Animated Film Reflexive Account - Pinocchio

Section 1: First Week of Animation, Forming Ideas and Readings

Beginning this first week within the module of ‘Animated Film’ was immediately an eye-opening experience for myself. In fact, I was exposed, for the first time, to Norman McLaren’s animated works. I had heard of the eminent man and his notoriety within the animated medium, but I had yet to have my imagination and creative drive so enriched by such exposure to a series of his works I had not seen. Further readings, especially the Eisenstein reading (which I shall be discussing), propelled my passion forth in this unit and sparked my ideas as to where to being with the final animation work.

Sergei Eisenstein in his On Disney Essay (taken from The Eisenstein Collection (2006), ed. Richard Taylor) discusses how the fluidity of animation brings about a sense of freedom amongst the viewer; a stand of artistic endeavour against the rigidity of society and its tight-nit constraints in its constructs, Eisenstein finds the through-line which connects images of elastic contortion in not only Disney animation but in all kinds of animation and even sketches and drawings such as with the works of German caricaturist Walter Trier. He even posits the question, “Is there a borrowing here by Disney? Or is this image of elasticity of shapes generally widespread?” (p. 103) It raises an interesting point, though the key idea I take from it in my planning for the up-and-coming unit’s final stop motion animation (an adaptation of Carlo Collodi’s 1883 children’s novel The Adventures of Pinocchio) is a fascination and intrigue with this notion of fluidity in animation; how it can be both liberating on the senses and the mind while also conveying the necessary plot points to bring a cohesive narrative. Of course, a more abstract approach could be favoured, or indeed needed, for the classic of Pinocchio is perhaps one of the most adapted stories, akin to much of Shakespeare’s work in that regard.

There are also connections Eisenstein makes between the contortion of form and scenes and images such as in 18th century Japanese etchings and brings these theses into animation and how these all link with its enduring attraction. He describes a “plasmaticness” in a being whose form is not yet stable and indelibly flexing and reaching out through as an acting base to a natural, primal, instinctual curiosity – to flourish from the ability to reject the “once and forever allotted form,” and the “freedom form ossification,” and the “ability to assume dynamically any form.” (p. 103) Again, a reminiscence of childhood, of the womb, echoes of Freud, can be attributed to this line of reasoning, as Eisenstein even alludes to, and this recalling of nature, of safety within the malleability of form, wonderfully ties in to the child-like effervescence in Pinocchio with its quirky settings and characters; drawing upon the fluidity of form, I feel that could truly enhance the joy and themes of evolution that Pinocchio himself goes through, like a coming-of-age through motion, through the anima. Furthermore, leading from this, I believe these ideas can be intrinsically linked with typical notions and facets in the fantasy genre, with which the two can be closely intertwined due to their respective and purposeful suspensions of reality, toying with construct and the supposed solidity of form; the aspects of the grotesque emanate through these kinds of theses in their upheaval of conventional “proper” standards bestowed by society and its constraining quest for normality. The celebration of the grotesque also links with the gothic and Bakhtin’s notions that fantasy’s resistance to fixed principles and the dissolving of “Spatial, temporal, and philosophical ordering systems” (Jackson, R., 2013. Fantasy. Routledge. (p.15)). Likewise, this common denominator between fantasy and animation lends itself to fantastic potential in visual storytelling for Pinocchio particularly with my group’s segment to adapt: the first time Pinocchio meets the talking, wise cricket; it’s rife for combining these elements. Narratively, the cricket is trying to order Pinocchio, to teach him the right way but Pinocchio completely disregards this even killing his “oppressor” out of defiance. A key theme of conflict between order and chaos, right and wrong permeates throughout the story but an apotheosis of its display is shown in this segment. Fully contorting the cricket upon being squished by the hammer would result in a striking image of satisfying destruction, a pivotal moment, yet one that, for Pinocchio, would have dire consequences.

Section 2: Sound in Animation & Studio Ghibli’s Mastery of it

Iconic, endlessly imaginative creatures, the wonderfully charismatic characters, and what binds all these beloved elements of Studio Ghibli productions together, and fills these worlds with life, are the spaces that these creatures and characters inhabit and the sounds that define those spaces. Each film from its opening frame establishes its own unique sound identity, a signature aural personality that develops throughout. My Neighbor Totoro (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1988) is Miyazaki's work at its most serene. It feels airy and whimsical in its lush arboreal setting, filled with these grubs and bugs and birds that are all brought right to the front of the mix; nature takes priority here, but you have those natural soundscapes then juxtaposed against the more fantastical almost cartoonish sound effects for Totoro and the other forest spirits.

