms, web and SMS lingo, and instantaneous gratification. Like Colonel Sander's suspicious fried chicken-like parts, the name-change feels like a product of ethical purpose because there's really not much turtles, much less mutant ninja turtles, in this flick.

First, I miss the original villains. TMNT starts off from where the last film ended (Shredder is dead, etc., seriously, I can't remember.). The foot soldiers are back, lorded over by anime-ninja chick (voiced by Zhang Ziyi). They are recruited by this wealthy corporate warlord who seeks to reunite with his military family (turned into stone, this one's explained by the opening narration), in order to collect the thirteen monsters from another world. It's the standard plot of a role playing video game (think Legend of Zelda or pre-Playstation Final Fantasy) and its not surprising coming from Kevin Munroe, whose imdb credits include a videogame. The substandard plot is pumped up by the inclusion of the ninja turtles into the mess --- desperately trying to save the city (and the world) from those baddies while easing a bit of their internal dilemmas.

Where's the fun (which was really the reason why the ninja turtles became popular, in the first place) in all this? While most easy-to-please viewers would cite the action sequences and the unusual morphing of the ninja turtles into model-type physiques (I remember them to be much more bulkier; it just goes to show that our action heroes have evolved from Arnold-type muscle men into those leaner type actors), I thought the flick's an empty-headed diversion. Although I'm not a huge fan of the stupid catch phrases like "Cowabunga" or "Dude, where's the pizza," there's a sore lack of those personality-building ticks that made these turtles such celebrities. Actually, aside from the prolonged fraternal issues between leader Leonardo (James Arnold Taylor) and hot-headed Raphael (Nolan North), the other two turtles, fun-loving Michelangelo (Mikey Kelley) and especially brainiac Donatello (Mitchell Whitfield) are barely given any celluloid personalities. The other characters like fatherly sensei Splinter (voiced by Mako, in his last performance, sigh) and lovers April (Sarah Michelle Gellar) and Casey Jones (Chris Evans), are cannon fodder.

Am I being overly critical on a picture that is obviously not made for my demographic? Yes, I am. But, I used to be part of this film's demographic and like most viewers my age who would curiously sneak into the cinemas to see how our childhood heroes have evolved, I would feel a change (unfortunate or fortunate, depending on your taste). I, for one, think that the change is for the worse. The transition to CGI is a bad idea --- while the previous films were obviously bad, they had that camp factor that made them viewable through the years. I think this one would get lost in the graveyard of bad CGI-flicks; and when people get to notice that the polyester perfections are far too perfect to be cinematic (those reflective eyes and smooth epidermis have been bothering me), this one will be far too below in the dump to be remembered.

Flushed Away (2006)

Flushed Away (David Bowers & Sam Fell, 2006)

Flushed Away is a depressing departure for Aardman. After making considerable money and critical respect for their Wallace & Gromit short films, Wallace & Gromit in the Curse of the Were-Rabbit (2005) and Chicken Run (2000), the pioneering studio for claymation decided to join the bandwagon and completely digitize their third feature film. My problem with Flushed Away is not merely its being a CGI-animated flick, but that it's as generic as its other computerized cousins; this one completely indistinguishable from the rest. It's their most Hollywood effort yet. Its candy colored exteriors, its computerized thumb prints, its distinctly imperfect movements to copycat claymation cannot possibly take away the moneymaking rot that drives the film's spirit.

From its title, one can accurately guess that the film's humor will primarily be comprised of bathroom humor. True enough, potty-jokes abound; the amusingly dry British humor of Aardman's previous features is exchanged for the more commercial, more middlebrow, America-friendly giggle-givers. The Dreamworks complex of visual gags (it seems that pop culture references and real modern city life in fantasy worlds ala Shrek (2001) and Shark Tale (2004)) make its way into the feature; most of it justifiably amusing --- a mini-version of London comprised of rats, frogs, and roaches thriving underneath the sewers of the real city; sewer slugs convene to become combos that provide musical tickles (though after the initial joke, the repetition gets tiring).

My adverse reaction against the film is primarily due to disappointment. The film isn't completely a waste of time. Much of the voice acting is delightful. Ian McKellen's The Toad resembles an overshadowed has-been, a gigglish mix of British snob, malevolent overlord, and overacting schemer. His plan of drowning the rat-metropolis by the time those soccer-loving Brits above take a pee-breat during half-time is probably the funniest joke of the bunch. His ragtag team of French ninja frogs resemble the sort of zaniness and cultural insensitivity this Aardman product sorely needs.

But still I'm distracted by the film's poser attitude. The reason for opting to go the CGI way was because there's a difficulty in claymating water effects. It's probably a valid technical point, but to completely computerize everything, and then use computer effects to make it feel like claymation is downright pretentious. I do notice a lot of the claymation imperfections which made all the Wallace & Gromit delightfully natural in the film. Mixed with the seamless digital animation at work, the conscious downgrading feels ungainly and distracting. Moreover, the character designs (which is in line with Aardman's usual character designs), just look ugly digitized.

Dreamworks and Aardman divorced a while back, and I'm seriously hoping that the lack of Hollywood pressure would get Aardman back on its creative feet. In an industry that's being populated by studios who go the easy way by animating digitally, studios like Aardman, Studio Ghibli, and other backlot corporations who champion traditional animation should be given more attention than they are having now. It's quite unfortunately that at times, one of these championing studios would stumble and produce features like this flick that simply deserves to be flushed away.

Arthur and the Invisibles (2006)

Arthur and the Invisibles (Luc Besson, 2006)
French Title: Arthur et les Minimoys

The English title is actually very misleading; there are no invisible creatures in Luc Besson's live action-animation hybrid Arthur and the Invisibles. Instead, there are creatures called Minimoys --- ant-sized elf-like critters who were transported from their native Africa by an intrepid explorer-inventor, missing grandfather of titular Arthur (Freddie Highmore). The Minimoys have built a sort of underground civilization complete with a monarchist government (with its accompanying bumbling king (voiced by Robert de Niro), overly enthusiastic heiress-princess (voiced by Madonna), and annoying and practically useless prince (voiced by Jimmy Fallon)), and a rival evil kingdom ruled by deformed and disfigured Maltazard (voiced by David Bowie).

Arthur, through a telescope-like contraption and with the help of some tall, surprisingly English-fluent tribesmen, shrinks himself to save the Minimoy kingdom, find his grandfather's rubies to pay off his family's debts, and discover love in the person of the Minimoy princess. The subterranean world of the Minimoys is an idea we've already seen before; the underground caverns of our familiar homes have already been home to plenty of cinematic mysterious creatures (just last year, computer animated The Ant Bully (John Davis, 2006) hypothesized a community of insects who are out to teach a kid a lesson; Antz (Eric Darnell & Tim Johnson, 1998) felt more sophisticated). Besson, at least, tries to actually develop his own microscopic civilization (he wrote the series of children's books that the film was adapted from) with a distinct cultural identity rather than mere microcosms of the above-ground human world. Sadly, it turns out that Besson's imaginative creation is mostly redundant children's fare, and has no dreams of transcending to Miyazaki realm (more substantial family fun).

There's also something very bothersome about the film. At first, I thought the tepidness of the film was a result of the substandard writing but when the end credits start rolling, and I get reminded that the princess is voiced by Madonna, and the kid is Highmore, I suddenly got goosebumps. Of course, there's a difficulty in establishing a convincing romantic angle between a kid actor and a married forty-plus actress (even if they're just voice overs). However, in this case, the forced rapport between the two performers turn what could've been witty or deep verbal exchanges between the characters into bland and discomforting tirades.

Mia Farrow (who rarely gets work nowadays) plays Highmore's grandmother. Decades after her turn as haunted mother in Rosemary's Baby (Roman Polanski, 1968), she actually pulls off a lovely performance as the kid's proxy mother figure. Sadly, she's just one of the few positive things to say about this Besson film. The computer animation, at first, was actually quite impressive. Besson has a knack for creating visually rich alternate universes and he does not fail us in this regard. However, after the initial wonder (which I thought was a mere aftereffect of the unremarkable live-action cinematography thus, the excitement when my eyes were treated to something colorful and vibrant), everything becomes drab; the elfish character designs do not astound; the locales are at times stunning but are not enough to sustain an entire feature. If you're looking for kid-friendly adventure, look elsewhere. Not even David Bowie's presence (or at least his aural presence) can save this shtick from the dumping ground of forgettable fantasy flicks.

Gandahar (1988)

Gandahar (René Laloux, 1988)
a.k.a. Light Years

Gandahar is probably the closest René Laloux ever came in replicating the level of sophistication he gave alien civilizations in The Fantastic Planet (1973). He opens the film with an overview of a seaside community: blue skinned humanoids living life in utter simplicity. Laloux presents the planet of Gandahar as a utopian paradise where everything is in joyful order; nature and civilization coincide like connecting puzzle pieces (a plant gives birth to a pet, the pet is then taken care of by a female Gandaharian by breastfeeding it). The supposed peace is disrupted when laser rays start targeting the peaceful Gandaharians, turning them into stone.

Laloux cuts to the capital of Gandahar, Jasper. Beneath the carved bust of a female Gandaharian, the council of elders is debating on who to send to uncover the mysterious enemies of Gandahar. Sylvain is chosen; and is sent to the vast ocean to learn more about Gandahar's attackers, an army of metal men. On the way, he discovers an underground civilization of deformed Gandaharians (botched experiments of Jasper who were completely forgotten), and an oversized brain (again, another botched experiment of Jasper thrown to the sea when it was getting too big to destroy).