Princess Mononoke (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1997), on the other hand, uses nature as a backdrop to brutality. It is a world of blood and fire, speed and violent displays of strength; every action feels dynamic and vicious. Studio Ghibli’s exquisite use of sound is what gives power and momentum to these images, charging them with aggressive energy. While arrows don't just fly from the bow, they screech through the air with enough force to spit a man in half; sword swipes are swift and dangerous; explosions are powerful and hit one like a brick in the chest before echoing out into the distance, illustrating how the destruction that happens there has consequences that ripple through the natural world. While My Neighbour Totoro lightly juxtaposes natural ambience with playful cartoony sound effects Princess Mononoke counters serenity with raucous conflict, the eternal clash between nature and industry.

Sound can do so many things. It's one of the most powerful tools in a filmmaker's arsenal. It can be used to communicate tone, build atmosphere and maintain the illusion of movement by tricking one into thinking one is seeing more than one in fact is. Miyazaki, and by extension Studio Ghibli productions, typically animates on twos or threes. Now, on paper, one might be easily misled into thinking that the animation would appear choppy or disjointed and certainly not as smooth as something animated on ones, like comparing it to Akira (dir. Katsuhiro Otomo, 1988); but a constant bed of sound is what helps keep those static frames alive. It tricks the brain into thinking it is seeing and processing more than what is surreptitiously being withheld. By filling in those gaps, sound is what gives animation its texture; it's the depth of a two-dimensional image; and you can feel, say, the crunchiness of grass, or the weight of each footstep. One is not just watching the world; one lives in it.

Sound design is a language and it's one that doesn't need to be translated localized or substituted and it's unfortunate that many filmmakers working on animation typically don't have a lot of confidence in its storytelling potential. One can see this far too often in a lot of Disney features. There isn't much ambient material in those films because atmospheric foley work is usually de-emphasized in favour of the music. Music is heard in every frame of these films, and they never get as much of a chance to breathe as many environments in Miyazaki’s work. The scores are often too good to be used arbitrarily, such as Joe Hisaishi’s music for My Neighbour Totoro where one doesn't get numb to it because it's not invading every second of the film; it's used sparingly and purposefully. The natural world and all its captivating ambiences are left to further the story and that's why, when the music is used, it is so powerful and so memorable long after it has ended.

Spirited Away (Dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 2001) has some of my favourite examples of world-building through sound. When Chihiro approaches Yubaba's bath house for the first time, after strolling through a mostly silent village, Miyazaki has her attention zero in on three specific auditory details that cut through the silence: the crackling chimney, the shuddering windows and raging waterfall. This bit of foreshadowing represents the elemental sound profiles of each of the three major locations Chihiro will encounter throughout her journey: the fire of the boiler room, the wind of the balconies, the water of the baths. Elemental forces always play a big role in Miyazaki's work humanized, personified even, through their sound design given as much life as any other character on screen. The sound design aspects I aim to take seriously when it comes to the adaptation, drawing from what I have explored here in terms of bringing life into every element of each shot with thought-out sound design to weave the motion and emotions and story together. These sound elements are what to aspire towards; if I could even get close to the soundscapes in Studio Ghibli pieces, I would be more than pleased.

Section 3: World-Building in Animation – Soft Worldbuilding in Spirited Away

In the stunning Studio Ghibli film Spirited Away, eight million spirits bathe at Yubaba’s bathhouse in the middle of an endless ocean made by rain, with a train running through it like an artery; and, about halfway through the film, Yubaba detects something terrible approaching. A monolithic spirit with a foul stench arrives and Chihiro must clean it herself. As she's doing it, she finds what she calls a “thorn in its side” and, after pulling it out, a mess of disgusting rubbish and rot fills the room. A being they call the river spirit then emerges from the water leaving behind gold as payment and they treat it with great reverence, almost worship-like, before it rushes off.

It's a subtle scene for worldbuilding but it's defined by how little Miyazaki tells the viewer; Miyazaki leaves it up to the viewer to imagine and interrogate just why what happens in this scene happens. The river spirit is only cured when Chihiro pulls out the masses of trash hidden inside it. From this, an audience is left to imagine a world where spirits are corrupted by the waste of mankind – hinted at how the first item seen pulled out is a bicycle. One could go even further and tie this to how they hate the smell of humans, a major point earlier in the film; and we see later that the healing bud the river spirit leaves behind has some loosely defined power; and no clear logical world building connection is ever drawn between the river spirit and that bud. Finally, one can infer from how they treat the spirit with a reverence, of sorts, if only fleetingly, is that there is some kind of social hierarchy to the spirits that an audience never sees explored beyond this. Yubaba's social place as a sorcerer among spirits is never truly explained and no justification is given for the bizarre way spirits look and sound – like the Hopping Lantern. The setting is all intentionally peculiar and unconventional – and it is beautiful.