It's an interesting concept, sprawling in its seemingly unlimited area of creation; which is perfect for the highly imaginative Laloux. Laloux eats up the concept, and populates the alien world with a civilization that becomes too advanced (probably not industrially; but the scientific experimentations to turn nature into a tool for advancement cannot relate Gandahar as naturally perfect), too selfish and perfectionist (the deformed Gandaharias have turned into a mere tall tale; and instead of turning them into a distinct class, Gandahar has totally forgotten them (class structures cannot exist in a Utopian society)), and too complacent that it is almost powerless to any external struggle. The plot relies on time travel for its movement; Sylvain seems to be the chosen one to enact the prophecy but the prophecy's cyclical syntax connotes an impetus for salvation. I suggest that the sudden appearance of the Gandaharian dinosaur-like creature that saves Sylvain and love interest Airelle from their egg-shaped cell as the impetus; Sylvain thought that the dinosaur as extinct; I thought that the dinosaur is one of those Gandaharian creatures that have escaped Gandahar's god-like machinations and is therefore the proper turning point (it being pure from Gandahar's "sins against nature") that could enact the cyclical prophecy and in turn save Gandahar.

Gandahar is released in the United States as Light Years. The plot remains relatively unchanged except that the script was revised by Isaac Asimov, the music is modified to include generic sci-fi melodics and sound effects, the director's credit shamelessly grabbed by Harvey Weinstein. Asimov's translation turns Laloux's film into an unexciting talkfest; Asimov delights in several voice-over narrations, suggests a maternal relation between the Gandaharian queen Ambisextra and Sylvain, lightens the romantic angle between Sylvain and Airelle. Asimov's screenplay is also riddled with hyphaluting wordplay, which somehow lessens the natural transition of Laloux's original film --- the result is a disorienting flow, a boringly sexless characterization, and an inevitably less enjoyable film. Harvey Weinstein does employ several actors and actresses to provide voice talents for the characters (Glenn Close as Ambisextra, Christopher Plummer as Metamorphis the evil oversized brain). However, the delivery remains flat; presumably because of Asimov's distancing semantics.

Seeing both versions, I cannot deny that Laloux's final feature film is indeed a worthy feature; still miles away from his masterpiece The Fantastic Planet, but definitely up and above Time Masters (1982). Even with Weinstein's mutated Light Years, you can still observe Laloux's undeniable artistry and imagination in cooking up an alien civilization complete with its social and governmental structures, and biological make-up.

Time Masters (1982)

Time Masters (René Laloux, 1982)
French Title: Les maîtres du temps

Time Masters is the second Stefan Wul novel ("L'Orphelin de Perdide") director René Laloux adapted. The first one being "Oms En Serie" which Laloux turned into the now classic The Fantastic Planet (1973). It certainly feels like Laloux's cinematic style is compatible with Wul's tales of otherworldly lifeforms, civilizations, and struggles. Laloux breezes through the planet of Perdide with its interesting landscapes and living curiosities, while accommodating a storyline that invokes a gripping twist in the end; a twist that all of a sudden turns the tale into an involving temporal puzzle.

The plot follows a troupe of space mercenaries in a race against time trying to rescue a little boy who is left alone in the wilderness of Perdide. The boy, who is merely kept alive by an intergalactic radio (from which he receives information and company from the space mercenaries) he, by his youth and innocence, thinks of as a friend called "Mike."

Time Masters feels a less serious effort compared to The Fantastic Planet. Unlike the latter film wherein adult themes surface from the planetary rebellion by the little aliens against their blue-skinned humanoid masters, Time Masters is pretty much a straightforward rescue film wherein the heroes jump in and out of problematic scenarios and try to arrive in Perdide before the boy gets devoured by locust-like creatures. There are scenarios wherein Laloux seems to be pushing a certain theme --- the troupe lands in a deserted planet inhabited by faceless angel-like creatures. These creatures would kidnap visitors and through a ceremony turn them into "puppets" just like them. The scenario feels like a commentary against organized religion (especially with the utilized imagery of angels, the ceremonial baptism to a common ideology). The scenario being a mere point within the entire film betrays the depth of the commentaries for narrative ease and straightforwardness. It feels like Laloux is kept from truly exploring these alien environs by his adherence to storytelling; something i never felt while watching The Fantastic Planet.

Time Masters marks the first collaboration between Laloux and comic book artist Jean Giraud. Giraud is most famous for co-creating The Silver Surfer, and would later on work on as concept artist for films like Alien (Ridley Scott, 1979), Willow (Ron Howard, 1988), and The Fifth Element (Luc Besson, 1997). This is perhaps the reason why there is such a huge difference between the designs of The Fantastic Planet and Time Masters. The Fantastic Planet's art is grotesque, surreal, and at times, downright disturbing. Time Masters feels much more cartoon-y and friendly. Giraud is responsible for the sketches, and there is indeed a comic book feel to the film. There is very minimal movement, and more often than not, Laloux bathes the film in sedentary moments; giving us the opportunity to examine and enjoy his and Giraud's collaborative art.

The animation is not smooth, which shouldn't pose a problem, especially when one is already used to Laloux's cinema. Time Masters seems to be confused of its classification; whether or not it is a children's film or an adult-centered animated film. Most of the alien designs are clumsily conceived (especially if compared to the dangerous flora and fauna of The Fantastic Planet), on the verge of being silly in the level of those Hanna-Barbara cartoons. Yet at times, it's quite fantastic and the level Laloux infuses these made-up alien landscapes with real ecosystems and cycles is just compelling.