At a press conference Miyazaki gave in Paris in late December 2001, on the occasion of Spirited Away's first European screening at the animation festival Nouvelles images du Japon (during which the French government bestowed on him the title of 'Officier des Arts et des Lettres'), an interviewer posited a fascinating notion to Miyazaki: “What strikes me about Spirited Away compared to your previous films is a real freedom of the author. A feeling that you can take the film and the story anywhere you wish, independent of logic, even.” (Mes, T., 2002) To which Miyazaki responded, “... everybody can make a film with logic. But my way is to not use logic... There are more profound things than simply logic that guide the creation of the story.” These “more profound things,” as he puts it, are exactly what soft worldbuilding aims to capture and harness. Miyazaki is known for having an incredible grasp of the themes and emotional thread of his stories and it's those that come through vividly in the world building and grip a viewer, never letting go. It's the mess of gaps that Miyazaki leaves in the viewer’s knowledge of the way this world works that creates an otherworldly mysterious and foreign feeling to the world of Spirited Away. The animated narrative has imagined depth that comes from the viewer, themselves, wanting to know more; it's a place full of questions. Telling the viewer explicitly just what all of this means would detract from that enchanting, otherworldly feeling of the spirit world, especially when the story is very intentionally framed from the perspective of a ten-year-old child. That feeling of being lost, being “spirited away” is crucial to the tonal atmosphere of the story. The soft worldbuilding here makes the story more immersive by putting that atmospheric feeling first without it being wholly logical.

It is this illogical profundity that I plan on utilising in my group’s animation adaptation of Pinocchio. The soft worldbuilding, inspired by Studio Ghibli’s masterful use of it, would be perfect for exploring the world of Pinocchio in animated form. So many facets of the way the world works are never explained in the book, like how animals can talk, how fairies exist or even how wooden puppets can become “alive.” Leaving the story intentionally peculiar is precisely the point; to capture the imagination by expressing Pinocchio’s environment, particularly the fundamental elements within. So much of what surrounds and encompasses the characters and narrative in Miyazaki’s work is all expressed in some form of movement; no background fixture is that: fixed. All of it has personality, evoking so much more wonder. “...it is the motion that speaks to us, not the image,” reads Norman McLaren and this principle is firmly understood by Miyazaki in the way that no frame is truly static in his work. Movement everywhere, illogical or not, brings life to the entire animation. Like with Spirited Away, questions are brought up about the setting, but its mysteries are what makes it special; Geppetto’s house, the primary location for the cricket scene, does not have to be logically ordered like a typical abode; it can be bizarre, colourful and perplexing even. It would only add to the magical nature of the birthplace of Pinocchio with a fireplace symbolising the primal flame which everyone could understand as being, like the divine fire Prometheus gifted man from the Olympians, the inception of creativity, of creation and of the power of man in a barebones state, such as Pinocchio himself.

Bibliography:

Collodi, C. (2020) The Adventures of Pinocchio. Translated by A. Lawson Lucas. Oxford: Oxford University Press (Oxford world's classics). Available at: https://dx.doi.org/10.1093/owc/9780199553983.001.0001 [Accessed: 03/04/23].

Eisenstein, S. (1941-1943), “On Disney” in The Eisenstein Collection (2006), ed. Richard Taylor, New York: Seagull Books. p. 84-109

Jackson, R., 2013. Fantasy. Routledge. p.15-28

McLaren, N. “Notes for Aspen,” 1956, Norman McLaren Collection, Film: Technical Notes, University of Stirling Library, Archives and Special Collections

Punter and Byron (2004), "Civilization and the Goths," "Gothic in the Eighteenth Century," "Gothic and Romance," "Science, Industry and the Gothic," "Victorian Gothic," "Art and Architecture" in The Gothic, 1-38, available at https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bristol/detail.action?docID=233090 [Accessed: 09/04/23]

Mes, T. (2002) Midnight Eye Interview: Hayao Miyazaki. Available at: http://www.midnighteye.com/interviews/hayao-miyazaki/ [Accessed: 12/04/23]

Filmography:

Akira (Dir. Katsuhiro Otomo, 1988)

My Neighbor Totoro (Dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1988)

Princess Mononoke (Dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1997)

Spirited Away (Dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 2001)